Longwinded Introduction: So! Ahem. Here we are: the sequel to my massive Baldur's Gate 1 fic Death's Favored Daughter! This fic covers Baldur's Gate 2.

If you're coming in new, I don't think there's any need to read the first fic, since it mostly follows the plot of the first game with a few key differences. That being said, this fic will go way off the rails immediately and in a lot of ways, some of them obvious from the opening page. For instance the story opens with a very unconventional set of parties entering the city of Athkatla of their own free will, with quite a few Baldur's Gate 1 characters and even some companions who aren't usually available as party members taking part. The other minor difference here is that Imoen already learned that she's a Bhaalspawn: she learned that from Gorion's letter, since he was nice enough to do that and her being a Bhaalspawn isn't a sudden retcon here.

I'm also totally ignoring Siege of Dragonspear, since I haven't played it and already came up with my elaborate headcannon of how the characters ended up heading for Athkatla.

And one major question readers will probably have: who the heck are Kirian, Durlyle, and Delainy? They're peripheral characters from the first game who ended up as party members here, for reasons that will be revealed over the course of the story. Kirian is the leader of a rival adventuring group who taunts you at one point in Baldur's Gate 1 (and who a lot of players probably ended up murdering), and for elaborate reasons (again: that will be explained) Imoen ended up adopting her on the way to Durlag's Tower after freeing her from petrification.

Durlyle and Delainy are shaman-like characters (and werewolves) from the Isle of Balduran, who Ashura picked up on her adventure there. For more details about them check out my novella Isle of Beasts.

Rated M for eventual sexual content and pervasive raunchiness, along with violence, cursing, and possibly some major character deaths later on, though the tone here is mostly meant to be that of a pulpy adventure story.

Please review if you can. I'm also hoping that the format of the early part of this fic works and isn't too confusing. I contemplated arranging the scenes all in chronological order, but skipping back and forth between two separate timelines (which will eventually converge) just felt like more fun. It will be clearly labeled when there's a big skip between times and perspectives.

Anyway, on with the story:


Part One - At Play in the City of Coin

"All great things must first wear terrifying and monstrous masks, in order to inscribe themselves on the hearts of humanity." -Friedrich Nietzsche


1 – Entrances

"At the sight the lad's head filled up with dreams:
Of swords and dragons and well-earned crowns
But the sane folk all hid and bolted their doors
When the heroes strode into town"
-Tethmurra "Lady Bard" Starmar, The Foolish Farmboy

Mirtul 18 1369 D.R.

The adventurers rolled in with the tide of the midday traffic, as motley a band as Brus had ever seen. Heads high and striding sure, they passed beneath the marble arch of Athkatla's gates amid ambling oxcarts and tomato wagons, standing out from the sunbaked greengrocers and merchants, and not just because they wore such colorful garb. Nosir!

In the lead walked a short, spritely girl, dressed all in pastels (faded violet, soft pink, sky blue) and leather. The hood of her cloak was peeled back, displaying a round, suntanned face and chin-length hair that she'd dyed an audacious shade of pink. Youthful looking, though a prominent dueling scar ran down her left eyebrow and cheek, so she'd maybe seen some interesting things in that short life of hers. Seemed a bit of a wannabe pixie too, all jittery and twitchy-quick, her head turning this way and that as she took in the sights all at once.

'Course pixies are supposed to be all slender and stick-like, and this young woman had wide hips and an impressively full chest, displayed a bit by the cut of her blouse and demanding much of Brus' attention (Hey! He was twelve!) Though, he was supposed to be acting as a lookout here, so he took note of the darkwood shortbow slung over the girl's shoulder as well. Also noticed that she was wearing a belt and bandoleer that were lined with a ton of pouches. No doubt there were all manner of alchemical toys tucked away in those. Or spell components. Or maybe even both!

The girl was about as short as humans could get before you start wondering if there's some hin blood in 'em, but the man lumbering behind her made for quite a contrast. Wow! He was a giant! Broad shouldered too, and muscled like an ox, with a look in his eye indicating that he might be just as dim. He had this big, addled grin on his face as he turned and marveled at the chiseled pillars and walls around him. Looked like kind of an easy target for pickpockets.

The big guy's head was cleanly shaved, sporting a purple tattoo that must have been some sort of tribal symbol, and he was dressed in dented splintmail armor, with a massive sword slung across his back. The dents, the sword, and all the little scars that peppered the stranger's face pointed to a life of violence, but there was just something disarming about his goofy grin. Seemed the friendly sort.

