An attempted novelization of a BG1 playthrough
Blackraven
Member Posts: 3,486
Hi everyone, in this thread I will share with you my attempt at a novelization of a playthrough of BG1 and hopefully the entire trilogy.
My initial approach was to tell the events through various different characters, including Sarevok, Jessa Vai, Nimbul, Duke Eltan and many of the joinable NPCs, giving each of them more or less the same amount of "screentime". It meant lots of creative freedom for me, but when I read in various sources that such an approach tends to complicate character development and readers' identification with the characters, I decided to reduce the scope of my writing. My focus will be on Sarevok and protagonist, and I'll include brief intervals in which other characters will appear in the foreground. In limiting the size and the frequency per support character of these intervals, I hope to be able to give more depth to the main characters, while at the same time giving some breadth to the story. (Unfortunately this new approach means that plenty of pages I already wrote aren't going to be published, though I might use parts of them somewhere along the way).
The story should speak for itself though I may have to make one clarification. Both in the actual game and in the story charname is a Half-Elf Lorekeeper of Oghma/Mage, and he'll wield longswords and daggers (I'm using mods for that). Oghma's favored weapon is 'Mortal Strike', a longsword, and Lorekeepers can wield it as a spiritual weapon, so it didn't make much sense to me to restrict charname to using hammers or maces.
CHAPTER 1
"At least give us some time to prepare," spoke one old wizard to another. His voice was calm, but his frown and his half-closed eyes, as if they were staring at the sun, spoke another language, and so did his fingertips that were tapping the long mahogany table that he and his company were sat at.
"You just don’t get it, do you Gorion? Listen, it’s very simple, but I’ll repeat it for you. The boy goes tomorrow, before sunset at the latest. Either you take him with you, or I’ll have the Watchers throw him out. I’ve already instructed them!" bellowed the other wizard in reply. The speaker’s imperious voice filled the spacious conference room and beyond, for it echoed through the marble hall of the majestic library’s top floor. He knew his word was law within the walls of Candlekeep, the citadel of learning. After all, he was Ulraunt, the Keeper of its tomes. Yet there he sat, needlessly tense, with his thin lips tightened, his dark brows drawn together in an ireful frown, and clenched fists sticking out of the sleeves of his snow white mage robe. And to make things worse, he had just raised his voice.
"Now Ulraunt, do you not think you’re being overly severe with Gorion and his whelp?" asked a third figure, a priest dressed in a carnelian soutane that matched his rosy cheeks. It was the erudite Mystran cleric Tethtoril, the library’s First Reader and as such Candlekeep’s second in command after Ulraunt. He was aged and grey as the others but not nearly as worked up, and he looked at them with gentle sapphire eyes that stood out like beacons of calm. When he saw that both wizards had regained their composures, he continued in a soothing voice. "Let us be patient, and careful in our judgment. The lot of banishment for reasons beyond the youngster’s comprehension would be a cruel one. Remember that he’s just a stripling."
"He’s a young man of twenty, hardly a stripling" answered Ulraunt, calmer but still eager to seize the opportunity to debilitate his more indulgent right hand’s argument.
"I know that Ulraunt, but I also know that years can be a problematic unit of measurement," replied the priest, stroking his beard contemplatively. "Should we not keep in mind that Elven blood runs through the boy’s veins? Gorion’s ward is no grown man yet. And leaving aside the matter of the boy’s maturity, I should like to add that I've found Ánhaga to be an upstanding child. He has been my student for the past few months now, and he has shown himself to be a humble sort: polite, dutiful, and helpful to others. And I’m not speaking merely on my own behalf. You could ask others here in Candlekeep as well. Why should we rush to expel the boy?"
"The others are ignorant Tethtoril, and your judgment is clouded," Ulraunt brazenly retorted, this time in a lower, colder voice. The Keeper’s hostility caused Teththoril to briefly raise his bushy grey eyebrows in astonishment. "You have taken a liking to the boy because he’s your student, and now you fail to discern what kind of individual you’re dealing with. Not that it matters though. Remember that you have no voice in this affair. As the Keeper of the Tomes of these halls it is my responsibility to keep the citadel safe and to prevent the outside world from absorbing us in their affairs. Twenty years ago Gorion and the boy were allowed shelter within these walls, but there was a condition, and I’m positive that Gorion hasn’t forgotten about it."
Both Ulraunt and Tethtoril now looked questioningly at Gorion, and waited for him to speak up once again for his foster son. But seeing how even venerable Tethtoril failed to change Ulraunt’s mind, the old sage gave up the fight. "Everything there is to say in my ward’s defense has already been said. And everything the lad could have done to be accepted in Candlekeep, he has done. Apparently it’s not enough." With weary eyes that made him look aged beyond his years he considered the unmoved Keeper, and then lowered his head in resignation. "Of course I remember your condition, Keeper, and I shall adhere to it."
When he had first arrived at the gates of Candlekeep with his ward in his arms, an infant at the time, he was informed that the child would be welcome in Candlekeep until his coming of age. When this would be exactly, was never specified, but it was indisputable to Gorion that his beloved foster son was no longer a child (even if Tethtoril had a point in saying the boy hadn’t fully matured yet). What had first offended and later worried him though, was the fact that he was given barely a day’s notice. It told him that the Keeper of the Tomes was hiding something from him. He wondered what Ulraunt had alluded to with his preventing 'the outside world from absorbing us in their affairs'. Could it be something to do with the boy’s lineage? The three had carefully avoided the matter thus far. The question was on the tip of his tongue, but he knew Ulraunt well enough to realize it would be no use pressuring the unbending Keeper for information.
"Well then," continued Ulraunt, relieved to end the strained conversation sooner than expected, "I am glad we have been able to settle this matter in a manner that befits us gentlemen."
Not in the mood for small talk or exchanging vacant pleasantries with Ulraunt, Gorion got up from his heavy chair. He thanked Teththoril with a faint smile for attempting to buy him some time, and bade Ulraunt goodbye with only the slightest of nods. As he walked off he kept a slow but firm tread not on the plush carmine carpet but alongside it, making sure his footsteps continued to resonate until he would reach the stairs. He did so in the dim hope that his old friend Ulraunt would change his mind and call him back, if only to give him some longed-for respite; another day or two would be enough. However, when he reached the stairs and turned around, he glimpsed the Keeper of the Tomes entering his private turret chamber and closing the door behind him.
As he entered his austere private cell he stopped in front of a small framed mirror on the wall. How many times had he walked past that mirror without ever looking in it, really looking in it? "Twenty years have gone by and without noticing it you’ve become an old man. Your grey hair has gone white, your beard is even whiter, and your face shriveled," he spoke softly to his own image. "Twenty years in which you came to believe, foolishly, that your Ánhaga would find acceptance in Candlekeep and elude the fate that is now upon him. But the past doesn’t matter now. We shall leave tomorrow morning and once we’re on the road I shall finally tell Ánhaga everything he needs to know. It is high time," resolved the wizard.
He sat down on the unadorned wooden chair by his desk. It was late but he had to write an important letter and to pack some of his belongings before he could rest.
***
My initial approach was to tell the events through various different characters, including Sarevok, Jessa Vai, Nimbul, Duke Eltan and many of the joinable NPCs, giving each of them more or less the same amount of "screentime". It meant lots of creative freedom for me, but when I read in various sources that such an approach tends to complicate character development and readers' identification with the characters, I decided to reduce the scope of my writing. My focus will be on Sarevok and protagonist, and I'll include brief intervals in which other characters will appear in the foreground. In limiting the size and the frequency per support character of these intervals, I hope to be able to give more depth to the main characters, while at the same time giving some breadth to the story. (Unfortunately this new approach means that plenty of pages I already wrote aren't going to be published, though I might use parts of them somewhere along the way).
The story should speak for itself though I may have to make one clarification. Both in the actual game and in the story charname is a Half-Elf Lorekeeper of Oghma/Mage, and he'll wield longswords and daggers (I'm using mods for that). Oghma's favored weapon is 'Mortal Strike', a longsword, and Lorekeepers can wield it as a spiritual weapon, so it didn't make much sense to me to restrict charname to using hammers or maces.
