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Your mother hated you.
You thought that every single day of your life. How she hated you so much, and how it made you feel so bad. When you both moved to Baldur’s Gate you assumed it would be better. You were both so poor and sad, and you were the reason why.
When you both moved to the city, you hoped it would help. It was a beacon of progress since the recent coronation of Archduke Enver Gortash. Even if seeing his ugly face on every poster in the city was growing old, your mother assumed that meant you could find work.
Now, you two could barely afford scraps of bread. Let alone the home. Your mother tried hiding the notice that you were losing your house, but you found it when you were looking through her things. Stealing is your favorite pastime.
You could hear people talking downstairs, the door opening and closing then more talking. Your mother must be whoring herself out again. It was the only way she could make money. Since you and your rebellious behavior never let you hold down a job. Not that jobs mattered anyway. It was just a ploy from the government to keep sheep in check. That is what your dad used to say before he walked out on both of you to chase some crazy cult in the middle of nowhere. That is also why you are poor.
You roll your eyes and open your closet. Looking at the many shades of black and grey that made up your entire wardrobe. It was nice. Color was too stimulating and distracting. If only there is a timeline where mothers lived in hues of beige instead of forcing colors on their children. Your mother did that. You hated it. You would like to dress your children in beige, not the greens and blues your mother always forced you into.
You had to get dressed for the day, so you could sulk around the city and ‘job search’ like your mother always nagged you to do. You were an adult anyways! She couldn’t control your life anymore.
“Y/n!!”
Your mother’s shrill voice echoed into your ears. Basically ripping your eardrums to pieces with how annoying it was. She didn’t need to yell. Your bedroom was right next to the kitchen. But she yelled anyway.
“What!!”
You slammed your closet door shut. Stomping when she didn’t reply right away. Gods you hated her. You hoped the deepest pits of Avernus would eat her up and then kill her again.
You storm from your room, slamming the door behind you as you tie your hair back into a messy bun,
“What is it! I already told you not to yell at me because I am sick of it-“
You stop in your tracks at the entry to the kitchen. Blinking a few times, dumbfounded. Did your mother bring one of those ugly ass posters inside? To force you to look at this creature of a man more than you already need too?
Sadly. The poster moved. Much to your dismay. It was a real man.
“Good morning.” His voice sounded like shit too. Maybe he should start smoking cigars. That would help fix it at this point in his life.
Seeing him in person he definitely catfished the city on those posters. You felt bad for all the girls you heard in the courtyard fawning over his portraits. Maybe if you squinted and then ran the poster over with a carriage it would look realistic.
“I am an acquaintance of your mother.”
The Archduke ushered to the side towards your mother, who smiled and waved at you. What a bitch.
“We are of… similar political views.”
Another nod from your mother. You could suddenly remember all the nights she spent yelling about the refugees - like you both weren’t refugees yourself - who were trying to get into the city. That they were dangerous and should be stopped. How she adored the Archduke for making Baldur’s Gate Great Again, even if you just moved here, and how she would love to meet him.
Now he was standing in your kitchen. By himself at least. You hated how the Flaming Fist uniform looked. It was too colorful. Hurt your eyes.
“And we agreed upon a bit of a deal seeing the state of your living arrangement,” Gortash sneered as he looked around your kitchen. The curtains pulled back, filling the room with cheery, chipper light. The bright tablecloth. The flowers and plants in the windows. Your mother was a druid. You wished you were a druid so you could turn to a wolf and live your true life among your pack. In the woods where savagery was encouraged.
“You will be coming with me. I have already paid your mother, of course.”
Another sheepish smile from your mother. Thank the gods she finally just sold you off. You hoped it was for a fitting amount of gold. Back in Wizard school your friends called you Ebony Ivory, because of your black clothes and how you liked expensive things. That was when you had friends. Before the accident. They also called you Divergent, because you were so different from everyone else. That is probably why you are excited to get away from your loving mother and go be some servant to an ugly rich man.
“Thank the gods.”
You groaned, throwing your head back and quietly fist pumping in joy. You would be free of this clean home.
“Excuse me-“
Gortash seemed confused, blinking a few times as you immediately went back into your room to pack a few things. Normally people were not as keen about being sold. You must be different. He liked that. Being different was a good trait to have, it meant you were not the same as everyone else.
When you gathered your things to leave, your mother started wailing. Like a dog tied outside in a storm. Wrapping her arms around you, saying she would miss you. What a lying bitch.
“I am so sorry, y/n! I had too!!”
You roll your eyes and push her away. You would be happier with this man. He paid to take you anyway. Your mother didn’t pay to get you, she birthed you. Boring. It meant she hated you from the day you were born.