planeswalker-chronicles

[planeswalker-chronicles]

Planeswalker Chronicles Season 1 - Directory

Episode 1 - "The Strange Traveller" [Scene 1 | Scene 2A / 2B | Scene 3]

Episode 2 - "Wanderer" [Scene 1 | Scene 2 | Scene 3 | Scene 4]

Episode 3 - "The Fox & Hound" [Scene 1 | Scene 2 | Scene 3 | Scene 4 ]

Episode 4 - "The Mad Tinkerer" [Scene 1 | Scene 2 | Scene 3 | Scene 4]

Episode 5 - "Shadows Rising" [Scene 1 | Scene 2 | Scene 3A / 3B | Scene 4]

Episode 6 - "All Closing In" [Scene 1 | Scene 2 | Scene 3 | Scene 4 | Scene 5A / 5B]

Episode 7 - "Fulcrum of Fate" [Scene 1 | Scene 2 | Scene 3 | Scene 4A / 4B]

Episode 8 - "Down to Earth" [ Scene 1 | Scene 2 | Scene 3A / 3B | Scene 4 | Scene 5] Archive of Our Own Link here.

[planeswalker-chronicles]

Episode 8: "Down to Earth" - Scene 5

It didn’t take long before the ship lurched—barely, but enough to feel it. A soft whine of arcane pressure diffused into silence as the DTC settled with a final mechanical hiss.

The Wanderer rose from the stair, brushing a hand down his coat.

“Seems like we’re here…”

“Already?” Astarion cocked an eyebrow, stretching like a cat just waking. “At least the trip was longer than most of my worst lovers. Though not by much.”

The Wanderer didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he strode to the exit and pulled open the doors.

The city night greeted them in a wash of amber light and low humming noise. They had landed in a narrow alley, hemmed in by tall buildings of brick and stone. The immediate view revealed the back of a stately mansion—ornate but aged, ivy crawling up its spine. The air was thick with unfamiliar scents: car exhaust, distant ozone, and the sour tang of overfilled refuse.

Streetlights buzzed overhead, casting sharp yellow beams onto the slick pavement below. Row after row of sleek, horseless carriages lined the alley, their chrome surfaces gleaming dully under the lights.

Astarion stepped out slowly and wrinkled his nose with visible offense.

“What in the Hells is this wretched place? Smells like Lower City rubbish.”

The Wanderer gestured lazily toward a large, dented metal box at the corner, bulging with black sacks of refuse.

“Probably the rubbish nearby.”

Then—BZZT-BZZT—a loud, rapid vibration blared from Benji’s pocket.

Astarion gave a melodramatic sigh and rolled his eyes.

“Figures…”

Most of the party instinctively reached for their weapons. Shadowheart stepped back with a defensive spell half-formed, and Karlach growled low in her throat, scanning for the source.

The Wanderer, however, remained unbothered. He calmly retrieved a slim, dark-glassed rectangle from his coat and brought it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“No need,” The Wanderer, now known as Benji said, his voice relaxing just slightly. “I’m back. I also brought some tag-alongs as well.”

A voice buzzed faintly from the device—feminine, tired, and sharp.

“Benji, what took you so long? I’ve been telling people you’ve been busy with school for months and I don’t know how much longer I can hold it up.”

Benji’s eyes drifted to the party: Karlach still bristling like a cornered beast, Shadowheart eyeing the glowing streetlamps like they were arcane traps, and Astarion peering into a car window and checking his reflection.

A pause. Then a sigh.

“Oh for fuck’s sake. How bad do they stand out?”

“...Some are really bad.”

“Okay,” the voice replied flatly. “Get them inside. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Door’s open.”

“Alright. See you then.”

He hung up, sliding the device back into his coat.

Astarion sidled up with a wicked gleam in his eye.

“Benji? Is that your actual name? I was expecting something grand like Lord Magnanimous or He Who Glides Between Planes, but Benji... it’s so delightfully mundane.”

Benji groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yes. Benji is my real name. The Wanderer is just a title. I don’t... use my name much anymore.”

 His smirk was smug, eyes glittering.

Astarion leaned in, voice low and teasing.

“You really should. Reminds me that underneath all that cosmic gravitas, you’re still just a darling little boy.”

“Stop,” Benji muttered, cheeks flushing the faintest pink.

“Make me,” Astarion purred.

Benji gave him a flat look, lips twitching with restraint. Then he turned to the others and swept his hand toward the glowing skyline peeking over rooftops, filled with towering buildings and blinking red aircraft lights.

 “Welcome to my home,” he said with a resigned breath. “Earth.”

[ END OF SEASON ONE. ]

[planeswalker-chronicles]

Episode 8: "Down to Earth" - Scene 4

The air stirred, gentle at first, then stronger—a soft breeze that carried the scent of earth and growth. The trees, so long dead and brittle, quivered and swayed, leaves whispering on their branches like a tentative heartbeat returning.

The Wanderer straightened, the resonance disc still glowing faintly where it rested in the scorched earth. His breath came steady now, but his eyes were sharp, wary.

Gale stepped forward, voice low but triumphant. “A perfect collision of forces.”

Shadowheart lowered her symbol, eyes scanning the now-bright clearing. “The blight is pushed back, at least for now.”

Karlach cracked her knuckles, eyes glinting with fierce relief. “I was ready to tear that thing apart, but that light? Yeah, that was better.”

Halsin rose slowly, fingertips brushing the soil. The earth beneath their feet felt warmer, alive again, as tiny shoots peeked hesitantly from the ash.

Astarion slipped closer to the Wanderer, voice quiet. “You did it. You stopped it—for now.”

The Wanderer nodded, voice grim. “It’s a reprieve, nothing more. This antimatter presence… it’s a force of unmaking. It doesn’t just kill—it erases. We bought time today, but the fracture remains. It will try again.”

He lifted his gaze to the forest beyond the clearing, eyes shadowed.

“Let’s get back to the ship. We can blot out incursions but we need to find the source -and I just so happen to know what it is.”

Astarion spoke, “Well, finally. Thought you’d keep us in suspense through the whole ordeal.”

The Wanderer gave a faint, wry smile, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “Some things are better revealed when you’re ready to hear them.”

He turned toward the trees, his footsteps purposeful yet measured. “The source isn’t some random relic or ancient curse. It’s... a beacon. A signal left behind by a force older than any of us.”

Shadowheart adjusted her grip on her holy symbol, eyes sharp. “A beacon? For what purpose?”

“To call something through,” the Wanderer replied, voice low. “-or to rally something.”

Karlach grinned, cracking her knuckles. “Then we find this beacon, smash it, and send that darkness packing for good.”

Gale chuckled softly, the familiar spark of arcane curiosity lighting his eyes. “You seem to  have a flair for the dramatic, Wanderer.”

Astarion smirked, falling into step beside him. “Better late than never.”

Halsin fell in behind, nodding once. “Whatever it is, we face it together.”

The moonlight filtered softly through the thinning canopy as the party wound their way back toward the waiting silhouette of the Dimensional Transport Console. The air felt less heavy now, though the weight of what lay ahead lingered in every step.

The Wanderer glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of Minthara moving quietly among them. His gaze sharpened, and when their eyes met, he slowed his pace and spoke low enough that only she could hear.

“I suppose this means we have a truce?”

Minthara’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile—half challenge, half acknowledgment. She met his tone evenly. “For now. The threat out here is bigger than old grudges or politics. Survival makes strange bedfellows.”

He nodded once, the faintest relief flickering across his features. “Good. Rather not be killed before I finish what I dedicated my life to doing.”

When they all entered the ship, he started pressing buttons and glancing at the interface. The chamber hummed to life again, the soft glow of arcane glass illuminating the party’s faces in shifting colors. Charts and swirling star maps flickered rapidly, weaving their way across the transparent interface as the Wanderer’s fingers danced over the controls.

“Alright, everyone, find a seat or hold onto something! The next location will be a while,” he called out, his voice steady but carrying an unmistakable edge of urgency.

Minthara’s eyes narrowed sharply, crossing her arms. “—And where exactly is it you’re taking us now?”

The Wanderer didn’t look away from the glowing maps. His tone was quiet but resolute. “My home. The source of this unmaking won’t be able to easily reach us there.”

A charged silence fell over the group, the weight of that statement settling in like a stone in their chests.

With a practiced motion, the Wanderer pulled the lever, the metal bar rattling softly in his grip. The familiar vibration thrummed through the chamber as the DTC prepared to breach the veil once more.

“Hold on tight,” the Wanderer warned, eyes locking briefly with each member of the party. “This jump... might be rougher than the last.”

The chamber rumbled violently, the vibrations rattling through the very bones of the Dimensional Transport Console. The Wanderer’s grip tightened fiercely on the metal bar beneath the console as the sudden surge threatened to throw him off balance. His boots slid slightly against the floor, but he stayed rooted, muscles taut.

Then, just as abruptly as it began, the shaking ceased.

A serene weightlessness settled over the group, like floating in the void between worlds.

The hum of arcane energy softened to a gentle pulse.

The Wanderer eased himself down onto one of the staircase steps leading up from the chamber, leaning back against the cool metal rail with a slow breath.

“-and now we wait,” he murmured, voice calm but edged with anticipation. “Maybe an hour, given the distance between the two worlds…”

Around him, the others settled into uneasy quiet, each lost in their thoughts or scanning the softly shifting runes that lined the chamber walls.

The viewport shimmered with a mesmerizing dance of prismatic colors — swirling ribbons of violet, emerald, and sapphire twisting and folding around pools of radiant starlight. It looked serene, almost hypnotic, like drifting through a cosmic sea sprinkled with twinkling diamonds.

Despite the peaceful beauty, the scene held a dizzying speed, the stars stretching into fleeting trails as the vortex carried them swiftly through the fabric of the multiverse. The colors pulsed softly, rippling like waves on an ethereal ocean, bathing the chamber in shifting hues.

Shadowheart’s gaze was fixed on the view, her voice barely above a whisper: “It’s beautiful... but it feels fragile, like we’re riding the edge of a blade.”

The Wanderer nodded, eyes reflecting the swirling lights. “We’re safe for now — but only just.”

Karlach leaned forward, fists resting on her knees, eyes narrowed in concentration. “Beautiful or not, I’m ready to hit solid ground again.”

Gale adjusted his cloak, his usual calm tempered with awe. “The very weave stretching before us... it’s a reminder of how small we truly are.”

Astarion smirked, reclining slightly. “Small or not, it’s a hells of a view.”

Astarion glanced sideways at the Wanderer, a teasing glint lighting his sharp eyes. “So, Wanderer,” he said, voice smooth with playful curiosity, “what’s it like to be an immortal traveler across the stars?”

The Wanderer arched an eyebrow, a dry smile flickering. “You’re bringing up the immortal part now?”

“Guilty as charged,” Astarion admitted.

Gale perked up at the mention of immortality, eyes sparkling with curiosity,  “Wait—immortal? How so?”

The Wanderer gave a faint, almost weary smile, 

“Traveling like this puts my body into bio-stasis. It preserves me until I’ve spent about a year in one place. After that, I age like any ordinary human.”

Astarion let out a soft scoff, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips.

 “Darling, that’s the most humble lie I’ve heard yet. You are far from ordinary.”

“Anyway, where do I start?” The Wanderer’s tone softened, eyes distant. “It’s fun, it’s busy, it’s lonely — and it’s stressful.”

“Lonely?” Astarion’s smirk faltered for just a heartbeat.

The Wanderer glanced away, voice dropping. “Forget I said anything.”

Astarion’s grin widened, lips curling into that familiar smirk, eyes narrowing playfully. “Never.”

The Wanderer’s response was immediate, sharp, and half-joking, half-exasperated. “I already fucking hate you…”

[planeswalker-chronicles]

Episode 8: "Down to Earth" - Scene 3B

Gale blinked, taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

The Wanderer blinked once, slowly, like surfacing from a thought too large to fully leave behind. “Inverted matter. The opposite of creation. Plants that don’t grow but wither. Soil that doesn’t nourish—it kills. It spreads like a sickness, but it isn’t biological. It’s metaphysical. This is the work of something that unravels existence, not corrupts it.”

There was a silence. Then Astarion, arms loosely crossed, his voice unusually quiet, asked:

“Is this what you saw all those years ago? The empty black nothing you spoke of the other night?”

The Wanderer’s eyes finally met his.

And he nodded. Once. A slow, hollow nod.

“We need to find the source of this infection of antimatter as soon as possible or it will spread further.”