CHAPTER 1
"At least give us some time to prepare," spoke one old wizard to another. His voice was calm, but his frown and his half-closed eyes, as if they were staring at the sun, spoke another language, and so did his fingertips that were tapping the long mahogany table that he and his company were sat at.
"You just don’t get it, do you Gorion? Listen, it’s very simple, but I’ll repeat it for you. The boy goes tomorrow, before sunset at the latest. Either you take him with you, or I’ll have the Watchers throw him out. I’ve already instructed them!" bellowed the other wizard in reply. The speaker’s imperious voice filled the spacious conference room and beyond, for it echoed through the marble hall of the majestic library’s top floor. He knew his word was law within the walls of Candlekeep, the citadel of learning. After all, he was Ulraunt, the Keeper of its tomes. Yet there he sat, needlessly tense, with his thin lips tightened, his dark brows drawn together in an ireful frown, and clenched fists sticking out of the sleeves of his snow white mage robe. And to make things worse, he had just raised his voice.
"Now Ulraunt, do you not think you’re being overly severe with Gorion and his whelp?" asked a third figure, a priest dressed in a carnelian soutane that matched his rosy cheeks. It was the erudite Mystran cleric Tethtoril, the library’s First Reader and as such Candlekeep’s second in command after Ulraunt. He was aged and grey as the others but not nearly as worked up, and he looked at them with gentle sapphire eyes that stood out like beacons of calm. When he saw that both wizards had regained their composures, he continued in a soothing voice. "Let us be patient, and careful in our judgment. The lot of banishment for reasons beyond the youngster’s comprehension would be a cruel one. Remember that he’s just a stripling."
"He’s a young man of twenty, hardly a stripling" answered Ulraunt, calmer but still eager to seize the opportunity to debilitate his more indulgent right hand’s argument.
"I know that Ulraunt, but I also know that years can be a problematic unit of measurement," replied the priest, stroking his beard contemplatively. "Should we not keep in mind that Elven blood runs through the boy’s veins? Gorion’s ward is no grown man yet. And leaving aside the matter of the boy’s maturity, I should like to add that I've found Ánhaga to be an upstanding child. He has been my student for the past few months now, and he has shown himself to be a humble sort: polite, dutiful, and helpful to others. And I’m not speaking merely on my own behalf. You could ask others here in Candlekeep as well. Why should we rush to expel the boy?"
"The others are ignorant Tethtoril, and your judgment is clouded," Ulraunt brazenly retorted, this time in a lower, colder voice. The Keeper’s hostility caused Teththoril to briefly raise his bushy grey eyebrows in astonishment. "You have taken a liking to the boy because he’s your student, and now you fail to discern what kind of individual you’re dealing with. Not that it matters though. Remember that you have no voice in this affair. As the Keeper of the Tomes of these halls it is my responsibility to keep the citadel safe and to prevent the outside world from absorbing us in their affairs. Twenty years ago Gorion and the boy were allowed shelter within these walls, but there was a condition, and I’m positive that Gorion hasn’t forgotten about it."
Both Ulraunt and Tethtoril now looked questioningly at Gorion, and waited for him to speak up once again for his foster son. But seeing how even venerable Tethtoril failed to change Ulraunt’s mind, the old sage gave up the fight. "Everything there is to say in my ward’s defense has already been said. And everything the lad could have done to be accepted in Candlekeep, he has done. Apparently it’s not enough." With weary eyes that made him look aged beyond his years he considered the unmoved Keeper, and then lowered his head in resignation. "Of course I remember your condition, Keeper, and I shall adhere to it."
When he had first arrived at the gates of Candlekeep with his ward in his arms, an infant at the time, he was informed that the child would be welcome in Candlekeep until his coming of age. When this would be exactly, was never specified, but it was indisputable to Gorion that his beloved foster son was no longer a child (even if Tethtoril had a point in saying the boy hadn’t fully matured yet). What had first offended and later worried him though, was the fact that he was given barely a day’s notice. It told him that the Keeper of the Tomes was hiding something from him. He wondered what Ulraunt had alluded to with his preventing 'the outside world from absorbing us in their affairs'. Could it be something to do with the boy’s lineage? The three had carefully avoided the matter thus far. The question was on the tip of his tongue, but he knew Ulraunt well enough to realize it would be no use pressuring the unbending Keeper for information.
"Well then," continued Ulraunt, relieved to end the strained conversation sooner than expected, "I am glad we have been able to settle this matter in a manner that befits us gentlemen."
Not in the mood for small talk or exchanging vacant pleasantries with Ulraunt, Gorion got up from his heavy chair. He thanked Teththoril with a faint smile for attempting to buy him some time, and bade Ulraunt goodbye with only the slightest of nods. As he walked off he kept a slow but firm tread not on the plush carmine carpet but alongside it, making sure his footsteps continued to resonate until he would reach the stairs. He did so in the dim hope that his old friend Ulraunt would change his mind and call him back, if only to give him some longed-for respite; another day or two would be enough. However, when he reached the stairs and turned around, he glimpsed the Keeper of the Tomes entering his private turret chamber and closing the door behind him.
As he entered his austere private cell he stopped in front of a small framed mirror on the wall. How many times had he walked past that mirror without ever looking in it, really looking in it? "Twenty years have gone by and without noticing it you’ve become an old man. Your grey hair has gone white, your beard is even whiter, and your face shriveled," he spoke softly to his own image. "Twenty years in which you came to believe, foolishly, that your Ánhaga would find acceptance in Candlekeep and elude the fate that is now upon him. But the past doesn’t matter now. We shall leave tomorrow morning and once we’re on the road I shall finally tell Ánhaga everything he needs to know. It is high time," resolved the wizard.
He sat down on the unadorned wooden chair by his desk. It was late but he had to write an important letter and to pack some of his belongings before he could rest.
***
Post edited by Blackraven on
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***
The afternoon was dreary in Beregost, a small town that distinguished itself as a meeting and resting hub for travelers on the Sword Coast’s Coast Way and Lion’s Way. However, the weather mattered not to the party of four seasoned adventurers that had recently arrived in town. They had completed a day’s trek from the great city of Baldur’s Gate, with only one stop halfway at the famed Friendly Arm Inn, and taken up lodgings at Beregost’s sketchy Red Sheaf Inn, the plainest of the town’s four inns. Its walls were bare, there was mud and sawdust on the pinewood flooring, and most of the rustic wooden furniture was frayed and stained. The humble innkeeper had long ceased his endeavors to give the interior a stylish ambiance, and for good reason. The Red Sheaf Inn was a place where roughnecks gathered to drink, where shady business deals were concluded, and where disputes were settled not with words but with fists and furniture (or worse). The inn was also the place where the aforementioned adventurers were to meet two influential mercenary leaders. However, a day and a half had passed since the appointed time of their meeting and the sellswords still hadn’t arrived. Impatience was beginning to take hold of the party, a desire to move on.
"Ssh... I must talk to you in private my lord," a graceful Kara-Turan battle priestess, dressed in dark chain mail armor, whispered to the unmistakable leader of the assembly - a baldheaded, burly human warrior, clad in a suit of full plate mail of the deepest black and with a magnificent two-handed great sword partly sheathed in a scabbard he had placed beside him against the table they were sat at, ever ready to fight. And as if his physique and his attire didn’t make him stand out enough, the warrior also had a pair of awe-inspiring, piercing eyes with a golden blaze in them.
"What is it, Tamoko?’ The burly male answered in his characteristic roaring voice. He moved to turn his ear toward her so that she could make herself clear without anyone eavesdropping on her. Not that their companions would dare to pry on their leader; they were well aware that Sarevok was not to be antagonized. Still, he wanted the others away from him for a moment. "Men, go get yourself something to drink. Ah and bring me another tankard of that Iriaeboran Ale. I don’t think they’re offering anything better here."
