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a-bit-of-writing · 20 hours ago

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How They React To a Modern Reader {BG3 Male Companions & Gortash}

This piece is a request and though it took me a fair bit to finish, I’m happy to finally present it! As the title implies, this is how I imagine the male companions (and Gortash) would react if a modern reader shows up based on my own headcanons about them.

Astarion

Astarion spots you before you speak. You stumble into the camp in a daze, eyes wide, lips muttering things no one understands.

“What the fu – was that a real fireball?! Are those horns? Holy hell, I’m in a fantasy video game. This is not a drill.”

He doesn’t draw his blade. Not right away. Instead, he folds his arms, tilts his head, and watches you unravel like a particularly entertaining riddle.

“Well now. What curious little nonsense are you whispering?”

You’re the most absurd thing he’s seen in ages – barefoot, blinking at the sky like it offended you, and demanding someone hand you a phone. Which no one, obviously, knows the meaning of.

He gives you one look and smirks, fangs flashing.

“Oh good. A lunatic. I was beginning to worry this group was getting predictable.”

The others are skeptical, but you? You’re reacting the way someone does when they’ve finally stepped into the book they’ve always wanted to read — equal parts awe and swearing.

You point at Gale like you’ve spotted a celebrity.

“You’re a wizard? Like, a real one? You cast spells? And you’re not in jail?”

You admire Karlach like a dragon-slaying action figure come to life.

“You’re a tiefling. Oh my god, you’re actually real. You look so cool. Can I touch your horns? Is that weird? It’s weird, isn’t it.”

And when Astarion introduces himself with an elegant, mocking bow?

“Oh no. You’re the hot vampire. This is… this is Baldur’s Gate 3, isn’t it? This is a game. Did I die?!”

He blinks. “Excuse me – game?”

You say something about “Larian Studios” and “saving throws,” which means absolutely nothing to him. Naturally, this delights him.

Your words are wild things — mangled, made-up, shameless. You say:

“I need a vibe check.”

“You’re giving villain arc energy.”

“Slay, king.”

Astarion is appalled.

“Slay? Slay?! Darling, that’s what I do to people. It’s not meant to be a compliment.”

He swears you’re possessed. Hexed. Unintentionally hilarious. But as the days go on, something changes.

He starts mimicking you.

Poorly, and on purpose.

“This meal is giving... mediocre. Truly, Shadowheart, do better.”

“Oh Gale, your little explosion was so slay. Should I clap now or later?”

He adopts the slang like a nobleman trying to speak tavern tongue — mocking, theatrical, but with growing ease. And gods help you, he makes it sound good.

There’s something else underneath the dramatics. A subtle shift in how he watches you. Because no one speaks like you. No one acts like you.

You don’t belong here and you’re not even trying to hide it. That intrigues him more than he lets on.

“You wear your strangeness like a second skin. Are all your people so… refreshingly bizarre?”

He starts asking questions – half-joking, half-sincere. What is a "Starbucks"? Why do you call people “bestie”? What in the Nine Hells is a “TikTok”?

He files it all away. A scholar of the strange, collecting every new word like a trophy.

He claims he’s keeping you around for the entertainment. Says you amuse him, like a little pocket-sized bard who fell out of the sky.

But when you wander off too far? His voice sharpens.

“If you insist on throwing yourself into danger, at least let me come along. I wouldn’t want to miss the moment you get eaten by a talking bush or whatever this plane has in store for you.”

He keeps close to you at night, lounging near your bedroll with an ease that’s too calculated to be casual. He’ll insult your “bizarre little scroll-box language” but he’ll also hand you a cloak when it’s cold.

“I can’t have you dying of exposure before I figure out what you are, can I?”

You’re not just another traveling companion. You’re a walking enigma with pop culture references and soft clothes and no idea how to wield a longsword. And gods help him, he’s starting to care.

The first time you call him “bestie”:

He stares like you slapped him with a fish.

“I… what did you just call me?”

When you try to explain, he cuts you off with an absolutely horrified expression.

“No. Absolutely not. I’d rather be called a thrall.”

He starts using it anyway — only to bother you. And it works.

“Shall we slay today, bestie?”

Gortash

You appear in his city — his throne room, even — rambling about timelines and “NPCs,” looking more confused than a drunk imp. A mortal, clearly. A nobody. But something’s… off.

You speak with no fear. No decorum. No clue who he is.

