Dove Sanctuary @dovesanctuarydonotkill - Tumblr Blog

Jul 21

Seasons of My Life- a BG3 oc fic

Honestly I probably could've made this longer. But at some point you have to call it and it's gotta be done. Am I pulling my punches or slapping my own hand away from the keyboard? You be the judge!

A few of the seasons of Chiara's life, before she grew up. Inspired by "Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac

Characters: Chiara Embervale (OC), her shit ass family (OCs), Wyll Ravengard, Grand Duke Ulder Ravengard, Enver Gortash, Nine-Fingers Keene

Ships: slight wyll x chiara, mostly chiara x bullshit

Contains: big freaking backstory, child abuse, victim blaming, ableism, fatphobia, spoilers for wyll's arc at the end of act 2, but is it really if it's a complete outsider's perspective? Yeah I think it is actually, young love, childhood friends, I did not originally intend to base any part of this on landslide but it makes sense. i swear, tell you truth beefy. trust me. always, always! uh, evil uncle figure!gortash

Summer 1473 DR

The harbor looked magical. The salty sea breeze felt refreshing in a whole new way. The seabirds overhead and the dark blue waves and their white caps and the salt and wind and the vast emptiness beyond the ships and lighthouses. It could go on forever, it seemed.

To the little tiefling leaning over the stone wall, it revealed a whole new world and a whole new life outside her family home. Wide green eyes with dark scleras gazed out at the vast expanse before her. The wind whipped through her brown hair and waves splashed a fine mist onto her pink skin. Her tail swished back and forth.

She ran to a dock to be closer to the water. The waves didn't crash against a wall here and she could look at her reflection in the water. She giggled at the way her little horns warped as the ripples wobbled past. If she looked closer, in just the right spots, she could swear she saw fish underneath. Big fish.

But then another face appeared beside hers. She jumped, nearly falling in but catching herself on the ledge.

"Sorry I scared you," the other face said, now that she could actually see who was next to her. A human boy, probably about her age. He had dark skin and his hair was braided close to his head. He smiled. Chiara smiled back, though she wasn't used to meeting new people. This kid came on pretty strong, and it made her feel even more shy than usual.

"Did you know there's mermaids in the harbor?" he asked.

Mermaids? Here?

"I tried to find them last time I was here," the boy said. "But I got pulled out before I could swim down enough."

"If you haven't seen them, how do you know they're in there?" Chiara asked.

"I read about it! Come on! If we both dive deep enough we can see them!"

Chiara had been swimming before, but this was much deeper than any pool, and she could only swim so deep before she had to come up for air, but the boy's enthusiasm kept them both going. She needed to see these mermaids too. They'd dive down, swim farther and farther, until they had to stop and float to the surface to breathe. It didn't help that it just got harder to swim deeper.

"This isn't working!" Chiara cried, treading water in place. "I can't swim any deeper!"

"Just keep trying. I know we're getting close!" the boy said.

He looked around and his eyes lit up.

"That's it!"

He swam over to a rowboat by the dock and pulled one of its oars free from the side.

"If we hold onto the same thing and swim at the same time, we can swim faster! So we'll swim deeper!

Chiara gasped. "It's perfect!"

They held onto the oar side by side, took a big breath each, and ducked under the water. They kicked their legs as fast as they could, making it deeper, and deeper, and as the murky waters gave way to their secrets hidden within, Chiara could see brilliant scales on a distinct tail, and on the other end, a beautiful woman with long pink and green hair. She looked up at the children, surprised and amused.

They did it! Chiara turned to the boy, only to see him suddenly shoot back up to the surface. Suddenly Chiara found their oar being pulled up too--and her with it.

In an instant, she was hauled up to the surface and dropped onto the dock beside the boy, cast in tall shadows. Chiara looked up and saw the stern faces of her own mother and a human man in armor.

"There she is," her mother scoffed. "I knew she'd get into trouble!"

She turned to the human. "I'm deeply sorry, Grand Duke Ravengard. My daughter, she's just... not normal. She doesn't know how to play with children her age."

"No, this is my boy's doing," the man said. "He did this last time we were here. I never thought he'd get your daughter in on it. But perhaps this is for the best. If you do accept my offer."

Chiara didn't know what offer the father made, but her mother looked at her, then to the boy, then back to her. She scowled.

"We'll see."

Chiara looked at the boy. He grinned and extended his hand.

"I'm Wyll."

Chiara shook his hand. "Chiara."

Fall 1473 DR

Wyll liked to fish by Wyrm's Rock. He never caught any fish, but it was a nice place to sit and watch the water down below, or people crossing the drawbridge up above. Chiara liked to sit here with him, even if they weren't doing the same things. He taught her how to make a fishing pole, and she taught him some songs that she learned from her father, a bard and a longtime lute player. They had started school together and on the first day of music class, the teacher asked if anyone knew the Elf Song, and her hand shot up in an instant.

"O sing a song of Balduran

Who founded Baldur's Gate

Empire, gold, and built-on trade

Could not avert his fate"

Later in the day at lunch he came up to her and declared that they would be friends, very boldly, but she liked him. He was nice and silly and sweet. So they were friends.

Now they sat watching ships sail by under the setting sun, waiting for the stars. They held hands, leaned on each other, kicked their little legs against the sheer cliff side.

