Mistress Candle's Debt

Lazaruss : "Hello again my friends. It's been far too long, and finally I've succumbed to my Writer's itch yet again. This time I bring you a Baldur's Gate Fanfiction. This story takes place well after the Throne of Bhall, after the saga of Bhallspawns was resolved, one way or another. I'd like to point out that I did not play Baldur's Gate 3 so don't expect this story to be consistent with what happened there. I have however read a few books of the Dark Elf Saga. Also, influenced by my Wheel Of Time fascination, I will go a bit more in depth about the nature of Magic in the Forgotten Realms.

This is a fan-based fictional story. All the characters belong to their respected creators, even those I've borrowed from unofficial patches at spellholdarchives. Enjoy. "

Chapter 1.a ; Cats

In the distance, Atticus could hear the angry screeching of cats in a fight. Bloody beasts would always grow too loud at this time of year. A small fortune that, for it was to his advantage.

The night was clear and the light of the moon made street lanterns hardly necessary, yet here in these dark alleys of Harbor District darkness dominated his surroundings. One last lone lantern was remaining, but Atticus was now ready to put it out. He felt safe enough to do that.

Puddles from recent rain did not affect the smell of rotting garbage and urine in any good way. The whole place reeked like a drunken bum. He himself thought he might've hurled if he hadn't possess the benefits of his training. After this though, if he'd manage to live through this, he would have his current robes burned and stay as far away from the flames just in case the smoke would embrace the memory of his tonight's exploit.

That was for later though.

First, he calmed his mind, emptying it of all things. It was surprising how swiftly it came to him now, compared to how difficult it used to be in the past. Decades of practice could overcome even the impossible. Thought became something trivial in his mind as he detached himself from the outside world and took hold of the magic around him.

Each Mage had his own technique. Some would imagine themselves in the center of a whirlpool of energy, which constantly flushed them with power. Others would view it like a river contracting and compressing into a single stream before flowing into them. He however imagined dozens of tiny strands of light shifting, making up the space around his distant body, separating from their normal flow, changing direction and diverting into him. And magic filled him like water filling an empty vessel.

Not too much. Just a fraction of his capacity. This was well below his standards, and it too could cost him his life. How humiliating it was that a mage of his Stature was reduced to these simple tricks.

With focus, honed and disciplined, he directed the magic towards the flame of the lone lantern. He guided that flow mentally into arcane runes of water, surrounding the flame on four sides, and softly muttering each rune as it was completed. To his eyes, a line of runes made of a single flow of magic created a closed ring around the flame, and he joined the two ends of the flow together. Instantly, the ring of text sparked to life with the strength of direction and it smothered the lantern flame as swiftly as a cup of water would. The entire process lasted for less than ten seconds, but fear made Atticus swiftly release his hold of magic.

Darkness truly did dominate the ally now. The buildings around him were tall, obscuring moonlight, and windows, even if they held light, were well darkened. People in this part of the city preferred their privacy. Even the paint on the walls was dark and bleak making the buildings indistinct from one another.

He leaned against the wall, allowing himself a small breath of respite. A pray. No. He did not study the mystic arts for the past forty seasons, a lifetime of denial and commitment, just to end up being a pray now. And certainly not to a bunch of fanatical hypocrites. Even Red Wizards of Thay seemed down right courteous compared to this lot.

Calming himself, he examined his options ; He could perhaps go down into the sewers and leave the city in that fashion. Surely, they did not smell much worse than this alley, but the clever bastards would have cut off that route by now. Maybe he could ask someone for help. Escaping the city was, of course, his sole option, but, he grudgingly admitted, it would not happen tonight. He was wealthy enough to procure a hiding place in a nearby house. For a few hours. To get his bearings. And the locals would no doubt leap at the opportunity of gold on the spot.