“Okay, okay. Deep breath. You’re Gortash. Enver Gortash. You're the — oh my god, you’re hotter in person — I mean, you’re the bad guy, right?”

He doesn’t flinch at the disrespect. He just smiles, slow and razor-edged.

“Well. Aren’t you bold? Or stupid. I haven’t decided yet.”

He watches you with the interest of a man deciding whether to cage a songbird or snap its neck. Something about you is unpredictable and unpredictability demands investigation.

The first time you call him “a drama king with daddy issues,” he doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at you.

“...A what?”

You explain with a grin. He listens. Silently. Then repeats it — slowly.

“Drama. King.”

He hates that it rolls off his tongue with such flair. He hates that you grin at him like you’ve won something. He’ll mock you for your dialect, call it crude, tasteless, “symptomatic of cultural collapse.”

But two days later? He uses the phrase “power move” in conversation.

And he means it.

Gortash is a master manipulator. He assumes you’ll be easy to read.

But your responses are erratic. You compare devils to “marketing execs,” call his robes “high fantasy couture,” and refer to him as “a walking red flag with good eyebrows.”

“You do realize you're insulting the most powerful man in Baldur’s Gate?”

“Yeah, but like, respectfully.”

You should be terrified of him. But you’re not. And that unsettles him more than he lets on.

He starts testing you. Throwing rhetorical knives cloaked in velvet words. Threats that sound like compliments. Challenges that look like games.

And you? You match him. Not with power, but with unshakable weirdness.

“Are you flirting with me or plotting my assassination? Honestly, it’s giving both.”

“Why not both?”

At first, you're a novelty. A curiosity. But the longer you linger, the more he starts including you in his plans — subtly.

“Come. Watch the gears turn.”

He lets you sit near the schematics, asks your opinion under the guise of mockery, and studies how your modern logic fits — or doesn’t — into his world.

You drop ideas like:

“Have you considered...a PR campaign?”

“You’d make a killing selling merchandise. Gortash-branded daggers? Hello?”

“You’re basically the CEO of Fear.”

He pretends to dismiss you.

But his artificers are soon testing slogans.

You’re not strong. You’re not trained. You trip over uneven cobblestone and panic over sending stones. You once mistook an imp for a hairless cat.

But you don’t obey. You question him. You joke with him. You touch things you shouldn't.

“That’s the nerve spine of the Steel Watch.”

“It looks like a soda machine from hell.”

He doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t care. He’s already decided you belong to him.

Not as a subordinate. Not as a threat.

As a personal puzzle.

“You came from a world with no gods. No magic. No purpose. And yet… you laugh in the face of devils. Curious.”

His gaze lingers longer. His commands are quieter, but colder when others try to claim your attention.

And gods help anyone who dares touch you without his permission.

The first time you call him “bestie”

His soul leaves his body. Visibly.

“You… what did you just say?”

“You know, like — ‘best friend’. Bestie.”

“I have tortured men for less.”

But you catch him later whispering it under his breath like a spell.

When you use modern business lingo

You: “This whole Steel Watch situation is peak corporate overlord vibes. Like, you’re so the final boss.”

Gortash: “You keep referring to me as if I am... fictional. I find that both insulting and endearing.”

He leans closer.

“Tell me more about these... CEOs. I think I’d like them.”

Gale

When you stumble into camp, wide-eyed, pointing at everything like a tourist in a magical theme park, Gale is the first to approach.

He assumes you’re suffering from magical disorientation.

“Ah, fear not! A case of planar confusion, no doubt. Happens to the best of us. I am Gale of Waterdeep, arch — well, moderately accomplished wizard — and I shall assist you in—”

“Oh my god, you’re Gale! Like, the Gale. This is Baldur’s Gate, right? Is this… is this the real thing? Am I in a game?!”

His smile falters. He blinks.

“I… beg your pardon? A… game?”

You start rambling about video games, hit points, "romance options," and Larian Studios. None of it makes sense to him — your wonder? — That he understands.

Instead of brushing you off, Gale leans in like a scholar stumbling upon forbidden lore.

“Fascinating. Tell me everything.”

Gale’s used to people fearing magic. Or misusing it. But you? You’re utterly enchanted by it. You gasp when he casts Prestidigitation. You call him a "walking fireworks show."

“Your magic is so cool! You’re like — like Dumbledore but hot.”

“I’m sorry, I’m like what now?”