Shadowheart stepped closer, her arms still folded tightly across her chest, but her posture had stiffened. “And what happens if we don’t find it in time?” she asked, though part of her already knew.

The Wanderer didn’t answer right away. His gaze remained on the horizon, his jaw tight.

“It consumes,” he finally said. “Not like fire. Not like rot. It erases. Memories. Matter. Magic. Life. Everything.” His voice dropped even lower. “It doesn't just kill—it makes it so the thing never was.”

Gale exhaled sharply, eyes widening. “Then this isn’t merely planar corruption. It’s... anti-reality.”

“It shouldn’t even be here,” the Wanderer muttered. “This world—this plane—it was never meant to touch this kind of force. It breaks the rules just by existing.”

Karlach, who had been quiet up until now, stepped forward, her expression grim. “Then what are we waiting for? We track it. We fight it. Or whatever it is you do to this kind of evil.”

The Wanderer turned to her, finally facing the group fully. “We don’t fight it directly. Not yet. Antimatter doesn’t bleed. It doesn’t burn. We have to find the point where it entered the weave of this plane. If it’s spreading, there must be a fracture—a tear in the fabric of reality it’s leaking through.”

“And how exactly do we find that?” Shadowheart asked, her voice cold with urgency.

The Wanderer reached into his coat and withdrew a small, palm-sized disc etched with glowing glyphs. It pulsed faintly in his hand, like it was listening.

“With this. A dimensional resonance scanner. It’ll pick up fluctuations in the weave—places where reality’s gone thin. It won’t lead us straight to the source, but it’ll point us in the direction of the leak.”

Halsin frowned, stepping forward. “There’s a ruin deeper in the forest. Old, abandoned for centuries. The druids say nothing grows near it—never has. We always thought it was cursed. But maybe…”

The Wanderer’s expression hardened with resolve. “Then that’s where we start.”

The forest pressed in around them as they followed Halsin along an overgrown trail, the moonlight dimming beneath the gnarled, dying branches. Where once there would have been birdsong or the chitter of nocturnal creatures, now there was nothing but the crunch of withered leaves beneath their boots and the whisper of a dead wind.

The trees became sicklier the farther they went—trunks hollowed and brittle, bark peeling, their roots curling up from the soil.

The Wanderer walked near the rear of the group, his eyes scanning everything, but seeing more than just what lay before them. His thoughts were a stream of hushed muttering, more to himself than anyone else.

“Why strike here? ...Who or what brought it here? ...How?”

A faint glow pulsed from the disc in his hand—steadier now, brighter.

“It can’t be in the water. It would’ve reached Baldur’s Gate by now...”

Gale, walking just ahead, glanced back at him. “What are you thinking?”

The Wanderer didn’t answer at first, still lost in thought. His eyes narrowed at the unnatural stillness of the trees. “Why settle in a ruin for centuries and spread now?” he murmured. “It could have struck centuries ago…”

Karlach’s voice broke the stillness. “So it was waiting?”

“Maybe,” the Wanderer said, finally lifting his gaze. “Or maybe it didn’t have the strength to break through until now. Maybe someone... or something helped open the door wider.”

Shadowheart’s tone was sharp. “A cult. A warlock. Someone dabbling in the wrong kind of power.”

“Or an object,” Gale added, his mind racing alongside the Wanderer’s. “A relic left here long ago. A seed of unraveling, waiting for the right weave to fray.”

Halsin stopped suddenly, his hand raised in warning. “We’re close.”

Just beyond the ridge ahead, a clearing opened in the forest like a wound. At its center stood a stone ruin—half-buried in time, cloaked in vines that had long since withered. The structure seemed to repel life. No moss clung to it. No roots dared crack its stones. The very air above it shimmered faintly, like heat rising from cold ash.

The resonance disc in the Wanderer’s hand began to pulse harder—once every two seconds. Then once every one. Then a constant, humming light.

He stepped forward slowly, breath caught in his throat.

“It’s here,” he said.

A pause.

“No... something is here.”

And beneath their feet, for the first time, the earth gave a soft, shuddering twitch.

A low wind whipped through the broken archway as the moonlight dimmed to a ghostly pall. The ruin’s walls seemed to breathe, stones shifting as shadows pooled and coalesced into a living darkness.

A voice—like a chorus of a hundred whispers—echoed through the clearing, resonant and intimate all at once:

“All things die… why do you resist what is inevitable… Wanderer?”

The Wanderer’s jaw clenched, fist tightening around the resonance disc. “This isn’t death,” he growled, voice edged with steel.

“It is the purest of death; the absolute and final end… You forced my hand. You could have forgotten my face… but you had to run.”

The shadows swirled faster, spiraling around the Wanderer until the air itself trembled. He took a half-step back, eyes flicking to the party, who had drawn close, weapons and spells at the ready.

Karlach roared, charging forward as her greataxe crackled with fiery energy. “Back off, shadow-fiend! No one threatens the Wanderer on my watch!”

Shadowheart raised her holy symbol high, silver light spilling from her hands. “In Selûne’s name, be gone from this plane!”

Gale thrust out his staff, arcane glyphs igniting around its tip. “If you’re some new planar aberration, you picked the wrong wizard to tangle with!”

Halsin knelt at the edge of the clearing, whispering in Druidic tongues. Roots writhed beneath the earth, seeking to ensnare the creeping dark.

Astarion slipped into the shadows himself, dagger glinting pale. “You overstep, love. You’ll regret every inch you claw through.”

The voice said, “You cannot harm me. I am the end.”

The shadows solidified into a monstrous, clawed hand that stretched toward the Wanderer, fingers dripping void.

The Wanderer lifted the resonance disc—its glyphs blazing. He slammed the disc into the ground. A pulse of prismatic light exploded outward, ripping the shadows like thread.

“What… is… this…?”

“You’re a manifestation of antimatter. Meet pure matter…”

The shadowy hand dissipated from the bombardment of light, leaving only silence. The air no longer still or cold. Wind returning… Trees swaying. The clearing seemed to exhale, the oppressive weight lifting as the shadows were torn apart by the burst of prismatic light. The clawed hand, once a living void, shimmered briefly—then dissolved into nothingness, as if it had never been.

[planeswalker-chronicles]

Episode 8: "Down to Earth" - Scene 3A

The cool night air settled over the quiet farming town of Reithwin, the faint glow of lanterns flickering along dirt paths and humble wooden porches. The fields stretched out beyond the clustered homes—rows of crops blackened and crumbling, like brittle skeletons beneath a pale moonlight.

The Wanderer stepped out, his boots crunching softly on the gravel. He looked around, taking in the eerie stillness.

“So what’s been going on here?” he asked Halsin, who stood nearby, his expression grave.

Halsin’s brows furrowed deeply. “Crops are turning into ash. No one knows why, but I know it is not the Shadow Curse.”

Gale adjusted his cloak, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “So it’s not the Shadow Curse from before? Then what is it?”

The Wanderer’s gaze shifted toward the devastated fields. “I’ll need to take and analyze some samples. The machine has a laboratory inside that I can use, but let’s go see what the land is looking like first.”

Shadowheart nodded, stepping forward. “We should move quickly—if whatever is causing this spreads, more will be affected by dawn.”

As they moved down the main road toward the farmland, the crunch of ash underfoot accompanied their steps. The air carried a faint scent, something acrid and unnatural, like burnt magic lingering in the breeze.

The Wanderer crouched by a patch of blackened stalks, running a finger over the brittle remains. “There’s no natural decay here... This is unlike anything I’ve seen before.”

Gale stepped closer, peering at the soil. “If it’s not the Shadow Curse, then it might be something tied to elemental decay... or worse, a new curse entirely.”

Halsin’s voice was steady but urgent. “We need answers—and fast. The farmers are scared, and their livelihoods are vanishing under this blight.”

The Wanderer stood, eyes scanning the night-shrouded fields. “Then we start here. Gather samples, record everything. This is more than a farming problem. It might be the beginning of something much darker.”

The cold night air was thick with an unsettling stillness as the Wanderer carefully uncorked one of his vials and dipped it into the brittle soil, his fingers steady but precise. Each movement was deliberate, almost reverent, as he collected samples from the dying wheat and ash-laden earth.

Without turning, he asked softly, "What else has been happening here?"

Halsin’s voice was low, haunted. "I heard a voice... it spoke of darkness and silence, like it was peace. It tried to tell me to let the fields fall."

Shadowheart stepped closer, her brow furrowed. "Sounds like something Shar would say, but you said it wasn’t from the Shadowfell."

Halsin shook his head, his eyes distant. "No. This is something entirely different."

The Wanderer’s brow furrowed deeper as he worked, but suddenly his meticulous movements slowed and faltered. A shadow crossed his expression—his focus shifting from scientific curiosity to something heavier, darker.

He straightened slowly, the dread settling over him like a cold weight. Vials full, he turned away from the field without a word, his face tight and unreadable.

He didn’t meet Halsin’s or anyone else’s gaze.

The party exchanged uneasy glances, but the Wanderer said nothing as he made his way back toward the ship, his footsteps echoing hollowly in the night.

Inside, the heavy doors slid shut behind him with a soft hiss. Without pause, he headed straight to the laboratory, the sterile glow of arcane instruments awaiting him.

Silence followed him like a shadow as he prepared to uncover the truth hidden within the cursed land’s samples.

Karlach let out a breath she’d been holding, hands on her hips. “Okay. That was not reassuring.”

Shadowheart crossed her arms, eyes still locked on the ship. “He looked... frightened.” She frowned. “I’ve never seen him like that before. Not even when we were facing the Mind Flayer hive.”

“I doubt It’s ever good when he gets scared,” Gale said, folding his arms in thought. “He’s usually the one telling us not to panic while fiddling with machinery that’s violating five natural laws.”

Halsin was crouched by the soil again, scooping a handful and letting it fall through his fingers. “It’s not just the crops. The ground beneath is lifeless. No worms. No insects. Not even the usual specks of life. It’s as if the land itself has been... unmade.”

“Lae'zel would call this weakness,�� Karlach muttered. “Voices whispering lies, people freezing up. But this—” she gestured around at the ruin, “—this isn’t weakness. This is wrong.”

Shadowheart turned toward Halsin. “The voice—do you remember exactly what it said?”

Halsin nodded, still watching the dirt. “‘There is no peace but in darkness… No silence but in slumber…’” He paused. “It was cold. Comforting, almost. But in the way death sometimes pretends to be.”

Gale’s gaze drifted toward the darkened forest edging the farmland. “That’s language meant to erode resolve. Not unlike what the Netherbrain used, or Shar’s own dogma. But this seems... older.”

Karlach sighed, rocking back on her heels. “So we’re dealing with ancient evil again. Great. Guess we’re overdue.”

They stood in silence for a moment longer, the wind rustling the dead stalks like dry paper. Inside the DTC, faint light flickered in the upper portholes—pale and clinical. A shadow moved past the glass.

Shadowheart looked up, her voice almost a whisper. “Whatever he found in those samples... he knew it.”

“And he didn’t want to tell us,” Gale murmured. “Not until he’s sure.”

Karlach’s fists clenched slightly. “Then he better not take all night. I don’t like standing out here while the land’s whispering death songs.”

Halsin rose, brushing dust from his hands. “Let him work. But stay alert. I have a feeling something is watching.”

The doors of the DTC slid open with a mechanical sigh, casting a stark rectangle of sterile light into the ashen fields. The party turned as one, their breath held in quiet anticipation.

The Wanderer stepped out slowly.

His coat was dusted with smudges of soot and faint chemical stains. His hands were bare now—gloves discarded somewhere in the lab—and he stared not at the others, but at the dark horizon beyond them, as though something invisible loomed just out of sight.

“Antimatter…” he said softly, voice distant, brittle. “It’s antimatter…”

[planeswalker-chronicles]

Episode 8: "Down to Earth" - Scene 2

Astarion let out a low whistle, the sound reverent for once. “Well. That explains the dramatics.”

Gale’s jaw had gone slightly slack, his hand slowly lowering from where it had instinctively hovered near his spell pouch.

Minthara said nothing—but her gaze never left the helm, the gears in her mind grinding as she reevaluated everything she thought she knew about this “Wanderer.”

Karlach finally broke the silence. “You built this? With junk from the forge district and a borrowed basement?”

“No,” the Wanderer replied with a ghost of a smile. “I rebuilt it. From scratch.”

Shadowheart stepped forward slowly, her voice hushed. “Selûne told me to let you fall into light. I thought I was supposed to save you.”