"Can you sing the sad one?" Wyll asked.

"I thought you didn't like the sad one," Chiara said.

"Well, you like it. And I just want to hear you sing."

Chiara giggled.

"Took my love, took it down

Climbed a mountain and turned around

And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills

'Til a landslide brought me down

Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?

Can the child within my heart rise above?

Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?

Can I handle the seasons of my life?

Well, I've been afraid of changing

'Cause I've built my life around you

But time makes you bolder, even children get older

And I'm getting older too."

Wyll looked back at Wyrm's Rock.

"Father's gonna worry about me."

Chiara panicked and held onto his arm with both hands. He couldn't go home now! Because she'd have to go home, and she'd probably get yelled at for not standing up straight or eating a single fruit. Too much sugar, her mother said.

"Please just stay a little longer," she begged.

"Alright, I'll stay."

She leaned on his shoulder and let out a relieved sigh.

Winter 1483 DR

Upper City parties stressed Chiara out more than most things. All she wanted was to be alone in her room, reading or sewing. She'd been teaching herself how to upsize a waistcoat. She could have been wearing the finished garment right now if she didn't get pulled out of her room and assaulted with lotions and potions from manor staff for three hours and then stuffed into a tight brocade ensemble in preparation for this event. Her siblings could relax in their rooms, but she had responsibilities. And her mother Celia insisted that those responsibilities be handled perfectly.

Being the oldest of four, Chiara was next in line for the title of Duke Embervale. Head of house. For now she'd be crowned Lady, and debuted to patriars and politicians. After all, she'd be their coworker one day.

So everything had to be perfect, on this day, her fourteenth birthday, and not a moment sooner, but the festivities so far were awful. The staff put her into a frigid cold bath and scrubbed her with brushes so hard it felt like her skin and half her body fat had been rubbed clean off. Drying her off didn't feel very different. Her long brown hair, thick and a nightmare to keep at its permitted minimum length, was meticulously braided and pinned into an elaborate updo, and chains adorned her bun and horns, the latter of which were buffed and polished, plus a manicure to match. The freckles on her face were painted over with makeup. She was tightlaced into a corset, something only required for her, not her mother, not her little sister Ciri. "Tummy control," Celia said. Chiara could hardly breathe. Her father Zain thought it excessive, and in the past he was willing to take her into another room and loosen it. He was often aligned with Celia, but he was usually easier to reason with, less tolerant of his eldest child suffering. And over the corset, a silk shirt, high-waisted pants, and that flashy brocade jacket with elements from the family crest woven into it. The staff oohed and ahhed at how dolled up she was, but as Celia came into the room, Chiara already caught a glimpse of her disapproving frown.

"Have we finished putting lipstick on the pig?" Celia asked.

"Yes, Duke Embervale," said the maid.

"Perfect. We need her out in the great hall right now."

With that, Celia whisked Chiara out of the room and down the hall, firmly gripping her shoulder. Celia and Zain never struck any of their children, but clearly Celia wasn't above forcefully guiding this one by the shoulder.

"Stand up straight, be polite, don't freeze and start crying like you always do, but most importantly, do not screw this up," she whispered. "We need to show them that you are a future worth welcoming. And we have a friend coming over. A Counsellor. You'd do well to make a good impression on him."

The friend, the Counsellor, was a human who, if Chiara was being blunt, looked like shit. Dark hair disheveled and not even combed by the looks of it, the lacing on his collar uneven and dangling asymmetrically, leaving his shirt half-open, and something darkening his eyes that looked like it could be sleep deprivation or just eye makeup, a stark contrast to his fair, yet dull, somewhat lifeless skin. His clothing itself was ostentatious, gold accents on black, an extravagant collar making him look like a gilded peacock dipped in ink, and most of all, visible wear and tear at the coattails. Chiara's anxiety turned to anger. She had to spend hours being made up like a doll in a toymaker's hands only for her parents' most important guest to walk in looking like he just got out of bed? What a joke. And what went so wrong for him to befriend the two cruelest tyrants Chiara had ever known?

But looks could be deceiving. Like everyone else, she had to at least give him a chance. Besides, she didn't see her mother making a fuss about his double chin. She almost laughed at the idea. This new person being the one to show Celia how to treat her daughter she'd already known for fourteen years with some respect for once.

"Chiara, meet Counsellor Enver Gortash. Counsellor Gortash, our eldest daughter Lady Chiara," Zain said.

"I plan to retire early and live the last few centuries of my life in peace," Celia said. "You two will be working together sooner than you think."

Chiara swallowed her anger and replied as if she were reading from a Flaming Fist drilling manual, like the kind she read with Wyll when they were stuck in Wyrm's Rock with nothing to do. "Well met. It's always an honor to meet a future colleague."

"The honor's all mine, my dear," he said with a smile. "Your parents have told me much about you."

Well, that could mean anything. To her parents, Chiara was smart, well-read, a good friend, kind to animals and small children, and she could be patient, accommodating, engaged, but she was often disobedient, argumentative, reckless, emotional, easily offended, stubborn, picky, greedy, and she needed to "apply" herself more. What did they pick and choose when describing her to others? To Gortash?

"Gortash has taken interest in your grandfather's old diagrams," Celia explained. "We're working on a proper archive of them. You'll be inheriting the project someday."