Now, the shorter man who came slinking behind the big fellow put out the opposite impression. He was an elf —fair folk and all of that, with a thick mane of midnight-black hair that bordered on blue— but there was just something about his sharp little eyes and smug sneer that put Brus off, like the elf was enjoying a joke only he was privy to.

Not to mention the fact that he carried a staff with a black metal skull at the top. That added to the creepiness a bit. Fellow was dressed in black too, with a royal purple cloak. Seemed like he was just brazenly advertising the fact that he was some sort of spellcaster.

Now, mages were hardly an odd sight for Brus. You grow up around the Shadow Thieves, you end up meeting bucketloads of 'em, but the Shadow Thieves that dabbled in magic were always wise and subtle about it, dressing in comfortable trousers instead of robes and keeping their components in the sort of pouches that anyone might carry. Walking around with an enchanted skull-staff, in an outfit that just screamed 'Necromancer!'well, that was a different story.

Of course Brus was also fairly certain that the woman who walked beside the elf was also a mage, but, like the pink girl, she kept it mostly hidden. Wore loose and comfortable clothes 'stead of armor, despite the fact that she was armed with a longsword, and she carried a little pouch-sash and a square satchel that was just the right size for a spellbook. Kind of screamed 'mage' if you looked close.

This woman also walked with the sort of strut you see on bravos out looking for a duel, and she was tall and sturdy, forearms bare and corded with muscle. The woman's hair was brown, messy, and cut tomboy-short, with slate-gray eyes and a steel stud through one of her brows. Looked like there was an old scar across the bridge of her nose too, and she wore a permanent, crooked grin.

Real smiley bunch in general; this band of adventurers.

Well, except for the last member of the party. She (or he?) was a bit of a mystery, being draped in a formless cloak and all, with a heavy hood and a cowl over her (?) face. Brus kind of assumed it was a woman, but maybe that was just from the similarity between her (?) outfit and some of the ones he'd seen on the veiled concubines of Calishite pashas. Only thing visible was her (?) eyes. Striking eyes too: they were a brilliant shade of violet, under gently arching, white eyebrows that contrasted starkly with a shadow-dark complexion…

Wowa! Masks's tongue!

This was a drow! Brus' eyes widened and he clenched the railing he'd been holding onto. Wow! He'd seen a lot of strange folk pass through Athkatla, being a lookout and all, but never a drow!

The dark elf's eyes shifted and met his, sharp already and narrowing further, and Brus couldn't help but gulp. His gaze shifted down to his lap and blood rushed to his face. Woops. Wasn't supposed to get spotted by the folks that he was spotting.

He didn't want to look suspicious, though, so he forced his eyes back up, looked the drow woman in the eye as she passed close to the balcony, and gave her a bashful little wave. She replied with a disdainful roll of her eyes, and then she and the rest of the strange procession passed on by.

Brus had to count his breaths to calm himself, tempted to drop from the Crooked Crane's balcony then and there to scamper off and tell someone. Wait 'till uncle Gaelan hears about this!


"Quit gawping, you fool."

"Aw. But there's so much to gawp at!" Imoen replied, giving Viconia a wry smile. As usual, the drow walked in the back of their little procession, cloak bunched tight about her. "Fluted pillars and mosaic domes, for instance. Never seen their like before. And the people! There must be folk here from every corner of the Heartlands, the North, and the Shining South to boot!"

"'Tis high trade season, yes." Viconia kept her voice pitched low. "But there are also natives here aplenty, searching the crowd for wide-eyed tourists to pilfer."

"Oh, pish and posh. I know well enough how to guard ma pockets." No matter where her eyes went, Imoen's hands hovered close to the blue velvet bag at her hip. There was an alarm spell placed over it too. Can't be too careful when it comes to a bag of holding. Nosir!

"Perhaps. Though I was not addressing you alone, khal'abbil." She gave the Rashemi giant walking between them a pointed look. The big galoot did indeed seem hypnotized by the nested domes and the proud, square towers that loomed all about them, oblivious to the milling crowd.

"Hrm. Yup. You may have a point there, since the big guy's already had his coinpurse nicked."

"What?" Viconia hissed, while Kirian and the elven man both snickered.

Reaching into her enchanted sack, Imoen pulled out a small pouch and made it clink. "Those kids back at the ramp in front of the gate. Remember? The ones who were pretending to play with daisy chains? One o' them ragamuffins snagged this, so I snagged it back. You didn't notice?"

Viconia's reply was just a contemptuous breath, and again Baeloth laughed. "Marvelous," he purred. "You should consider putting on some sort of legerdemain show."