Besides Tamoko, Sarevok had two more loyal adherents by his side: a tall, well-groomed human conjurer named Winski Perorate, dressed in a long, thick flannel robe, ashen with dark red pocket flaps, lapels and facing. He would have been a more striking figure among the inn patrons if it weren’t for the fourth member of the party, Tazok, a colossal Half-Ogre berserker fighter in sallow hide armor who surpassed even Sarevok in size (though not in fighting prowess, which explained the Half-Ogre’s loyalty to his master). Like Sarevok he kept a two-handed sword at hand, sheathed in a scabbard he carried over his shoulder. Without uttering a word, Perorate and Tazok got up and walked to the bar where the nervous innkeeper saw with envy how the other tavern patrons, no milksops themselves but unaccustomed to the sight of a mighty Half-Ogre in their midst, managed to almost magically disperse as the two adventurers approached.
"Must we really rush to Candlekeep, only to inquire about Gorion’s child?"- Tamoko asked Sarevok. "He’s no threat to a man of your ability. You told me yourself that the last time you saw him he was doing menial work, feeding the cows I think it was no? 'A puny stableboy' you called him. Ought we not wait for the mercenaries to arrive?"
"The boy should be harmless now, but that’s exactly why now is also the time to strike, my princess." With his thumb he caressed both her lips. In private, Sarevok was courteous and at times even tender with Tamoko in ways he would never display in front of the others, lest his authority might suffer, he suspected. "The two men I sent to kill the brat seemed competent enough for a job that simple, but I need to be sure. And if they failed, well, I prefer killing a puny stableboy now over having to deal with a grown wizard later. Who knows what kind of magic tricks that sly old Gorion will end up teaching the boy if he lives. The old sage is a renowned spellcaster himself and what is more, Candlekeep houses other influential people that may prepare the runt for the life of an adventurer. And as for those mercenaries Khosann and Crush, I really can’t be bothered with waiting any longer, can you? Besides, how reliable are they if they don’t even show up at an appointment?" Tamoko gave him an expressionless look. "Very well," he continued. "You know what, I’ll have Tazok wait for him."
"Whatever you say my liege. I’m with you, always. As long as you will have me." Tamoko didn’t always agree with Sarevok’s ways but leaving his side wasn’t an option for her. She was enthralled by him, captivated by his strength, by his drive and authority.
At their dinner table Sarevok instructed his followers, doing his best to keep his voice low so that no one would overhear him.
"If tomorrow morning there is still no sign to be had of the mercenaries, Tamoko and I will travel northwest to Candlekeep. There are a number of people there I need to see." He stole a furtive glance at Tamoko as he spoke. "We shouldn’t take more than three days. After it we’ll return to the Throne in Baldur’s Gate, so that’s where you shall send your reports."
Tazok’s eyes widened in surprise when he heard that his master was going to travel without him, but he knew when to ask questions and, of equal importance, when not to. Winski Perorate on the other hand, nodded understandingly after Sarevok had spoken. "I will summon two Ogres to accompany you on your way and to make sure that any bloody Candlekeep business won’t go awry."
"Very well Winski," said Sarevok. "You told me you have to return south, to Nashkel, and meet with Mulahey. Is it urgent?"
"It is. He told me needed more… supplies. Remember the letter I showed you? I have it right here," and he took the letter out of one of his pockets.
"Yea, yea, keep the letter," said Sarevok impatiently. "How long will you take?"
"I should be able to meet you in Baldur’s Gate in a week’s time."
"Fair enough, but send me an update before that."
"I will Sarevok."
"Now Tazok," Sarevok continued. "I have an important task for you. Please me and you’ll be rewarded for having done so. First, you’re going to wait for two more days for the mercenary leaders to arrive. You’ll propose to them participation with equal shares in the profit in a future bandit stronghold in the wilds east-northeast of Beregost. Don’t mention my name or the Throne at any time. Irrespective of the mercenary leaders’ answers, supposing they actually show up, you will scout the region I mentioned for an adequate place to set up the stronghold. Once you’ve found the right spot, you’ll write me a letter. In it you’ll give me a tenday to meet with you again here in Beregost. You’ll guide me to the camp. Don’t mention the location of the camp in your letter. It has to remain secret. The camp will have to serve as a hideout in case we ever need one, so discretion is of the utmost importance. This operation will destabilize the region and it will help us fill our coffers."
"Aye my commander, it shall be as you say," said the Half-Ogre.
Sarevok wasn’t too pleased with leaving the important negotiations with the mercenaries to oafish Tazok alone. The Half-Ogre was no fool, but he wasn’t the most charismatic negotiator either. Nonetheless Sarevok felt he couldn’t idle his time way any longer, not with Gorion and his ‘stableboy’ on his mind.
After dinner, in the early evening, still with no sign of the mercenaries, the party members retreated to their rooms. Winski and Tazok kept their own private rooms; Sarevok and Tamoko shared a merchants’ double room, clean and comfortable without being luxurious. Sarevok was in good spirits, confident that his followers were going to make some satisfactory progress for him in the next days. He took off his armor and observed how Tamoko, standing by a boudoir on the other side of the room, removed hers as well. She then let down her thick black hair, which she normally wore in two buns on either side of her head, shook it lightly and let it fall loosely over her shoulders. Sarevok liked what he saw. Standing at barely five feet she was petite and slim, especially compared to him, but her tight, golden-skinned body was strong and fit. Many would mistake her for a frail, innocent young girl, but Sarevok knew better. Tamoko had the senses of a cat and every muscle in her body was toned to kill. He sat down on their brass bed as he called her to him. When she stopped before him, he looked up at her and she looked back at him quizzically. He put his hands around her slender waist and kissed her navel. This made her shiver with delight. She loved it when he made her feel desired. For all his strength and power, there were still things he did not control, she understood. It made her feel powerful in her own way. She gently pushed him on his back and laid herself beside him on her left side. With her right hand she caressed his broad, hairless chest while kissing him in the neck. Then she whispered in his ear: "It gladdens me to see you content, my lord. Is it because of the bandit stronghold? You said you intend to destabilize the region?"
"My dear Tamoko, the stronghold is only part of the plan," replied Sarevok amusedly, "but yes I am pleased. You know who I am. You know who I serve, for now. I am a Deathbringer thanks to Him. It is my calling to bring death. I murder, I slaughter, and I will be chosen to follow in His footsteps. This should be nothing new to you, and if it is," he added, suddenly tensing and raising his voice, "then you better get used to it, or ––" But all he produced at that moment was a jolt and a sustained groan, as Tamoko nibbled her lover’s earlobe and then kissed him in the ear.
"I see," Tamoko said. "I haven’t had the opportunity to study the prophecies in full like you have, but I think I understand now that it’s not necessary that you do the murdering yourself. You may provoke others to kill, and still earn His favor."
"That’s an intelligent observation little one," came Sarevok’s reply. He relaxed again, and after a brief pause, he continued. "Through me death will spread over the Sword Coast. I shall make others murder, but there will be plenty of killing for me to do as well. My focus shall be on my... competitors, which is exactly why you and I are going to make a little excursion to Candlekeep tomorrow. Do you have the tome of value to get us inside?"
"The tome?" she asked him, with a trace of hesitation in her voice. Sarevok’s question had taken her by surprise.
"Hehe, I had you there. Don’t you worry princess, I was only tricking you. I have my ways to get into Candlekeep, even the library. Now come here, I think we’ve done enough talking for the moment." He rolled her over and lay himself on top of her.
Tamoko wasn’t one to appreciate being made a fool of, but with Sarevok it was somehow different she realized, as she happily surrendered herself to him.
The four got up the next morning at the break of dawn, learned from the innkeeper that no new guests had arrived, and left the inn not much later. In the centre of Beregost, they saw a tough-looking Dwarf with a big axe and a shield. Winski Perorate conferred with Sarevok and then asked the Dwarf whether he was for hire as a mercenary and what his terms were. The stout warrior replied that he was a mercenary indeed and that his only term was 'good gold'. The wizard handed him a leaflet. "Read this, he said:"
Be it known to all those of evil intent, that a bounty has been
placed upon the head of Ánhaga, the foster child of Gorion.