"I hear you're quite the reader," Gortash said. "You might enjoy working on an inventor's library. I myself got my start as an artificer."

So he was new money. Chiara had a bit of hope. Even after only a few generations in the upper city, it was easy to forget the troubles of one's forebears, and hard to remember what real problems were. Chiara's maternal grandfather, an alchemist and inventor, sold his soul to Asmodeus to create a concoction that could pull his family out of poverty and now his daughter told kitchen staff to lock the pantry to keep Chiara from taking food to fill her constantly empty stomach. Wyll's paternal grandfather was a struggling blacksmith and now Grand Duke Ravengard threw a fit every time Wyll got up to normal childhood mischief. Human or tiefling, every generation seemed to forget what they didn't have before, and if they did, they now looked crazy trying to justify to their parents something as benign as eating a snack or going fishing off of Wyrm's Rock in the rain and getting sick.

"I see why you'd be interested in the Embervale archives," Chiara said. "I wouldn't mind trying my hand at something like that. Mum always says I need a real hobby. Bet she didn't even tell you I'm teaching myself how to sew."

Gortash chuckled. Chiara wasn't joking.

But maybe he could take her seriously. Few adults in the upper city did. This could be her chance at freedom.

"So you do work with your hands, after all," he said. "I'm sure we'll get along well."

She stuck by him throughout the evening, at a table where they talked over food and drink. Chiara was starving, but she hardly ate, letting him direct most of the conversation, waiting for the right opportunity, and with rapt attention. She asked about his artificer background and he spared no detail, it seemed. His parents were craftspeople with mountains of debt, and they worked him past the point of injury and with little time to heal from said injuries (he pointed out his gilded cane), until they got an offer they couldn't refuse: they sold him to a warlock. He suffered in the hells as a child slave and worked endlessly to escape and start a new life as an inventor.

Gods, this poor man. By human standards he wasn't old, yet he spoke of occasionally relying on that cane to hold him up, on days when his knee felt the worst as if he was on death's door. Stiffness here, pain there, most of it preventable or treatable when the injury first started. Sure, he couldn't afford to just be a child, but his parents never once regretted it, scowling at him as his chores remained unfinished while he worked on other chores, striking him when he collapsed from exhaustion and cried too loud, gleefully counting the warlock's gold as he was led out of his home and into the hells for someone there to do all of the same things.

"They broke me," he said. "By some miracle, I am mostly intact. There is much strife in the realms, but the parents who mistreat their children are especially cruel tyrants that would make even Bane blush."

"Then... maybe you could help me," Chiara said.

Gortash set down his wine glass. "Help you?"

"My parents. They'd never admit to it, but they can't stand me. It's like my whole existence brings shame to the family! I have to study all the time so I'm not stupid, I can't wear my hair how I want it because it's about what mum wants, I'm not allowed to feed myself no matter how hungry I am--they tell the kitchen all the time! I get the smallest portions, they can't give me any food, and they have to lock the pantry all the time! Especially at night! I can't wear anything remotely comfortable, I get nervous in public so they force me to go to these stupid parties, and I just get more nervous, and they tell me to get a hobby, but I don't have time! And when I'm not nervous, I'm tired! It's like I've been fighting all day so when I can finally rest, resting is all I can do! And it's all to make me a perfect leader. But I'm never even close. I'm dying in here. I'm dying! I'm going to die!"

She forced back her tears. "Please, Counsellor Gortash! I've asked just about everyone in the upper city! They don't believe me! Please help me!"

Gortash clasped his hands. "I believe you."

The tension building up in Chiara suddenly melted away. "Oh, thank you--"

"Wait," he interrupted, holding up his finger. "I believe you. However, you seem to lack... effort."

What?

Gortash clasped his hands. "Look at me, Miss Embervale. I had nothing. Not a coin to my name. I was a slave to a devil. And I still prevailed. Your family are the richest tieflings in Baldur's Gate! If I can escape servitude in the hells with nothing, surely you could have escaped long ago! Clearly you don't need my help."

"Please! I don't have any money of my own. My parents wouldn't give me a single copper if their lives depended on it! I can't escape! I have nothing!"

"The way I see it, my dear, every minute of your life you waste in this golden cage... is your fault. You are a bright, capable young woman. You can overcome your parents, as long as you apply yourself."

The rage hit Chiara like a jolt of her infernal legacy power through her veins, causing her to act without thinking. She picked up his wine glass and tossed it into his face.

"How's that for applying myself, you fucking piece of shit bastard?" she snapped.

She'd attracted attention, horrified reactions from yelling at him, but she didn't care. If this was how everyone in the upper city would react to her being abused, why be polite? Why bother with tact?

"Calm yourself, now," Gortash said, wiping his face with a napkin. He barely even seemed bothered. How?

"I'll calm myself when I've got some actual gold in my pocket! A full belly! A haircut! Anything!"

"You have everything," he shot back.

"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you?"

"You're squandering your privileges, Chiara. When I was your age, I would have sold my soul for your place!"

"By all means, let's trade!"

Celia rushed in with a handkerchief for Gortash, as Zain and Chiara's brother Cesare restrained Chiara and began to force her out of the great hall.

"I'm so sorry, Enver! My daughter, I didn't want to worry you, but she's quite disturbed! We're still teaching her basic etiquette! That's why we haven't had you over until now!"

