Channeling Faerun

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 in Yartar in 1491 DR, where Filia has at least a month now.

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

Filia sits reading a weighty tome in the common room of the Trail’s Respite, the hostel she has been staying in for nearly a month. She often comes down to read after most of the other residents have gone bed, preferring to avoid the inevitable questions they always posed. As the only gith in the hostel… likely, the only gith in Yartar… she naturally piqued their interest. The informal familiarity with which istik treated each other was alien to Filia, though, so she often avoided them without being conscious of her behavior.

Of course, she has not always been successful.

“What’re ye reading this time, Filia?” A voice, deep with the mountainfolk blood that ran in its owner’s veins, calls out. “More of them histories you are like to read? You’re going’ta put me in the poor house with all the oil ye burn after dark.” Bromm, the hostel keeper, says, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Filia looks up from her book, nodding once in way of a greeting. “The Annotated History of Faerun, or so the title says,” She replies tilting the book so that Bromm could see the cover. “Toril... or Faerun, I suppose... seems quite prone to conflict.”

Bromm chuckles. “Aye, that we are. But ye yan... giths” Bromm catches himself, using the term his strange guest prefers “are'na exactly peaceful neither.” He chuckles. “Least not in my experience.

“An accurate observation, I suppose,” Filia concedes, “though they confine their proclivity to violence to the istik... those who are not githyanki.” Her emphasis on 'they' versus 'we' is intentional... she's detested her kin for many years, though she’s never had the opportunity to express her dislike so openly.

“Yah, so I've seen.” Bromm replies. “Them giths don't like no one who are'na a gith, us ‘isticks.’” And, because he is speaking to a gith, he adds “Well, at least not them that I fought; you don't seem like that sort, less I am slow. You’re not like your kin much, I’ve gathered.”

Filia looks up, replying quietly: “I am neither like them, nor do I 'like' them.”

“Aye, so I have gathered.” Bromm says, simply, sensing her discomfort. Changing the subject, he says “Enough of that, then. Got you a bit of something out in the markets, a bit of kit that'll let ye wander without them that don't like giths causing ye grief. Ain't much to look at, mind, but at least ye can wander without too much worry.”

Filia tilts her head, curious despite herself. Gift giving was… not particularly common among her people and then, was often done for the benefit of the giver, more than the recipient. “Oh? It would be nice to spend time outdoors without being… disruptive.” ” She says, having discovered quite quickly that gith were not particularly loved here. Merchants would refuse to sell to her and more than once, she'd been followed by locals seeking to use her to get their revenge on all of the gith. Not that they’d been successful… slight as she might be, she was still githyanki trained.

Bromm, almost hesitantly, hands a bundle of twine-wrapped cloth to his guest. “Yah. Ain't much to look at, to my mind, but at least it'll keep ye from drawing attention you don't want.” Bromm shifts awkwardly, uncomfortably. “Them down in Calimshan, some of their women wear them. We get them kind through Yartur sometimes. It'd be less bother than going out as ye are. Not that there’s anything wrong with what you are, mind, just…” He shrugs, trusting that she’ll understand.

Filia takes the package, running a finger across the fabric, unable to identify it. It is nondescript, sand colored, and slightly rough to the touch. “I thank you, but you need not offer me gifts. I am still capable of self-sufficiency… your maddening refusal to accept payment aside.”

“I know, girl.” Bromm chuckles, interrupting. “But let an old man help ye, a bit a' bedsheet did'na come dear. Ye do enough 'round here anyway, call it wages, if ye like.” Filia had helped out around the hostel since she'd arrived, leaving it cleaner than it likely had been in years. Magic, he suspected... he rarely saw her with a broom or a mop... but as she'd not brought it up, he'd been content to let it lie.

Filia runs a finger along the twine and then deftly pulls the knot apart. “Bedsheet?” She says softly, unfolding the cloth to examine it.

“Eh, jus' what we call 'em here in Yartur. Prob'ly offend some with that, should watch my mouth.” Bromm chuckles. “Old habits. Not sure what them down there call it, besides. Women’s clothing.”

Unfolding the cloth, Filia finds two things. The first, a sandy colored cloak, is unremarkable; perhaps less road-worn than her own cloak, but a cloak nonetheless. The other, though, is new to Filia... holding it up, she sees why Bromm thought it might be useful. A head covering, it appears that it would cover all but Filia's eyes. Rather than concealing herself under a hood, she could wear this and not worry about stray glances seeing her face. Or that they were in the presence of a gith. Filia, offering a faint half smile, replies. “Ah, I understand. And these are... common in Faerun?”

Bromm shakes his head. “Not as such here, but not so uncommon that ye would be questioned. Didn;t mean it as a slight, understand. Just thinking ye would like the freedom to wander.”

“There is no need for concern, I am not offended.” Filia says quietly, examining the hood. “Would your people not know me for what I am by my eyes?” She resists the urge to try it on; the idea that she could go out without difficulty is admittedly appealing.

Bromm shrugs. “Ye know as well as I that folk only notice that what smacks them in the arse. Betting that few will notice less you're arm's length and even then, probably not.”

“I shall not be 'smacking arses' so I suppose I will be safe.” Filia replies, examining the hood, running her fingers over the cloth.

Bromm snorts, letting out an involuntary laugh. “By the gods, was that a joke?”

The corner of Filia's mouth turns up just slightly. “Perhaps.”

“First time for everything, I s'pose.” Bromm chuckles, shaking his head. “So ye will get out and wander, then?”

“Yes. Thank you, Bromm.” Filia replies. Though she is touched by the gesture, she lacks the experience necessary to express it. Few have ever offered her gifts, and none have done so without expecting something in return. “I would offer to pay for this, but I imagine you would take offense.”

“Aye. Tis a gift, girl. No one ever tell you not to insult an old merc?” But he's amused; he and Filia have had similar discussions before, and she's seen him refuse money from those he's helped before.

The corner of Filia's mouth turns up again. “I would not want to violate local custom nor offend a 'merc,' whatever that might be.” She refolds the cloak, setting it and the hood aside.

“Soldier for hire.” Bromm says by way of explanation. “Some folk fight for a cause, me, I fought for coin.” And, reflexively, because of the assumptions those of his world often made about mercenaries, he adds: “Had a code though, never fought for them that did wrong by my estimation.”

Filia replies. “The githyanki did occasionally hire istik to fight for them, but they generally considered them expendable.”

“Aye, that about sums up being a merc, at that.” Bromm agrees. “Ye going to be up for much longer?”

Filia nods, unconsciously touching her book. “For a short time, at least. I have always found sleep elusive and I am quite engrossed.”

“I'll leave you to it, then.” Bromm says. “'Night, Fillia.” And he heads for the stairs.

“Rest well, Bromm.” Filia replies. “And thank you again.”

“Bah.” Bromm chuckles as he heads out of sight, leaving Filia to her reading.