The Company You Keep: NPC Wanted

[Lady Dragonfly]

Who would you like to invite in your BG III party? A warrior princess? A goofy ranger?
Here is my significantly enhanced D&D-style (or rather LD&D) take on Baldur Gate III NPC and their background (and you may further enhance it if you wish):

Frogo’s Tale
Gender: Male
Race: Half-Halfling
Class: Screwed-Up Bard

While visiting Trademeet at the time of its famous Hog Wash Fair, Frieda, a comely Halfling maiden, attended the Town Hall Masquerade where she, as she claimed afterwards, met her true love. After all the festivities were done, she was on her way home to pack and say good-bye to the relatives and friends: it was decided that the couple should meet in a fortnight on the road to Waylaid Abbey for their marriage ceremony. Unfortunately, Frieda, who was not a particularly good rider, fell from her prancing pony and, according to the local witch doctor, sustained a head injury resulted in amnesia: she completely forgot that she was engaged to be married.

Few months later (which coincided with the revelation that she was expecting a baby) Frieda suddenly recalled the Masquerade affair but alas, she couldn’t recollect who exactly she’d had the affair with. Her memories were vague and elusive. Sometimes Frieda would swear that her true love was a moon elf; occasionally, when she was tipsy, she fancied a hairy Dwarven brawler. And when she was especially displeased with her dear Frogo’s torn pants and broken toys, Frieda insisted it was a wretched kobold she had a misfortune to dance with. Only one thing remained unchanged over time: her true love was not a Halfling.

Perhaps Frogo had indeed some foreign blood coursing through his veins: he would spend endless hours in the moon-lit forest, playing a cheerless tune or composing bad poetry.
His discordant songs had an odd effect on those who was passing through the forest unaware of the Half-Halfling’s dubious craft: fauna dwindled, two peddlers committed suicide, three fortune-tellers went mad, and five brigands scrambled out of the woods sobbing uncontrollably and begging the local sheriff to arrest them for Ilmater sake so they could pay their debt to society.
Finally, after two of Mayor Doggett’s daughters eloped with gypsies, the scandalized townsfolk petitioned the druids of the Witch Hazel Grove to rid their fair town of the notorious bard once and for all.

The druids delegated one of their moldiest members blessed with almost complete deafness and blindness and consequently impervious to the hazardous delights of the fine arts, to deal with Frogo. Elderly Hazelnut appeared before stunned Half-Halfling amidst flashing lightning and swirling clouds of choking dust.
What arguments the wise negotiator employed remained a mystery but after that interview Frogo promptly packed his mandolin and disappeared, and so did the druid.

As luck would have it, you will bump into this remarkable pair during your travels in Baldur Gate III.

Trudy’s Tale
Gender: Female
Race: Turnip-touched
Class: Alchemist

The respectable Jansen family was in the turnip business for several hundred years. The complex art of growing turnips in the cellar was perfected by the generations of Jansens tirelessly laboring in the cool depth of their vast basements.

Rory Jansen was an accomplished turnip grower whose flourishing cellar was the pride and joy as well as the envy of the whole Jansen clan.
Turnips were the sole object of Rory's affection. He talked to them and caressed the large green stalks while working on the patch and fertilizing the white bulbous roots with very special liquid compost. The secret Turnip Fertilizer Recipe was a legacy passed from father to son after the latter proved himself worthy of the honor.

One evening Rory was suddenly distracted by an insolent cat slipped in the cellar in pursuit of a no less insolent mouse; he stumbled and accidentally spilled the whole pint of his prized fertilizer on one of the most promising turnips. After banishing the cat and performing a careful inspection of the affected turnip, distraught Rory retired to his bedroom upstairs lamenting his bad luck.

In the middle of the night he was awoken by a strange noise coming out of the cellar. Rory lit the lantern and rushed downstairs. What he beheld in the cellar nearly made his knees buckle: a very little girl with long green hair was frolicking in the middle of the turnip patch.

Trudy Jansen proved to be a very smart girl and Rory was proud of his adopted daughter. However, it saddened him that his little Trudy exhibited neither desire nor inclination to pursue the respectable turnip-grower career. Instead, she was spending her time helping a neighbor, the old grumpy potion-maker, gather herbs, squeeze newt juice and brew smelly concoctions.

Soon Trudy was able to open her own shop she named “TJ Max”, and her budget health elixirs and discounted love potions quickly became very popular among gnomish and human customers alike. Any decent gnome would’ve been content to have such a profitable establishment but Trudy possessed the daring spirit of a True Turnip: she craved adventures more than anything else.
She sold her shop filled floor-to-ceiling with gleaming bottles of “Toe-curling Mana”, phials of “Effortless Vigor” and flasks of “Love Made Spiffy”, packed a small cauldron and left her hometown.