"They're going to lock me in my room!" Chiara called. "Just like they always do! It's not right! You know it's not right!"

"Please cooperate!" Zain said. Chiara's other siblings, Ciri and Cosmo, soon joined in to tear her away from the room full of witnesses. Someone would say something. Surely someone would say something. They had to.

Gortash stopped the mob dragging Chiara away, leaned in close, and whispered to her:

"As long as you're an Embervale, no one else will ever believe you."

He waved them away. "Get some rest, young Miss Embervale. I do hope we meet again under better circumstances."

Chiara struggled and screamed as they dragged her out the door.

"You fucking snake! You know what they're doing! You're helping them! If you do nothing, you're helping them!"

After a loud, vitriolic lecture from Celia, Chiara was to remain in her room for the rest of the winter holiday. Her meals, even more strictly portioned than usual, would be slipped under the door.

For days Chiara slept. She hardly ate what little was given to her. At one point a note from Gortash was slipped under her door, stating that he forgave her for her "spontaneous outburst," and that he hoped she would someday reach her "full potential." If Wyll had ever shown up with a message for her, she never got any.

She took to watching the passersby on the street, outside her window. Sometimes she could hear their conversations. Relationship drama, news stories, anecdotes about their day. It passed the time and gave her a small escape into the outside world.

One night she awoke to a shouting match outside her window and ran over to investigate. Up against the side of the house, a human and a dragonborn shouted over each other before taking a moment to breathe and speaking in frantic whispers.

"If I don't find a way out of this, my whole family's dead!" the dragonborn exclaimed.

"Alright. I didn't wanna rope you into this, but I know someone. Someone with muscle," the human replied, leaning in close. "Nine-Fingers Keene."

Chiara held back a gasp. The dragonborn didn't.

"Meet me at the Guildhall tomorrow. Heapside Strand, alley guarded by a half-orc," the human said. "The password is 'a shot of firewine.'"

Nine-Fingers Keene was a long shot, but it was the best Chiara could hope for.

As soon as the strangers left, Chiara tied all her bedsheets together to make a rope from the third story down to the street. Dressed in a cloak, she made her way through the city streets to Heapside.

The rumors of the place traveled far and wide: you couldn't walk far in the narrow alleyways at night without taking a dagger to the back. But Chiara figured if she died she'd be free from this nightmare.

It wasn't the alley that almost deterred her, but one of the bodyguards inside who clocked her as an outsider almost immediately. Called herself Lady Ague and demanded to know what a teenager was doing here. Chiara introduced herself as Lucia, but was honest about seeking an audience with Nine-Fingers.

Walking into her office, Chiara's heart raced. Nine-Fingers herself, the Queen of Kingpins, the Godmother of the Guild, the Boss of Black Markets, studied her curiously, even though Chiara kept her hood on. If Gortash taught her anything, it was that her family's wealth ruined her victimhood.

"You must be real desperate to ask the guild for help," Nine-Fingers said.

"I am," Chiara replied. "It's my parents. They don't give me anything. No money, barely any food, the pantry's locked and everyone in the house is supposed to keep me from getting in, they don't even let me wear my hair how I want! They're always screaming at me, blaming me for things I didn't do... The Flaming Fist gave up on me a long time ago, so... I came here."

Nine-Fingers nodded. "I see. So what would you have me do? Rough 'em up so they stop? Or do you have something more permanent in mind?"

"Can't be permanent. I've got three siblings who love them too much."

"Tell me more about these siblings, Lucia."

Chiara almost forgot that was her alias. "Oh, um... yes! They're the golden children. Mum and dad love them to death. It's just me they can't stand. If you could just--"

"Wait a tick," Nine-Fingers said. "This all sounds a bit familiar. Tiefling, oldest of four, black sheep, parents don't have to worry about the Fist knocking on their door..."

She stood up from her desk and slowly walked towards Chiara, brandishing a dagger. Chiara gulped. And with that dagger, Nine-Fingers simply lifted the hood until Chiara's face was in full view.

"Chiara Embervale," she said. "You're a long way from home."

"Please, Nine-Fingers. I'll do anything!" Chiara begged.

"Why pretend to be someone you're not? Seems a bit dishonest," Nine-Fingers mused. "I mean, if we're going to do business together at all, we need to have trust."

"Mum and dad's new friend was abused as a kid, but he came from poverty," Chiara explained. "Told me I wasn't trying hard enough if I couldn't escape with everything when he could with nothing. He said as long as I live as a rich kid, no one would ever believe me."

She sniffled. Gortash's words still cut her deep. Maybe he was right. Or maybe if she pretended he was, the pain would go away.

"I believe you, girl," Nine-Fingers said. "I understand. You and I aren't so different. I run the Guild, for the gods' sakes! We both live a life of privilege and pain. But I can't help you. First of all, your folks are too protected. We might not be able to get to 'em even if we tried. Second of all, we're just too different. The daughter of a duke in league with the Guild? If this got out, it'd ruin all of us. Your people and mine. What would they think of the great and good of Baldur's Gate doing dealings with a band of thieves and thugs?"

Chiara's face fell.

"It's nothing personal, Chiara. It's just business. You're a good kid. You've got a social standing to burn and I'm not gonna be the one to do that. You don't wanna get mixed up in the Guild. I'll just ruin your life more than your parents already have."