Last seen in the area of Candlekeep, this person is to be killed
in quick order. Those returning with proof of the deed shall
receive no less than two hundred coins of gold.
As always, any that reveal these plans to the forces of law shall
join the target in their fate.
"From what I’ve heard the child appears to have traveled southward from Candlekeep," Perorate continued when he saw that the Dwarf had finished reading the notice, "so he’s bound to reach town one of these days. You would do well to stick around in Beregost for a while. It should be an easy kill, and thus some easy money for you."
Perorate’s words were obviously untrue. He didn't even know whether Ánhaga was still alive, but if the boy were to somehow leave Candlekeep alive, it wouldn’t hurt to have the Dwarf waiting for him in Beregost, the shrewd conjurer mage reckoned. Sarevok had nodded approvingly while listening to Perorate. His conjurer and he had a good understanding.
The four then parted ways. Winski Perorate took to the south, Sarevok and Tamoko, accompanied by Perorate’s Ogres, walked off in a northwesterly direction, and Tazok strutted lazily back to the Red Sheaf Inn.
***
***
The Sea of Swords’ powerful waves beat incessantly against the unyielding cliffs upon which the bastion of Candlekeep rested. It was the early afternoon and the waves were at their strongest. Atop the citadel’s massive western wall, breathing in the salty sea air, was seated a young Half-Elf lost in thought. Traces of his elven roots were only barely discernible. His leaf-shaped ears, partly covered by black tresses, could almost pass for human, and his blue-grey eyes had the almond shape but not the width of true Elven eyes. In them there was a hint of melancholy, and the fact that the corners of his chiseled mouth pointed ever so slightly downward only added to his somber expression. His nose was slim and somewhat long, his skin lightly tanned, and his body lean. The wind tousled his raven locks and made his robe of black, gold and chestnut brown flutter wildly. Taking in the sight and the sound of the battle between the waves and the cliffs always gave him a sense of serenity. He had often wondered how it was that he could find peace in such a display of violence, but this day he would find no peace in the scene, as much as he yearned for it. The events of the morning wore too heavily on his mind.
First there was the cutthroat that had almost killed him but whom he had ended up killing, the most shocking experience in his life hitherto. The scene kept replaying itself in his head. After an impromptu combat training session with Obe the Illusionist he stopped by the priests’ quarters to ask if someone had seen of a copy of The History of Haalrua, a book his forgetful friend Phlydia had lost somewhere. Inside, he saw no one but a strange man he had never met before. Hesitantly he gave out his name to the man when asked to do so. To his horror, the stranger, rather than returning the courtesy, immediately lunged at him with a dagger. Thanks to a deft traverse he only suffered a superficial flesh wound, though his robe got a huge tear in it. With neither offensive nor protective spells memorized, but still hasted thanks to an oil of speed from combat training, he managed to keep his adversary at bay with relative ease. Even so, fleeing from the premises was never an option as his foe made sure to keep the doorway blocked. When an attempt to break the stalemate and pacify the stranger was met with a smirk and another charge, he proceeded to attack with his throwing knives. Three hits in rapid succession, the third one close to the heart, killed the assailant. Using a divine power he had only recently obtained, granted to him by his patron deity Oghma, he had then healed himself.
Outside, he had run into his valued teacher Karan whom he related the happenings in the priests’ quarters to. He was supposed to have a lesson with Karan that afternoon but the old priest, unmistakably perturbed by his pupil’s account, had told him in a trembling voice that he wasn’t going to have any classes with him that day or anytime soon. Instead, for his own safety he was to set out with his foster father Gorion as soon as possible, instructions from the old man himself. Karan had given him a purse with some gold from Gorion to buy equipment at Winthrop’s Inn for the journey, and then tenderly but hurriedly bidden him farewell with a brief embrace.
After the incident with the assassin this had been the second event to make a profound impact on him: for the first time in his life he was to leave Candlekeep. He had snuck out of the citadel when he was younger, climbing over the roof of Winthrop’s Inn, up the wall, and using the trees on the other side to get down, but leaving Candlekeep on a journey who knows where was something else entirely. Candlekeep was no longer safe for him; the incident in the priests’ quarters had taught him that much already, but he had no idea why Gorion wanted to start out with him. He hadn’t even spoken to his foster father yet about the attempt on his life.
His mood was comprised of a rare mix of excitement and dejection. The great histories he had read in the library, and the tales of Gorion, Karan and others had long ago awoken in him a desire to explore the world beyond the walls of the citadel. Besides, leaving the halls of Candlekeep, sacred as they undeniably were, would actually be a good thing he reckoned, fully reconcilable with his faith. He knew that being a priest of Oghma meant not only to preserve knowledge and ideas but also to seek them and to spread them. He considered the role of seeker and bringer of truth one that became him. At the same time he was convinced he was going to miss his friends, his education, and the library’s dusty tomes sooner rather than later.
A sudden rustling roused him from his pensive state. He looked around wildly for an instant until he saw a familiar face crop up.
"Heya Ánhaga! It’s me, Imoen!" cheered his closest friend in her characteristically jovial manner. The Half-Elf smiled at the sound of Imoen’s merry voice. She was a trim, pale-skinned Human with a permanent grin on her face, twinkling grey eyes with a hint of green, and shoulder length, gingerish hair. She used to dress in supple, tight-fitting clothes in earth tones but with rose accents, commonly in the form of a cloak and a scarf, and today was no exception.
He took a careful look at the girl he was positive he would not see again anytime soon. He didn’t know any other girls his age so he couldn’t really compare Imoen with anyone, but he considered her to be a good-looking lass. Like Ánhaga, Imoen was an orphan with no idea who her biological parents were. And just like him, she had been brought to Candlekeep into Gorion’s care, albeit ten years later than he. But where he had spent much of his time at the temple of Oghma and with the Watchers, she had spent hers mostly at Winthrop’s, and in recent years she had even worked as his helper at the inn. She had also been Ánhaga’s fellow student in Karan’s classes for various years but for some reason she had not been offered the arcane and clerical training that Ánhaga had started six months before. He could understand why she hadn’t been admitted as a novice into the Oghmanyte priest order like him. She lacked the spiritual devotion for that, and she probably wouldn’t have even wanted to join the clergy had it been proposed to her. But it struck him as unfair that Gorion hadn’t taken it upon him to educate Imoen in the arcane arts, taking into account the fact that she was no less clever or eager to learn than he was. Imoen however, had never seemed to be overly bothered by the matter, so he hadn’t made an issue of it.
"Imoen! Sorry! You caught me off-guard. What took you so long? I thought we were to meet here at midday. Did Winthrop keep you busy?" He looked at her briefly and then gave her a tight hug, one that lasted long enough for his friend to suspect that something was weighing on his heart. When he released her from his embrace, she took a close look at him.
"Your robe! What happened to you!?" she cried, as she noticed the tear in Ánhaga’s robe. "And you’ve bled! Look, there’s bloodstains on your ––"
"I know," he interrupted. "It was but a scratch really, nothing serious, and I’ve already healed myself. But that’s not important right now. Look, I don’t have much time, and there are a few things I need you to know." He fell silent for a moment. "You do know how much you mean to me, yes?" Ánhaga felt a lump forming in his throat, and he was struggling for words. "Imoen," he continued after a while, "I eh… I’m leaving Candlekeep with Gorion, today, now to be more precise, and I don’t know if or when I am to return. I’m afraid this is farewell for us."
Imoen remained silent, but the absence of surprise in her expression told him that she knew at least as much as he did about his impending journey. Tears were welling in her eyes, but he waited for her to speak.
"Well, I had already gathered part of what you just told me from one of Gorion’s private letters," she confessed. "Oh I shouldn’t have pried I know, but I felt something was in the works. It’s Gorion. Have you seen him? He was very restless this morning when I saw him by the library entrance, and I couldn’t just pretend nothing was the matter. I didn’t know you’d be leaving today though." She paused a moment. "I wish I could come with you, but I’m sure Gorion wouldn’t allow it, old stick-in-the-mud," she added with a wink in a futile attempt at lightening up the conversation. Suddenly she burst into tears and she buried her face in his chest. He proceeded to gently stroke her hair, and then he too, lost the battle against his emotions. Unlike his beloved friend however, Ánhaga shed his tears in silence, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
It was Imoen who spoke first. "You need to go. I’ll just stay here for a moment. I want some time for myself. Pack your stuff, pick up some gear at Winthrop’s perhaps; I’m sure he won’t charge much, and go see Gorion. I think he’s in the gardens."