You introduce him to concepts like "boss battles" and "XP grinding," and while he doesn’t grasp the mechanics, he’s utterly taken by your passion.

For the first time in a long time, someone looks at his magic with joy instead of dread or expectation.

When you say, “This is a total vibe,” Gale politely asks for a definition.

You try to explain. He still doesn’t quite get it. But that doesn’t stop him from adopting the phrase immediately — incorrectly, of course.

“This stew is… quite a vibe, wouldn’t you say?”

You can’t even be mad. He’s trying.

He starts collecting your slang like he collects ancient tomes, dropping phrases like:

"It’s giving… majestic."

"I simply must slay this look."

"We need to circle back to this later."

“I rather enjoy your linguistic peculiarities. Though I suspect Astarion is using them incorrectly — intentionally, I might add.”

Gale starts studying you — not in a cold, calculating way, but as someone who has just discovered a new school of magic.

He takes notes.

On your slang

On your world

On your “peculiar resistance to this plane’s inherent dangers”

He asks you questions like:

“In your world, you consume entertainment through… flat glass boxes?”

“Please, elaborate on these… ‘memes’ you speak of.”

You show him doodles of pop culture icons in the dirt. He hums thoughtfully, comparing them to old Faerûnian fables.

You call him "bestie" and he doesn’t flinch — instead, he nods as if you’ve bestowed a rare title.

“Bestie. A term of endearment, yes? I shall wear it with pride.”

He insists on teaching you "basic magical theory" to keep you safe. He brings you food. He explains Faerûnian politics with the same excitement you use when talking about "Star Wars" and "Marvel."

When you wander too far, his concern is immediate but polite.

“Ah — careful! The woods can be treacherous. Would you mind if I — just — perhaps, walked with you?”

His protectiveness is gentle, not possessive. His affection shows in the way he listens. The way he remembers your strange little phrases and sprinkles them into his conversations like spells you’ve gifted him.

And when you start to miss home? He’s the first to notice.

“I suspect your heart aches for your own plane. But should you find yourself… inclined to stay, well… I dare say you’ve become quite the indispensable companion.”

His voice softens.

“Besides… who else will help me perfect this whole… ‘slay’ business?”

The first time you say "main character energy"

Gale: visibly preens

“I knew you were perceptive. Please, do go on.”

He 100% believes this is the highest compliment.

When you try to explain the concept of a "player character"

Gale: “So… you’re suggesting I am but a fragment of a larger tale? A… controllable entity? Hm. Intriguing. But I assure you, I make my own choices.”

He absolutely starts leaning into this idea as if he’s now playing his role to perfection.

“After all, we can’t let the audience down.”

Wyll

When you first appear — disoriented, rambling about "cutscenes" and "romance options" — Wyll’s immediate instinct is protective. He assumes you’ve been the victim of a powerful curse or planar mishap.

“Steady now, friend. You’re safe. I am Wyll, the Blade of Frontiers and you are…?”

“Oh my god, you’re real. You’re so real. You’re — wait, this is the actual Baldur’s Gate 3, isn’t it? I’m in the game. This is insane. You’re—”

“I… I’m afraid I don’t follow. A game? Are you injured?”

He crouches beside you like you’re a spooked animal, speaking in the gentlest hero voice possible, assuming you’re in shock.

When you explain (badly) that you’re from another world where his life is just a story? He’s rattled but too polite to show it.

“You mean to say… my life, my blade, my battles — they’ve been observed? Recorded? By countless eyes? Hm. I hope I made them proud.”

Of course you tell him he’s a fan favorite and that gets him blushing like a schoolboy.

“A fan… favorite, you say? Well now. That’s… a little overwhelming.”

The first time you tell him “You’re giving golden retriever energy,” he’s completely baffled.

“I am… giving what?”

You try to explain. He still doesn’t get it. But he writes it down so earnestly like he’s collecting crucial diplomatic phrases.

“Golden… retriever… energy. Right. I shall use this wisely.”

He starts testing your slang in the wild:

“We slay monsters, yes? We slay.”

“This campfire is giving… comfort.”

“Vibe check, my friend. Are you well?”

His delivery is so pure you can’t even correct him.

Eventually, he starts mixing formal chivalric language with slang:

“Fear not, bestie. I shall smite our foes posthaste.”

“Wyll… did you just call me bestie mid-fight?”

“I thought it was an… honorable title.”