He looked at her gently. “Maybe you still are. I don’t know what gods would want with me.”

Halsin moved last, his eyes sweeping the chamber like a druid surveying a strange new ecosystem. He looked… cautious, but calm. “And where do you go first?”

The Wanderer turned back to the helm and rested both hands on its edge. The lights flickered, sensing his intent.

“That depends,” he murmured. “On who’s coming with me.”

He then would press on the controls and look at an interface on the helm console. A quiet hum filled the chamber as the interface flickered to life—sleek panes of arcane glass forming in the air above the helm, swirling with shimmering glyphs and coordinates. At its center, a rendered map of the Western Heartlands bloomed into view. Pale green terrain, golden roads, and cities marked with faint sigils. But one location pulsed in red—an ominous glow east of Baldur’s Gate.

“Reithwin…” the Wanderer muttered, narrowing his eyes. “Unknown substance…”

The words hovered beside the mark, flickering faintly like a warning the machine itself couldn’t fully explain.

The Wanderer tapped two fingers against the map, drawing it into sharper focus. “Then it’s reacting to something dimensional. Or maybe it’s pulling from something else—another plane? Another timeline?” His brow furrowed. “No wonder the DTC flagged it.”

Behind him, Halsin straightened, tension rising in his voice.

“Reithwin? Yes, I came from there! The land is… sick. I thought the curse was lifted, but it’s changed. The rot runs deeper now. Something is festering.”

He glanced toward Astarion, who stood with one hand still resting lazily on the nearest rail, though his eyes were fixed—sharper now. Alert. The smirk had faded.

“Well, Astarion,” the Wanderer said with a breath of resignation, “it looks like we won’t be going just yet.”

Astarion tilted his head. “Delaying our getaway for another stop? Charming.”

“Do find somewhere to settle in,” the Wanderer added with a small, tired smile. “This can take us there in no time.”

Astarion sighed dramatically but began strolling down one of the staircases, calling over his shoulder, “I expect the guest quarters to have proper bedding. I’m too old to sleep on benches.”

Minthara folded her arms, studying the helm. “You’re choosing to help us, even now. Why?”

The Wanderer didn’t turn around. “Because it’s the right thing to do. And because if Reithwin falls… this world might be next.”

Karlach let out a low whistle. “Well. Guess we’re hitching a ride after all.”

The Wanderer immediately started to press buttons, locking in the location of the town. He pulled a lever on the console and then grabbed onto a metal bar under it, and called out,

 "First jump is rocky, so might want to hold onto something!"

The chamber hummed to life with a low, mechanical whir that seemed to vibrate through the floor and walls. The control panel blinked with arcane runes pulsing in rhythm, casting eerie shadows on the faces of the party. The metal bar in the Wanderer’s grip shuddered faintly as the console powered up.

Shadowheart’s eyes narrowed, steadying herself against the sudden shift in atmosphere. "What exactly happens during this ‘jump’?" she asked cautiously, fingers brushing the hilt of her weapon.

The Wanderer glanced back with a grin, the ghost of excitement flickering in his eyes. "Sometimes, it jolts you like a bucking horse."

Astarion smirked, leaning casually against a nearby console rail. “I do hope it doesn’t toss us about too much. I rather like my bones unbroken.”

Karlach cracked her knuckles, looking eager. "Bring it on."

With a soft click, the lever locked into place, and the hum deepened to a low roar. The chamber began to twist and warp, the walls stretching and folding as if reality itself was bending inward. The air grew heavy, and a strange pressure pressed against their skin. For a moment, the party felt weightless, as if suspended in an endless void.

Then, with a sudden lurch and a rush of wind, the chamber jerked violently, rattling every bone. Shadowheart gasped, gripping the bar tightly.

The Wanderer’s voice cut through the chaos, steady and calm: "Almost there! Hold on—"

Light exploded around them, white-hot and all-consuming, before it faded just as quickly. The humming slowed and settled into a steady purr.

Outside the viewing panel, the familiar rolling hills and misty outskirts of Reithwin shimmered into view.

The Wanderer released the bar, a triumphant smile spreading across his face. "Not quite as smooth as a carriage ride, but faster than any horse."

The party exhaled as the room steadied, eyes wide with the thrill of the unknown. Karlach grinned, flexing her fingers. "Well, that was a ride. Let’s see what trouble this town’s hiding."

[planeswalker-chronicles]

Episode 8: "Down to Earth" - Scene 1

The Wanderer was heading back to Vellin's forge that night, all of his things were in a satchel by his hip. Astarion was beside him, and the rest were behind him. The Wanderer could feel Minthara's eyes on him from behind, and knowing she would easily cut him down if she thought for a second he was a threat. That dark streets were more quiet than earlier that day, and the silence among them was deafening. 

The Wanderer could feel the hairs on the back of his head stand, 

"Still mad that I slipped past you that one day dressed as an apprentice? If it's any consolation, I don't plan on doing it again -not unless I end up stranded here again..."

The only sound was the steady rhythm of boots on cobblestone, the soft clink of gear shifting with each step. The streets of Eastway were quiet now—too quiet. Lamps flickered half-heartedly, casting shadows long and jagged across the cracked stone walls. Every alley whispered of things unseen.

Minthara’s voice came low, precise.

“You humiliated me.”

Not a shout. Not rage. Just fact.

“If you do it again, you won’t make it to the edge of the ward before your heart stops beating.”

The Wanderer chuckled softly under his breath, not looking back.

“Noted.”

Astarion smirked beside him, eyes flicking briefly to Minthara, then forward again. “You’ve certainly made friends everywhere you’ve gone,” he muttered with amusement.

“‘Friend’ is a stretch,” Gale offered from the rear. “More like an inconvenient celestial event. Rare, dazzling, and almost certainly a harbinger of something catastrophic.”

The Wanderer rolled his eyes. “Catastrophic only if you don’t read the manual.”

“Manuals,” muttered Karlach. “Why is it always the geniuses with the worst bedside manner?”

“Because if we were charming and brilliant,” the Wanderer said without turning, “we’d be too powerful to stop.”

That got a small exhale of laughter from Shadowheart, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

Halsin’s deep voice broke the lull.

“Jests aside, are we walking into something tonight? Or simply tying loose ends?”

That silenced the group again. Even Minthara kept her comments holstered, for now.

The Wanderer paused—just a beat. Then he glanced sidelong at Astarion.

“If we’re lucky? Neither. If we’re not? Both.”

They turned the corner toward Brilgow’s Forge. The shutters were still drawn tight, soot-blackened stone standing dark against the pale moonlight. The heavy iron lock on the door glinted as they approached.

The Wanderer reached into his pocket and pulled out a bronze sigil-stamp, small and worn. He pressed it to the door’s edge, and a series of silent glyphs shimmered along the seam.

“I left it this way,” he murmured. “If Vellin hasn’t moved it, the machine’s still below.”

“If,” Astarion echoed.

The sigils faded. The lock clicked.

The Wanderer looked back once—just once—to meet the eyes of everyone who had followed him this far.

“Last chance to turn around,” he said.

Then he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The forge above was still. No clanging hammers, no hiss of quenched steel. Just dust in the lamplight and the memory of fire long gone out. The Wanderer crossed the soot-stained floor, his steps unhurried, reverent almost, as if returning to the scene of a half-finished prayer.

He opened the hatch to the basement and descended. Each creaking stair groaned under the tension that followed him.

Part of him still wished Vellin had never gotten involved. The blacksmith had been kind. Brave, in his quiet way. He didn’t deserve the mess this had turned into. But the Wanderer had needed him. And now… now there was no going back.

The basement was just as he left it. Tools scattered on the bench, schematics folded with surgical precision, a chalkboard still bearing partially-erased runic equations. And in the center—anchored like a monolith between realities—was the machine.

It stood no taller than a garden shed, its surface a patchwork of wood, dark steel, and arcanotech rivets that pulsed faintly with light. Fractals crawled across the metal like frost, and soft vibrations hummed in the floorboards beneath.

A narrow box. Unimpressive. Almost crude.

The others stepped in behind him—hesitant, silent. He didn’t wait for their reactions.

“It may not look like much,” the Wanderer said, turning just enough for his voice to carry, “but wait until you see what’s inside.”

His eyes cut toward Astarion, lips twitching into the barest smirk.

“Do try not to overreact…”

Astarion arched a brow, arms folded loosely as he approached the strange construct. “Darling, overreacting is half the fun.”

The others looked on in varying degrees of disbelief, suspicion, and unease.

Minthara’s hand hovered near her weapon. Gale’s fingers twitched toward spell components. Karlach’s eyes narrowed, jaw tight. Shadowheart and Halsin stood close but cautious.

The Wanderer reached for the control latch, fingers steady now.

“One moment,” he said softly, and with a quiet click, he opened the door.

And the impossible stretched open before them. They followed him in one by one, but none of them said a word.

Because how could they?

The interior defied every law they knew. The box they had entered was barely the size of a storage shed—but the space within unfolded into a vast chamber of polished metal, dark wood, and smooth stone. The walls arched high into vaulted ceilings inscribed with shifting constellations, faintly glowing in that same blue-green light that pulsed from the glass floor panels below.

A raised dais held the helm—a console of curved levers, crystalline switches, and a gently humming core inlaid with arcane script. The air inside was warm, dry, and smelled faintly of ozone and parchment, as though the machine had been dreaming in silence until they arrived.

There were staircases—two of them—spiraling up and down from the main chamber. Doors lined the far wall, some sealed, others slightly ajar, hinting at more rooms beyond. More space. More impossibilities.

The Wanderer walked straight to the helm, as if he’d done it a hundred times. He didn’t look back when he spoke.

“It’s called the Dimensional Transport Console,” he said quietly, hands brushing over the controls with a familiarity that ran deeper than memory. “It can travel anywhere in time and space, you name it.”

He paused, then looked over his shoulder, eyes catching the soft ambient glow.

“And it’s mine.”

Silence followed.

[planeswalker-chronicles]

Episode 7: "Fulcrum of Fate" - Scene 4B

[ PREVIOUS ]

The Wanderer reached the base of the staircase, his boots quiet against the worn wood, one hand casually brushing the rail. He had just turned the corner, intent on making his way toward Alan behind the bar, when his stride faltered.

They were waiting for him.

At first glance, just another group of travelers crowded around a corner table—half-shadowed by the Elfsong’s flickering green light, seated beneath the peeling mural of the Songstress. But no. He recognized the feel before the faces.

Minthara.

Gale.

And four others he didn’t know. Yet their posture—too rigid, too aware—gave them away. They weren’t drinking. They were watching. Waiting. Braced.

His pulse didn’t quicken. Not visibly. His expression stayed neutral, even tired. The sort of exhaustion that drew no suspicion. But his mind? It ran ahead a dozen moves.

His gaze flicked briefly to Alan. The barkeep met his eyes—hesitated, then looked away. No warning. No shout. Just that single silent signal.

They’d been asking.

The Wanderer shifted his weight like any other weary patron might. Adjusted the strap of his satchel. Let his hand drift to his coat pocket.

Spellblaster? Just remembered he left it upstairs.

Knife? Still there.

Options? Two. Maybe three if the back hallway wasn’t blocked.

Then Minthara rose—graceful and lethal in the same motion, like a sword sliding free of its sheath.

“You’ve kept busy,” she said, her voice low but carrying. “Building things. Stealing things.”

The four others stood a beat later. Coordinated.

Gale didn’t rise yet. He sat at the far end of the table, one arm draped over the back of his chair, eyes like stormclouds—not angry. Curious. Calculating.

“Careful,” the wizard said. “He’s more dangerous than he looks.”

The Wanderer’s eyes flicked toward the bar. The bottle he’d planned to pick. The glass. The tray. Gone now. Replaced by intent.

No drinks tonight, then.

He gave a faint smile—not mockery, not defiance. Something quieter. Sadder. Like he’d been hoping for just one more calm moment. Just one.

And then he said, voice quiet and clear:

“I didn’t come down here for a fight.”

A lie, if necessary. The room already knew better. Minthara stepped forward, hand resting on the pommel of her blade.

“No,” she said. “But you knew we’d come.”

The Wanderer stared daggers at Alan—no words, just the searing accusation of betrayal behind narrowed eyes. He should’ve known. The barkeep had stalled too long when he ordered his room. Had asked too many harmless questions. Alan hadn’t sold him out outright… but he hadn’t stopped it either.