She turned to Lady Ague. "Get us a shortbow. Couple arrows too."

Ague left the room for a moment. Chiara watched her leave, but Nine-Fingers cleared her throat. She had more to say.

"But I've always had a soft spot for the youngins. So if I can't help you, I'll make sure you can help yourself."

Ague came back with a bow and a quiver and handed them to Nine-Fingers.

"You can hunt game or hunt people, and you can certainly hunt your folks. But you do it alone. You make your own money. You control all your finances."

"I'm still in your debt," Chiara said.

"All I ask is that this stays between us. Anyone asks about that bow, you say you found it in an alleyway. You're takin' up a new hobby. I'm sure Duke and Duke Consort Embervale will be pleased if you spin it right."

Chiara took the bow and quiver, staring at them in her hands.

I'll apply myself, alright.

Spring 1484 DR

So far, Chiara had been making progress with archery. She'd been reading up on hunting, on living off the land, on how to make a living hunting game. She'd learned fast, but she still had a long ways to go. She needed practice.

The training room. Chiara and her siblings had all learned how to use a sword here, and Chiara's favorite sparring partner was Wyll, of course, and his preferred weapon, the rapier. Chiara always liked the longsword, but as she grew more reliant on bows, she'd been brushing up on her skills with smaller blades. Shortswords, daggers, hatchets, even sickles. But for now, she focused on her bow.

Her parents knew she'd taken to hunting, and spending more time out in the woods, but they didn't know about the small stash of gold she'd been slowly collecting. Her pay. Folks on the outskirts of town and in small surrounding villages would gladly buy fresh game. Chiara now had a job.

They even gave her a name: the Iron Strider. She had to swipe a metal breastplate from a display in the hallway to wear. It was real armor, supposedly belonging to a rather large devil in Asmodeus' circle and gifted to her grandfather, but all that mattered was that it did its job. Which it did, but Chiara was saving up for leather. Light, flexible, much quieter, and ideal for the movement of an archer. The few people she'd helped already took notice of her metal armor and mysterious identity-hiding cloak as she trekked through forests and fields for her prey, or, on a few occasions, to track down specific animals for the locals. So they called her the Iron Strider. The first person to call her by this new title was a tiefling in Rivington who'd been chased up a tree by a newborn gnoll. Chiara had swiftly dispatched it, helped the scared woman down, and officially received both a ranger title and a small satchel of gold for her trouble.

Archery practice helped her slow down and take it all in. She readied an arrow, pulling the bowstring back to her cheek, let out a breath, and let the arrow fly. It pierced the target pretty far from the center. Ugh.

She shook that one off, took a few deep breaths before she even reached for her quiver, then took a moment to do it again after nocking the second arrow. She let the bowstring go, and the arrow pierced the target nearly dead center. Yes!

This time, Chiara really got into that calm, patient mindset. The peacefulness of the woods. The comfort of solitude. The patient anticipation of a hunt. The weather was getting warm, but a lingering chill and the stillness it brought with it comforted her more than a warm summer day. Perhaps being a tiefling made coolness that much more relaxing.

The arrow flew, leaving a whoosh of cool air in its wake, and it hit the target in the exact center.

"Well done," said an all-too familiar voice.

Chiara's eyes narrowed. She didn't have to turn around. Gortash had continued to be a thorn in her side, with snide comments and backhanded praise, in between grim reminders that the longer she stayed, the worse it made her look.

"I must admit, I didn't believe you were capable of such marksmanship," he said.

"You don't believe I'm capable of anything, Gortash," Chiara muttered. "What are you doing here?"

"Rumor has it you've become quite the archer. I was having tea with your father, and he told me you were practicing right now. I had to see for myself."

"Well, you saw it. Don't you have anyone else to talk down to?"

"No, not for a few hours. In fact, I think this is the perfect way to mend broken bridges."

He took an ornate-looking heavy crossbow from behind his back. "I happen to dabble a bit in the crossbow."

He shot a crossbow bolt into the target next to Chiara's, not close to the center, but clearly he was warming up.

He chuckled. "I don't have much time to practice, as you can see. I certainly hope you'll have a proper work-life balance someday."

His next bolt landed dead center. Chiara had a chance to show him up, with an upright bow, of all things. But she had to try. Like she'd said, he didn't think she could do anything.

Ugh, making arrows is so time-consuming, she thought, as she drew another arrow. This had better be worth it.

Relax. Take a breath. Ready, aim...

Fire.

The iron arrowhead drove clean through the wooden shaft in the bullseye, splitting it into thin little curls every which way. The only way she could improve perfection was to replicate it, and she had done just that, with twice the draw weight of Gortash's crossbow and a tiny fraction of the practice.

And speaking of Gortash, she turned to him and bowed, a sarcastic display of respect for a disrespectful person. But when she stoop up, he was beaming with pride. It looked so strange. Genuine warmth was such an odd look on him.

"Brava, Miss Embervale," he said. "You've finally shown some backbone. I'll have to keep an eye on your career after all."

Fall 1485 DR

Chiara went to bed in her own camp on the outskirts of town, reflecting on how far she'd come. There was a time when she wouldn't set foot in the woods. The frontiers outside of Baldur's Gate were so daunting, and she'd grown up with tales of the dangers lurking within. The devil she didn't know scared her more than the devil she'd grown up with: her family.