Trudy will join your party after you rescued her from the clutches of the dreadful Alchemist Anonymous Sect.
Benefit: Trudy makes free potions, 6-pack a day. Drink responsibly.

***Now you know I was bored ***

[Pellinore]

very entertaining! Now, I would like to see your take an a half-ogre jester:laugh: Sreiously though, I rather like those two characters. They deviate from the crusty, boring norm without being ridiculous as many 'home-built' npcs are.
Well done.

[Lady Dragonfly]

I am glad you like my characters.

Half-Ogre jester? Hmm, half-ogre is no laughing matter but... here you go:

Grrumpf’s Tale
Gender: Male
Race: Half-Ogre
Class: Jester

Grrumpf did not remember his parents. The only creature his could tentatively regard as his family was Corndog, an old goblin who stumbled upon the starving and half-frozen orphan hiding in a shallow cave after a merciless Dwarven raiding party obligingly hammered all Grrumpf’s brutish kin into oblivion.

Corndog nursed him back to life with a little bit of goat milk and a lot of conventional goblin wisdom.
The goblin tribe Grrumpf was destined to reside amongst was a motley gang of scavengers and marauders ruled by Chief M’Gets, an ambitious hobgoblin who had the audacity to call his swampy environs Barony and his wretched hovel “me Chateau”.

Baron M'Gets surrounded himself with the entourage befitting the royalty: a couple of Lieutenants, a Shaman, an Executioner, a personal Chef, and a Jester were indispensable members of his household.

The old Corndog held the position of the court Jester. Although the goblin humor was considered ludicrous even by the relaxed standards of trolls, and the jokes cracked (figuratively and literally) at Chief M'Gets court were exceedingly crude and obnoxious, loyal Grrumpf was perpetually mesmerized by Corndog’s drollery.

Pretty soon the old Jester surmised he could use a worthy apprentice. Little by little he began teaching Grrumpf the tricks of his trade. Grrumpf quickly learned to brandish a club, walk on his hands and knock over pots and pans; however, the subtle art of verbal humor was more difficult for him to master due to the racial limitations. He diligently shadowed Corndog and watched the old Jester's daily routine with his mouth agape, soaking in every word and gesture despite his inability to comprehend the punch line.

One fateful day Corndog announced that Grrumpf was ready to perform before Chief M'Gets and His Court. The elated Half-Ogre got up before dawn and kept polishing his huge club until Corndog ordered him to tag along.
The master and his student made haste towards the raucous sounds of revelry and the pungent stench of goblin cookery.

Chief M'Gets watched Grrumpf's clumsy performance with drunken contempt. All of a sudden, he leaped off his throne and ordered his lieutenants to fetch him a sturdy club so he could personally show that dumb son of the Ogre how to crack a good goblin joke. The goblins shrieked and howled with glee. Smiling maliciously, M'Gets swung his weapon and crushed poor Corndog’s head. The thrilled crowd erupted in coarse cheers.

Astounded Grrumpf watched his friend and mentor collapsing in a bloody heap at Chief M'Gets feet. The taunting goblins started throwing mud and pebbles at the dead body trying to hit Corndog in the face, and one emboldened goblin even darted forward and poked the fallen entertainer with a dagger to the utter joy of its malignant brethren.

Despair and blinding fury overwhelmed Grrumpf. He lifted his polished club and smashed the impudent creature to goo. Chief M'Gets smiled with approval. It was fun after all. He was still smiling when the heavy club shattered his scull. The lieutenants and several nearby goblins met the same fate. The rest of the terrified bunch scurried away leaving Grrumpf to savor his bitter victory alone.

Grrumpf buried Corndog behind their shack, hoisted his club and left the swampy Barony forever.

You will meet him during your travels in Baldur Gate III. Grrumpf will join your party if you promise him to explain jokes.

[Pellinore]

[Lady Dragonfly]

Bubakar’s Tale
Gender: Male
Race: Half-Orc
Class: Philosopher

Nothing predisposes to philosophical contemplation more than grave-digging.
From time to time, strenuously laboring Bubakar, Backwater graveyard attendant, would put his shovel aside and sit down to reflect upon a mixture of odd ideas crossing his mind and to consider the cause and effect, although, to the casual observer, his pensive stance could perhaps give a false impression of just another lazy Half-Orc squatting in a drunken stupor on the crumbling edge of the ditch.