The Wanderer turned his gaze to the others now: Minthara, coiled like a blade mid-lunge. Gale, watching him like a puzzle that just rearranged itself again. The tiefling woman with iron-scarred arms, posture loose but eyes locked. Another stood just behind her—red-skinned as well, but… different. Subtler. Like someone trying to forget they were ever from somewhere infernal.

Then came the half-elf, silver-moon robes unmistakable.

And the elf druid; stocky, stern. His gaze lingered there the longest. The druid said nothing—but there was a weight behind his stillness.

The Wanderer didn’t speak. He didn’t dare move his hand toward his coat—not with six pairs of eyes on him, not with whatever charm Gale had humming under the table, not with Minthara standing between him and the back door.

He threw his head back with a sigh, spun on his heel, and walked back upstairs. Not fast. Not slow. Just enough indifference to make them follow. Because they would. Of course they would.

There wasn’t going to be an easy escape otherwise.

He reached the top landing, footsteps measured, heartbeat climbing beneath his ribs. He didn’t run. Didn’t break stride. Just pushed the door open into the rented room— where Astarion waited with that damned unreadable smile.

The Wanderer stepped aside, just enough to let them all follow him into the den of his own making. Astarion was still seated, a glass of deep red in hand, when the Wanderer returned—not alone.

The boy’s posture told the story before his words did. Shoulders squared by sheer willpower, exhaustion clinging to the edges of his frame like soot, and eyes dulled not from fear, but inconvenience. He’d expected this. Hoped to avoid it. But here it was.

“If you have any questions, ask them now—and one person at a time. Go.”

No posturing. No elaboration. Just the offer—clinical, stripped down, worn thin by sleepless hours and too much running.

Minthara scowled. “Where is it?” she said without missing a beat.

He blinked slowly. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The device. The one you stole parts for. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

A flicker of amusement crossed the Wanderer’s face. “Ah. That.”

“It’s not here. It was never here. And I didn’t steal your parts—I borrowed unguarded materials you left unattended. Big difference.”

Minthara opened her mouth again, but Gale held up a hand, stepping forward.

“My turn,” the wizard said firmly. “What is it you’re building?”

The Wanderer tilted his head, and for a moment, Astarion saw the boy pause—just briefly—like he was deciding how much to say. Finally:

“A way home.”

The words echoed softly in the chamber, but their weight was immediate. Not a threat. Not a boast. Just truth—raw and pared down. The kind that didn’t invite debate, but still demanded reaction.

Minthara’s lips curled into something between skepticism and contempt. “Home? You burned half the city’s patience. What kind of home is worth that?”

The Wanderer didn’t answer. Or maybe that was the answer.

Gale folded his arms, brows furrowed. “You mean to pierce the planar veil. With a machine.” It wasn’t a question, more a confirmation of what he already suspected.

The Wanderer finally glanced his way. “Yes.”

“You could tear the Weave apart doing that,” Gale said tightly. “You’re toying with forces even Mystra watches from a distance.”

The boy didn’t flinch. “Then she’s welcome to step in.”

Gale’s jaw clenched. He almost said something more—but stopped. Studying him.

Shadowheart’s voice came gentler, steadier. “You’re not from here, are you?”

The Wanderer exhaled slowly. “No.”

“Another world?”

He nodded.

“Then what brought you to this one?” she asked, genuinely curious now. Not accusing. Seeking.

There was a long pause. Then, so quiet it barely carried:

“A mistake.”

That silenced the room. Even Minthara didn’t interrupt this time.

Astarion stepped forward, slowly, his glass still dangling from his fingers. “He didn’t come here to conquer, if that’s what you’re all wondering.” He glanced at each of them in turn. “I’ve seen tyrants. This isn’t one.”

Minthara arched a brow. “And what is he then? A threat pretending to be a tragedy?”

Astarion’s smile was thin. “He’s mine.”

The room shifted at that. Not dramatically—but enough. Even the Wanderer was caught off-guard by the declaration.

Karlach gave a small whistle. “Well, hells. Didn’t think you were the sentimental type.”

Wyll stepped forward, arms still folded but no longer so guarded. “If this machine isn’t here… where is it?”

The Wanderer tilted his head. “Safe.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’m giving.”

Halsin finally spoke again, his deep voice cutting through the charged air. “And what happens if someone does find it? If bounty hunters reach it before you can leave?”

The Wanderer’s expression hardened for the first time. “Then they’ll unleash something they can’t put back.”

Gale’s gaze darkened. “So you are building a weapon.”

“No,” the Wanderer said quickly. “I’m building a door. But if the wrong person opens it? It becomes a cliff.”

Astarion stepped closer, beside the boy now. “Enough. He’s told you more than most would with a blade to their throat.”

There was a long, tense silence. Then, slowly, Shadowheart nodded. “I believe him.”

Karlach sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Gods, I hate being the reasonable one… but yeah. He doesn’t feel like a liar.”

Wyll gave a reluctant nod. “Still too many unknowns.”

“Always are,” Astarion muttered.

Gale stared a moment longer, then said, “If this thing of yours works, Wanderer—Then I hope to every power above and below you know what you’re doing.”

The Wanderer met his eyes. “So do I.”

Minthara didn’t agree. Not vocally. But she didn’t reach for her weapon either. A small mercy.

At last, the tension shifted—thinned just enough to breathe again. The Wanderer rubbed his temples, exhaustion finally showing. “If you’re done interrogating me, I have a departure to prepare for. Tonight.”

Astarion looked at him, then turned to the rest. “So unless one of you is here to stab him in the back, I suggest you give him room.”

Karlach nodded. “Fair enough.”

Wyll was already stepping toward the exit. “We’ll be downstairs.”

Minthara lingered, her eyes locked on the boy. Then, finally, she turned away. One by one, they left.

And the door closed again, sealing the storm behind them.

The Wanderer exhaled slowly. “That could’ve gone worse.”

Astarion smirked, stepping close again. “It’s not over yet, darling. But you held your own.”

"At least now I know they may not try to stop me -yet. It's all up in the air still."  

Astarion hummed, brushing soot gently from the boy’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Mmm. Nothing like the looming threat of intervention to keep things exciting.”

The Wanderer let out a soft, tired laugh and dropped into the chair beside the hearth, his shoulders finally slumping. “They don’t trust me. Can’t blame them. I wouldn’t trust me either.”

Astarion tilted his head, watching him. “Perhaps not. But they didn’t kill you.”

The boy didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on the door, on the space where his strange past and uncertain future had just brushed shoulders. “I’ve been hunted before. Not like this. It’s not personal for them yet… just caution. The kind that turns to fury if I make one wrong move.”

Astarion walked to the window, glancing through the shutters at the dull haze of torchlight bleeding up from the street below. “Then don’t give them a reason. Not tonight.”

He turned back toward the boy, leaning against the windowsill now. “You said it yourself—departure’s tonight.”

The Wanderer nodded. “I’ll go back to the forge once the streets quiet down. If Vellin’s smart, he’s stayed gone. I’ll make the final adjustments and activate it from there.”

Astarion’s gaze sharpened just slightly. “And you’re sure you want me there?”

The boy looked up, eyes locking with his. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t. Don’t want to stabbed in the back before I make the journey.”

Astarion stepped away from the window, slow and certain. “Good. Then I’ll start preparing.”

He moved toward his satchel in the corner, already selecting what to bring. Spare clothes—plain but sturdy. A small vial of shadow oil, just in case. He didn’t ask what they'd be facing out there in the planes. He already knew the answer: everything.

Behind him, the Wanderer rested his head against the chair and closed his eyes, just for a moment. His voice came quieter now.

“Do you regret it now? Coming with me?”

Astarion paused in his packing, hand resting on the edge of the satchel. Then, without turning around, he answered simply:

“No.”

Then, a beat later, a whisper softer now,

“But if you leave me behind, you’ll regret it.”

“I know.”

[planeswalker-chronicles]

Episode 7: "Fulcrum of Fate" - Scene 4A

[ PREVIOUS ]

Elfsong Tavern, Baldur’s Gate

Astarion had been lounging in the shadows, shirt half-unbuttoned, sprawled across the couch like a cat basking in moonlight—or would have been, if any dared to touch the curtains. The soft green glow of the Elfsong filtered weakly through the room, cast across old wood and worn stone, painting the room with memories.

He didn’t bother to move at first when the door opened. The scent was familiar now—smoke, iron, and the faint charge of magic clinging to that strange coat. Only when the voice followed, exhaling those words like a long-withheld breath, did Astarion slowly open his eyes.

"It's done. The machine... I finished it."

He tilted his head. That was fast. No, too fast for something the boy had described with such desperate reverence.

Astarion sat up languidly, voice soft but edged with curiosity.

“Finished already? Either you’re an unparalleled genius… or you’ve rushed something very, very dangerous.”

His eyes narrowed, searching the Wanderer’s face. The boy looked exhausted, soot still clinging to his shirt, his eyes unfocused and shimmering with adrenaline. But beneath that… something was missing. A flicker. That usual sharp, watchful glint was dulled now.

“So,” Astarion said, rising to his feet and crossing the room with an almost imperceptible glide, “are we celebrating… or running again?”

He stood just a few feet from the Wanderer now, crimson eyes catching the filtered light, his voice quieter this time.

“And tell me, my little mystery… what does it feel like? Finishing the one thing you swore would save you—does it make you feel any safer?”

Astarion studied him for a long moment.

The boy stood there like a wire pulled taut, trembling not from fear, but from the sheer effort of holding everything together. His chest rose and fell in quiet bursts, and his eyes—gods, his eyes—were already far away, locked on some plane Astarion couldn’t see.

But the answer? “Breathless… more in control.” There was something almost beautiful in its honesty.

Astarion’s expression softened, just slightly. He stepped in closer, slow and deliberate, until they stood nearly chest to chest.

“You think I’d let you vanish into some arcane void without me?” he asked with a faint smirk, his voice dipped in silk and steel. “Darling, I’ve survived centuries of monsters. I’m not about to be left behind because you’re afraid I might regret it.”

He brushed a bit of soot from the Wanderer’s sleeve, then added with a little more gravity:

“I’ve made my choice. This one… this one I’m taking for myself.”

Then, with a glint of mischief:

“Besides, who else is going to make sure you don’t accidentally blow us into the Plane of Ooze?”

He leaned in closer, voice just above a whisper now.

“Tonight, then. I’ll be ready.”

The Wanderer's cheeks went into the faintest pink when Astarion leaned closer and said that. He then replied, 

"To, um, celebrate the occasion, I'll go downstairs and grab something to drink. Got any requests?"

Astarion's grin curled, amused by the pink rising in the Wanderer's cheeks. Gods, he was adorable when flustered.

He leaned back with a slow flourish, draping himself on the edge of the bed like it was a throne, one leg crossed over the other.

“Surprise me,” he said, resting his chin against the back of his hand. “Though if you return with anything watered down or uninspired, I will be offended.”

A little pause, then his eyes flicked up with a sharper glint, “And don’t dawdle. You did say we’re leaving tonight.”

He winked. Teasing, yes—but underneath, the warmth lingered. He was ready. And watching.

The door shut behind the Wanderer with a soft click. Astarion remained reclined a moment longer, head tilted toward the ceiling, watching the faint swirl of dust in the green-tinted air. The Elfsong’s lull echoed distantly through the floorboards, some bard crooning a ballad to a lover long gone. Fitting.

“Tonight, then.”

He stood with a quiet exhale, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from his shirt. No matter how often the boy flustered or stumbled, it was happening. He was going. And Astarion? He wasn’t about to follow half-prepared.

He moved through the room with a practiced stillness, retrieving a satchel from beneath the bed—worn, well-maintained, and lined with just enough silver-thread to catch any surprise interference. From a drawer, he took two vials of healing potion, a finely carved wooden stake (habit), and a small pouch of infernal ash—not necessary, but reassuring. Another pocket held a hand-sized mirror etched with divination runes. He hesitated at that one. Shadowheart’s gift. He tucked it away all the same.

Then he paused, fingers brushing the edge of a folded note. His own handwriting. Crisp. Unopened. He stared at it for a moment before slipping it into the bottom of the bag.

Just in case.

He crossed to the wardrobe and chose his coat—black with deep crimson trim.

Leave with no apologies. Return if there's reason.

The thought came unbidden. His own words once, spoken long ago in a different voice. But tonight wasn’t just an escape. It was a step forward. One he had chosen.

He stood before the mirror and regarded his reflection. Not flawless—not anymore. The faintest lines creased his brow now when he wasn’t performing. A softness at the corner of his eyes. He tilted his head.

