I'd never felt so out of place in Baldur's Gate 3 than earlier this week, when I finally stepped onto the streets of Baldur's Gate and promptly became the most grotesque creature in the city. Act 2 had done a real number on my party, and you could smell it from a mile away: my face was caked with blood both dry and fresh, cheeks bruised purple, and armor smeared with a hummus of mud, blood, and viscera.
Not since Dragon Age has an RPG left our faces so thoroughly be'gunked at the least appropriate moments: I've attended tense political negotiations, casually shopped for boots, and shared tender smooches with party members while the blood of the last eight things I killed hitchhiked on my face.