It had only gotten worse throughout her life. First, her struggles to adapt to Upper City etiquette, something that came so naturally to everyone else. People scolded her, mocked her, and even when she tried to get it right, they reacted as if she were a pet doing a trick, if she even got it right at all. Sometimes, no matter what she did, it was out of pocket. Like that time the music teacher asked if anyone knew the Elf Song and she immediately raised her hand and sang it unprompted. Then as she grew up, she started to grow out. Her father said she got the pear-shaped body from his mother, but her mother couldn't stand it. She got the manor cooks to bring her less food, and switch what she did eat for alternatives that made her stomach churn. Butter buns became coarse brown rolls that she couldn't get out of her teeth even after she swallowed it. Potatoes became plain rice. Cinnamon rolls became sickly-sweet berry compote that threatened to come back up as soon as she forced it down. Then the orders came to lock the pantry at night, then to not let her into the kitchen at all. When one of the cooks, a kindly halfling gentleman named Fond, started sneaking her the portions she used to have, she knew it was only a matter of time before he got caught and got fired. But he kept her belly full for a tenday. She gave him one of her many jeweled necklaces to help him and his family get back on his feet. Her parents would flay her alive if she parted with all of them, but they wouldn't notice one missing necklace, surely. They never did.

The attempts to control her appearance didn't stop with her weight. Her family gave her regularly scheduled haircuts, where she'd be sat in a chair, have her mid-back-length hair braided meticulously, and then have it chopped off at the shoulders, rinse and repeat every time it grew out. When she finally worked up the courage to run away from home and venture into the woods for the first time, she was caught by a patriar on a diplomatic trip, returned by his staff to her parents' manor, and forced to have her horns gold grafted, an expensive and long-lasting procedure, with parts of the family crest carved into them until she grew those out in about a decade. Tieflings of all stations had gold grafting, but it was the shapes of the family crest that marked her as what she was supposed to be: a noble. An Embervale. She wouldn't make it far in the woods without being found out.

Or so they thought.

The remains of a campfire fizzled out of a small hole dug in the ground, another hole beside it, connected by a hand-dug tunnel. Chiara learned this trick long ago, to be able to cook food and keep warm while laying low. One hole held the campfire, and the other provided the air needed to sustain it. Its size and depth made it hard to cook anything bigger than a sparrow, but it had served its purpose. Next to the fire, a small lean-to had been built, and that was where Chiara had spent the night, wrapped in her bedroll and bundled up in comfortable hide armor for good measure.

She opened her bright green eyes, standing out against her dark infernal scleras. Blue hour. The world itself was just waking up.

Opening her pack, she saw that she had only one little meat pie left and her waterskin was nearly empty. She was out of provisions. Her brief vacation ended today.

She ate the meat pie, watching the sun rise over the city in the distance, thinking of how her mother would yell at her for wasting time in the woods when she should be focused on her studies. As if she never did both.

She opened her Elvish book and read the passage she'd bookmarked: a lesson on future tense. Being next in line for her mother's ducal title, she'd learned several languages in addition to the Common and Infernal the household already spoke. She'd been studying Elvish, Drow, Gith, and Rashemi. After that, she set out to check the traps she'd put down yesterday. Empty, but maybe she'd bag something on this last-minute morning hunt.

Down by the stream, there was a boar snuffling around in search of truffles, which Chiara might take home with her if she could get them before the animal did. Not to mention the boar itself. Seeing that he was preoccupied, she crept around in order to get a better shot. A breeze hit her side, telling her immediately she was upwind. The boar got a sense of her and trotted along the stream, which she had to cross in order to get downwind and draw an arrow from her quiver.

The beast had gone back to sniffing around, head turning back and forth as she aimed and waited for even the slightest window of opportunity.

"Need some help carrying that?"

The boar snapped his head up at the sound of the voice and Chiara quickly fired, but as it dashed out of sight her arrow only took a chunk out of one of the tusks. She huffed and turned around.

Wyll walked down the tiny path of dirt leading down to the stream, grinning cheekily at having ruined a potentially successful hunt. Chiara wasn't grinning.

"Gods damnit, Wyll. I'll be walking home empty-handed now."

"That boar probably weighs more than both of us combined," Wyll said. "You can't carry that all the way back to town."

"I was going to drag it," Chiara grumbled. "That half-elf at the butchers pays well for them. And I'm almost there."

"You don't mean..."

That cheery smile faded as he said that, and he looked at her with those sad eyes he always got when they talked about this.

"Just a hundred more gold, and I'll have a new life," Chiara said. "My own life."

"There has to be someone who will believe you," Wyll said. "You deserve a life in the city. A home. A bed. Surely someone will take you in."

"And get hanged for kidnapping a young noble? It won't matter what I want when my parents get involved. I can't let an innocent family die for me. There's no place for me left in the city."

He still looked hurt.

"I can still save up for you too," she said. "You can still come with me. Your father's only a little better than my mother anyway."

"Someone has to take his place when the time comes, Chiara," Wyll said. "I don't have siblings. Or the lifespan of a tiefling."

"Wyll..."

She put her bow away.

"You're the only good thing I have. Not even the frontiers are the same if I can't find my way back to you. Besides, you came this far for me."

"I brought you breakfast," Wyll said, taking a piece of food wrapped in paper out of his pack.