With his robe Ánhaga dried Imoen’s eyes and his own. He then gave her a last look, planted a kiss on her forehead, and climbed down without a further word. He decided to make a quick round to say goodbye to the good people he would not be seeing anytime soon. The first he ran into was Hull, one of the Watchers. Hull was an aging Fighter he had a good understanding with. They had often trained together. While favoring bastard swords himself, Hull had been so kind to teach Ánhaga how to properly wield a long sword. Thanks to Hull’s combat training, Ánhaga was a fairly proficient swordsman of passable strength. His lack of true warrior strength, which he partly compensated for with the remarkable agility that had probably saved his life earlier that day, was the first of two reasons he preferred long swords over Hull’s bulkier bastard swords. The second reason was ‘Mortal Strike’, the spiritual long sword Oghma allowed him to use once a day.
Hull was on duty and, to Ánhaga’s guilty amusement, not in the best of conditions as the pale face, the miserable expression, and the bags under his eyes betrayed. There could only be one explanation for that: Winthrop’s mead.
"Hey son," said the warrior in a hoarser than usual voice, "I woke up late this morning and I forgot my sword back in the barracks. It’s in my chest, on the right-hand side. Could you fetch it for me? I wouldn’t want the Gatewarden to catch me without it."
"Sure, no problem, shall I also get you an antidote, you know to wash away the... headache?" replied Ánhaga with a wink. Curiously, seeing ill-disciplined and hung over old Hull raised Ánhaga’s spirits, even on this day of violence and farewells.
"Headache? I don’t know what you’re talking about kid." The Watcher seemed to suppress a smirk himself. "Now off with you, don’t keep me waiting." Ánhaga was already on his way to the barracks, when Hull called after him: "Come to think of it, do bring me that antidote as well if you will!"
To his surprise Ánhaga only found a long sword in Hull’s chest, the long sword he used to train with, but no bastard sword. He picked up the long sword anyway as well as an antidote, and returned to Hull.
"I have your antidote Hull, but I didn’t see your sword. I only found my training sword," and he presented the weapon to Hull. "Here you go. It’s probably better than nothing no?" Without waiting for Hull’s possible disapproval, he continued: "I need to go now because I’m leaving Candlekeep with Gorion on a journey. But before I’m off I wanted you to know that I truly appreciate the time and effort you’ve invested in me, in my swordsmanship. I’m really going to miss training with you."
"I know you’re leaving son, and I’m gonna miss our training sessions too. I’ll be training with the other Watchers most of the time now. Staff fighters the lot of them. It’s just not the same, they all ––"
"Hold on! You know?" Right now Ánhaga wasn’t nearly as interested in Hull’s views on staff fighting compared to sword fighting as he was in the warrior’s knowledge of his impending journey with Gorion. He was perplexed. Did everyone already know about his impending departure or what?
"Yea, the Gatewarden informed me about it last night, but I know nothing more. Listen, I asked you to fetch that blade because I want you to keep it. You know well it’s just a plain sword, with no fancy enchantments or anything. But at least it was forged out of true steel before that whole iron crisis kicked in, unlike the tripe that Winthrop has for sale at the Inn - meaning no offense," he quickly added. "It’s not his fault that our steel here on the Sword Coast is as brittle nowadays as sun-dried manure, and almost as useless for a young adventurer such as yourself. Anyway, you know how to wield the blade and you may well have more use for it than anyone else around here, though I hope for your sake not too often."
Ánhaga received the sword with gratitude. There had been truth in Hull’s words, he knew. A mysterious iron crisis had been plaguing the Sword Coast for several months now, and decent weapons and armor were becoming harder and harder to come by. He shook Hull’s thick hand and then with one arm he awkwardly embraced the old warrior. He didn’t feel as sorrowful as he had done when he said goodbye to Imoen, but the idea that he wouldn’t be sparring and jesting with Hull any longer did sadden him.
Nonetheless the thrill of leaving gradually began to take hold of him as he continued his round of goodbyes past the various structures built against the citadel’s walls. He cordially took his leave from his fellow Oghmanytes at the infirmary and the temple, from grumpy old Reevor the Dwarf, Dreppin the Cowherd, and Phlydia (whose book he eventually found thanks to a tip from Dreppin), and then he entered Winthrop's Inn.
"My hotel’s as clean as an Elven arse!" were the words with which he was saluted. Now there was something Ánhaga wasn’t necessarily going to miss, he realized: Winthrop’s bizarre japes and one-liners. "Ah young one it’s you!" said the innkeeper and owner of Candlekeep’s biggest beer belly by far, as he laid eyes on Ánhaga. "Come to visit your old pal Winthrop have ye? Well, don’t forget the 5,000 gold piece book entrance fee, as per Candlekeep custom."
Ánhaga, complaisant enough not to let the jesting innkeeper down, decided to play along. "I fear I do not have that kind of fee with me," he said quasi-dejectedly, "I suppose I shall return when I do."
It earned him a guffaw and a small discount from the innkeeper when he explained that he was going to leave Candlekeep and that he had come to purchase some equipment for the road. He bought a spare long sword as a backup weapon for Hull’s long sword, four more sets of throwing daggers, a medium shield and a horned helmet (due to a lack of anything more aesthetic), before bidding the foul-mouthed but well-meaning innkeeper farewell. He then entered the inner gardens, where the singing voices of the Chanter and his three aides greeted him.
‘The Lord of Murder shall perish
But in his death he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny
Chaos will be sown from their passing
So sayeth the wise Alaundo’
The portentous words disturbed him somehow, even though he had heard them countless times before. All those four monks did was chant the prophecies of Alaundo the Seer, the founder of Candlekeep, all day long. Ánhaga saluted them with a quick nod, and was then glad to run into Tethtoril, after Karan and Hull the third and last of his tutors he had wanted to say goodbye to before leaving the citadel with Gorion. Tethtoril was a Dweomerkeeper priest of Mystra, and as such not the most obvious instructor for a novice priest of Oghma such as Ánhaga. Indeed such aspects of Ánhaga’s training as Oghmanyte rituals, meditation and prayer to Oghma had not been part of the curriculum (although Tethtoril could have probably schooled him just fine in these aspects for the old priest was one of the most knowledgeable people to walk the realms and he received divine instruction not only from Mystra but also from Oghma and Deneir). Tethtoril’s role had rather been to introduce Ánhaga in the art of reading omens and to instruct him in the important area of ethical and moral counsel.
"Good day, Tethtoril. It’s fortunate that I meet you here. I’m here to bid you farewell. I’m leaving Candlekeep with Gorion, but I’m sure you already knew that. You know everything that goes on within these walls."
"Not everything young one, or I would have prevented you from entering the priests’ quarters this morning," said Tethtoril softly.
"I… see." He didn’t know how to interpret Tethtoril’s words. He hoped that Tethtoril knew or at least believed him to be innocent, but he wasn’t entirely sure. "I’m very sorry about what happened in there," he added.
"I have no doubt you are child, though you shouldn’t be. You have nothing to blame yourself for."
"Well thank you," said Ánhaga, relieved by what Tethtoril had just said. "There is so much I would have liked to learn from you still, but I’m grateful for all that you have taught me so far. Farewell Tethtoril." Ánhaga revered Tethtoril too much to be cordial with him; he limited himself to being as polite and respectful as he could.
The master took the pupil’s hand with both his bony hands, and bade the youngster goodbye. "I’m very proud of you, as I’m sure Gorion is. Go to him now and listen well. For without knowledge, life is but a mere shadow of death."
By the entrance to the library, he finally saw Gorion.
"Oh my child, I’m glad I have found you," said the sage, directing his ward toward the gate without ado.
