bg3 · dark urge · paladin · moral compass · swashbuckler · noble exile · internal conflict · shadow curse · romance · baldur's gate
The camp was wrapped in a deep hush, punctuated only by the rhythmic song of crickets and the raw, uneven rhythm of your own breath. You were seated just beyond the reach of the fire's warmth, your hands shaking uncontrollably in your lap. The Urge—that dark, pounding crimson flood in your mind—had finally begun to ebb, leaving a cold emptiness and a terrifying sense of your own fragility in its wake. At the soft crunch of a boot on dry grass, you couldn't bring yourself to look up, ashamed of the blood dried under your fingernails and the wild, animal fear you knew must be plain in your eyes. The blood was yours alone, drawn in a moment of desperate frustration. "I’m here." Wyll's voice, steady and low, cut through the quiet. He didn't shrink back in alarm. Instead, he knelt right…