“Let’s see how far this goes,” he whispered to the empty room.

[ NEXT ]

[planeswalker-chronicles]

Episode 7: "Fulcrum of Fate" - Scene 3

[ PREVIOUS ]

The Wanderer was back to Vellin’s forge. It was risky, but it was where the parts for his machine were left. Vellin decided that he was going to lay low for a few days, and the Wanderer didn’t make any effort into convincing him to come back with him. He could finish the rest by himself at this point, and Vellin already risked enough with him. The parts were in the basement; the shell and the navigation engine. The Wanderer descended and closed the door behind him, immediately putting on an apron and rolling up his sleeves.

The next two hours were all focused on finishing the shell. Then the next five were on, admittedly, his favourite part; dimensional engineering. He remembered how to do that part, and had been keeping it in his back pocket in case he had the opportunity. 

The forge above creaked once with the wind, but the Wanderer didn’t look up. Below the forge, the basement was cold and smelled faintly of burnt copper and chalk dust. A low-hanging lantern swung above, casting flickering shadows across a half-assembled shell—a combination of wood beams and metal panelling and threaded glyph channels. The parts had been hidden behind a false wall, charmed against casual detection. He had retrieved them the moment he arrived, locked the door behind him, and set to work like a man in a trance.

He had already braced the shell's framework, sealed the inter-planar conduit, and mounted the central control socket.

Now came the delicate part.

“Alright, old friend,” he murmured to the engine core that pulsed with dull, swirling energy. “Let’s see if you still want to sing.”

He laid his hands on it gently—fingertips sparking with blue-white energy as he muttered a quick stabilizing incantation under his breath. The sigils across the engine flickered, then hummed as they aligned.

He exhaled, the tiniest hint of a grin tugging at his lips.

“Still got it.”

The dimensional lattice was already etched into the copper lining—fractals overlapping in impossible geometry. Not something he learned on this plane. It would be able to make the space inside the machine larger than the outside.

He worked in silence save for the scratch of rune-inscriber chalk and the hiss of aether being condensed into the spell-well. Occasionally, he flipped through a tattered notebook beside him—some pages scrawled in his own language, others in planar code, one even in something only the Wanderer seemed to understand. On one page, a message circled in ink:

“Open the way, but don’t forget what you’re opening it to.”

He paused there, hand hovering. His fingers clenched into a fist, then relaxed. Back to work.

The navigation engine came next.

He reached into his satchel and pulled out a small black prism wrapped in leather. Embedded in its surface were three planar coordinates—burned in via spellbrand, not ink. The prism didn’t belong here. Just touching it made the air in the basement colder.

“One shot,” he whispered to himself. “No second chances. You pick wrong, you drift forever.”

He inserted the prism into the console housing, careful not to activate it. Yet. Just a few more calibrations—gravity ratios, spellflow regulators, inertial warding for the fallback loop. Seven hours in and he was still sharp.

“Just a few more steps. Come on.”

The final component would be the hardest—not because it was dangerous, but because it was personal.

He opened a narrow wooden box at the edge of the table and removed a silver ring attached to a chain. Plain. Worn smooth with time.

He hesitated—just a moment—then set it into the anchor port beneath the main conduit.

The machine responded with a pulse of soft light. For the first time, the machine made a sound—a low, resonant thrum. It was stirring to life.

“Almost there,” he murmured.

But he didn’t let himself feel triumph. Not yet. Not while the city above seethed. As it all came together, he saw an entire room expand in the space within the little box outside he built to house it. What looked like an outhouse held the helm of a ship.

The thrum deepened, resonating through the metal floor. He stepped back as the spellwork took hold, watching runes ignite across the copper shell like constellations catching fire. The prism pulsed once, then dimmed—its energy bleeding into the structure, syncing with the frame.

A faint tremor rippled through the air.

He reached for the brass lever on the side panel and pulled it slowly. A deep shudder passed through the room—not a noise, but a sensation, like the basement had been momentarily peeled sideways from reality and stitched back in place. The lights dimmed. Then brightened. Then stabilized.

He exhaled, then approached the console housing.

“Okay,” he whispered, voice caught between awe and exhaustion. “Let’s see if it held.”

He opened the panel door on the side of the machine. Instead of wires or gears, he saw a corridor—gleaming metal and wood-laced archways stretching into a space that shouldn't exist.

The inside was impossibly larger. It curved upward like the helm of a ship, ceilings high and vaulted, etched with star maps and dreamstuff sigils from planes most scholars had only glimpsed in prophecy. Hexagonal brass panels formed the floor, each glowing softly beneath his footsteps. Arcane interfaces floated mid-air—dials, levers, drifting sigil-keys that spun gently when approached.

He stepped through the threshold into the heart of his machine, and the doorway sealed quietly behind him. No creak. No hiss. Just the subtle click of completed design.

He took a breath.

It smelled faintly of new air, unused. Still clean. Still untouched.

At the center stood the helm: a raised platform ringed with crystalline controls and one single curved seat carved from darkwood. A control node hovered above it, flickering faintly with silver light—the prism’s signature.

“It worked,” he said, barely audible. “God, it actually worked.”

But there was no celebration. No joy. Only relief. And a deeper weight.

Then he remembered—Astarion had asked to come with him.

Should he let him?

He had accepted the risks. Accepted him.

The Wanderer sighed. He wouldn’t go now, but he would tonight.

[ NEXT ]

[planeswalker-chronicles]

Episode 7: "Fulcrum of Fate" - Scene 2

[ PREVIOUS ]

The fog had thickened by the time they reached Heapside, where the lanterns glowed dull in the encroaching dusk and the smell of riverwater mingled with coal smoke. Foot traffic thinned here, replaced by loiterers and watchful eyes in shadowed doorways.

Halsin paused as a flicker of movement caught his eye—a familiar gait, the silhouette of a broad figure with horns and fire in her stride.

“Wait,” he murmured. “Do you see—?”

Shadowheart turned just as a booming, unmistakable voice rang out over the cobbles:

“Well I’ll be damned. Halsin? Shadowheart?”

Karlach.

Her armor clanked as she jogged toward them, glowing faintly from the infernal core embedded in her chest. Wyll was close behind, cloak fluttering, ever the dashing warlock with eyes that now held a deeper weight.

Halsin’s surprise showed only in the brief widening of his eyes. “I thought you two were still—”

“In the Hells?” Karlach grinned, all teeth and grit. “Yeah, well. Turns out Mizora had other plans.”

Wyll looked only slightly less exasperated than usual. “And by plans, she meant dropping us back into Baldur’s Gate with an order and a smile.”

Shadowheart narrowed her eyes. “What order?”

Karlach reached into a satchel and pulled out a rolled parchment, sealed with wax and stamped with a demonic sigil. She broke it open and held up a magically rendered portrait—charcoal sharp, impossibly lifelike.

It showed a young man. Human. Late twenties, perhaps. Disheveled hair, clever eyes too tired for their age, a slight smirk curled at the edge of his lips. He wore a long coat, high-collared and patched. No name was written—just the image.

“Mizora called him The Wanderer,” Wyll said. “She wants us to find him. Said he’s something dangerous. Something she’d rather not fall into the wrong hands.”

“And she considers us the right hands?” Shadowheart asked, voice dry.

Karlach shrugged. “We didn’t exactly get a choice.”

Halsin took the parchment and studied the portrait. “This doesn’t look like a villain,” he said. “He looks… lost.”

Wyll crossed his arms. “She didn’t tell us why he’s dangerous. Just that he’s not from here. And that if we don’t find him first, others will. Worse ones.”

“Not from here?” Shadowheart repeated, brows furrowing. “From another plane?”

Karlach nodded grimly. “That’s what she hinted at.”

The four stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the information settling around them.

Then Halsin handed the portrait back to Karlach. “If Mizora wants him dead, I’m inclined to find him first and speak to him before anyone else does. If he carries a threat, we need to understand it—not execute it.”

Shadowheart nodded, solemn. “Selûne said to let him fall into light. Perhaps this is what she meant.”

Wyll glanced at them all, then gave a short nod. “Then we’re in agreement. We find him. Together.”

Karlach cracked her knuckles, grinning again. “Let’s hope he’s not too far. The city’s crawling with bounty hunters sniffing around like it’s meat day at the butcher’s.”

Halsin turned toward the city’s heart, where the alleys ran deep and secrets deeper still.

“Then let’s start walking.”

And so they did—each step drawing them closer to the mystery of the Wanderer. 

The group pushed further into Eastway, where flickering lamplight cast long shadows across stone walls and alley mouths yawned like hungry maws. Conversations turned more guarded here—gathered knots of bounty hunters compared sketches, whispered rumors, and passed coin for leads.

Halsin’s ears twitched.

“Trouble,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing.

Shadowheart followed his gaze—and there, at the edge of the crowd near a crooked sign for a tavern called The Vulture’s Den, two figures stood like pillars in the chaos.

Minthara—stoic, armor black and silver, her white hair pulled into a high braid like a blade drawn. The drow's piercing gaze swept the square like a predator scenting blood. Beside her, adjusting his robes with irritation, was none other than Gale of Waterdeep.

Karlach muttered, “Speak of the devil.”

Minthara spotted them first. Her posture shifted, expression taut with controlled annoyance as she stalked forward.

“You four,” she said, eyes narrowing. “I should’ve known you’d be caught up in this mess.”

Gale approached more cautiously, brushing soot from his sleeve. “If you’re here about the Wanderer, you’re late. He’s already slipped through all our fingers.”

Wyll raised a brow. “You’ve seen him?”

Minthara’s lip curled. “He walked into Brilgow’s Forge two nights ago posing as a forge-hand. Had the gall to mimic the apprentices’ accent, soot his face, and lift three ingots of shadow-tempered steel from under my watch.”

She gestured sharply toward the alley behind her. “Vellin Marris—the blacksmith—was helping him. I should’ve gutted the traitor, but he claimed ignorance. Said the boy ‘needed help’.”

Gale pinched the bridge of his nose. “And I had the pleasure of meeting him yesterday. He cornered me at Vellin’s forge during Minthara’s botched ambush, pointed a wand at my neck and teleported away.”

Karlach looked between them with something like impressed disbelief. “So he’s smart, quick, and somehow still alive.”

Minthara folded her arms. “He’s more than clever—he’s trained. Knows how to use distraction. If he weren’t such a liability, I’d consider recruiting him.”

Shadowheart frowned. “You said he looked young?”

Gale nodded. “Barely more than a boy. He wasn’t just stealing to survive—he was collecting materials. Tools. Components.”

Halsin’s voice was low. “He’s building something.”

A brief silence fell over the group.

Then Minthara’s gaze snapped to the parchment in Karlach’s hand. “Is that Mizora’s sketch?”

Wyll held it up. “The very one.”

Minthara scoffed. “Of course she wants him caught. She doesn’t like things she can’t control. Neither do I.”

Gale tapped his chin thoughtfully. “If he’s from another plane, and he’s building something… then I suspect we’re not just dealing with a thief.”

“Or a fugitive,” Shadowheart added.

Minthara stepped in close, her voice low and deliberate.

“Then we’d better find him before someone else does. Or before he finishes whatever it is he’s begun.”

Halsin looked around the circle of his companions—unlikely allies drawn together again by coincidence, prophecy, or both.

“Then we hunt,” he said.

[ NEXT ]

[planeswalker-chronicles]

Episode 7: "Fulcrum of Fate" - Scene 1

Western Heartlands, Faerûn 10th of Marpenoth, 1492 DR

It had been an exhausting three days since Halsin went on his journey to Baldur’s Gate to reach the others. He had turned into a giant eagle and flew along the Chionthar, stopping to perch and rest when night fell. Sleep, wake, catch a fish from the Chionthar and eat, then fly until he needed to rest. Today, he could already see the city in the distance. 

The wind buffeted his wings as he soared low over the Chionthar’s wide, glistening surface. The scent of brine and river mud filled his nostrils in this avian form, and his keen eagle eyes scanned the land ahead—there it was.

Baldur’s Gate.

Even from here, the sprawling city carried a shadow of tension. The smoke stacks, the clustered buildings pressed into stone and mud, the rivers of people flowing in and out of the city gates—all of it strained under something unspoken.

Halsin angled his wings, descending toward a quiet patch of trees just beyond the city outskirts. As his talons touched grass, his massive form shimmered—feathers giving way to muscle and skin, limbs reshaping until he stood tall again, bare-chested, still bearing the wild scent of the forest.

