Divinity: Original Sin 2 — Ifan ben-Mezd

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Reaper's Coast, Driftwood — Black Bull Tavern, Effie’s shop.

The place was packed. The air was hot and humid, almost unbreathable. A strong smell of drudanae hung in the air. But no one seemed to mind.

Magisters, dwarves, mercenaries, lizards—everyone, without distinction, gathered there. The room, rather spacious, was dimly lit by torches and candles. Makeshift partitions—ancient pillars, ill-fitted planks, or simple curtains—divided the space into alcoves.

Beneath the ramshackle floor, one could still glimpse the remnants of what may once have been the interior of a temple or a fort.

Over the deafening noise of the many patrons’ voices, and the song of a bard trying his best to be heard, rose the unmistakable sounds of battle. Indeed, not far off, there was an arena where the brave—or the foolish—could face off against each other. The winner earned a certain renown.

A man, heart pounding wildly, wavered under the effects of drudanae. His senses were blurring; he could no longer distinguish reality from illusion. Sounds twisted, shapes warped... then, a voice slipped from his lips:

“Father? Mother?” he said. Strangely, it was no longer a man's voice, but that of a child. Before him appeared a horrifying scene. His father, throat slit. His mother, a dagger plunged into her belly, both lying in a pool of blood. The woman, still alive, weakly turned her head toward him.
“Ifan... Run...” Her voice was no more than a whisper.

Ifan staggered, stunned. He clutched his head, closed his eyes, trying to push the vision away.

A new image surged forth, indistinct at first, then asserting itself like a repressed memory.
“Ifan, I trust you. The life of the elven people rests in your hands. You will not fail me.”
“Lucian...?” Ifan growled through gritted teeth.

He stood up. He heard footsteps, then a low rumble.
“A tiger?” he thought, incredulous.
The beast had caught his scent. Drawn to it, it slowly raised its head and fixed its gaze on him. Its eyes turned blue. It leapt at the man, who was still stunned by the sudden appearance. Seeing its sharp claws and glistening fangs, Ifan toppled the table in front of him as a barricade and desperately searched for his crossbow—without success. The tiger finally lunged and pinned him to the ground with its full weight. Its jaws were mere inches from his face; he could feel its breath. It was only a matter of seconds before he would feel the beast's powerful bite tearing into his flesh. What choice did he have left? In a strong voice, he shouted:

“Afrit, come!” he roared, eyes blazing with despair and determination.

A vibration rippled through the air, followed by a gust. The ground cracked, and with a bone-chilling howl, a wolf black as night burst from a cloud of shadows.

Suddenly, a cry rang out in the tavern:
“By the Seven! A monster?!” cried a panicked voice.
“Take cover!”
A massive wolf with pitch-black fur had appeared out of nowhere. Patrons scrambled for the exit, shoving each other.

Between the dream-smoke curls of a pipe and the entrance, two figures in red uniforms emerged from the crowd. They strode confidently toward the source of the disturbance.

“Out of the way!”
“You there! Call off your wolf immediately and come with us quietly,” one of them ordered, voice tense.
“Never!” he spat, not even registering who he was speaking to.

The commotion in the room intensified; the tavern’s patrons began backing away in fear, and shouts echoed all around. Tables were overturned, mugs flew in all directions.

Even without his wolf, the man resembled a wild beast. Despite his imposing build, he had stood up with startling agility and now looked ready to fight anyone who blocked his path. He scanned the room, as if searching for something. The tiger he had seen earlier was gone. It had vanished without a trace. Or perhaps it had never existed at all?

Afrit, on the other hand, was very real. The black wolf bared its fangs, standing between Ifan and the frozen crowd, ready to defend its master.

Still in a semi-conscious state, Ifan reached behind his back and finally found his trusty crossbow, the Eye of Shadows. He raised it and aimed. The man in red responded instantly, grabbing the handle of the mace hanging from his belt. His companion did the same, drawing her sword.