Imoen gave him a dramatic little bow. Twas one of her simpler magic tricks, actually: using a little telekinetic cantrip to lift something at range and pocket it. Came in handy, though.

"I propose we replace the imbecile's purse with a bag of rocks," Viconia muttered.

"Boo has suggested as much," Minsc put in, nonplussed and impervious to insult. "Frequently he tells me that I must look after my coins with more care. Pesky, clinky little things that they are."

"Yeah," Imoen said. "I 'spose they just weigh a hero down. How about I keep this safe for ya, Minsc?"

He nodded. "My former witch…she would often hold such things safe for me." His smile faltered.

"Then as yer new witch, I'll be happy to!" With that she dropped the purse back into her enchanted bag. Not like money was a huge issue at the moment, what with all they'd looted out of Durlag's old home.

Soon they were back to admiring the domes that marched before them, the streets all packed and swarming with people. A great thoroughfare opened up and the traffic carried them along. Imoen wasn't sure exactly where they were going, but at some point she figured they'd spill out into the great market of Waekeen's promenade itself. From everything she'd read about Athkatla, the place was titanic. She kept looking ahead, anticipating the great stadium walls.

Nearer by, someone cleared their throat, and with a start Imoen realized that there was an extra person walking in their midst: a man who had just sort of materialized next to Baeloth. She whirled 'round to get a better look at 'em.

The stranger was dressed in thick gray robes and a big mushroom of a hood, his pace matching theirs, his head held low, and once he had their attention he spoke to Baeloth, all casual-like. "That spell is prohibited within these walls."

Baeloth managed to regain his smirk. "What spell?"

"The disguise you've placed on yourself."

"Aw. Truely? This teeny, tiny, innocent illusion? Surely there's no harm in it. Whereas…there might be harm in lifting the glamour and-"

"What?" The stranger took on a sarcastic tone. "You're actually a dragon under that weak coat of magic?"

"Hm." Baeloth pondered. "Well, not literally. Perhaps figuratively though." He curled his fingers; claw-like. "Rar!"

"Just drop the spell," the hooded man ordered, impatient and plain as a Flaming Fist officer or one of the Watchers of Candlekeep. "Or I'll have to call more of my fellows down here to make you. What is it anyways? Hiding a scar? You're a tiefling with an embarrassing little tail? We've seen it all before."

"Hmph. You're just no fun. Very well then, but I take no responsibility for damages done-"

"Just get on with it."

With a faint and dismissive gesture, Baeloth waved the illusion away, tanned skin switching to a dark shade of blue. His glossy black hair went full-reverse and turned silver-white, and his eyes took on a red tint.

To the dark elf's obvious delight the fellow in the puffy gray robes took a step back, body language going tense. "Oh…" he muttered. "Oh. Well. Shit." The reaction of the folks on the street was similar, lots of little gasps rising up from the crowd as it shifted back.

Baeloth showed off all his teeth with one of those big scarecrow smiles of his. "That is the common reaction, yes."

Shaking his head, the cowled man seemed to recover. "Hm. Well, all are welcome here in the City of Coin, even drow (though I'd hoped you were simply a tiefling. Damn). Just consider this a warning: arcane spells are not to be cast by unlicensed mages within the city walls. The first infraction gets a warning, the second a fine, and you don't want to know what happens the third time."

"Rule of threes. Yes, yes. Very important in comedy."

"We are to be taken seriously."

"Of course. Your order or whatever it is could flay me alive with your delightfully devastating displays of arcane energy, I'm sure. I shall refrain from putting on an…" he surveyed the suspicious crowd all around him "…overly colorful show."

"You do that," the cowled man grunted, turning to disengage and make his way down the street.

"Well bugger all," Kirian grumbled once the man had walked away. "Not so much as an unlicensed cantrip? How am I going to clean my boots? Or put ice in my drinks?"

Imoen frowned. Yeah. She had certainly heard tales about Amn's intolerance of magic, in the abstract, but seeing that the enforcers really could just pop up out of the woodwork at the hint of a spell was unnerving. The fellow hadn't seemed to notice the alarm on her bag, but would she get in trouble when she renewed it?

Dang. Maybe taking three spellcasters on a vacation to Athkatla hadn't been the brightest of ideas. "Well," she said, trying to force a smile. "Seems we need to look into getting a license, then."


Twas often a bit of a letdown, ending a shift as a lookout to head back to Uncle Gaelan's house. The Crooked Crane was a clean little roadhouse, always abustle with exotic travelers and the smell of spice and fresh hay. A few hours spent there was enough to forget the stench that would inevitably smack Brus on the nose once he found his way back to his own neighborhood. Claykettle Street especially: there was always a pervasive smell of raw sewage and rot hanging over that stretch of slum.