He looked down on himself. No. No one would welcome a desperate mage on the run. Not for any amount of gold. And it would be too obvious to anyone that he was a mage, in his fine green robes, frail form and graying hair, and those deep set eyes, worn off from reading scrolls and reddened by potion fumes… He'd have to find a very greedy person, willing to risk dealing with him. And even then, such a man would stab him in the back the moment someone would make a better offer.

The ring of pursuers was closing too tightly around him. What's more, they had some method of tracking him which he could not divulge. He never thought of himself a coward, yet he was honestly afraid right now.

A sound came to him from the back of the alley and light of a gateway invaded his hiding place, banishing all the silken blackness he had woven so meticulously. Atticus cursed before darting to the side, barely avoiding a bar of solid fire which shot from the portal, engulfing in flames the place he had been occupying but a short time ago.

He ran. Angry shouts followed him back to the streets and into the light, with no shadows to hide in. Then he ran even faster. Exposed. On the opened. Briefly he considered jumping off into the sea and taking his chances there, but he feared that they might encase him in ice if he did that. A large cluster of shipping crates stood on both sides of this street, but they were not enough of a cover to hide behind. A mouse chased by a pack of cats. Again he heard those cats – bloody beasts – screeching in the alley. Cats did not hunt in packs, he thought as he ran. Funny how ridiculous thoughts often came unwanted in times of desperation.

Despair welled up in him ; he would not be able to evade them again. They would corner him soon and then… then it would end.

Something else occurred to him then and he darted away before another blast of destructive magic barely missed him again. Few more followed, but he was already in the alley, running towards that loud screeching. Using only minute amounts of magic was no longer his restriction and he swiftly filled himself with all the power he could grasp, and then some. He had only one chance at this and he had to make it count.

This alley was much more appealing than the last, even though a huge pile of garbage stood leaning on a dark damp wooden wall of a large shack. The smell was much better too. But it was a dead end. Escaping by portal was denied to him, but no rule of magic was fixed. He could not escape through a portal, but someone else could. Possibly. It was the nature of that which was called magic ; everything about it was flexible and opened to interpretation. Imagination and ingenuity were the best tools of a good wizard.

On top of the heap of garbage, a pair of striped cats stood towards each other, engaged in a staring contest. Angry sounds rose from their furious little bodies, as fur on their back stood on its end. No time for niceties. He placed a spell on the nearest cat, to keep her calm before grabbing her away. Even so, the other managed to claw a few of his fingers, aiming for the first cat. He cursed at the pain. No doubt it'd get infected.

Locking the cat with his gaze, he frantically placed a few more spells upon it. He was so distraught that he'd almost botched the whole thing, but somehow his design did not fall apart. The cat would be his carrier pigeon now, and would find him help. It would also be able to find him again wherever he'd go. Or be taken to. Gods send that help arrives in time.

He readied to open a portal and toss the cat through – many of his friends were up in the north and they would come to his aid – but before he managed, a large bubble of energy encased him like a fish in a tank. Utter horror passed through him as he tried slamming his will against it in a futile hope of breaking through only to have it bounce back in a painful jolt.

Behind him, a grinning winded mage in a gray hooded robe approached. The hood hid his eyes, but that grin almost glowed underneath the rim of his cowl. Two more wizards approached behind him. One was a she, in identical robes, but the third was not. This man looked more like a thief than a mage, except that Atticus could sense magic in him. He had on a black fez and a rough leather vest and baggy trousers of rough white cloth like a sailor of sorts. And around his neck was a strange talisman, a small clear crystal sphere on a chain which glowed with an inner light.

In moments Atticus was surrounded by them. The cat was out of his hands, coming to, scratching and hissing at the walls of the magical prison which it now shared with him. His company in his cell. Atticus laughed, sagging to his knees. He had missed his chance. His one chance, and he blew it. Maybe it was better this way. He was not fit to be a mage anyway.

One of the three – he did not see which one, but it did not matter at that point – landed a blow on his head in the moment that first cracks appeared on the surface of the bubble, and the last thing he heard before his mind faded was the sound of shattering glass.