"So am I father. I did as you asked. As you can see, I prepared for our journey." He patted his newly purchased shield and he unsheathed Hull’s longsword with a sheepish smile.
"Yes, yes, that’s all very well," replied Gorion impatiently. "Nice helmet too… you look like a veritable champion. However, I’m more interested in what’s in your pack. Do you have your spellbook with you?"
"Yes father, both my spellbooks, not just my arcane spellbook, a diary, some spare weaponry, a couple of healing potions and another robe. The one I’m wearing has a tear in it." He thought of telling his foster father of the events of the morning, but decided to wait. "I’ll try to fix it sometime soon."
"Ah, that reminds me." Gorion stopped and out of his pack, which at that moment struck Ánhaga as curiously small, he took a beautiful mage robe, platinum grey with golden and charcoal elements. "Here," Gorion said, handing the robe to his foster son, "I want you to wear this. It’s a traveler’s robe. It has some minor enchantments to protect you on the road."
Ánhaga touched the fabric with care. It was thin, and light as a feather yet strong and flexible and he noticed some delicate patterns sewn into the fabric. "Father, this is a princely gift," what did I do to earn this?
"Well, you’re a mage now young one. I reckoned you’d better start dressing the part," and then: ting-ting-ting! – three times he knocked with his knuckles on his ward’s helmet. "Come son, let’s get out of here."
At the gate Ánhaga looked back one more time at what was the only home he had known. In the distance, on the stairs leading to the library entrance, he saw a figure in white robes. Ánhaga raised his hand to salute him, but the Keeper of the Tomes turned around and walked off.
***
I suggest (as always) you take a look at Thieves World... it tells a semi narrative tale from many, many perspectives, some good, some bad, some truly ugly, including telling the same story from more than 1 perspective. You probably don't need to read the stories, but its a similar idea. Its like porn for fantasy authors, theorists and people a bit burned out on fantasy that used to enjoy it. The hardest part will be having enough of a character that they are understandable, and ideally, some of them a bit sympathetic. Most of the bounty hunters and assassins must have intereting back stories you can hint at. Thieves' World was big on holding back info to make you extrapolate a bit, which forces you to connect a bit to even some unpleasant people. Nimbul should be fun to write this way especially, and Tamoko.
I love this time of year! Something about the crisp taste of the air and the blazing autumn trees that lights a creative spark in the brain and inspires art! ^_^ There are so many stories appearing on the forum, and November is just around the corner, I love it!
Now, in regards to your work, @Blackraven, I think you've taken a very interesting perspective on the story. I'd love to see more of Sarevok in the earliest parts of the game, and I'm highly curious to see how his character will develop throughout the course of the events. I also enjoyed Gorion's tidbit with Ulraunt; that set up a nice tension for the reader. Sure, Candlekeep may be Anhaga's home, but that doesn't mean absolutely everyone likes him, or that he's ever felt truly welcome. I liked that immediate spin on things. Minsc and Dynaheir also felt very in-character (not that it's hard to write Minsc
All of that said, there are some parts that need work:
1. This is only the first chapter, and you've already taken the perspective of three different parties. Two of which make a really big fuss over your character Anhaga, but we have yet to meet him for ourselves. This is the character that the whole plot is centered on, right? As a reader, I want to meet him, not simply hear about him and his character traits from a third-party. And I don't want to wait until later--I want to get in his head as soon as possible, and learn first-hand what this guy's really all about. Assuming, of course, that he is the protagonist of the whole thing.
2. I liked Minsc and Dynaheir's section over-all, but it did feel a little out of place compared to the other two. Where Gorion and Sarevok are obviously concerned most with Anhaga, Minsc and Dynaheir just seem to be doing their own thing with no clear connection to the story's events. You mentioned that you intended to write from the perspectives of many characters, but you--very wisely, I must say--decided to reduce it down to Anhaga and Sarevok, and give the other characters little drop-ins along the way. I understand that this section must be one of those drop-ins. Still, I'm unsure if they should be introduced this early in the story, when we even have yet to meet our protagonist (again, assuming your protagonist is Anhaga). Also--this is a personal nitpick--why does Dynaheir have "olive-skin"? Judging from her portrait, I always thought she was black, or at least a dark shade of brown.
3. This is a technical mistake, but your dialogue's not formatted correctly. It's easy to fix--you just have to switch the quotation marks around. Instead of using a single (as in this -> ' ) you want to use a double when the characters are speaking (as in this-> " ) At one point there was a time when Tamoko quotes Sarevok while she's speaking--that is when you want to use the single ' in a dialogue. So it should really look like this:
Again, this is purely grammatical. There's no need to change it right away; it shouldn't hinder the reader's progress, or at least, it didn't hinder mine. But because it was so prevalent throughout the work, I felt I should point it out.
Aaaaaaand that's all I have for you.
*bookmarks*
@Nonnahswriter, thanks so much for your kind words and for taking your time to give me your views. Constructive criticism is always welcome.
Re: 1/2. Ánhaga's next in line. I'll probably publish his first part this weekend. I waited on purpose with introducing him, hoping that a bit of mystery might push the reader on, to meet him...
You're right about the Minsc-Dynaheir part in that it's meant as a drop-in as you call it. I wonder whether it's too long to be called such. And I've also considered doing Sarevok first, then the Minsc/Dynaheir, and then Ánhaga. As to Dynaheir's skin, I departed a bit from her original portrait. This is more how I imagine her, due to her Rashemaar background:
I've also considered 'mocha' though. Might change into that, will think about it.
Would you think it better if the Gorion-Tethtoril-Ulraunt part were to be the Prologue? Originally that's how I intended it, but originally that part was also twice as long. After shortening I just made it the first part of Chapter 1.
Re: 3. I just checked in a grammar guide and you're right. Interestingly I've seen both apostrophes and quotation marks applied for the purpose of citing, but that may have to do with differing publishing house styles.
It's so refreshing to read an author who knows how to correctly decline pronouns and conjugate verbs in Dynaheir's Elizabethan English! Kudos! I cringe every time somebody tries to do that and obviously has no idea what they're doing grammatically, which is distressingly frequently.
I liked your three introductory scenes, and I've seen published authors do the same thing, that is, hint at the protagonist without actually introducing him, and showing a bit of other characters first. I'd make the whole of what you have so far into a prologue, and then get into Anhaga's head at the beginning of Chapter One, staying there most of the time thereafter.
Of course, you could also do a G.R.R. Martin or Robert Jordan and switch freely among the points of view of any characters you want, anywhere in the world. If they can do it so successfully, I think you've already shown you can do the same thing. The question is just how big your ambition grows, because making Baldur's Gate as epic as Game of Thrones or Wheel of Time would require a *lot* of work. What's our esteemed Mr. Martin up to, several thousand pages by now, and still far from any final resolution?
Just don't do what Robert Jordan did and die with your main storyline unfinished, after 12 books.
I'm curious, how did you come up with the name "Anhaga"?
As to making what I have so far into the prologue, I feel that if I did that the Dynaheir/Minsc part might feel a bit out of place to me. I'm more inclined to add Ánhaga's Candlekeep portion to a Prologue as well and then start Chapter 1 with the fireworks of the Gorion - Sarevok showdown or even to include that as well in the Prologue and then start Chapter 1 the day after...
You make a very good point that producing an epic multiple POV novelization would take up a huge amount of time. I wasn't planning on doing a Robert Jordan
Since I only have about 6 hours a week (sometimes more, it's partly a matter of obligations and partly one of priorities), such an endeavour could be frustratingly slow.
As to Ánhag's name, the word ānhaga (sic, with macron on the first 'a') is an old English word for solitary man, or the lone one. There's an anonymous, late tenth century Old English poem, The Wanderer, which to me is as movingly beautiful as it is fitting for BG's Charname (at least the first verse):
Oft him anhaga are gebideð,
metudes miltse, þeah þe he modcearig
geond lagulade longe sceolde
hreran mid hondum hrimcealde sæ
wadan wræclastas. Wyrd bið ful aræd!