Every evening the townsfolk merrily congregated in the dimly lit common room of the town’s finest tavern, The Honest Ape, to drink dark frothy ale and leisurely discuss taxes and weather by the fireside.

Sometimes the pleasant conversation was joined by such prominent citizens of Backwater as Doodlegoon, the purple-robed priest of Shaundakul whose temple graced the marketplace, and the cleric’s friend and fierce opponent Sir Hogbert, a lawyer and the author of treatise “Law Bent Over”. Both gentlemen regularly started a heated dispute -- the former relentlessly invoking the name of his Deity and the latter interspersing his speech with obscure terminology and pounding the humbled audience with the phrases “As a Law scholar…” and “In my scientific opinion…”.

The ale-drinking folks usually hastened to withdraw whenever they caught sight of Sir Hogbert and Doodlegoon walking into the tavern. A few patrons courageously holding their positions at the central table were either fawning sycophants or too drunk to care. Bubakar, however, was willingly submitting himself to abuse: he always endured the protracted debates between the cleric and the scholar with unwavering concentration.

Soon the old priest took notice of Bubakar’s zeal and cordially invited him into the Temple as a novice. Bubakar learned a great deal in the Temple of Shaundakul. Benevolent Doodlegoon even taught him a few spells, including minor healing and summoning.

One day Bubakar summoned a dire weasel, hoping to train his new pet to fetch a newspaper. Unfortunately, the summoned monster had a mind of its own: it immediately wrought havoc in the novices' quarters. The weasel war dance was halted by extremely displeased Doodlegoon who banned the summoned creature back to its plane of existence, and the summoner to detention, to ponder over cause and effect a little bit more.

After two days of solitary meditation, Bubakar acknowledged that the idea of training a weasel to fetch stuff was a logical fallacy. After five days, he admitted that the cramped novices’ quarters were decidedly a poor choice for the summoning chamber. By the time he was finally set free, Bubakar came to the conclusion that golems were vastly superior to weasels and hence better suited to the task, and The Honest Ape would be the ideal place to summon one. Of course, Bubakar was unable to cast such a powerful spell himself but he knew where Doodlegoon kept his scrolls and other magical paraphernalia.

Putting on newly procured Boots of Speed and Cloak of Elvenkind, and with Summon Golem scroll in his pocket, Bubakar hurried towards the tavern. When he arrived, the thundering clash of the Titans was already under way, so nobody paid the Half-Orc the slightest attention.

Unhindered, Bubakar read his scroll, and the air in front of him slowly condensed into a towering Bronze Golem. Full of anticipation, Bubakar commanded his pet to fetch him a beer and a newspaper. The Golem hesitated for a brief moment, surveying the common room and vociferously arguing and gesticulating Sir Hogbert before lifting its bronze fist and punching the eloquent lawyer right in between his bespectacled eyes, and thus violently interrupting the most brilliant speech ever delivered under The Honest Ape’s roof.

Sir Hogbert collapsed, speechless for the first time in his life. The Golem scooped the fallen orator’s tankard and offered it to the alarmed Half-Orc. Determined not to wait for the newspaper, Bubakar sprinted for the door. He heard Doodlegoon casting a spell but did not even pause to watch the effect.
He was running for many hours, anxious to put as many miles between himself and Doodlegoon’s wrath as possible.

In Baldur Gate III, you are going to meet our weary and hungry philosopher meditating in a cave after his hasty and somewhat undignified departure from Backwater.

Would you like to post your own stories?

[Pellinore]

ach! I am no good at storytelling, those days are long behind me...

[TheAmazingOopah]

Wow, my respect, Lady Dragonfly. I already liked to read your posts in general because of their wit, clarity and humour, but I especially enjoyed these story's; you really have a talent for writing these! Normally, story's like these turn out cheesy (mostly in use of words), but you really got both the vocabulary, as the originality of the story right. Keep 'em coming, I really would be interested to read more of those.

Which kinda brings me to my second point: I've started a new three-way Icewind Dale party, and I really like the characters, but they do not have a background yet. I have some ideas about their personality, but I know that I could never write a good, original story on all three of them, especially not in English. If I would give you a few personality ideas on the three of them, would you care to write the background stories? I can understand if you don't have the time or don't feel like it, so just decide however you want, I will hear it. If you decide to do it, don't feel any time pressure, you can take as long and relaxed as you would like to.

Cheers,

~Oopah

[Lady Dragonfly]

Thanks. I will try to help you with your background stories. Please feel free to PM me if that is more convenient to you.
I am going to post more tales. And everybody is welcome to do the same.