Wyll takes one look at you — a stranger in strange clothes with strange words — and immediately appoints himself your unofficial guardian.

“You know not the dangers of this realm. Until you are steady upon your feet, you shall walk beside me.”

You try to argue. You insist you’ll be fine. You reference plot armor.

He smiles, good-natured but firm.

“Plot armor or no, it’s the duty of a blade to shield those in his company.”

When danger strikes, he’s already stepping in front of you. He teaches you how to hold a dagger properly. He insists on walking on the side closest to the road.

It’s not controlling — it’s just Wyll being Wyll.

“You may come from another plane, but you’re one of us now.”

Wyll wants to know more. He listens with genuine curiosity when you describe cars, skyscrapers, and "cell phones." But he never pushes when you get homesick or overwhelmed.

“It must feel like walking through a dream you can’t quite wake from.”

“Yeah… but I kinda like this dream.”

His kindness is never condescending. He doesn't study you like an experiment — he just wants to understand you better.

Sometimes, when you’re feeling low, he humors you by asking:

“Tell me more about these… heroes you admire. Perhaps I can aspire to be one, too.”

“Wyll, you’re already the blueprint.”

“The blueprint? Another noble title, I presume.”

Wyll is the type who saves the slang for private conversations. In front of others, he’s still the chivalrous Blade of Frontiers. But when you’re alone? He lets loose:

“You’re absolutely slaying this journey, you know.”

“That battle was… a vibe.”

“Truly, you have main character energy.”

And when you call him "bestie" for the first time?

“Bestie? What a curious word. But if it means I have earned your trust… then I shall bear it with pride.”

When You Joke About Him Being a "Player Option"

Wyll: “I hope you chose wisely, my friend. Though I suspect I had stiff competition.”

You: “Honestly? It was always going to be you.”

Wyll: visibly short-circuits

“Ah—well—thank you—I—ahem—it seems I must continue to… to slay.”

The First Time He Says “Vibe Check” in Battle

He absolutely yells it like it’s a heroic rallying cry.

“VIBE CHECK! BLADE OF FRONTIERS, TO ME!”

You: dying of laughter in the background

Halsin

You appear in the forest — rambling about timelines, side quests, and asking if this is "the canon route." You immediately latch onto Halsin as the safe one. The stable one.

“Oh thank god, you’re Halsin. You’re the cool druid. You’re supposed to be chill. Please tell me this is Baldur’s Gate 3. I can’t — I can’t handle another Skyrim glitch.”

Halsin blinks slowly.

“I… am not familiar with these words. But you are trembling. Sit. Breathe.”

He approaches with calm authority, offering you water, assuming you’ve just suffered a traumatic planar shift. He’s patient. So patient.

Even as you ramble about "player characters" and "romance options," he listens without a hint of mockery.

“I do not understand all you say. But I understand fear. You are safe here.”

Halsin expects confusion, maybe terror. Instead, you’re delighted.

“Wait — tieflings are real? Is that an owlbear? This is SO MUCH BETTER than real life.”

You immediately want to see everything. You ask endless questions, from wildshape mechanics to druid circles. You fawn over the animals. You point at his bear form and say:

“That’s sick. You’re like a tank with maxed-out charisma. Total main character energy.”

Halsin, who understands none of those words, just chuckles.

“You are… very kind. I think.”

The first time you call him "bestie," he pauses.

“Bestie. Is this… a rank of honor?”

You assure him it is. He believes you.

“Then I shall strive to be worthy of it.”

He starts sprinkling your slang into daily life, but he uses it so sincerely it makes your heart ache.

“The forest is giving… peace.”

“Today’s hunt? We slayed.”

“I believe you would call this… good vibes?”

He even starts greeting you with “Vibe check, bestie” in the most solemn, druidic tone imaginable.

While others might be amused by your eccentricities, Halsin is quietly concerned. You are a stranger here — your references, your stories, your slang — they all speak of a life far from this one. And he knows how lonely that must be.

“This world is not your own. But while you walk it, you will not walk alone.”

He keeps you close — not out of control, but out of care. He teaches you the forest paths, shows you edible herbs, and insists you learn how to light a fire without magic.

When you call him your “comfort character,” he doesn’t understand the full meaning but he smiles anyway.

“If I can bring you comfort, I will.”

Halsin asks about your home gently, never pushing.

“Your world seems… strange. Full of stone towers and metal carts. And yet, you long for it.”