“Stand back, we’ll handle this!” the woman in red uniform announced. “Move if you don’t want to get hurt! Do not interfere!”

Just then, a short woman—a dwarf with shimmering red hair—forced her way through the crowd and raised a surprisingly loud and authoritative voice:

“Ifan! Pull yourself together, damn it! You’ve gone way too hard on the drudanae, haven’t you? You’re in deep trouble now!”
“Lucian… why...” Ifan continued, feverish and delirious. But before he could finish his sentence, he collapsed to the floor.

Effie, the innkeeper, knew him well. Ifan, nicknamed the Silver Claw, was a regular who often came to relax at her stall. Why did he have to lose control this time—of all times—while Magisters were around? Frustration and anger surged through her. Beyond losing a good customer, he was a friend and a valuable contact among the Lone Wolves, a ruthless band of mercenaries and assassins who would stop at nothing to fulfill their contracts. Ifan himself had that kind of reputation, and few dared to cross him. Yet, he remained one of the most dependable people she knew.

In that moment, she felt powerless. There was nothing she could do without risking accusation herself—or worse, being forced to shut down her Undertavern.

Effie cursed under her breath. Another ruined night. She shot a dark look at the Magisters, then at Ifan. He owed her a table, two mugs, and now… maybe even her cover.

The law was the law. The Magisters of the Divine Order had one mission: to arrest anyone who used Source.

“Sourcerer!”
The word fell like a guillotine, chilling the entire tavern.

He was then sent to Fort Joy, founded thousands of years ago by the tyrant Braccus Rex. The Divine Order had taken over the place and turned it into a prison island. It was said that Sourcerers sent there were offered a mysterious remedy to purge their Source. But none had ever returned to confirm it.

•••

Years earlier, in “Teneb Tiriel” Dark Forest, south Ferol.

The silence was broken only by the rustling of wind in the leaves… and by faint, muffled sobs coming from an overturned cart. The scent of wood was mingled with the acrid stench of blood.

A boy, curled up tightly, was crying uncontrollably, his face buried in his arms.

A soft voice, almost a whisper, rose nearby:
“Come closer, little human. Your father and mother will now be part of us. They will live on through our memories. This place is not safe… come.”

The man speaking was thin and slender. He moved lightly and had approached without making a sound. His clothes were made of plants, adorned with feathers and colorful beads. He wasn’t very tall, but had long, pointed ears. Undoubtedly, he was an elf from a nearby village.

There was no hint of threat about him. The young boy, though deeply shaken, found it easy to trust him. He even felt reassured, calmed.

Upon arriving at the village, the elf led him to a central clearing. Small huts, covered in leaves and thatch, were scattered irregularly around. Towering, ancient trees surrounded the village, their mighty trunks sheltering it under thick canopies. A strange feeling emanated from them. As if sensing what troubled the child, the elf pointed to the trees one by one and said:
“These are ancestor trees. The bodies of our departed brethren lie beneath this land. Their spirits take root and become ancestor trees. Each holds the memory of their past life, and shares it with our Mother Tree.”

The child, still in shock, listened and followed his guide without a word.

After a few moments, the elf stopped.
“Tell me, young human, what is your name?”
“I-Ifan. Ifan ben-Mezd...”
“Welcome among us. You may stay here as long as you wish.”
“But… my parents…”
“They have returned to the earth. And now that they know you are safe, their spirits will join the Hall of Echoes.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks.
“The bandits… they attacked us… we weren’t doing anything wrong!”
“I know. You were merchants, weren’t you? The roads are dangerous this time of year. But here, you have nothing more to fear.”

Based on Larian Studios' Divinity: Original Sin 2 — Ifan ben-Mezd origin character.

Author: Tennee

If you want to know more about Divinity: Original Sin 2's universe, go to this page.

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© 2025 RPG Soluce ~ Tennee ~

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