The Crane was also a place alive with laughter throughout the day, along with the trill and jangle of the buskers' music and the harmony of their songs. Made for a stark contrast with the furious shouts that would echo through the slums. Day or night, when you walk down Copper Pot Way or Whisker's Street you could count on getting an earful from angry couples a hairbreadth away from beating each other with pans or rolling pins, along with the shrill calls of frustrated mothers, disapproving pimps, and impatient crew bosses.

Ah! That angry buzz! Along with the smell of shit and the ever-present piles of rotting garbage it let Brus know that he was close to home. Angling along the dirt-packed street, he increased his pace a bit as he neared the sprawled-out shanty of the Copper Coronet. Always good to give that place a wide berth.

Daylight was dimming, which meant that Arledian would be putting on supper, and Gaelan and his little circle would soon gather around the pots. They'd want a prompt report. Gaelan would definitely want to know about the elf who looked to be a necromancer, not to mention the-

A sound like hurricane winds interrupted his thoughts, coming from somewhere above and behind, and as Brus turned around the air above a row of buildings quaked like a heatwave, then solidified into a mass of riveted steel that hung and glinted in the dying light. Breath hitched and eyes wide, Brus tried to make sense of the sight: a giant metal globe that had just appeared in the air thirty feet above the shanty houses of Copper Pot Way.

Next came a groaning noise, followed by a series of booming cracks, then the upper stories of one of the buildings toppled. Beams snapped and mudbricks shattered against the street. A cloud of dust had just started to flutter up when all of that was dwarfed by the force of the sphere dropping fully onto the houses bellow. The crash was earsplitting, even at a distance. Brus' arm flew up to shield his eyes.

Bits of debris sailed into the air, followed by more cracking, groaning, screeching; damaged buildings giving way and pancaking under their own weight to send up streams of dust that must have cleared a good forty feet, obscuring the nearby rooftops. All the while the great mass of the sphere shook, knocked over a few more houses, then finally settled between their ruins.

Brus stood and watched a long, long time, still trying and failing to make sense of it all. Eventually he remembered to blink.

An oval slab of wood had come to rest against a pile of rubble near him. It was painted a crisp brown, with cherry-red spots, the whole of it carved in the shape of a pie. Another blink, and Brus recognized this bit of debris: the sign that had been hanging in front of Candela's Sweet Shop.

Had…had fat, kindly Ms. Candela just been crushed to death? Would…would he never eat one of her glazed lemon fritas again?

Swallowing hard, and trying not to think too much about who might have been under that mass of shattered masonry and alien steel, Brus whirled around and sprinted, all thoughts of the adventuring party forgotten. He had to tell uncle Gaelan about this! Quick as he could.


Mirtul 24, 1369 D.R. (Six days later)

The adventurers slunk into port in the dead of night, about a half hour before middark, in one of the sorriest excuses for a ship that Mook had ever seen. Barely seaworthy, by her estimation: a single-masted thirty-footer slapped together from roughhewn odds and ends. There was a curved roof over the till where a proper cabin ought to be, and it had no hold or lower deck neither; just some boards nailed over an open bottom for the crew to rest their sorry asses on.

And that crew looked about as ragged as their vessel, excepting the sharply dressed fellow in red and a surprisingly clean halfling lass beside him. It was hard to get a clear look at the rest of 'em as the crew rushed about adjusting ropes and lowering sails, their ship drifting in towards the nearest dock. A port authority captain and a few of his armored blokes already stood in wait there, too. If the strangers in the slap-job ship didn't know about Athkatla's exorbitant docking taxes —and the fact that the tax collectors never slept— well, they were about to get a hard lesson.

A young woman with dark hair stepped to the prow as they docked and spoke to the harbor guards. Mook figured that the bums were about to get turned away, then and there, but nope. After a brief chat the woman turned around, bent over what passed for the hold of the ship, and returned a beat later with a handful of something glittery.

Mook's eyebrows rose. Well then. Might be she'd just spotted some good, fresh marks. Looked a bit dangerous though. As the guards walked off and the strangers disembarked, Mook scooted forward in her hiding spot, trying to note every detail.

The woman who had spoken with the port authority took the lead, stepping off first and surveying her surroundings. Had sharp, faintly Damaran features, her pallor pale at the edges and sunburnt at the cheeks. She'd a mess of tangled black hair that came down to her shoulders, a curt little scar on one cheek, and pale, ice-chip eyes that seemed to be trying to glare down everything they fell upon.

