Baldur's Gate 3: The Illithid War

The world was fire and smoke.

You wake to the acrid sting of burning flesh and the metallic tang of blood in the air. Your head throbs, a dull ache radiating from the base of your skull. The ground beneath you is uneven, littered with debris and the shattered remains of the Nautiloid ship. Flames lick hungrily at the wreckage, casting flickering shadows that dance like specters in the haze.

You try to sit up, but your body protests, every muscle screaming in agony. Memories flash—brief, fragmented. The Mind Flayers. The tadpole. The ship tearing through dimensions, the sky burning red as you plummeted to the ground.

A low groan pulls you from your thoughts. Nearby, a figure stirs, half-buried under a pile of twisted metal. Their face is streaked with soot, their armor dented and scorched. They lock eyes with you, and for a moment, there’s only silence. Then, a sharp, searing pain erupts behind your eyes, and you see—feel—their thoughts. Fear. Confusion. The same parasite writhing in their skull.

The connection snaps as quickly as it came, leaving you gasping for breath. The stranger staggers to their feet, their hand instinctively reaching for a weapon.

“You… you feel it too, don’t you?” they rasp, their voice hoarse.

The stranger’s voice is sharp, cutting through the chaos like a blade. Her eyes, a piercing green, narrow as she studies you. The pain behind your temples fades, but the connection lingers—a faint, unsettling awareness of her thoughts. Fear. Determination. Secrets she’s not ready to share.

“You… you feel it too, don’t you?” she repeats, her tone more insistent this time. Her hand tightens around the hilt of a dagger strapped to her side. The weapon glints in the firelight, its edge still slick with ichor from the battle aboard the Nautiloid.

You nod, your voice catching in your throat. “The tadpole,” you manage to say. “It’s in my head. Just like yours.” You both read each other minds. Seeing each other names. Your John and she's Shadowheart.

Her expression hardens, but she doesn’t lower her guard. “Then we’re in the same mess,” she says, her voice low. “But I don’t have time for distractions. If you want to live, you’ll keep up—and stay out of my way.”

Before you can respond, another roar echoes through the ruins. This time, it’s not a cambion. From the shadows emerge a pack of intellect devourers—twisted, grotesque creatures with bulbous heads and razor-sharp claws. Their eyes gleam with malevolent intelligence as they skitter toward you, their movements unnervingly precise.

Shadowheart doesn’t hesitate. She steps forward, her free hand glowing with a faint, silvery light. “Stay behind me,” she snaps, though her tone lacks malice. “And don’t get yourself killed. I’m not carrying your corpse out of here.”

The intellect devourers attack with terrifying speed, but Shadowheart is ready. She mutters an incantation, and a burst of radiant energy erupts from her hand, searing one of the creatures. It screeches, its body writhing as it collapses into a smoldering heap. You seize the opportunity, grabbing a fallen piece of debris and swinging it at another devourer. The impact sends it sprawling, but it’s not enough to finish it off.

Shadowheart is at your side in an instant, her dagger flashing as she drives it into the creature’s skull. “You’re full of surprises,” she says, a hint of grudging respect in her voice. “But don’t get cocky. We’re not out of this yet.”

The remaining devourers regroup, their movements more cautious now. Shadowheart glances at you, her expression unreadable. “We need to move. Now.”

You don’t argue. Together, you retreat into the ruins, the intellect devourers hot on your heels. The wreckage of the Nautiloid looms around you, its twisted metal groaning under the weight of the flames. Shadowheart leads the way, her movements swift and deliberate. She seems to know where she’s going—or at least, she’s good at pretending she does.

As you run, the tadpole in your head stirs again. This time, the connection is stronger. You catch glimpses of Shadowheart’s memories—a dark, moonlit grove; the sound of chanting; a mysterious artifact clutched tightly in her hands. The images are fleeting, but they leave you with more questions than answers.

Finally, you reach a clearing. The intellect devourers hesitate at the edge, their grotesque forms silhouetted against the flames. Shadowheart turns to you, her breathing heavy but steady. “We’ll need to find others,” she says. “Others like us. If we’re going to survive this—if we’re going to find a cure—we can’t do it alone. Are you with me John”

You nod, your gaze drifting to the horizon. The crash site is just the beginning. Somewhere out there, answers await—and perhaps a way to rid yourselves of the parasites. But the road ahead is fraught with danger, and the tadpole in your head is a constant reminder that time is running out.

Shadowheart adjusts the strap of her pack, her expression resolute. “Let’s move,” she says. “And try not to slow me down.”

The two of you move cautiously through the wreckage, the flames casting long shadows across the broken landscape. Shadowheart keeps her distance, her eyes scanning the horizon for threats. But every so often, she glances at you, her expression unreadable.

You decide to break the silence. “So,” you say, your tone light, “do you always rescue strangers from intellect devourers, or am I special?”

She raises an eyebrow, her lips curling into a faint smirk. “Don’t flatter yourself, John. I’d have done the same for anyone with a pulse. Though I suppose you’re slightly more useful than most.”

You chuckle, undeterred. “Slightly useful? I just helped you take down those things. I’d say I’m at least moderately useful.”

Shadowheart rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of amusement in her voice. “Moderately useful, then. But don’t let it go to your head. We’ve got bigger problems to worry about.”

You nod, your gaze drifting to the strange artifact she carries. It’s tucked securely in her pack, but you caught a glimpse of it earlier—a sleek, metallic object etched with intricate runes. It radiates an otherworldly energy, and you can’t help but wonder what it’s for.

“That artifact,” you say, gesturing to her pack. “It’s important, isn’t it?”

Her expression hardens, and for a moment, she says nothing. Then, reluctantly, she replies, “It’s… complicated. Let’s just say it’s not something I can afford to lose.”

You sense there’s more to the story, but before you can press further, a sharp cry pierces the air. It’s not the guttural roar of a monster—it’s a voice. A familiar one.

“Tsk’va! Release me at once, you istik filth!”

You exchange a glance with Shadowheart. “That sounds like—”

“The githyanki,” she finishes, her tone wary. “Lae’zel. Come on. Let’s see what trouble she’s gotten herself into.”

You follow the sound, moving quickly but cautiously. The voice grows louder, more frantic. Finally, you reach a small clearing—and there she is. Lae’zel, the fierce githyanki warrior, is trapped in a makeshift cage, her hands bound and her face contorted with rage. Surrounding her are a group of tieflings, their weapons drawn and their expressions tense.

One of the tieflings, a tall woman with crimson skin and curling horns, steps forward. “Stay back!” she warns, her voice trembling slightly. “This creature is dangerous. She attacked us!”

Lae’zel snarls, her golden eyes blazing. “I warned you to release me! When my kin find you, they will tear you apart!”

Shadowheart crosses her arms, her expression unimpressed. “Charming as ever, I see.”

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