Swa cwæð eardstapa, earfeþa gemyndig,
wraþra wælsleahta, winemæga hryre.
Often the solitary one finds grace for himself
the mercy of the Lord although he, sorry hearted,
must for a long time move by hand*
along the waterways of the ice-cold sea
tread the paths of exile. Fate shall always follow as it must!
So spoke the Wanderer mindful of hardships
Of fierce slaughters and the downfall of kinsmen.
*hand = row
This link offers an interesting analysis of it:
http://echoesfromthegnosis.blogspot.com/2012/05/wanderer.html
I intend for one of the more learned NPCs to make a reference to the meaning of Ánhaga's name, later on in the story. Possibly Dynaheir.
@kcwise: it's a lot of work as you say. I think Hemingway once said: "Your easy reading is my damned hard writing." An one can only hope to provide 'easy reading'. Still, I'd love to see you translate your inspiration into a narrated/novelized playthrough.
As to my current attempt, I've no idea where it will lead, when or whether I'll complete it, but that's not what this is about for me. It's about the process (the creative thinking, playing with the English language, etc.) rather than the product, even though I think finishing this would be gratifying.
Also @kcwise, if you wanna jump on the bandwagon too, go for it! Heck, you've already got the awesome author pseudonym.
CHAPTER 2
It was a curious sight to behold, by the southwestern edge of the King’s Forest in Cormyr, where the great oaks had already made way for the grass and bushes of the sloping plains that stretched from the forest to the Stormhorns Mountains. A tremendously muscular barbarian, alien to the land, the moonshine reflecting off his tattooed bald head, was carefully taking a hamster out of a pocket in his pack and lying himself on the ground next to the diminutive animal. With one hand he reached into another pocket: "Well Boo, nuts or seeds?"
"Oh Minsc, why art thou still keeping that rodent with thee? Think’st thou not that each animal deserveth the freedom to roam wherever they see fit, even if that means to be eaten? Would such not be the ways of nature?" asked the barbarian’s traveling companion, a mocha-skinned female dressed in a long, damson velvet robe. She was about the same height as her cohort but by no means the same size, her prominent hips notwithstanding. She sat herself down on the ground beside the man, legs crossed. The woman was puzzled rather than annoyed by her companion’s behavior.
"Be eaten? Dynaheir please don’t say that! I couldn’t bear…," but Minsc didn’t finish his sentence. Something had alerted him. "I am afraid we cannot stay here," he muttered with his ear on the ground. "Yes, Boo hears many stomping feet north of here, far still but coming our way. Orcs perhaps? Boo is most disturbed, and maybe so should we be. We had best find shelter now. The evening is falling and, inconveniently, we’ve just reached open lands. The good thing is that all seems quiet round here. Come, my witch!" he called out as he carefully pocketed his hamster and jumped up.
"Well, that answers my question," Dynaheir spoke, more to herself than to her companion, as she hurriedly got up to follow her protector. They did not reenter the forest. Confident that time was on their side, they ran over the grassy plains to the south-southwest. Instead of following a straight course, the duo ran in two great, connected circles, forming a huge ‘8’, as they had done before to confuse bandits or monsters that might catch the travelers’ trail. At the point where they completed the first circle and where they would start the second one Minsc suddenly halted. It caused Dynaheir to bump into him.
"Dynaheir, I’m taking an empty potion bottle from my pack and I will drop it on the ground here, and a second one a bit further back. It may mislead the monsters. Let them figure out which way we went. Remember this trick, in case I’m not going to be around to…"
"Please Minsc, thou hast no reason to say that. I look after thee and thou looketh after me. So it has been and so it shall be." Dynaheir was thankful for Minsc’s company, his friendship, and moreover trusting of his survival instinct. They had come far together, all the way from the distant land of Rashemen in the remote east of the Faerûnian continent, and Minsc’s skills as a scout and tracker had so far made an impact on her. Likewise, he had expressed his admiration to her for her magical powers. She used them scarcely even though as a sorceress she wasn’t short on spell power. Her restraint had probably made her magic all the more remarkable to Minsc the few times she had displayed it, she reckoned. Her thoughts wandered off to a couple of nights before, when she had cast an Aganazzar’s Scorcher to roast their evening meal after it had been raining all day in the forest. Minsc had become progressively frustrated with his fruitless attempts at making a fire and he’d had difficulty hiding it. Out of sheer joy with her effective sorcery he had hugged her tight and kissed her on the forehead, but he had loosened his grip immediately after that and apologized for his ‘improper’ behavior. Improper it had been, at least by Rashemaar standards, and she had reminded him of that, but secretly Dynaheir hadn’t been offended by what seemed to have been a genuine expression of camaraderie on Minsc’s part. She had accepted her companion’s apology, and fortunately Minsc had proven to be too carefree to remain troubled by the incident or to bother with formalizing his usual conduct with her.
After a good half-hour the companions left Minsc’s circles behind and they continued running through the night, westward to the mountains, for another hour. Physically, both were in their prime. They were in their early twenties, and very fit after months of traveling on foot. Besides, they were light travelers (even though Minsc was strong as a packhorse and would have hardly been encumbered had he carried more baggage or used heavier armor than his studded leathers). The companions could have easily kept up their pace, but they stopped when they reached the foothills that announced the Stormhorns Mountains. Minsc spotted two grey wolves on a hilltop, starlit under the open sky, eying the companions sharply.
Little by little more wolves arrived, and not just grey ones but also a number of their more aggressive cousins: worgs and dire wolves. Dynaheir looked around nervously. She reckoned there were at least 20 of them, and she noticed that the beasts had no intentions of backing down: slowly but gradually they were coming closer and closer. Some of the animals bared their teeth and growled menacingly. First in line was a large, fearsome dire wolf that she took for the leader of the pack.
Dynaheir exchanged looks with Minsc. Fear was written in her eyes, but not in his, she noticed. The mighty barbarian nodded gently to her. Somehow that reassured her, even if she had no idea what he was thinking. Then she saw how her companion simply stepped forward in a remarkably leisurely way. He had his arms spread open, and he started whistling and murmuring friendly sounds as he walked straight toward the large dire wolf that she had thought to be the alpha male. Minsc knelt before the great beast, so that the two of them were now at eye level. Then Minsc laid his hands in the animal’s neck and he tenderly pressed his forehead against the dire wolf’s head. The two had bonded.
The dire wolf sat down, and Dynaheir noted that all the other wolves relaxed immediately. Slowly, Minsc got up and returned to her with a solemn expression on his face. "Come my witch," he told her. He took her by the hand and walked with her toward the leader of the wolf pack. He sat down again and he softy pulled her down as well. He had her make eye contact with the dire wolf just as he had done, moments before. "I wanted to introduce you to the great wolf leader. You and I are now with the pack. We can rest here. The wolves will guard us with their lives, if need be."
The two walked around for quite a while, exploring the wolves’ extensive territory, and making contact with many of the animals. The smile on Minsc’s face was inerasable that night, and Dynaheir shared his joy. Both companions were completely at ease. After days of running and hiding, being able to let their guards down for a moment was a welcome change of pace for both companions. They were thinking of setting up camp, when Dynaheir spotted a graceful she-wolf with a silvery grey pelt. Minsc told her that the animal had to be of winter wolf ancestry. They approached the animal, but the wolf didn’t stop for them to touch her. Instead, she continued, guiding the companions away until they reached a narrow creek coming from the mountains. There she stopped. Dynaheir was impressed with the animal’s intelligence, with the fact that it had guided them, but Minsc merely laughed. He sat down, patted the wolf and then spoke to her: ‘Are you saying that Dynaheir and I need a bath? How subtle you are!’ He looked up and winked at his companion. The hoary she-wolf just looked at the two Humans with big loyal eyes.
"Thank thee, Silver," Dynaheir said to the animal, and she too, cuddled the wolf. "And thank thee, my dear Minsc! Not just for saving me, ‘tis much more than that. Thou hast a magic of thine own, and with it thou hast given me a most precious moment I shan’t ever forget."
