She unwrapped the cloth with the same care she’d use to disarm a trap. Inside lay a longsword—not githyanki make, but sturdy. Elturel steel, by the look of the hilt. The blade was nicked but true. And wrapped around the grip, braided through the leather, was a single crimson cord. Karlach’s cord. From the sash she’d worn the day they escaped the nautiloid.
“Pulled it out of a drider’s hoard while you were busy decapitating said drider.” Karlach shrugged, but her tail curled with embarrassment. “Fixed the edge. Re-wrapped the grip. The cord is just—well. I figured if you’re going to be killing mind flayers beside me, you might as well have something that doesn’t look like it was fished out of a latrine.” baldur 39-s gate 3
She smiled. It was small—a crack in obsidian, a hairline fracture of warmth. She strapped the longsword to her hip, tested the draw, and nodded once. She unwrapped the cloth with the same care
That night, they made camp in a collapsed watchtower. Shadowheart took first watch, her voice a low murmur as she prayed to a goddess who no longer answered. Astarion pretended to read a book he’d stolen from a thrall. Wyll practiced a parry against a phantom. And Lae’zel sat apart, whetting her greatsword’s edge with a stone that had seen better centuries. The blade was nicked but true