[Lady Dragonfly]

Sonny’s Tale
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Class: Pirate

Malarkey was one of those tiny fishing villages along the Sword Coast where fishing was a mere facade covering the profitable smuggling business.
Most local fishermen were bedraggled sailors washed ashore after vicious storms had claimed their ships, and retired pirates dropped anchor at Malarkey after losing a limb or two during their timber-shivering adventures at high seas.

The dusty village square was dominated by a large wooden building emblazoned with the tin signs “Ned’s General Store and Warehouse”, “Ned’s Bank”, and “Ned’s Scurvy Salamander” on each respective weather-beaten wall, allowing no leeway for doubt who the Sovereign and the Great Pontiff of Malarkey was.

The life and money were steadily revolving around Ned’s Emporium, starting in the Store where business, both legal and illegal, was conducted and goods were delivered and fenced, proceeding at the midpoint to the Bank where transactions were made and documents forged, and ending at the Scurvy Salamander’s gambling table where the ill-earned gold was impetuously spent on booze and rolling dice, to complete the circle and return to old Ned’s coffers.

While Ned was the Supreme Ruler of Malarkey, glamorous Miss Tally, Ned’s only daughter and heiress, was its acclaimed Goddess coveted by every salty sea dog who had a smidgen of financial sense and at least one eye not covered with a patch.

Every time Miss Tally was spotted in the window, combing her golden tresses gleaming in the morning sun almost as brightly as her father’s doubloons and piasters, the boisterous coterie of suitors adorned with monkeys, parrots and assorted wooden peglegs loudly clattering on the cobblestones immediately began to assemble in the narrow street below. The squabbles and duels ensued, providing entertainment for all concerned parties as well as steady income to the local coffin-maker.

Sonny was sailing the perilous waters of the Sea of Swords for five long years before Medusa was sunk by a Waterdeep’s coastal patrol ship just outside Malarkey Cove. Sonny and three other survivors, wounded and exhausted, swam ashore clinging to a broken plank. After a short period of recuperation Sonny’s crewmates decided to travel up North, hoping to join a more victorious buccaneer crew. Sonny chose to stay in Malarkey.

Parrotless and pegless, but undaunted by the disadvantage, the young pirate fervently joined the ranks of other suitors, trying to figure out how to conquer the heart and the purse of the beautiful heiress.

One day Malarkey woke up to observe a large gaudy sign above the entrance into Sonny’s modest domicile saying, “Le Coiffeur, en route from Silverymoon to Waterdeep”. A smaller sign in the window announced, “10 pieces-of-eight Hairdo and Foot Massage. Blondes -- 75% off”. A note below added, “No loitering, soliciting, or delicing, just pike off, ye lubberly scalawags”.

In a little while, an agitated eyewitness reported that Miss Tally was seen entering the new beauty parlor, unchaperoned. Upon receiving this disturbing intelligence, the incensed pirates formed the Anti-Sonny Coalition with the headquarters at the Scurvy Salamander. Three kegs of grog later, the ringleaders issued a proclamation condemning the Piracy Law violation and the discriminatory 75% discount.

Meanwhile, Sonny, blithely ignoring these portents and thoroughly enjoying his new role, put up a new advertisement, “Love Horoscopes and Complementary Trigger Point Massage, as gazed in the Crystal Ball”.
No sooner had Sonny nailed the new plaque to the wall than the emissary from the Scurvy Salamander somberly knocked at the door and furnished the Masseur with a Black Mark. Sonny decided it was time to kiss Malarkey good-bye and decamp.
Chased by the monkeys, Sonny ran away, vowing revenge.

You are going to meet Sonny during your travels in Baldur Gate III, camping on the beach.
He will join your landlubber party if you help him settle the score with the monkeys.

[Lady Dragonfly]

Calyptra’s Tale
Gender: Female
Race: Dwarf
Class: Witch

Calyptra lived a secluded life in a small mossy-green cottage hidden in the copse of gnarly elm trees, as did her mother and grandmother before her. Sometimes, the squatty red-haired witch was seen digging up mandrake root in the old church graveyard in the dead of the night or lurking in the forest at dusk, gathering nightshade flowers while her pet owl Glitchie was hunting mice and spiders.

Because of her habit of prowling in the dark forest, or perhaps because of her twitching furry ears and amber eyes taking on a fiery hue and emitting dangerous sparks when she was vexed, Calyptra earned the nickname of Hell Cat.

