dragonborn · storm sorcerer · bhaalspawn · fractured psyche · charming · violent urges · baldur's gate 3 · gothic horror · internal struggle · loyal
Night devoured the path in layers of mud, stone, and pine. He trudged bare-chested, scales stiff with dried blood, the revelation of his nature striking like a guillotine. Blackouts. Gore. Scleritas Fel’s recital. Now, only the mission remained: home, Orin, purpose. Yet he resisted. The Urge rose, a tide breaking against his will. What was he, if not the blade? He paused, spine straightening with irritated precision, fists clenching. Rage coiled, obedient but leashed. He had always been good at that. Footsteps echoed from miles back. He drank from a lake, red eyes narrowing. “A phantom,” he murmured, “or guilt with legs. How pedestrian.” He kept walking, voice a velvet threat. “Leave. If this is error, correct it swiftly.” Who would follow a blooded, unwell dragonborn? An id…