[Lady Dragonfly]

T’Wangle’s Tale
Gender: Male
Race: Half-Elf
Class: Romantic Rogue

T’Wangle was one of those guys your mother warned you about. Lanky, long-haired, with insolent green eyes and a pair of pointy ears betraying his heritage, he was usually lounging around in the company of other ne’er-do-well louts, drinking cheap ale and leering at buxom tavern wenches.

Having a strong aversion to mundane work, T’Wangle proclaimed himself a poet. Truth to be spoken, his effusive, sensual verses, as well as irresistibly pleasing romantic demeanor, were ardently admired by the scores of coquettish middle-aged ladies with a predilection for sentimental poetry and the pointy body parts. The sonnets “Her stockings match my socks like the moon and stars” and “Oh, let me use thy chamber pot, my love!” were especially in vogue. No wonder, the complaisant and gregarious poet was graciously invited into countless boudoirs to recite odes and sonnets to his munificent patronesses, often well into the night.
Sadly, some husbands proved to be totally unreceptive to the iambic pentameter: once in a while T’Wangle was unceremoniously beaten up and chased down the street by the ill-mannered retainers.

And it came to pass that one such uncouth husband, a wealthy merchant Lomperd, unexpectedly returned home from overseas and most disagreeably intruded upon T’Wangle and Mistress Elysia’s poetic tête-à-tête on a sofa. Whilst startled Elysia was contemplating whether she should faint or become indignant, Lomperd charged forward, bellowing with rage and aiming for the transgressor, but the agile Half-Elf deftly evaded the collision, zipping up as he fled the scene. Realizing he would not be able to catch up with a long-limbed scoundrel, Lomperd quaffed a speed potion and rushed off in hot pursuit.

As the chase, which would afterwards become known as “March of The Cuckolds”, grew hotter, it was joined by many sympathetic citizens who recognized in the fleeing poet the lecherous rogue whose vile stanzas befouled their own living rooms. Spearheaded by Lomperd, the hooting and ululating mob was doggedly pursuing its quarry through the winding streets, drawing incredulous stares from bystanders.

Weary T’Wangle knew he was in serious trouble. He abruptly turned the corner and ducked into a quaint alley, desperately searching for escape route. For a brief moment he seemed to be out of his pursuers’ sight. Frantically scanning the walls, he suddenly spotted a faintly shimmering arched door half-hidden behind a tall flowering shrub. An intricately engraved plaque above this beacon of salvation said, “The Loophole. You must gather your party before venturing forth”.

Regarding Lomperd’s murderous gang as a party hardly worthy of gathering, and hoping that the queer portal wouldn’t transport him to Limbo or worse, T’Wangle plunged headlong into the swirling mist. A split moment later the bloodthirsty crowd spilled into the alley and stampeded past the arched doorway.

Catching his breath and wiping the sweat off his brow, T’Wangle looked around. He was standing in a spacious room redolent with the smell of exotic spices. The room was dominated by a large cluttered table, probably an alchemist’s bench. Glass and silver containers with inscriptions “Choking Powder (For Traps and Pipes)”, “Angel Dust (Affordable Celestial Mayhem)”, “Horse Feathers (Pennaceous)”, and “Lady’s Fingers (Assorted)” lined up on the shelves.

T’Wangle noticed a small wooden cask in the corner labeled “Confidence”. A poster mounted above the cask read, “Vanquish Your Foes with Confidence! One pinch per foe”. Intrigued, he carefully pushed the lid aside. The cask was filled to the brim with glistening blue sand giving off a peculiar odor. T’Wangle had no qualms about shoplifting. He rummaged through the retorts and phials piled on the table until he found a couple of sturdy jars. After having one jar generously filled up with the smelly blue sand, T’Wangle turned his attention towards the shelves. Disregarding the obscure horse feathers and the ghastly lady’s fingers, he reached for the angel dust.

Encumbered with two heavy jars, the rogue approached the softly shimmering portal and stepped through. The quaint alley was gone! T’Wangle was standing in the middle of a dark forest, surrounded by rather sinister-looking ancient trees. He heard wolves howling nearby. Or maybe wargs. Scared, T’Wangle turned around and hurriedly stepped through the mist back into the storeroom. When he mustered the nerve to walk through the portal for the second time, he found himself in a goblin cavern. Subsequent attempts landed him in a troll swamp, a dragon lair, and a dungeon full of the undead. T’Wangle sincerely wished he had gathered a party before venturing forth.
Finally, he left his jars on the floor before stepping through the portal again. This time he was standing in the familiar alley.

Before returning to his tiny apartment in the attic, T’Wangle cast the last glance at the shimmering portal concealed behind the blossoming branches. He had some party-gathering to do.


In Baldur Gate III you will meet T’Wangle in a tavern, drinking cheap ale and flirting with the serving wenches. If you let him join your party, he will lead you through the shimmering portal into the extra-dimensional storeroom with lots of goodies to loot. Be prepared to endure T’Wangle’s maudlin poetry.