The green cottage was generally avoided by the prudent townsfolk of nearby Mulberry but every now and then a timid visitor – a languished with love milkmaid or a doddering old-timer – would come over, seeking a love potion or a remedy for constipation; occasionally a wealthy merchant would cough up a tidy sum for a well-placed curse ridding him of a pesky competitor or a cantankerous mother-in-law. Calyptra herself wisely kept a low profile and visited Mulberry only to stock up on essential supplies, clean-shaved, diffident and wearing her inconspicuous dark-green robe (one size fits all) and modest wide-brimmed pointy hat with a copper buckle.

The harmonious symbiosis of the fair town of Mulberry and Calyptra the Hell Cat was compromised by the arrival of Warpianus Warpiani Jr., a newly appointed Magistrate from Athkatla. The ambitious administrator breezed in carrying a suitcase with smallclothes and a large, exquisitely painted portrait of Chief Inspector Brega. The painting depicted the scowling Inspector holding the shriveled head of a criminal and solemnly pointing at the inscription,

“Why take up crime and commit a misdeed,
With so many legal, sublime ways to cheat?”

Warpianus passionately set about purging evil from Mulberry. Having all neglected front lawns properly mowed and all trespassing goats severely punished, he finally turned his vigilant eye to the green cottage. In vain did the anxious merchants implore the Magistrate not to take hostile actions against the witch, arguing that Calyptra’s jinxes, in fact benign and altruistic, helped to promote morale among the mothers-in-law. The unmarried Magistrate was unable to fully appreciate the benefit of pacifying curses and hence remained unmoved. Several milkmaids attempted to surreptitiously spike his morning milk with a love potion but either their potions were too weak or their target too gay -- the stimulants had no effect on his attitude whatsoever.

Warpianus started with issuing numerous writs and subpoenas summoning Calyptra to court. After she repeatedly failed to comply, three militia guards were dispatched to arrest the witch. The guards, none too happy with the perspective of facing fearsome Hell Cat, cowardly deserted the mission and fled to the enemy side.

The exasperated Magistrate declared War on the green cottage. Any communications with the evil witch and her henchmen were strictly prohibited, and Warpianus personally patrolled the merchant quarter to enforce the trade embargo. He enjoyed a small victory catching Glitchie delivering a laxative to a senior citizen; both were labeled as enemy combatants and imprisoned.

Calyptra retaliated by instigating unrest. Some malcontent seniors threw stinky bombs into Warpianus’ window but the damage was minimal and the collaborators were quickly apprehended.
A gloomy shadow of despondency descended upon the folks of Mulberry.
Calyptra barricaded in her cottage but allegedly maintained covert liaison relationships with some of the merchants.

In Baldur Gate III you will have a choice to join forces either with Warpianus Warpiani Jr. or with Calyptra. Whatever your choice, you will have to find Calyptra’s agent first.
Calyptra will join your party if you smite Warpianus and free Glitchie.
If you side with Warpianus, your own portrait in a lovely golden frame will be wall-mounted next to the portrait of Chief Inspector Brega.

[Lady Dragonfly]

T’Wangle’s Tale
Gender: Male
Race: Half-Elf
Class: Romantic Rogue

T’Wangle was one of those guys your mother warned you about. Lanky, long-haired, with insolent green eyes and a pair of pointy ears betraying his heritage, he was usually lounging around in the company of other ne’er-do-well louts, drinking cheap ale and leering at buxom tavern wenches.

Having a strong aversion to mundane work, T’Wangle proclaimed himself a poet. Truth to be spoken, his effusive, sensual verses, as well as irresistibly pleasing romantic demeanor, were ardently admired by scores of coquettish middle-aged ladies with a predilection for sentimental poetry and the pointy body parts. The sonnets “Her stockings match my socks like the moon and stars” and “Oh, let me use thy chamber pot, my love!” were especially in vogue. No wonder, the complaisant and gregarious poet was graciously invited into countless boudoirs to recite odes and sonnets to his munificent patronesses, often well into the night.
Sadly, some husbands proved to be totally unreceptive to the iambic pentameter: once in a while T’Wangle was unceremoniously beaten up and chased down the street by the ill-mannered retainers.

And it came to pass that one such uncouth husband, a wealthy merchant Lomperd, unexpectedly returned home from overseas and most disagreeably intruded upon T’Wangle and Mistress Elysia’s poetic tête-à-tête on a sofa. Whilst startled Elysia was contemplating whether she should faint or become indignant, Lomperd charged forward, bellowing with rage and aiming for the transgressor, but the agile Half-Elf deftly evaded the collision, zipping up as he fled the scene. Realizing he would not be able to catch up with the long-limbed scoundrel, Lomperd quaffed a speed potion and rushed off in hot pursuit.