"Why didn't you say so?" Chiara exclaimed.

The food turned out to be a generous piece of freshly baked sourdough from a bakery in the Wide. They sat on a rock and enjoyed their meal together, watching the bustling city from a hillside.

"What did your mother say about the haircut?" Wyll asked.

Chiara ran her hand through the short, somewhat choppy self-cut. "Screamed at me. She gave up on cutting my hair, though. I'm free from that now."

"That's good. And the maid?"

"She's on paid leave. I think my folks sent her to Waterdeep just to get her away from me."

It had been a disaster all around. Chiara had been skipping her haircuts because of her hunting job, and she started taking advantage of that. There was so much her family couldn't force her to do if she just wasn't around to do it. Their latest attempt to control her was to remove her bedroom door from its hinges. In response to that, she started sleeping in a way she only did when she went camping: having a knife under her pillow. Unfortunately, Celia decided these haircuts were happening no matter what, but instead of doing the dirty work herself, she outsourced it to a staff member, one of the maids, specifically. Chiara wasn't expecting that, since Celia always cut her hair, so she had no qualms about defending herself from whoever dared cut a lock of hair while she slept... until she turned the light on.

But life still had to go on, and she had school in the morning, so she chopped it short in the bathroom and told everyone she got rid of her bed knife.

Like hells she would. It was expensive! She kept it hidden on her at all times. She'd never ditch a perfectly good knife.

Wyll gave her a smile. "I like your new hair. You look... comfortable with it."

"I think that's what I was missing. Being comfortable."

She sighed. "It's still not enough for them to skip over me. I don't know why I'm still next in line for Duke. They clearly don't want me to be."

"Maybe they're still hoping we'll get married."

"That's why they keep trying to fix me. So I'll be good enough for you."

Wyll chuckled.

"I'm serious! If a tiefling marries into the family of a Grand Duke, it'll make history. The Embervales wouldn't be just any patriar family. They'd be the tiefling success story. Only a few generations ago we had nothing. Nothing except Asmodeus keeping a mortal soul on a leash. If I was 'great and good' enough, we'd have been betrothed for more than a decade! Your father wants it! My parents want it! I keep them from living the Baldurian dream by just being myself!"

"Maybe then I'd run away with you," Wyll mused. "We'd show them it's about us having a choice. I'd follow you to the hells and back because I want to, not because I have to."

Chiara smiled.

Wyll smiled back. "And don't worry. I'd never make you have children."

"Only reason I don't want 'em is because I'm too screwed up," Chiara said. "Maybe if I were somewhere I could be different, I might consider it."

"But you're not..."

"Not yet."

"Father's going to worry about me," Wyll said.

No. Not yet. If he went home, she'd have to go home too. That familiar sense of dread when all good things came to an end made her heart race and her hands tremble.

Chiara laced her fingers with his. "Just stay a little longer?"

"Alright."

She leaned on his shoulder. This could be the last time she ever sat with her friend.

Her only friend.

Giving up her only friend for freedom was hard, but she had to do it. She couldn't depend on Wyll forever.

Her tail snaked around his waist. She had to make these days last.

Ten days later...

This should be it. The night Chiara would finally be free. But for some reason, when she looked out her window at the woods she so often retreated into for a temporary respite... things were different. The moon and stars were blotted out and she didn't want to use the cover of darkness. Something told her this was different. Something told her to wait.

She looked at the spot where her bedroom door used to be. Where her family ordered staff to remove it from its hinges. She hefted her very full gold pouch in her hand and fiddled with her backpack straps. What was the problem? Why couldn't she just go?

She opened her window. She could step out. She could go right now.

But the next thing she knew, she woke up to a bright sunny morning. She had fallen asleep leaning on her windowsill.

Only one thought crossed her mind: something was up and she had to tell Wyll.

He wasn't home. So she rushed to Wyrm's Rock to find Duke Ravengard, weaving through the streets of Baldur's Gate and crossing the drawbridge. She searched every room of Wyrm's Rock, frantically asking anyone around if they'd seen either Duke Ravengard or Wyll. Ravengard had to be home by now. And Wyll didn't have anywhere to be that she knew of! Where were they? Someone had to know something! Anyone! Anything!

A Flaming Fist approached her.

"Did you say Wyll Ravengard?" he asked. "He's leaving the city right now. If you're lucky, you'll be able to catch him."

Leaving the city? Without her? Chiara wanted to scream at him. All this talk about staying in the city because it was his duty and now he was leaving? But as she continued her mad dash out of town, she grew worried. Something was wrong. Maybe Ravengard had been cold enough to Wyll to make him decide to run away after all. Maybe Wyll was going through something not unlike her worst moods, where she wanted to do something drastic. Something permanent.

When she saw Wyll slowly exit Wyrm's Crossing and into Rivington, she felt relieved. He was okay. There was still a chance to help him.

"Wyll!" she called. "Wyll!"

He turned around. All he had with him was a satchel and a rapier, his weapon of choice as the well-educated child of a noble. His smile was forced, and one of his beautiful eyes had been replaced with a stone prosthetic. When had he lost an eye?

"Wyll, what happened?" Chiara exclaimed. "I heard you were leaving! What happened?"

Wyll struggled to speak, but no words left his lips. Chiara didn't understand. This wasn't like him.