He knelt for a moment, placing a hand to the earth. Still cold. Not unnaturally so—but subtly wrong. The chill of a wound beneath the skin. The corruption in Reithwin had been thought cleansed, the land reawakened with light and growth… yet now, even this far away, the soil whispered fear.

He stood with a low growl in his throat.

“If this rot spreads further, it will consume the very Weave of life in these lands.”

His brow furrowed. He needed answers—and allies. The people he had fought beside in the darkest moments. Minthara, for all her ruthlessness, was a creature of purpose and discipline. She would know what has stirred in the Gate’s underbelly. Astarion, elusive as he was, had his ears to the ground in ways no one else could match. And Gale… if the corruption was arcane in nature, the wizard’s insight would be invaluable.

And then there was the name whispered on every wind he passed—the Wanderer. A thief? A fugitive? Or something more dangerous? Perhaps the key to what was stirring in the heart of the Western Heartlands. Halsin would find out.

He tightened the strap of his pack and pulled his fur cloak tighter. The city’s gates loomed ahead, and with them, the next turn in the road.

“Balance demands restoration,” he murmured under his breath. “Even if it means walking through fire again.”

And with that, Halsin began his approach—toward the Gate, toward his allies, and toward whatever darkness dared to root itself once more in Faerûn’s soil.

The road gave way to the outskirts—the Outer City—where mud-caked streets twisted between ramshackle buildings and merchant stalls patched together with tarp and timber. The press of humanity was immediate: farmers, travelers, beggars, and thieves all moving in a tangle of noise and motion. The scent of wet earth mixed with roasted meat and the faint, sharp tang of refuse.

Halsin moved through the crowd with quiet purpose, towering above most, though many gave him a wide berth instinctively. There was something about him—the way the wild clung to his skin, the way his eyes searched like a predator's.

He slowed as his gaze landed on a weather-worn wall plastered with broadsheets and handbills. Several had been torn, others painted over—but one image repeated itself again and again.

A wanted poster.

At its center, a sketch: a hooded figure, the features shadowed and indistinct. The lines of the drawing suggested someone in motion, cloaked in anonymity, dangerous in their silence. Beneath it, in bold, black ink:

WANTED — THE WANDERER Dead or Alive Reward: 5,000 Gold Pieces Issued by the Keepers of Candlekeep

Halsin stared, unmoving. So the rumors had roots.

The bounty was no common city decree. Candlekeep—reserved, secretive, and slow to act—did not issue death warrants lightly. And if they were willing to put gold behind such a demand, the Wanderer wasn’t just a fugitive. They were a threat.

But what kind?

He reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the parchment, feeling the grain of the paper beneath his calloused thumb. There was no bloodstain, no lingering sense of evil that clung to the ink. Just mystery. And fear.

He turned away, his mind working.

If Candlekeep feared this Wanderer enough to call for their death, and if the rot he felt in the earth echoed the timing of this hunt... then perhaps they were not the cause of the disturbance—but the warning.

“We destroy what we fail to understand,” he muttered under his breath.

He continued on, deeper into the Outer City, toward the gates proper, and into the tangled shadow of Baldur’s Gate—where truths festered behind stone, where allies waited, and where the name Wanderer would no longer be just a whisper on the wind.

Crossing through Baldur’s Gate proper was like stepping into a different world. The Outer City’s chaos gave way to the organized congestion of the Lower City, where stone roads wound beneath hanging lanterns, and the buildings leaned in as though eavesdropping on every secret spoken in the streets below. Cloaks rustled, boots echoed, and somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled.

Halsin’s sharp gaze scanned the bustle with practiced care. Merchants shouted over one another, city watch patrolled with stiff-backed weariness, and whispers of unrest lingered beneath the noise like mold beneath old wood.

He paused near the harbor, where the scent of salt and tar grew stronger. A ship had just docked—its hull freshly lacquered, sails still taut from the sea wind. Unlike the other vessels bobbing in the dockside waters, this one was unmistakable.

Its sail bore the stars of Selûne, shimmering silver against deep midnight blue.

Halsin’s breath caught—less in surprise, more in recognition. Descending the gangplank with the grace of someone no longer burdened by secrets was a woman he had not seen in months.

Shadowheart.

Gone was the dark armor and secretive air of the Sharran she once was. Now she stood tall, wrapped in flowing robes of silver and indigo, a symbol of Selûne shining proudly at her chest. Her silver hair was braided and tucked beneath a hood, her face calm, eyes sharp and alert as ever. Yet there was something softer now—a gentleness at the edges, like moonlight diffused through mist.

Halsin stepped forward through the crowd and called her name, voice low but clear.

“Shadowheart.”

She turned. Her eyes widened for just a moment in recognition before her face broke into a rare smile—small but sincere.

“Halsin.”

He nodded, the weight of the road still in his posture. “I felt something was wrong. I had to come.”

Shadowheart’s expression darkened slightly. She glanced toward the city beyond, where its streets tangled like a spider’s web.

“You’re not wrong. Selûne sent me here for a reason. There’s someone here that I must find, but I think it is this Wanderer people have spoken about.”

Halsin glanced back toward the wanted posters still flapping in the wind behind them.

“I think I’ve found part of that reason we’ve been brought here,” he said grimly. “The land itself is uneasy.”

She followed his gaze. “The Wanderer?”

Shadowheart tightened the grip on her silver holy symbol glinting in the daylight.

Halsin allowed himself a quiet breath. It was good to see her again. He said, 

“If they know something about the blight in Reithwin. Then I must find them.”

They began to walk deeper into the city together through the busy streets. Shadowheart asked Halsin, 

“What do you know of the Wanderer?”

“Only that he is wanted by Candlekeep for stealing from their vaults. What do you know of him?”

“Perhaps only as much as you do, Halsin. Selûne showed me a vision of a shadowed figure falling through starlight… into a silver door. I don’t know what it means yet, but She told me to ‘let him fall into light’ rather than darkness.”

“I see. I hope this Wanderer is more friend than foe.”

Shadowheart’s eyes flicked to a group of children playing with sticks, turning a worn piece of paper into a game of tag. One child held it up triumphantly like a badge.

Another wanted poster.

“I don’t like this,” she murmured. “A five-thousand gold bounty from Candlekeep? That’s not punishment. That’s a message.”

Halsin grunted in agreement. “And one meant to end with a body.”

Shadowheart brushed her fingers across the symbol at her chest. “I thought I was done chasing ghosts,” she said softly. “But this… this feels different. Like fate is winding tighter around our necks.”

“Or around his,” Halsin replied.

She glanced at him.

He continued, “If Selûne speaks of him falling into light or darkness, then he’s at a turning point. Whatever he’s stolen, whatever he’s done… I don’t think this is a story of greed.”

Shadowheart’s gaze dropped briefly. “I wonder if we’re meant to save him—or stop him.”

Halsin didn’t answer at first. His gaze turned toward the sky, where the sun had begun to dip low, painting the clouds in amber and rose. Somewhere above that horizon, the moon would rise.

“I think we’ll know soon enough,” he said. “But if this Wanderer is connected to the rot in Reithwin—and to the quieting of your stars—then the weave of fate may rest in his hands.”

Shadowheart looked ahead. A bell tolled in the distance—six solemn chimes.

“We should find the others,” she said. “If Gale’s still in the city, he’ll want to know of this. And Astarion… if he’s anywhere near the Wanderer, he might already be watching.”

Halsin smiled faintly. “He always did have a nose for trouble.”

[ NEXT ]

[planeswalker-chronicles]

Episode 6: "All Closing In" - Scene 5B

[ PREVIOUS ]

“So,” he said, voice low and dry like old wine, “You’re stranded in a world that wants you dead, hunted for a crime no one understands, and trapped in a body that feels more fragile than it used to.”

He stopped just in front of the Wanderer.

“I can’t imagine what that might feel like.”

There was a flash of something behind his smirk—something too old to be just sarcasm. Sympathy, perhaps. Or the exhausted recognition of someone who’s already lived the same nightmare.

Then his voice softened—not warm, exactly, but less cutting.

“You know what the worst part of powerlessness is?” he asked. “It’s not the fear of dying. It’s the fear of meaninglessness. That everything you were, everything you fought to become, could be undone by something as small as time. Or… failure.”

He tilted his head again, this time with a flicker of curiosity. “So. You’re immortal. Technically. What does that make you, exactly?”

A pause. “God? Fae? Some manner of very pretty lich?”

The smirk was back, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

"I'm still human. Time just hasn't caught up with me yet."

Astarion’s brows lifted faintly, and for a moment he looked almost impressed—though it was hard to tell whether it was at the Wanderer’s condition… or his wording.

“Ah,” he said, voice a quiet thread of thought, “A human cheating time. That never ends poorly.”

He moved away, circling slightly, fingers trailing along the back of a worn chair as he considered him from a new angle—less like prey, more like a riddle he hadn’t solved yet.

“But you're not untouched,” Astarion added, pausing. “You're weathered.”

He looked over his shoulder, and for once, his gaze wasn’t searching for weakness. It was searching for truth.

“Time hasn't caught up with you yet, you say. But something has. Something you’re not telling me.”

Another step forward, and his voice dropped just slightly.

“And if I’m to throw my lot in with you—risk my neck, and my freedom, and gods help me even my heart—then I deserve to know what’s chasing you.”

He stopped, eye to eye with him now.

“What is it, darling?” Astarion asked, softly now. “What did you see?”

"Nothing," 

The Wanderer would choke up, 

"An empty black nothing that makes whatever it touches into an empty... black... nothing."

Astarion’s expression flickered—briefly—like a candle in wind. He had heard many descriptions of fear before. Nightmares. Demons. Death itself. But this… nothing—not void, not hellfire, not even pain. Just erasure. It struck something quiet and primal inside him.

He took a slow breath.

"That," he said carefully, "is not nothing. That’s devouring."

A pause, and Astarion tilted his head slightly. His tone was no longer biting, nor curious. Just quiet.

“You saw something vast enough to erase you. Not kill you. Not enslave you. Just... unmake you.”

His voice held no mockery. Only the hard-earned edge of someone who had stared down centuries of suffering.

“And now you run, hoping the Console will take you far enough away.”

He took a step closer, slow and unthreatening.

“But you can’t outrun it, can you?” Astarion asked. “That’s the part that terrifies you the most.”

He studied the Wanderer’s face a long moment, searching for the tremor behind the smile, the fault line beneath the bravado. And then—softly, but honestly—

“…I don’t know if I’m the fool who should follow you into that. But I do know how it feels to be hunted by something that wants to take everything you are.”

And just like that, the bite returned to his voice—but now it was armor, not claws.

“So either we finish this machine of yours, or we find another way. But you don’t get to fall apart on me just yet. Understood?”

The Wanderer would let out a weak chuckle, 

"I don't plan on running from it. Not forever. I plan to bring all of the multiverse to tear it apart. Because I deserve to live just like everyone else."

Astarion let out a slow, amused breath through his nose—less a laugh, more an exhale weighted with grudging respect.

“Well,” he murmured, “aren’t you adorably unhinged.”

But there was no derision in his voice—only the faintest curve of a smile, one not worn for show. He stepped past the Wanderer and sat down at the nearest table, legs crossed, hands folded. Composed, almost regal.

“I’ve followed madmen before. Tyrants. Vampires with grand ideas of dominion.” His red eyes flicked up to the Wanderer with a glint. “You’re different.”

A pause, then quieter, “You’re still trying to save people.”

Astarion studied him again—not with suspicion, but with a wary admiration. There was something familiar in that stubborn defiance, the raw refusal to lie down and die. It was reckless. Dangerous. Endearing.

He leaned back in the chair and gave a small, dramatic sigh.

“Well then. If we’re to rally the whole multiverse against an existential horror, I do hope you’re planning to let me pick the uniforms. We’ll need to look fabulous doing it.”

Then, softer, nearly lost beneath the affectation:

“…And if you really mean to live, Wanderer… I’ll help you fight for it.”

"If you truly understand and accept the risks... I won't stop you." The Wanderer's eyes portrayed longing, and the faintest of smiles could be seen from his lips.

That look—the way the Wanderer said it, the way he meant it—wasn’t lost on Astarion. The world could have been burning outside the Elfsong’s walls, but in that moment, Astarion saw only the honesty in the Wanderer’s face. No grand posturing. Just a tired young man who wanted to keep going… and didn’t want to be alone while doing it.

He rose slowly from the chair, boots quiet on the tavern floor, and stepped close enough that the candlelight caught the sharp edges of his face.