As the chase, which would afterwards become known as “March of The Cuckolds”, grew hotter, it was joined by many sympathetic citizens who recognized in the fleeing poet the lecherous rogue whose vile stanzas befouled their own living rooms. Spearheaded by Lomperd, the hooting and ululating mob was doggedly pursuing its quarry through the winding streets, drawing incredulous stares from bystanders.

Weary T’Wangle knew he was in serious trouble. Desperately seeking escape route, he ducked into a quaint alley. For a brief moment he seemed to be out of his pursuers’ sight. Frantically scanning the walls, he suddenly spotted a faintly shimmering arched door half-hidden behind a tall flowering shrub. An intricately engraved plaque above this beacon of salvation said, “The Loophole. You must gather your party before venturing forth”.

Regarding Lomperd’s murderous gang as a party hardly worthy of gathering, and hoping that the queer portal wouldn’t transport him to Limbo or worse, T’Wangle plunged headlong into the swirling mist. A moment later the bloodthirsty crowd spilled into the alley and stampeded past the arched doorway.

Catching his breath and wiping the sweat off his brow, T’Wangle looked around. He was standing in a spacious room redolent with the smell of exotic spices. The room was dominated by a large cluttered table, probably an alchemist’s bench. Glass and silver containers with inscriptions “Choking Powder (For Traps and Pipes)”, “Angel Dust (Affordable Celestial Mayhem)”, “Horse Feathers (Pennaceous)”, and “Lady’s Fingers (Assorted)” lined up on the shelves.

T’Wangle noticed a small wooden cask in the corner labeled “Confidence”. A poster mounted above the cask read, “Vanquish Your Foes with Confidence! One pinch per foe”. Intrigued, he carefully pushed the lid aside. The cask was filled to the brim with glistening blue sand giving off a peculiar odor. T’Wangle had no qualms about shoplifting. He rummaged through the retorts and phials piled on the table until he found a couple of sturdy jars. After having one jar generously filled up with the smelly blue sand, T’Wangle turned his attention towards the shelves. Disregarding the obscure horse feathers and the ghastly lady’s fingers, he reached for the angel dust.

Encumbered with two heavy jars, the rogue approached the softly shimmering portal and stepped through. The quaint alley was gone! T’Wangle was standing in the middle of a dark forest, surrounded by rather sinister-looking ancient trees. He heard wolves howling nearby. Or maybe wargs. Scared, T’Wangle turned around and hurriedly stepped through the mist back into the storeroom. When he mustered the nerve to walk through the portal for the second time, he found himself in a goblin cavern. Subsequent attempts landed him in a troll swamp, a dragon lair, and a dungeon full of the undead. T’Wangle sincerely wished he had gathered a party before venturing forth.
Finally, he left his jars on the floor before stepping through the portal again. This time he was standing in the familiar alley.

Before returning to his tiny apartment in the attic, T’Wangle cast the last glance at the shimmering portal concealed behind the blossoming branches. He had some party-gathering to do.


In Baldur Gate III you will meet T’Wangle in a tavern, drinking cheap ale and flirting with the serving wenches. If you let him join your party, he will lead you through the shimmering portal into the extra-dimensional storeroom with lots of goodies to loot. Be prepared to endure T’Wangle’s maudlin poetry.

[BlueSky]

LOL.......:laugh:

Question for my Lady:
Have you done any of these for Morrowind?

[Lady Dragonfly]

LOL.......:laugh:

Question for my Lady:
Have you done any of these for Morrowind?

There are no NPC in Morrowind, otherwise I might have been tempted...
But you know, it could be a good idea to enhance Morrowind or Oblivion with some very special "side quests". :laugh:

[Lady Dragonfly]

Silvestre’s Tale Noir (R-rated) :mischief:
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Class: Martial Artist


The bellicose WanDamn family was always fighting. It was the way of life in their frontier village. Silvestre’s siblings were fighting each other over broken toys and pieces of gooseberry pie; his mother was fighting neighbors over stolen laundry and abducted chickens; his grandmother was fighting delinquent teenagers; his grandfather was fighting rheumatism and tax collectors; and his perpetually stoned father was fighting everybody, including his own hallucinations. So, it’s fair to say that Silvestre WanDamn was a natural fighter. And, naturally, he did a little time in the slammer. There he was destined to meet and befriend another natural fighter taken into custody earlier, Ping Pong, a monk who hailed from the Far Provinces.