"What happened to your eye?" Chiara asked.

He struggled to speak again, but this time he managed. "I... lost it..."

"Wyll, that's not--"

Chiara sighed. This clearly wasn't working.

"Why are you leaving?"

"Father told me to," he said plainly.

Oh, hells.

"I knew it! I knew he'd cross the line someday! I always knew you were in danger, but I didn't think he'd--oh, gods. Oh, gods. We gotta get you to a cleric. A temple. Anything! Somewhere or someone that can keep you safe!"

She tried to drag him back into the city. He was ninety pounds soaking wet, normally not a challenge to move, but her mind was so focused on the horror of Ravengard partially blinding his own son that she couldn't even handle the task at hand. His eye. Oh, gods, his eye.

"Chiara!" Wyll exclaimed. "Father didn't do this."

"He didn't?"

"No. He just told me to go."

"Because you lost your eye?"

"No!"

Chiara grabbed his shoulders. "Then why? What's going on? Why do you have to leave! You won't be able to finish school, or be the next Grand Duke, or--"

"None of that matters now," Wyll said sadly.

"Then I'm coming with you. I'm all ready to go, we can ration gold and supplies together, we can make a living hunting, and we'd be together! Just like we talked about!"

Wyll smiled hopefully, but it quickly faded to a slight frown, then to fear.

"I wish I could. But this is a burden I must carry alone," he said. "Maybe one day we'll cross paths again. But it can't be today. For now, this is goodbye."

Well, he wasn't going to kill himself. Not that it really mattered since losing her only friend made Chiara want to take her own life. They couldn't be together again, even for a visit? He didn't even say where he was going so it wasn't like she could write to him! How in the hells was she supposed to go on now? All alone?

She held his free hand in both of hers, trying to fight the tears but failing miserably. She always failed. "Please? Stay a little longer?"

He gave her a sad look. "I can't. I should have left by now. And so should you, from the looks of it."

"None of that matters now," Chiara said. "But you do! You matter, Wyll! Your father can't just--"

She reached for her gold satchel. "Take this. It should be enough for you to get yourself set up somewhere soon."

Wyll was in shock. Admittedly, she couldn't believe she had just done that either, giving him her life savings, but all she could think about was him surviving out there on his own, cold and hungry and alone.

"And my bedroll. In fact, just take the whole pack!"

She took off her supply pack, bedroll tied on the top, and handed it to him. He deserved to be comfortable. He deserved a bed.

"This is everything you own, Chiara! All your money! All your supplies!"

"I can get more! Besides, I can't give you my bow."

"You've been building this up for years!"

"You have nothing! If I don't give you something you'll die out there, and it's all my fault!"

She completely broke down. None of this mattered if there was no Wyll to reunite with.

Wyll opened the satchel. "I can't accept this. I can't force you to start over!"

"It's alright, Wyll," Chiara said softly. "Just take it."

He stashed the money into his pocket and put on the backpack. She could see him start to tear up too.

"Would you sing?" he asked softly.

Chiara hadn't sang in years. Her voice was so strained and off-key, and she didn't have much to sing about anymore. Her voice became private, an embarrassing secret more scandalous than nudity. She'd stopped going swimming with him long after she'd stopped singing in front of others. But here? In the middle of Wyrm's Crossing, surrounded by people? She was already crying, an act more humiliating than being stripped bare, and it happened all the time, against her control. She couldn't sing.

She couldn't even look him in the eye anymore. She only shook her head.

"I understand," Wyll said. "I just thought..."

He cupped her pink cheek in his hand and tilted her face back up.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"You haven't done anything wrong, Chiara. "You never did. I just thought we'd part ways... a little... less sad."

She smiled and giggled softly as his thumb rubbed away some tears. Gods, she missed his insane optimism already.

Wyll smiled back. "I suppose this will have to do."

He leaned down and kissed her. All she could do was hold him tight and kiss back. His other hand held her side, closing any remaining distance between them. And for the second and final time, her tail wrapped itself around his waist.

In a flash, his warm hands and lips and self disappeared. Chiara opened her eyes to see cinders and ash swirling where he once stood. And instead of his familiar scent, she only smelled... sulfur.

Sulfur. Fire. That could only mean one thing: a devil from Avernus had something to do with all this. She didn't know what or who it could be, but she did know devils, and she did know how to track. And her new prey just left their scent right in front of her.

That would take time. Take resources. Take money, and time to get money. But she had a lead. The plan was still the same. She'd emancipate herself, and once she knew she was ready, she'd find that devil. She'd find Wyll again. And they would both be free.

She shoved her hands in her pockets and turned to head back home, but her sharp fingernails hit something solid in her pocket, something she hadn't put there. So she took it out, only to find a single gold piece.

Wyll. Of course he couldn't leave her with nothing. Of course he couldn't accept too much generosity from her.

Chiara laughed and dried her eyes on her sleeve. He knew she'd been hoping her first kiss would be a good one. And that was pretty good.

Time to hunt. She'd be starting from the bottom all over again, but the moment she gave Wyll all that gold, she knew she'd never regret it.

#bg3 oc #bg3 tav #oc: chiara embervale #slight bladestrider which is what I'm calling wyll/chiara #that or embergard #I don't have set birthdays for my tavs because the months are all fictional but I've confirmed that she's a winter baby now i guess

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