#sharp-eye sluck

[alicelufenia]

Met the best npc in the game

"Tribe." 😃

[mischiefwife]

Sharp-Eye Sluck should be a full BG3 companions and here's why.

I'm continuing my mission to find out how many short race characters should be companions to fight back against all the talls and the 5 different kinds of elves! My reasons below the cut.

Tribe!

[words-and-threads]

Instantly iconic baldurs gate 3 npcs part 2: Sharp-Eye Sluck. Won my heart with two words that are technically the same word.

Tribe indeed, my friend.

[alicelufenia]

I do wanna add re: my previous tags

That doesn't stop them from being FUNNY, which at the end of the day is what goblins are there for in a story.

My favorite goblin by far has to be that one lady at the gates drunk with the two others whose whole exchange is:

Sharp-eye Sluck: Tribe? Tav: ... SeS: Tribe? Tav: Tribe. SeS: Tribe. *smiles*

I love you Sharp-eye Sluck I hope you're doing okay and and that Ketheric Thorm didn't kill specifically you.

So now that BG3 has been out for a while, away from early access, did they do literally anything at all about the whole “all Goblins are evil” or is it still as typical DnD racist as ever? I know the ones in game are chasing The Absolute but it still sets them, even the kids, up as evil, and so many fandom places are filled with “only good goblin is a dead goblin” and “it’s Morally Good to kill them on sight.” Frustrating for Larian to be progressive elsewhere but trip on this obvious hurdle. :(

I can't think of a good-aligned goblin in the game, sorry to report. Which is weird because the game goes out of its way to say that other races, such as the drow and githyanki, have been wrongly painted as evil by birth.

[blood-teeth]

as promised, sneak peek down below <3

Everything within this antiquated vehicle is coated with noxious slime, green and gold whorls, palladium pieces of ick, the sweet, orange scent of rot that you find at the bottom of a trash can, the putrid juices slucking from the bag. It drips off the walls, slugs down the shoulder of your shirt.

Savannah, already having power vomited everything but her memories onto the floor, looks the stark color of moldy green, lips thin and white.

“Lord, help us.” Bartholomew sounds from behind his hand, nasally and wounded. You have to admit that it’s hard to hear him over Isra’s distant but horrifically clear and violet acts of disgust. Delicate, beautiful phrases such as Motherfucker! This place looks like a pig sty! And: My dog’s ass smells better than this! With a final, tasteful: Dammit, y’all. I’m sweating like a whore in church in here, hooollyyy fuck.

You open your mouth to say something, perhaps a word of comfort for Savannah, a young girl clearly out of her depth, or even to Bartholomew. You’re cut off by a sudden, startling lurch before being thrown into the sides of the wagon. Slime readily accepts you, rot fills your nose, burns into your eyes until tears are streaming down your face. Thickened sludge is in your throat, bile burning your esophagus.

Then, a feeling you know.

Blood starts to pour in, creeps between the wooden slats of the floor, moans in hymns as it reaches the soles of your boots. It is warm. It is thick.

It is alive.

The slow flooding in quickens your breath and you think of The Sphinx, you think of her despair, you think of her sharp and bloody teeth, her gaping maw, her riddled words of old. You think of the truck, rumbling its death march down a highway you’ve memorized lifetimes ago.

“What the fuck.” Isra, again.

But you don’t hear them.

Coupled with the blood soaking from underfoot, quickly making its way towards the base of your shins, your nose capillaries pop open again, fierce, blood bursting like a firehose into your mouth and down your neck.

But you can’t feel it.

Your vision starts blacking around the edges, head long and heavy, breath in staccato beats, your heart moving the fabric of the shirt. You desperately try to hold onto any of your mental faculties; gripping at the wall behind you, digging your nails into your skin.

You think, at one point, you opened your mouth to scream. You choked on blood instead.

A moonlit night. A grey-sanded beach. Green eyes and a white smile dancing behind the smokescreens of your mind. “Find me.” $She says, a hallowed voice, ripened for the taking. “Find me.” Echoes, louder and distant, fills your head with a buzzing, with a screaming.

“$She’s dead.” A voice to your left, soft like a memory, you look but you cannot see anything but a blackness. “$She’s dead.”

Somewhere a scream starts, from beneath you, from above, from your lateral sides. It starts low and slow then quicker in the vibrancies, grief-stricken and raw. Exposed like a wound.

Warm hands brush your jaw, lips kiss along your jawline. But of course, of course, there are no loving hands and soft lips here.

It is you, your grief, your forgotten lungs, this burning blood.

God, why is there always so much blood?

And then you die again. You die for the third time, for the first time, for the millionth.

You are dead and $she will never find you —