Chapter Text
The best laid plans of gods and mortals often go awry, as such is the history of Faerûn, and the Sword Coast, and very much so of Baldur’s Gate. On the surface, the city has reached a long stint of calm prosperity. Their woes with Bhaal have faded into history, and by 1482, tales of the Dead Three are collecting dust in basement tomes no one cares to read.
But the Dead Three had always been ones to make their irrelevance everyone else’s problem. So they devised a plan, and placed that plan in the hands of mortals. Capable and willing, these mortals were bound to defy the odds and make their masters proud. But often as they do, the best laid plans of gods and mortals often go awry.
One such mortal, a human man, sits at large oak desk in a dimly lit office, meticulously writing on fine parchment. The sound of sharp quill strokes on paper fills the empty air of the room. The soft glow of the dying fireplace illuminates his final draft, as crumpled, scratched out, ripped up papers litter the table and floor around him. He reaches the end, leans closer to the page to make sure his signature is perfect, and relaxes in his seat.
The figure sighs, returning the quill to its ink pot. He then opens the top drawer and pulls out a well maintained set of wax and seals. He carefully touches the last words on the page, and inspects his finger for wet ink. With the text dry, he folds the letter in crisp thirds, and prepares the wax. The stamp presses in, leaving the imprint of a gauntleted hand in its wake. A moment later, the man turns the page and addresses the letter. He takes the letter and holds it out, the gloved hand of an attendant meeting him.
The fire illuminates the top of the letter, “Head of His Bloody Temple,” written in deliberate script.
“To the Leader of the Bhaal Temple,
Under normal circumstances, I would not dare intrude upon your private empire with such frivolities as a letter, but I write with news of a matter you will find concerning.
I have come to learn that the merchant’s guild known as the Knights of the Shield recently brokered a deal with one self-indulgent Cambion for the exchange of a collection of Bhaalist torture racks, to be displayed in the High House of Wonders here in Baldur’s Gate. The House of Wonders and Knights of the Shield deem these artifacts “necessary to educate the masses on the triumph over the Bhaalspawn crisis.”
Though our Lords may not often see eye to eye, this flagrant display of irreverence has emboldened me to offer the Blank Hand in service to restore what is rightfully under your rule.
If this is a concern worthy of your time, I offer my support and look forward to your reply presently.
In arms,
E. Gortash”
The letter, now decorated with a browning splatter of blood, is gripped tightly in the slender, calloused hands of its intended recipient. The reader looks up, a grimace of disdain across her pale elven face.
“Who?”