Middling height, built a bit narrow but obviously sturdy and solid; she was dressed in threadbare traveler's clothes and a fine cloak and boots that seemed to be enchanted. There was a fancy belt holding up her ragged trousers too, and a pair of swords (one short and one long) hanging off it. All told she looked like your typical scrappy pirate bitch, just off the boat and in sore need of a bath.

A second woman leapt down to the dock beside the first, and this one definitely looked to be a warrior. Had the scaled armor to prove it, even if the chest was mostly torn apart, displaying some stitched-up padding underneath. Way taller than the first woman too: this one was a good six feet and then some; broad shouldered and obviously thick with muscle under her scales and rags. Her nose was a sharp beak, her dirty-blond hair was tied into loose pigtails under a horned halfhelm (well, there was one horn at least, though it was a bit bent), and there were quite a few scars on her weathered face.

Quite the bruiser, looked like, with a big hand-and-a-half sword strapped to her back. Seemed she was missing her right hand too, or at least had an odd device strapped over it: a round steel cuff with a little pig-sticker blade attached.

Both women made their way for the steps leading up from the lower harbor, followed by the man in red. That fellow really stood out, and not just because he'd somehow managed to stay cleaner than the rest. If Mook wasn't mistaken, he looked to be a Red Wizard of Thay, walking all brazen-like onto the streets of Athkatla. The Cowled Ones sure wouldn't be pleased with that.

The red fellow's hooded cloak and robes were elegant and spotless, and he was covered in enough jewelry to make even some of the gaudier Amnish nobility blush and go 'Hm. Isn't that all a bit much?' Probably all enchanted too. Wore a long, carefully braided moustache as well, which bobbed as he held his nose up and surveyed the docks like he owned 'em. Real arrogant looking prick (though a handsome devil as well, she had to admit).

The halfling at the wizard's side took everything in a bit different-like. She was all chipper and wide eyed, surveying the fog-shrouded docks with a look on her face like you'd expect from a child at a carnival. Her grin was wide, her face was round and tanned, and her shortish, face-framing hair was a bright and inexplicable shade of violet. Magically dyed, most likely; a popular practice up in Baldur's Gate.

The crisp woolen vest that the halfling wore was violet too, as were her trousers. Both garments appeared to hold countless pockets, some obvious and others disguised, and there were quite a few little one-button pouches hanging from her belt. A little imp with a thousand little tricks hidden on her person. Mook knew the type.

And then, bringing up the rear of this odd little crew, came a pair of savages.

Judging by their outfits (or lack thereof, especially in the man's case) Mook's first guess was that they were travelers from Maztica. Maztican warriors tended to wear loincloths a bit like the one the young man was dressed in, and you often see Maztican women in simple, knee-length dresses a bit like his companion's.

Though…hm. On further inspection (and the proud, half-naked and lithely muscled fellow certainly called for some thorough inspection) the pair actually seemed to have the features you'd see on northern Sword Coasters. Almost Illuskan really, even if their hair was dark. Their features were quite similar to each other's, from the eyes to the lips to the long and shaggy brown hair. Looked to be a brother and sister; maybe even twins.

Both of 'em wore loose fur cloaks, the woman carried a painted staff, and they walked barefoot. There were quite a few upraised scars visible on both of them, too. Claw marks, seemed like. Some bite marks too. Had they spent their youth wrestling with bears or something?

The band was turning up now, filing 'round and climbing the steps that led higher into the city, and as they went Mook got a better glimpse of their backs. Her eyebrows rose. The fine cloak that the leader wore had a symbol sewn into it with cloth of gold: a grinning skull motif surrounded by a halo of tears.

Not every day you see someone brazenly wear the sign of a dead god. Maybe the pirate bitch was some sort of cultist? Eh. More likely the cloak just had a dandy enchantment on it, and the las didn't understand the heap of trouble she was inviting from Cyric's followers and the like by displacing such a symbol.

Hm. A motley crew indeed. Not the most motley that Mook had ever seen in her time working as a lookout (that band from Sigil with the lady firenewt and the flying manta ray would likely never be topped), but these folks were quite the sight. As they disappeared up the steps and 'round the bend she leaned back in her hidey spot and pondered how to classify them when Renal asked for the night's report.

Potential marks, or potential trouble? Hm. Looked more on the trouble side to her.


Author's Note: The idea of having the planar sphere drop on the slums rather than sort of 'phasing' in and leaving you wondering what happened to the buildings that got phased into was something I got from Warethevenom's wonderful fic The Memory of Sunlight.