Silvestre was spellbound by Ping Pong’s long-winded stories about his exotic homeland and the awe-inspiring White Crane Monastery situated atop snow-covered Moon Shine Mountain, where leading austere life monks practiced martial arts, including legendary Funk Yu style of mortal combat.
Ping Pong told the inmates about the Morning Meal Ritual: at the Hour of Dragon every monk had to overcome a series of obstacles and deadly traps before reaching his breakfast – a piece of rice paper and a cup of tiger milk. That was the Way of the Chi-P’Monk. Ping Pong also told many wondrous tales about famous Punch-Master Big Bang, renowned Kick-Master Dig Dung, and eminent Grandmaster Peng Win who could walk on thin air and blend with his own shadow before delivering the fatal blow. But the most popular stories were about the bone-crushing Great Tournament held in the Blessed Hall of Jade.

Inspired by the Tournament tale, Silvestre begged Ping Pong to teach him Funk Yu. The monk was reluctant at first, but secretly enjoying all the attention and his new Sensei status and having nothing else to do anyway, he finally agreed to share his knowledge and wisdom. Ping Pong explained to the perplexed neophyte that his fist was not a continuation of his arm, but of his mind, and proposed to start with meditation and rigorous exercise.

Learning to empty his mind was fairly easy for Silvestre. His mind had always been rather vacant, and after all strikes and blows to the head he had endured previously as a street fighter, there was not much left to present any difficulty emptying.

The chi-channeling proved to be much more difficult: the thin glowing current of Force was teasingly quivering just beyond his reach, like a monkey tail.
Nevertheless, this initial failure to seize chi did not put a damper on Silvestre’s fighting spirit. He kept banging his empty head against the brick wall until frustrated Warden Locust threatened to withhold dessert. As much as Silvestre enjoyed prison-style blancmange, he enjoyed banging his head even more: he stoically rejected the sweet deal and kept on vandalizing prison property.

Warden Locust was a sensible man who believed in law, order, and torture. He summoned a scrawny-necked priest of Ilmater to provide counseling; in other words, to probe and manipulate Silvestre’s mind for the benefit of all.

Upon arrival, the inquisitor unfolded several heavy parchments containing comprehensive questionnaires, and urged Silvestre to fill in the blanks, piercing the testee with a clairvoyant stare while a prison guard watchfully stood in the corner of the torture chamber, his hand resting on the hilt of his falchion.

Writhing in anguish, Silvestre goggled at the manuscript inscribed with the intricate words he was unable to decipher, and at the pen he awkwardly held in his callused hand. The curvy letters were dancing and the sentences coiling and uncoiling before his eyes, making him feel woozy. He emptied his mind and turned his gaze inwards: the thin sliver of chi was faintly flickering in the darkness of his misery, as usual beyond his grasp. Silvestre heard the cleric asking him whether he was hearing voices or seeing things and the words filled him with great pain akin to the resentment he experienced in the tavern every time the bouncer dared to insinuate that he was drunk and should make himself scarce. On pure fighting instinct he sprang in the air striking the cleric’s neck with the back of his palm, then turned around in mid-air and, gaining momentum, kicked the guard who whimpered and dropped his falchion as he fell backwards. Not wasting any time, Silvestre rushed towards the window and jumped through, landing on the refuse heap amid shards of broken glass.

Suddenly he felt a tip of longsword pointing at his throat. He glanced up and beheld Warden Locust in all his terrible splendor, flanked by two menacing guards wielding cudgels. Silvestre slowly got up feeling the cold steel drawing a few drops of blood as Warden tried to restrict his upward movement. Ignoring the scratch, he looked Locust squarely in the eye and started reciting his sad tale. He told Warden about his dysfunctional family living in a dysfunctional neighborhood, about long tedious hours he had to work as a kid to buy his first sword because his poor parents could not afford one, and about circus clowns exerting devious influence on innocent children.

Silvestre kept talking, and Warden Locust gradually lowered his longsword, his eyes filled with tears. The guards were sobbing and blowing their noses. Silvestre sighed ruefully, brushed away a solitary, manly tear, and peeked inwards: his capricious chi was quivering close at hand as if listening to his whining. He promptly grasped the glittering ray of energy and channeled it exactly as instructed by Ping Pong. Bursting with Force, he spun around and kicked Warden Locust and the guards in one powerful sweeping motion, stepped over their sprawled bodies, climbed the nearby wall and disappeared into the woods. At last Silvestre WanDamn was free to pursue his bone-crushing dream. Visions of the Great Tournament were beckoning him from afar.

In Baldur Gate III, you are going to meet Silvestre hiding in the woods after the jail break, slamming his head against tree trunks and hankering for glory. He will join your party if you promise to accompany him to the Moon Shine Mountain and climb ten thousand stone steps leading to the Monastery.

