Arrival in Yartar – Thei'leah (Filia) – Part 1
I’ve asked myself what my beloved Baldur’s Gate 3 companions were up to in the months and years leading up to the events of 1492 DR, and occasionally, they have answered. This tale takes place during the year or so before the events of Baldur’s Gate 3 began.
There are no spoilers here, so feel free to read if you’re in your own stories or even if you’ve yet to begin.
#BaldursGate3 #ForgottenRealms #Faerun #Writing
“I require a room, please.” The slight, hooded woman said softly, her accent faint but unmistakably foreign. Her head was bent low, casting shadows across her face and though her voice was steady, her body language betrayed an underlying nervousness that she was trying hard to conceal. “Your sign indicates vacancies at this…” She paused, sounding out the unfamiliar word. Not an inn, but a… “...this 'house-tell'?”
The man behind the counter, a large, brawny man whose arms were more suited for a blacksmith's forge than keeper of a ramshackle hostel, regarded the woman with curiosity and a not a little bit of caution. “Aye, there're bed's available for them that need them, but-” He said, taking in the quality of her clothing, her pack, and was most assuredly the outline of a scabbard under her cloak “-you'd be best heading away from the docks and into the city proper. This here hostel is for them that don't have no other choice. You might'n find the Shining Turtle more to your liking? They cater to them that can afford to spend a bit of coin, like you seem you can?”
The woman shifts, uncomfortably. “Yes, I have inquired, there. They did not-” She sighs, a small shrug visible under her cloak. “-they declined to offer me lodging. As have three other inns.”
“Passing strange, girl. Surely them up in the city have space?” The man says, raising his eyebrow. Her reluctance to show her face, her nervous demeanor... there's more to this than she has shared. “Unless there be more to tell than you're telling.”
“I have coin.” The woman begins, quiet voice tinged with frustration.“I can compensate you-”
The man holds up a hand, silencing her. His tone is kind, but his voice is firm. “It isn't about coin, girl. You're in my door, telling me them others turned you away, but you don't say why. You hide in that cloak of yours-” At this, the woman shifts uncomfortably “-so I can't properly see your face. Them that stay here, they trust that I'll keep them safe. Them that don’t deal plainly, well…” He shrugs. “They move on.”
“Then let us deal plainly.” The woman says, resigned. She knows how this goes, she's been through it often enough. Reaching up, removing her hood, her heritage is immediately apparent. Smooth skin the color of goldenrod, goblinoid ears, her cheeks and forehead peppered with a pattern of light brown markings that trail off into her thick, reddish-black hair. Her nose is petite and upturned, an artist’s afterthought that somehow suits her. Most striking, though are her catlike eyes. One of silver, one a shimmering red, they regard the man, awaiting his judgment.
For his part, the man keeps his composure well, the only indication of his surprise a slight widening of his eyes and a tension in his body that was not there before. “You're a 'yanki, then.” He says, gaze steady. “It isn't no wonder that no one will take you in, your kind aren't exactly loved 'round here. People in the countryside tell tales 'bout your kind. Murder and worse, from the way I hear it.”
The woman nods once, acknowledging. “I am gith, yes.” She says quietly, ensuring that her hands are nowhere near her weapons. She knows as well as he does the reputation of her people in this land. “But I mean neither you nor those under your care any harm; I swear it.”
“Not got a reputation for being ‘ticularly honest either.” The man replies. “Then,” The man asks, his tone decidedly less friendly than it was before she showed her face, “why are you here in Yartar, ‘yanki?”
The woman considers the man. Despite the shift in his tone… understandable, given the githyanki’s depredations in this land… she suspects that his concern is for those under his care... his concern, seen in that light, is understandable. Maybe, a man like that might at least listen to what she has to say. So suppressing her knee-jerk distrust of others, she says: “I'm here because I thought I might be safe in Yar... Yar-tar.” stumbling a bit over the foreign name.
“So you’re running then.” The man states, narrowing his eyes. “Who from? Them that you raided? That’s true, I’ll not shelter you; not keen on sheltering murderers and thieves.” He crosses his arms, awaiting her answer.
The woman shrugs. “Running, yes. But not from the people of Toril, no, nor those of Yar-tar. From my own. From the githyanki.” As to his other points, she does not argue... to pretend that her people were anything but monsters would be a lie, and she is disinclined to defend them.
“Must be a hells of a crime, what gets you hunted by the yanks.” The man says in way of both a reply and a question.
The woman's face holds the ghost of a smile. “Not as such, no. Questioning their false goddess's doctrine, refusing to kill on command, or just being weak are enough. As you say, they are a cruel people.”
“And what crime have you committed, girl?” The man asks, not to be deterred.
The woman meets his eyes and replies, quietly. “I was no longer useful to them. I was...” She trails off for a moment, the shadow of anguish flickering across her face. “I was injured. Crippled. Here.” She taps her head, once. “I was to be killed.” She surprises herself with her truthfulness; intuition, more than logic, seem to have driven her to share.
“Yeah, but you’re still a ‘yank.” The man says. But... as rough as he is around the edges, he is nonetheless perceptive. He's fought ‘yanks, he remembers them well. Yank though this woman may be, she does not seem at all like those others. She's not weak, that he can tell; despite her soft spoken demeanor, there are sharp edges to her. But there's something about her that makes him want to believe her. She’s… patient, thoughtful in a way that the gith he has encountered were not. So, despite his reservations, he adds “But there's something about you, girl.” A sigh. “Alright. Tell you what. I got a room up top, private, away from them that's already here. Got a ladder to the roof, might be nice on a night when it's warmer. You can have it, IF you swear you mean no harm, AND you agree to tell me your story proper. And I suppose I’ll want your name; can't be going about calling you 'girl' or 'yank' all the time.”
The woman, having resigned herself to sleeping on the street yet again, is speechless for a long moment. “Truly?” She says, tilting her head, her voice nearly a whisper.
“Yea.” The man says, offering her a brief smile. “Might regret it, I suppose. Hope not, though.”
“You will not.” She says, breathlessly. And remembering the terms, she adds “None here shall come to harm by my hand. I swear it. How much-”
“Nothing, for now. This isn't a place where them that stay, pay.” And, by way of reminder, the man adds “Your name, girl?”
“Thei'leah.” The woman responds, quietly. “I am called Thei'leah.”
“Well, Filia, ye can call me Bromm. Come with me, let me show you yer new room.”