“Good,” Astarion said softly. “Because I was never asking permission.”

His hand found the Wanderer’s wrist—gentle, but firm.

“I’ve faced monsters born from gods and madness alike. If this one is yours to bear, then fine. I’ll bear it with you.”

There was the familiar arrogance in his smirk, but it softened—became something real.

“And if I die, I expect you to avenge me with style. None of this ‘melancholy brooder with a tragic past’ nonsense. I want blood, I want drama, and by all the planes, I want fireworks.”

But then his gaze steadied, more sincere:

“…And if we survive, well—” he leaned in just a little closer, “—then you’d better not vanish before I’ve had a chance to find out what you look like when you’re not afraid anymore.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Hopeful. A pause between breaths before stepping off the edge.

[planeswalker-chronicles]

Episode 6: "All Closing In" - Scene 5A

[ PREVIOUS ]

Elfsong Tavern, Baldur's Gate – Dusk

Astarion had been lounging in the corner, one leg crossed over the other, nursing a half-finished glass of wine he didn’t really need, when the door slammed.

Astarion didn’t move, but his crimson eyes tracked the young man as he braced the door like it might be kicked in at any moment. His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts. Dirt streaked his face, the collar of his off-white shirt darkened with sweat, and the glint of the black bracelet on his wrist caught the light as he slid to the floor like a man barely outrunning something.

Astarion set his wine down, slowly.

He stood, and crossed the room with a predator’s elegance, boots barely making a sound. He stopped just a few paces away, arms folded.

“Well,” Astarion said dryly, “You look like you’ve just pissed off the entirety of the Flaming Fist, the Guild, and the gods themselves. Which was it this time?”

The Wanderer didn’t answer right away. He just stared ahead, chest still heaving, like he was replaying something in his head. Something awful.

Astarion tilted his head. “Do I need to pour you a drink or dig a grave?”

Still nothing.

Then—barely above a whisper—the Wanderer muttered:

“Minthara. And Gale.”

Astarion blinked. “Gale? As in… Mystra’s former Chosen? And the drow bitch who's running the city?”

The Wanderer finally turned his head to meet Astarion’s eyes, and the look said more than words ever could.

“…I had to threaten to blow one of their heads off just to get away.”

Surprisingly, Astarion chuckled—just once, low and wry. “Gods. You are an agent of chaos.”

He crouched down beside the Wanderer now, voice softening just a hair. “ Do you even know how much trouble you’re in?”

The Wanderer let his head rest back against the door, and whispered like a confession, 

“I didn’t come here to start a war.”

Astarion looked him over—soaked in sweat, streaked with soot, and still clutching his coat like armor.

“…No,” Astarion said at last. “But war seems to be following you anyway.”

He stood and extended a hand. “Come on. Get up before someone recognizes you. Or worse—starts listening.”

The Wanderer took Astarion's hand and got up. He then said almost hurriedly, 

"We'll have to expedite our departure. I need to go find Vellin later tonight so we can finish the Console and I can finally go home."

He then sighed, 

"I suppose since you're coming with me, you'd like the whole story of why I'm running."

Astarion gave the Wanderer a look—half amusement, half skepticism—as he helped him to his feet. His grip was firm, practiced, but not unkind.

“Oh, darling,” he said, brushing dust off the Wanderer’s shoulder like a disapproving tailor, “I insist on it.”

He leaned in just slightly, voice pitched low and velvet-smooth. “Because if I’m risking my immortal neck dragging myself across planes with you, I’d rather not be surprised by any more drow warlords, interplanar authorities, or half-mad archmages.”

The Wanderer rubbed his temples, clearly weighing how much to reveal and how to condense it.

“Alright…” he said, exhaling. “You want the short version?”

Astarion arched an eyebrow. “A dramatic, emotionally fraught monologue would be preferable. But I’ll settle.”

The Wanderer began pacing, voice tight, but clearer now. “I’m not from here. Not from this world. I saw something—it—when I was thirteen. A creature, a presence, buried so deep that even the gods don’t know it exists.”

He turned to Astarion, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion. “It devours. Planes, memories, meaning. I’ve seen it erase entire timelines like smudges off a chalkboard. No one believed me. So I started preparing. Learning. Stealing what I needed—knowledge, tech, power. The Console I’m building? It’s my only way back to the network of worlds I’ve been trying to protect.”

A pause.

“Then the wrist teleporter malfunctioned, and I crashed into this world.”

Astarion blinked. “And your solution to this little detour was Candlekeep?”

“Look, it was either that or spend the next decade begging Mystra for a library card,” the Wanderer muttered.

Astarion couldn’t help but laugh—just a quiet, biting sound.

“So let me get this straight,” he said, circling the room slowly, “You’re a time-fractured, plane-hopping thief trying to save the world, or worlds rather, from some cosmic memory eater, and now half the powerful people in Faerûn want your head?”

The Wanderer shrugged. “Roughly.”

Astarion smiled—sharp and dangerous.

“…Good. I was starting to get bored.”

"I would've said before that this would've been easy for me... but not when I'm this powerless." 

His voice was lower now, softer. 

"I fear if I never get out of here, I'd start aging again."

The Wanderer gave a nervous smile and said, 

"Yeah, another fun fact about me; I'm technically also immortal."

Astarion tilted his head, watching the Wanderer closely—his crimson eyes catching the dying firelight in the room like a cat watching a flicker of movement in the dark.

Powerless. That word rang oddly familiar.

He paced a slow step forward, his arms loosely crossed over his chest, cloak brushing the floor.

There was a time he would’ve scoffed at such a confession. Powerless? Immortal? It sounded like melodrama—until he remembered standing in moonless corners of Cazador’s dungeon, wondering if eternity would taste like blood and chains.

Astarion let the silence breathe a moment longer before he finally spoke.

[ NEXT ]

[planeswalker-chronicles]

Episode 6: "All Closing In" - Scene 4

[ PREVIOUS ]

The Wanderer made his way to Vellin's smithy, greeting the tiefling blacksmith with a wave. He then noticed that Vellin was silent, looking at him with fear as if something was... off. 

Something definitely was off.

He went to Vellin and asked in a hushed voice, "Vellin, what's gotten into you?"

"They don't know where it is, but you have to run."

The words dropped like iron in the pit of the Wanderer’s stomach.

His eyes darted to the shadows of the smithy, suddenly too still, too quiet for a place that usually rang with the noise of hammers and forge. The scent of smoke and hot metal clung to the air—but beneath it, he could taste something acrid. The scent of danger. Of watching eyes.

“…What do you mean they don’t know where it is?” the Wanderer asked, voice low and tight.

Vellin stepped forward, grabbing his arm, voice shaking but urgent. “Minthara and some wizard. They were here. Today. Asking questions—about the materials, about you. I stalled them, said you hadn’t been back since yesterday, but—”

He glanced behind him toward the back of the smithy, toward the half-covered machine.

“They're waiting right now on an ambush.”

The Wanderer’s breath caught. His pulse thrummed like war drums in his ears.

“Shit.”

He didn’t look at the machine. He didn’t dare look at the machine. Not when the wrong eyes could be watching. Instead, he forced a smile, slapped a hand on Vellin’s shoulder, and said—loudly, for any listening—

“Thanks again for the repairs. Blasted blade’s finally holding together.”

Then, quieter, as his hand tightened—

“Do not stay here.”

He turned, walking with the controlled pace of someone who wasn’t fleeing, who wasn’t hunted, who didn’t feel the weight of the world tilting against him.

But every instinct screamed.

He passed the anvil. The barrels. The half-rusted crates near the door. And then—

A creak behind him.

He dropped low. A bolt of magic screamed overhead and exploded into the back wall of the smithy, showering embers and splinters.

“Found him!” came a voice—female, sharp, cold.

The drow.

The Wanderer rolled behind a stack of iron ingots, heart hammering in his chest like a wardrum. Sparks flew as another spell screamed past—tight, controlled, practiced. Arcane and dangerous.

That had to be the wizard. Of course they’d pair up.

“Vellin, run!” he shouted over the din, not daring to look back.

Another blast of force slammed into the forge wall, sending chunks of brick and metal flying. Fire licked at the edges of the rafters, and smoke began to curl upward toward the beams.

Coughing, the Wanderer ducked lower and reached into his coat. His fingers curled around the smooth grip of his weapon—a crude but elegant fusion of wand and firearm. A pistol, enchanted and experimental, humming with potential. He drew it in one hand while the other flicked at the black metal bracelet on his wrist.

“C’mon,” he muttered, twisting the dial.

The device chirped, then flickered with unstable energy—enough for one short-range hop. Maybe two, if he was lucky. Not enough to escape, but enough to reposition. To gamble.

He risked a peek around the corner—and there, across the flames and chaos, was a figure in deep velvet robes, eyes glowing with residual spellcraft.

The wizard.

Gale.

The Wanderer pressed down on the dial. In a crack of silver light, he vanished—And reappeared behind the wizard with a pop of displaced air. In a blink, he pressed the pistol to the back of Gale's neck.

“Hey, Minthara!” he called out, voice sharp and ringing above the forge-fire’s roar.

He saw her now—half-shadowed, armor gleaming with netherlight, eyes narrow and filled with instant fury.

“One wrong move,” he barked, “and I blow his fucking head off!”

Gale stiffened, his fingers frozen mid-gesture. Arcane energy still shimmered around his palm, half-formed. Minthara didn’t draw. Not yet. Her expression didn’t falter, but her eyes flicked to Gale.

“You won’t,” she said coldly.

“You sure about that?” the Wanderer shot back, thumb tightening on the pistol’s hammer. “I’ve already stolen from Candlekeep and dodged death twice this week. You think I won’t take out your precious wizard?”

Gale growled under his breath, “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Try me.”

A moment passed. Tense. Still.

Then—

Minthara smiled. A calm, quiet, deadly smile.

“You’re clever,” she said. “But not clever enough to escape this city alive.”

The Wanderer’s grin was crooked and twitching, his eyes wild with adrenaline.

“I only need one more day,” he said. “One more.”

Then, without another word, he activated the bracelet again. This time, the jump sent him soaring backwards in a burst of silver light, crashing through a closed window and tumbling into the alley behind the smithy.

Glass shattered. People screamed. And the hunt began again.

From the forge, Minthara’s voice rose—cold as a blade drawn in the dark, 

“Find him.”

[ NEXT ]

[planeswalker-chronicles]

Episode 6: "All Closing In" - Scene 3

[ PREVIOUS ]

Mizora’s stronghold, Avernus

The sky burned as it always did—red and ruptured, with firestorms coughing ash across the scorched plains. Below the brimstone skies, jagged iron towers rose from the wastes like the spines of some dead god. In the heart of one such tower, beneath chains that dripped molten brass, stood Mizora—resplendent and still, draped in silks that shimmered like infernal fire.

A soul entered. He was a warlock, once noble, now reduced to rags and ambition. He bowed low—so low his forehead scraped the blackened floor.

"Lady Mizora," he croaked, smoke in his lungs. "Forgive the interruption… but I thought you'd want to know—"

"You always think that," Mizora purred, swirling her goblet of something far too red. “But if it’s more gossip about Zariel’s hair, I will peel your spine out.”

The warlock winced. “N-no, my lady. It’s… Candlekeep.”

She turned.

Now she was interested.

“Go on.”

“There was a theft,” he said, voice shaking, but steadier now that her eyes were on him. “Four days past. A breach. They say someone—a human—broke in and made off with dimensional schematics and tomes. Some say from the restricted stacks. Others say—”

She held up a hand. He went silent.

“…Did they escape?” she asked, softly. Almost kindly.

“Yes, my lady. Vanished before the Avowed could seal the gate.”

Mizora set the goblet down.

“You’re certain?”

“Gale Dekarios is already on the case,” the warlock added quickly. “And the drow Minthara, too. They’ve chased the thief to Baldur’s Gate.”

“Of course they have,” Mizora muttered. “Wizards and fanatics. Always sniffing around once the pieces get interesting.”

She turned her back to him and walked toward a searing window of chained glass. Beyond it, devils screamed across the wastes.

“Send a message to Wyll,” she said. “Tell him it’s urgent. The kind of ‘urgent’ that is disastrous if ignored.”

“…Do I tell him what it’s about?”

Mizora smiled faintly.

“No. Let the suspense get under his skin.”

She waved her fingers, and the warlock screamed as he was dismissed in a puff of sulfur.