:devil:

[Lady Dragonfly]

Enke’s Tale
Race: Halfling
Gender: Female
Class: Terminator

If you are planning to visit Baldur Gate, make sure you drop by The Swanky Pumpkin, one of the Sword Coast’s best seaside taverns, and order a lunch. Trust me, their La Bouillabaisse de Sirène and Brochettes de Warg au Romarin are to die for.

At least that was the case when Enke the Black Widow owned the establishment.
Wealthy merchants, prominent citizens and even haughty nobles frequented The Swanky Pumpkin’s well-appointed dining hall complete with a flock of misty-eyed serving wenches gliding between the tables and the ebullient trio of kobolds, Tres Koboldieros, incessantly electrifying patrons with the schmaltzy potboilers. After a sumptuous four-course dinner, the honored guests could comfortably retire into one of the private parlors for a confidential rendezvous.

Effervescent and buoyant, petite and pleasantly round where it counts, Enke was the epitome of the charming hostess; however, her greatest asset was her unsurpassed culinary talent, greatly admired by all her customers. The way to man's heart is through his stomach, so it should come as no surprise that crafty Enke was married six times. All her gourmandizing husbands zestfully lived and died at the dining table laden with exquisite entrées, pastries and desserts, bequeathing their fortunes to their temporary inconsolable but keeping a sharp lookout for her next chance widow. No evidence of foul play had ever been unearthed, and, according to Chief Inspector Crammer who, incidentally, happened to be one of The Swanky Pumpkin’s loyal patrons, the respectable proprietress was above suspicion.

…The fateful night Richie Copperhead, suave and debonair, entered The Swanky Pumpkin and ordered pâté de foie gras, was marked by thunder, lightning, falling stars and other signs and portents, as if the Finger of Fate were pointing ominously at the tavern, foretelling the cataclysmic events…

Every Halfling is a self-proclaimed gastronome. Richie Copperhead was a king of gastronomy, and Enke’s heart melted like butter on a hot skillet. Theirs was a romantic courtship; the couple indulged in endless candlelit dinners, clambakes and steamy debates on intricate methods of goose cooking. In Enke’s enamored heart, Richie was quickly ascending from “one of” into “the One”.

The wedding feast was lavish and bountiful, with chiming bells, yodeling kobolds, and the merry guests placing bets with a local bookie on how long the marriage would last.

Weeks and months slipped by, filled with joy, tender love, and heart-shaped cookies until one night Enke caught a glimpse of her husband furtively entering a private parlor with a stranger. The doors were closed but Enke had her own ways of keeping a watchful eye on her property. Peering through a hidden peephole carved in a wall, she could observe Richie and his mysterious visitor and hear little snatches of conversation. What she overheard there left her deeply unsettled. The stranger was talking about the “last chance” and urging Richie to hurry up, “or else”. Anxious, she waited until the coast was clear and slunk into her husband’s study, hoping to find some clues and answers there.

The desk drawers were firmly locked but Enke easily picked the locks with a skeleton key she always carried in her pocket. In the bottom drawer she found a little leather-bound diary. Why villains love diaries so much remains one of the greatest mysteries of this world.

With her heart pounding, Enke opened the journal and started reading. In a flowery style Richie described his long association with the Assassins Guild, how he was charged with the important task of obtaining the Black Widow’s fabled poison, and how he was snooping around to no avail.

Enke gasped. Her treacherous husband and his filthy guild dared to suspect her of harboring a sinister secret! Concealing a deadly poison! Her, whom even Chief Inspector Crammer believed to be above suspicion! Hot tears filled her eyes: how could she ever forgive such a flagrant indiscretion?

Feeling dejected and betrayed, Enke replaced the diary, returned to her bedroom and lightly pressed a golden leaf on her ornate wall mirror. The mirror softly slid aside revealing a secret compartment with a small crystal phial inside. She decided that two drops would suffice.

A week later the widow entrusted her tavern to a loyal steward and left the city.

In Baldur Gate III, you are going to meet Enke soothing her frazzled nerves and mending her broken heart at a fashionable Spa Resort. If your charisma is high you can persuade her to join your party. If your constitution is high you can attempt a wild romance. If your wisdom is high you should know better.

[Curry]

hum you sure this is the right forum for this ?

[Gwalchmai]

I think this is a fine forum for this thread.

[Naffnuff]

hum you sure this is the right forum for this ?

Then what do you suppose this forum is for? Do you realize that there is no such title as Baldur's Gate III and that accordingly this forum is purely speculative?

[Gwalchmai]

Please keep this thread on topic, everyone.

[maazrazi]

no npcs in morrowind?