When you get homesick, he offers you space but also a quiet place by the fire.

“Stay as long as you need. Or… longer.”

If you try to laugh it off with jokes and slang? He’s not fooled.

“It’s all right to miss your own forest. Even if it’s one I cannot walk with you.”

When You Call Him “Golden Retriever Energy”

Halsin: quietly confused

“Golden… retriever? Is that a creature in your world?”

You: “Yeah, and trust me — it’s a huge compliment.”

Halsin: smiling softly

“Then I accept it, bestie.”

When You Explain TikTok

You: “It’s like… little moving images. Entertainment. Distraction.”

Halsin: “Ah. So… like a flock of sparrows, quick and fleeting, demanding attention but offering little nourishment.”

You: “…Yes. Exactly that.”

Halsin would 100% call social media “sparrow thoughts.” He’s so wise, he’d accidentally invent poetic terminology for modern concepts.

Halsin doesn’t parade you around like a curiosity. He doesn’t tease.

He simply… accepts you. All your slang. All your weirdness. All your wonder.

And when you call him your “emotional support druid,” he simply replies:

“Then I shall support you. As long as you need me to.”

Rolan

When you stumble into his vicinity — wide-eyed, rambling about “timelines” and “player choices” — Rolan’s first instinct is to frown.

“Oh, marvelous. Another disoriented fool wandering into the camp like a lost sheep.”

You try to explain you’re from another world, you start using words like “canon” and “NPC,” and he immediately cuts you off.

“Spare me the rambling. Whatever your affliction is, someone else can deal with it.”

But he keeps watching you from the corner of his eye, because you’re… strange.

You don’t obey the usual rules. You don’t know the most basic things, but you speak about the world like you’ve seen everything.

He finds you… irritating. Intriguing. Mostly irritating.

The first time you say, “This is giving side quest energy,” he looks physically pained.

“What are you even saying? Do you speak Common or not?”

You explain. He calls it “utter nonsense.”

You call him “bestie.”

He glares at you like you’ve just insulted his entire bloodline.

“Do not… ever… call me that.”

But you don’t stop. You keep using slang — "slay," "main character energy," "vibe check" — until one day, mid-battle, you hear him mumble:

“Tch. We slay.”

You: gasping

“OH MY GOD DID YOU JUST—”

“Silence.”

He insists you’re not his responsibility. He makes a point of saying you’re someone else’s problem. But whenever you wander off?

He’s the first to scold you.

“Why are you this far from camp? Do you want to die?”

You try to brush it off: “Plot armor, bestie. I’m good.”

He looks visibly exhausted.

“You have no armor. And stop calling me that.”

Still, you notice your packs are often double-checked by morning. You find spells hastily scribbled for your use. If you trip, his hand catches your arm without thinking.

But if you thank him?

“I only did it because watching you fall on your face would have slowed us down.”

Sure, Rolan. Sure.

You have no idea how magic works here, and Rolan can’t stand your reckless enthusiasm.

“You’ll get yourself killed. Fine. If I must, I’ll teach you basic cantrips. But if you embarrass me, I’ll deny knowing you.”

He’s actually a very good teacher, though he insists your progress is “tolerable at best.”

You, meanwhile, keep throwing in phrases like:

“This spell totally slaps.”

“That’s a big bad boss moment.”

“Your arc is so tsundere-coded right now.”

He has no idea what that last one means. You don’t explain.

Rolan eventually realizes you don’t belong here — not just physically, but existentially.

And even though he never says it outright, you become his person to look after.

When you’re quiet for too long, he’ll mutter:

“You’re being weird. Say something stupid. I’ve grown used to it.”

When you call him your “comfort character,” he rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t walk away.

When you call him “bestie” for the hundredth time, he snaps:

“Enough. I’ll only permit it when we’re alone.”

But he still lets you say it.

When You Try to Explain Social Media

You: “It’s like… a messaging system. But public. And people argue for fun.”

Rolan: “So… like an open tavern brawl but worse.”

You: “Exactly.”

Rolan: visibly horrified

“Your plane sounds insufferable.”

When You Joke About Him Being a Side Character

You: “You’re totally a side quest companion, but like, one with a hidden romance route.”

Rolan: deadpan

“You truly have a gift for speaking nonsense.”

Pause.

“But if I were… would you choose me?”

You: softly “Of course.”

He glances away, flustered, pretending it meant nothing.

“Tch. Idiot.”

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