Alone now, Mizora mused aloud, “A Candlekeep breach… oh, my dear little thief. What are you building…?”

Her wings unfurled behind her—slow, sinuous, like the petals of a thorned rose. 

Later that day in the Ashen Ravines, the winds howled across the blasted rock, carrying screams that may or may not have been real. The ground trembled as infernal machines clanked far off in the distance, crawling like rusted insects across the horizon. Among the charred ridges stood Karlach, cracking the last vertebra of a fallen demon beneath her boot.

“Now that,” she grinned, wiping ichor from her face, “is stress relief.”

Wyll, standing nearby, was scanning the horizon with practiced eyes, blade still slick from the last skirmish. The momentary calm between hellish ambushes was welcome, but never long-lived.

That’s when the sulfur came.

A flicker of flame. A gust of ash. And then a familiar, singed figure staggered into view.

Marrius.

Thin, soot-streaked, and smoking faintly at the cuffs.

“Wyll... Karlach...” he rasped, smoothing his fraying robes and flashing an oily grin.

He bowed low, mockery dripping from every syllable.

“Mizora has another errand for her pup to run.”

Karlach’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got three seconds before I punt you back to the Styx.”

Wyll sighed, wiping his sword clean. “What does she want this time, Marrius?”

Marrius smiled wider.

“She sends you chasing shadows again. A thief. A... Wanderer, they call him. Robbed Candlekeep right out from under the Avowed’s noses. Stole something. Something big. Something that got her attention. There’s talk that he is building a machine.”

He waggled his eyebrows, tapping his temple.

“She thinks he might... upset the balance. Or build something that tears it open entirely.”

Karlach folded her arms. “So, what—you want us to find some punk who robbed a library?”

Marrius gave a lazy shrug. “He’s not just any punk. Minthara and Gale are already hunting him. Mizora figured you’d want to know before they got to him.”

Wyll stepped forward, tone sharp. “What does she think I’ll do? Bring him to her? Kill him?”

“Oh,” Marrius said, “I imagine she’s curious to see which.”

He produced a scorched parchment, ink still glowing faintly red. An image—rough, magical, incomplete—but it bore the face of a young man with strange clothing, hair tousled by wind.

“Last seen in Baldur’s Gate. I suggest you move quickly.”

And with that, Marrius opened a silver portal that led to the Material plane. He said,

“Go now, the mistress expects you to follow the scent.

The image hovered in the air, flickering in and out like a mirage—Benji’s face caught mid-turn, blurred at the edges as if the magic hadn’t been strong enough to fully track him.

Karlach leaned in, narrowing her eyes.

“Well… he doesn’t look like much.”

“Neither did most of us once,” Wyll muttered, gaze sharpening. “What did Mizora say about him?”

“Not much,” Marrius replied, flicking his fingers to stabilize the portal. “Only that he broke into Candlekeep, made off with something important. And that he has the kind of enemies who make her… curious.”

Karlach snorted. “So she doesn’t want him dead yet. Just—on a leash.”

Marrius tilted his head. “Or a leash on whatever he’s building.”

That earned a look from Wyll. “You think he’s dangerous?”

“I think she wouldn’t send you if he weren’t.”

The firelight from the portal danced in Karlach’s eyes as she exhaled sharply, shoulders tensing. “What’s the play, Wyll?”

Wyll studied the image again. Young. Determined. And haunted. The kind of person who always ran straight into danger. He knew the type.

“We go,” Wyll said at last. “We find him before Mizora sends someone worse.”

Karlach gave a dry laugh. “There’s worse than us?”

“There’s always worse,” Wyll muttered.

Without another word, they stepped through the portal.

The silver light swallowed them whole. They landed hard. Wyll stumbled forward as his boots hit the grass-strewn stone of a ruined chapel overlooking the Chionthar. The air was colder—cleaner—and the sky above was dark with clouds.

Karlach stood and stretched, cracking her neck with a grunt. “Back on the old stomping grounds.”

Behind them, the portal fizzled and vanished with a final spark.

Wyll looked south, toward the twinkling lights of Baldur’s Gate rising in the distance.

“Time to meet this Wanderer.”

Karlach rested her axe on her shoulder and smirked, “Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

[ NEXT ]

[planeswalker-chronicles]

Episode 6: "All Closing In" - Scene 2

[ PREVIOUS ]

The Wanderer made his way to Vellin's as the soles of his boots beat the cobbles of the streets. On his way, however, he saw what looked like an Upper City nobleman with dark hair and faintly red skin looking intently at him. 

That weirded the fuck out of him. 

The Wanderer walked towards the man and said, "What are you looking at me for? Got a problem with me minding my own business?"

The nobleman didn’t flinch. In fact, he smiled. Not a warm smile. A knowing one. A dangerous one.

He stepped forward with the casual grace of someone who had never known fear, hands folded neatly behind his back, his voice rich as velvet and sharp as razors.

“My, my. You are a bold one. Just as the whispers claimed.” He looked the Wanderer over like one might examine a curious artifact in a collector’s gallery. “You don’t look like much, but you’ve been busy, haven’t you?”

The Wanderer instinctively shifted his stance, body tensing. His eyes narrowed.

“You didn’t answer my question. What do you want?”

Raphael gave a soft, amused chuckle. The faint red hue of his skin caught the sunlight like wine in crystal.

“Just admiring the craftsmanship. It’s not every day a man falls into this city with a trail of chaos behind him—Candlekeep, the smiths, even the Guild is talking. You’re making quite the name for yourself... Wanderer.”

The title landed heavily in the air.

“…Who the hell are you?”

Raphael tilted his head, eyes gleaming like embers.

“Someone who appreciates ambition. And who recognizes when someone is reaching above their station—dangerously so.”

 A pause. His smile widened.

“I thought I might introduce myself. Raphael. A connoisseur of pacts. Of promises. And of… what comes after.”

The air seemed heavier now, charged with something the Wanderer couldn’t quite place—like the moment before a storm breaks.

“Whatever you're building,” Raphael continued smoothly, “it's caught the attention of more than just drow bounty hunters. And if I noticed you, I guarantee... others have too. Some much less polite than myself.”

He stepped just close enough that his voice could lower without losing weight.

“So I offer a bit of advice—free of charge. If you're playing with forces beyond you, be very sure you know what they’ll ask in return.”

And then, with a courteous nod and a final flicker of fire in his eyes, Raphael turned to walk away—leaving only a faint scent of brimstone behind him.

The Wanderer followed the nobleman and asked, "Nope. You don't get to pull out just like that. You think whatever I'm doing is by the power of something else?"

 He quipped, 

"Assuming makes an ass out of me and you. You were staring at me like you wanted something. Spill."

Raphael paused mid-step, his head tilting just enough to show the sharp curve of a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. He turned slowly, hands still clasped behind his back as if the confrontation was merely a polite exchange at court.

"Power always comes from somewhere, Wanderer," he said, voice calm but coiled. "And those who claim otherwise are either fools or liars."

He took a step closer now, his expression darkening just slightly—only enough for the air to thrum with restrained menace.

"You stole from the most guarded library in Faerûn. Built a device that smells like planar translocation. You're tracked by drow, Guild rats, and now... me." He gestured lightly to himself.

"So forgive me if I thought a conversation was in order."

A beat passed.

Then, slowly, his grin returned, and he asked:

"What is it you're trying to escape from? Or is it something you're rushing headlong into?"

The Wanderer’s heart pounded. Not from fear—but recognition. Raphael didn’t know everything, but he could smell the weight of it.

The nobleman added, softly, now almost kind:

"I could offer insight. Or a way out. Maybe even something... better."

He raised an eyebrow.

"But first, I need to know what you want. Not what you're building. Not where you're going." He leaned in, voice barely above a whisper now.

"What do you want, Wanderer?"

Okay, how the hell did this guy know what he was doing? 

The Wanderer glared at Raphael and said with dry sarcasm, "You've been stalking me. Definitely not raising red flags at all..." 

Raphael let out a slow, theatrical chuckle—the kind that danced just on the edge of menace.

“Stalking?” he repeated with mock offense, placing a hand over his chest. “Please. I observe. A connoisseur of chaos always keeps an eye on new artists.”

He then responded to him, "I'm just trying to get out of here. I was only supposed to be here for a day but-" 

The Wanderer stopped himself, 

"I just need to get this done as soon as possible."

His eyes gleamed crimson for a moment under the city’s dim lamplight.

“And you, my boy, are painting with wild strokes. Stealing secrets, warping space, dancing just out of reach of your enemies… it’s almost poetic.”

Then, the smile faded slightly. He took a step closer, tone sharpening.

“But poetry without direction?” he shrugged. “That ends in tragedy.”

“I can help you leave, if you want. Or stay hidden longer. Or… make a deal.” He grinned. “But you’re not going to finish that little device without more eyes turning your way. Minthara’s already circling, and she smells blood in water. Yours.”

A pause.

“So the real question is, Wanderer: when the hourglass runs out, do you want to run alone… or walk through the fire with someone who knows the path?”

He extended a hand as if to shake—not as a binding gesture, not yet. Just an offer.

“No contracts today. Just curiosity. You intrigue me. Let me in, just a little, and I’ll tell you what I know of those already watching you. Even secrets you don’t know are about you.”

The day hung still between them.

The Wanderer crossed his arms,  "Nah nah nah, this feels like some quid pro quo; I tell you things, you tell me things. What are you getting out of this?"

Raphael’s smile curved slowly, almost approvingly.

“Clever. Suspicious. Good instincts.” He withdrew his offered hand and casually adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, as if the rebuff meant nothing.

“Let’s say… I’m doing what I always do: collecting.” His crimson eyes flickered with mirth and something colder behind it. “Stories. Favors. Futures. I keep a gallery of potential—yours has caught my eye.”

He stepped to the side, pacing slowly as he continued.

“So here’s what I get: a glimpse. A hint at the shape of your world—your war. I collect those, too. Realities on the brink. Beasts that stir in the dark. You wouldn’t believe how many stumble into this plane thinking they’re the first.”

A pause. His tone cooled.

“Or, if you prefer the simplest answer: I help you finish your machine before your enemies tighten the noose… and in return, maybe someday, you owe me a choice. Not a soul. Not a vow. Just… a choice.”

He met the Wanderer’s eyes again.

“No binding circle. No tricks. You can walk away now and I won’t stop you. But you won’t find many others offering help without a knife at your back.”

Another beat passed.

“So. Quid pro quo?”

A smirk.

“Or do you think you can outrun everyone?”

"I think I'll drag this on just a bit longer. What do you stand to gain from me either failing or succeeding in building my machine?"

Raphael’s eyes glittered like embers beneath glass. He tilted his head, folding his hands behind his back as if the Wanderer had asked a particularly amusing riddle.

“Ah. The long game.”

He let out a slow, pleased breath. “You’re sharper than most. Very well. Let’s speak plainly, then.”

He began pacing again—measured, graceful, like a lecturer circling a curious student.

“If you fail?” He raised one hand, fingers splayed.

“One less interloper to worry about. Someone else will stumble through next decade anyway. The realms are riddled with cracks.” He made a lazy gesture, as if swatting away an insect.

“If you succeed…”

Now he paused, turning sharply to face the Wanderer.

“…Then you tear open a door. And not a little one—no, you’ve got ambition. You’re building a bridge, not a crack. A gate that can hold.”

A low chuckle.

“So, I gain knowledge. I gain leverage. I gain precedent. And maybe—just maybe—I gain a front-row seat to something that hasn’t happened in eons: a new war of the planes, born from desperation, invention, and just a little recklessness.”

He spread his arms wide, mockingly reverent.

“I live for stories like yours, Wanderer. I want to know if you’re going to save your world… or damn ours by mistake.”

And then, with a wink:

“Either way, it’ll be glorious.”

The Wanderer quipped, "So you're interested just to see if it becomes a trash-fire. I think I'll pass on your deal, Raph."

Raphael gave a soft, knowing laugh — not insulted, not disappointed. Entertained.

“Oh, I don’t recall offering a deal, my dear fugitive.”

 He stepped closer, voice lowering just enough to feel like it curled behind the Wanderer’s ears. “You’re not ready for that... not yet.”

He leaned back with an exaggerated sigh, theatrically brushing dust from the shoulder of his coat.

“We’ll speak again, Wanderer. When the fire spreads. Or when you finally feel the heat.”

And with that, Raphael vanished into the crowd like smoke caught on the wind — leaving only unease in his wake and the faint scent of brimstone clinging to the air.

[ NEXT ]