The Zephyr's Call: My Journey to Claim Nyrulna in Baldur's Gate 3

The air in Wyrm's Crossing is thick with the scent of salt, smoke, and secrets. I had traversed the Shadow-Cursed Lands and weathered the machinations of the Absolute, my arsenal growing with each hard-fought victory. Yet, among the enchanted blades and resilient armors, a legend whispered on the wind—a trident that sang with the voice of a storm, a weapon that would return to its master's hand like a loyal hawk. They called it Nyrulna. To find it, one had to be clever, not just strong, and seek not a vault, but a carnival of illusions.

What is this Nyrulna, this whispered prize? It is not merely a weapon; it is a pact with the zephyr. A legendary trident, its true nature reveals itself only to those who reach the city's outskirts in Act Three. Its physical might is formidable, yes, but its soul lies in its gifts. The Zephyr Connection—oh, what a sublime ability. To hurl it with all my might, watching it arc through the air like a falling star, only to feel it whisper back into my palm, obedient and eager. It cannot be wrested from my grip by force, and where it strikes the earth, it does not simply pierce; it sings, a concussive chord of thunder that dances upon the air, dealing area damage to all who stand too close.

But Nyrulna offers more than destruction; it offers freedom. With the Veil of the Wind, I feel lighter. My strides lengthen, my jumps carry me across chasms I once thought impassable, and the very earth's hard embrace when I fall from great heights? It is forgotten, a memory of a more grounded, more fragile self. I am immune to fall damage, and the world becomes a landscape of vertical possibilities. And in the deepest, darkest dungeons, where shadows cling with malevolent intent, Nyrulna glows with a steady, cool light, a personal sun for those of us born without the blessing of darkvision. It is, in every sense, a companion. For the berserker who revels in the throw, for the fighter who commands the battlefield's rhythm, it is perfection given form.

So, where does one find such a partner? The path is woven with trickery. In Rivington, north of the familiar fast travel point, a garish spectacle blooms: the Circus of The Last Days. Past a grumbling ghoul at the gate, the air fills with the cacophony of carnival sounds. My eyes scanned the crowd, past fire-eaters and illusionists, until I found him. Akabi. A Djinni of immense pomp, floating serenely beside a gaudy prize wheel on the circus's southern edge. He promised riches, but his eyes held the glint of a conman. The true prize was not on the wheel; it was on his finger.

The plan was a delicate dance. I approached, engaging Akabi in grandiose conversation, feeding his ego. As he boasted, a shadow moved—Astarion, my nimble-fingered companion, a ghost in the crowd. With a touch as light as the wind Nyrulna commands, he liberated the Djinni Ring from Akabi's person. A switch of perspective back to my talking self, a spin of the wheel... it landed on the grand prize! But Akabi, sensing the theft or perhaps perpetually a cheat himself, erupted in false fury. "A trickster!" he bellowed, and with a snap of his fingers, the world dissolved.

The carnival's bright silks were replaced by the dense, humid green of a jungle. An alien sun filtered through towering canopies. This was not a punishment; it was the final test. Before me, a shimmering portal promised a return to Rivington. And beside it, resting on the mossy ground as if waiting for a century, was a chest. Its lock was a puzzle, but in my hands, picks became keys. The lid opened with a sigh of release, and there it was. Nyrulna. It lay in the velvet lining, and as my fingers closed around its haft, I felt a hum—a vibration that was not sound, but a storm held in check, a gentle breeze that promised gales. The Djinni's anger was a farce, a scripted part of the game. This was the true grand prize.

Now, in 2026, as I look back on that journey, Nyrulna is more than a statistic in my inventory. It represents the soul of Baldur's Gate 3—a world where the greatest treasures are not handed to you, but earned through wit, patience, and a willingness to play a magical conman at his own game. It is the weapon that taught me to fly, to throw caution and trident to the wind, knowing both would return.