The cobblestones of the Lower City were a familiar, uneven rhythm beneath your feet. You were walking without any real destination in mind, letting the flow of the crowd guide you through the bustling streets, your thoughts a thousand miles away. It was this absentmindedness that led to the collision.

You bumped shoulders with a tall, hooded figure, a common enough occurrence in the press of bodies. But what happened next was anything but.

For a single, jarring second, the world seemed to warp around the point of contact. The illusion of a simple, robed human flickered like a dying candle. Beneath the hood, you didn't see the expected shadow of a face, but a flash of smooth, mauve-colored skin—skin that felt strangely moist and cool against your shoulder. From the depths of the figure’s cowl came a startled, sharp meow, followed by the frantic scrabbling of tiny claws on fabric.

You froze, trying to process the impossible sensory data. The figure froze, too. You could almost feel the silent, frantic cascade of thoughts firing off within that hood. You saw its hand—long-fingered and purple—clench at its side. For a moment, it seemed like it would simply turn and walk away, melting back into the crowd as if nothing had happened. In hindsight, that would have been the smarter choice.

It did not make the smarter choice.

Panic is a powerful and illogical force, even for a hero of Baldur’s Gate.

Before you could take a breath, the air around you crackled with arcane energy. The figure’s hand shot out, not to strike, but to shove you firmly in the chest. A shimmering, gray-edged portal tore open the space directly behind you - A dimension door. The world dissolved into a dizzying, momentary void as you were pushed through. An instant later, the hooded figure followed, and the portal snapped shut with a sound like tearing silk.

You stumbled forward, your back hitting the rough, moss-covered brick of a wall. The world solidified around you—a narrow, secluded alleyway smelling of damp stone and refuse. The hooded figure stood before you, one hand pressed against your chest, pinning you in place. The hood had fallen back slightly, and in the dim light, there was no mistaking the alien visage: the octopus-like head, the pale, intelligent eyes, and the four tentacles that writhed with agitation. A small ginger cat peeked out from its shoulder, its ears flat against its head.

A voice, not spoken, but imprinted directly into your mind, echoed with a frantic urgency that was completely at odds with its calm, measured tone.

("Do not overreact.")

The being paused, its tentacles giving a slight twitch. You could feel a new thought bloom in your mind, an emotion that needed no translation: the profound, exasperated irony of its own words. It had just magically kidnapped you from a crowded street, and it was telling you to remain calm.

As if realizing the absurdity of the situation, the creature slowly withdrew its hand, taking a deliberate step back. It pulled its hood further over its head, a futile attempt to conceal what was already revealed. The tentacles, which had been coiled with tension, relaxed slightly.

("My apologies,") the mental voice came again, softer this time, laced with a psychic sigh of regret. ("That was… poorly handled. My glamour- ah, my disguise, slipped. You saw. I panicked.")

The ginger cat, seemingly deciding the immediate danger had passed, chose this moment to make its presence more fully known. It crept from the safety of the robe, hopped from the creature's shoulder to the damp ground with a soft thud, and trotted over to you. It looked up, gave a questioning meow, and began to rub against your leg, purring loudly as if to apologize on its owner’s behalf.

("He has a tendency to de-escalate situations,") the voice noted dryly. It then seemed to gather itself, as if preparing for a formal introduction at a high-society function rather than a back-alley kidnapping. It gave a slight, awkward bow.

("I am Tav. And this,") it gestured with one long-fingered hand, ("is squid.")