The modest Rashemaar ranger simply nodded, his eyes cast down. He didn’t know how to respond to the compliment he had just received. "Maybe we should take your Silver’s hint," he finally said, changing the subject. Untying his studded leather armor he walked off. "Nice name by the way, Silver. Boo likes it."
A bit further downstream – the purer water upstream, untarnished by his washing, he left to his witch – the robust barbarian undressed and entered the creek. Dynaheir decided to follow her companion’s example. She took off her leather boots and unbuttoned her robe and underdress. For the last, blissful hour she had lost all awareness of time, temperature, hunger and thirst, but when she was fully undressed the sorceress became mindful again of the elements. She felt the cool Myrtul evening breeze caressing her body, and when she waded into the stream she discovered that the water was quite chilly. The stream turned out to be little more than a brooklet so she sat down, boldly resisting signals her body was sending to her brain that it was too cold, to let the water fully embrace her. She didn’t take long in getting used to the cold water and was soon enjoying her first true bath in days. She was on her knees rubbing the dirt from her arms, her upper body glistering in the moonlight, when suddenly she became aware of her companion downstream, his broad torso rising out of the water like a rock. It was too dark for eye contact, but his face was turned in her direction. Was he staring at her? She squatted down, hiding her body under the water, and she saw Minsc quickly look away.
That night the companions didn’t speak much. They quietly set up camp and laid themselves to rest right after it. Dynaheir soon gathered from Minsc’s regular, heavy breathing that her companion had had little trouble falling asleep. It bewildered her that the incident in the stream, followed by the odd silence before they went to bed, didn’t keep him awake thinking, as it did with her. "Isn’t he ever the carefree one?" she said to herself. It took her more than an hour before she too, would be overtaken by sleep.
***
@nonnahswriter, @Dreadkhan, @Ravenslight, @Luridel, @BelgarathMTH, @meagloth, @kcwise, @rufus_hobart and others who have (partly) read my previous instalments, I've more or less followed nonnahswriter's advice. My newest instalment is actually found in the third entry in this thread (which previously contained another part). Apologies for any confusion caused, but I think the current order is better:
Chapter 1:
- Gorion, Tethtoril and Ulraunt
- Sarevok and co. in Beregost
- Ánhaga in Candlekeep (new part, just added)
Chapter 2:
- Minsc and Dynaheir on their way to the Sword Coast (the above entry, previously published after the 'Gorion, Tethtoril and Ulraunt' portion)
Looking forward to people's reactions/feedback
I was stunned when I first saw this thread - stunned for several hours, not less. Just no save was available.
You've come to the novelization attempt after several months of preparing and I think we're feeling it: the attention to details is there, the variaty of language is there, the interesting concept of telling several different stories that in the end are united into one tale is there.
The idea about telling the story from three sides does appeal to me a lot: this is rather fresh and (on the long run) helps to look at the same things from different angles.
Unlike @Nonnahswriter, I'm not against your story to be shattered even on smaller pieces. I'm sure in the we'll learn about Ánhaga eventually but it doesn't make any harm to tell the story from Sarevok&Tamoko camp, from Minsc&Dynaheir adventuring.
Maybe you will even add Tiax&Quayle (hehe) story from the Baldur's Gate City
I'm looking forward to the next chapter!
Prologues are a little tricky... They're considered a part of the story, yet at the same time, they're almost in a realm of their own. For example, a lot of writers use prologues to visit their story's past before leaping into the present, a past event that helps to set-up the plot for the rest of the story. Two events that have seemingly nothing to do with each other, yet could make all the difference between "making sense" and "not so much."
If I'm reading this right, you intend for the story to begin once the party leaves Candlekeep, yes? But to me, the story already kind of has--Anhaga's been attacked, Gorion's prepping to leave, Sarevok's on the move, and this all takes place in the present. It doesn't really feel like a prologue to me--it feels like a very solid first chapter. Prologues also tend to be pretty short, while yours is obviously a bit long.
If I were you, I'd just rename your prologue as Chapter 1 and pick Minsc up in the start of Chapter 2. Though you don't have to of course--it's your story, and you know its ins and outs better than I do.
I look forward to reading more.
@FinneousPJ: wow thanks!
@bengoshi, thanks so much my friend! I do intend to keep using different POVs but Ánhaga's and Sarevok's POVs will appear more often than those of other characters... As to Quayle/Tiax and other NPCs, I'm still undecided as to which NPCs to flesh out as characters. There are many interesting ones, but it's impossible to to use them all.
@nonnahswriter: yep, I fully agree. Already changed it. I have a description of a scene with Gorion witnessing through Firebead's scrying crystal how Sarevok throws one of his brothers off the Iron Throne building, which would be more fitting for a Prologue. But I just discovered that a certain someone has already covered that event in a Prologue before me
Edit: and thanks for your words. Your analysis of Ánhaga and Imoen is pretty on point. He's rather introverted and solemn except with close friends (such as Imoen and Hull).
Overall, your style seems highly refined, captivating and easy to read despite the rich vocabulary. Perhaps most commendable is your respectful yet creative work with the canon storyline and characters. I wish I were more eloquent and knowledgeable to give you a worthy critique/admiration/confession...
However, I am but a puny reader and as such, I can only say that like others, I would love to read more. And should you ever finish this, I say whatever you come up with should become canon lore. Outstanding work!
It will take some patience though because I don't have as much time as I would like to, and because I'm not a very impulsive writer (I re-read and edit things all the time). But I'm doing my best
I can only encourage you to do so. As you say there are a lot of good writers and interested readers on the forums here, willing to give their constructive views in a respectful manner.
I'll give it a shot when I have time, though, since my stories are not related to BG, they'll probably be found in the Off-Topic section.
Flames were dancing around in the great hall wherever he looked, feeding off what fuel happened to end up in their grasp: the tapestries on the walls with the menacing skulls on them, the wooden girders, the benches, the thick mauve carpets on the stone floor, and worst of all, human flesh. From the fires, billows of smoke rose, higher and higher until they reached the vaulted ceiling far above him. Those who had had the strength, had already scampered, limped or even crawled their way past him. Toward the massive gates and beyond they had fled, to the relative safety of the dark and chilly moors outside. But she hadn’t been among the fleers. Could it be that that cursed wizard had slain her? The boy’s instincts kept telling him to make off as the others had done, for the heat was excruciating and the smell of burning flesh revolting. Besides, the scorching air cut through his trachea like a razor with every breath he took. Numerous bodies were scattered about on the ground, most of them lifeless, but not all, he gathered from the heaving of two men near him. It gave him hope. He wouldn’t leave yet, not until he had found the woman who had been so good to him. He would save her, he resolved, just like she had saved him barely a week before.
After all, she had helped him escape the ire of the grey-robed wizard whose pockets he had clumsily attempted to pick at the North Market back home. Mages tend to be lucrative marks, he had learnt from some of the other urchins in Saerloon, but very dicey for inexperienced pickpockets such as him. Too dicey in this case, because the wizard had collared him. But then the woman had appeared out of nowhere, uttering a few words in a strange tongue and a commanding voice. It caused the wizard to suddenly relax and smilingly hand him a ring and some gold when instructed by her to do so. She had introduced herself to him as Tenebra and then taken him to her little home not far from the market. There she had burnt his shabby, ill-fitting old clothes, washed him, and dressed him in a clean white shirt, a black tunic, a pair of dark brown slacks, and black leather boots, all seemingly tailor-made for him. The wizard’s ring went into the left pocket of his trousers. At noon Tenebra had served him the most exquisite lunch he had ever had: mutton in a mild coriander sauce, tender boiled potatoes garnished with parsley, and many different vegetables mixed together. “You’re an exceptional young man. The visions have told me so, and I can read it in those fiery eyes of yours,” she had said amiably. “You deserve better than to walk around in rags, begging and stealing your way to your next meal.” She had called him ‘one of the chosen’. What those words were supposed to mean he had no idea, but he had been too delighted with the moment and above all with his meal to give much thought to the woman’s cryptic remarks. After lunch she had taken him with her on a journey. Three days they had wandered through woodlands and green valleys, over rolling hills, and past rustic cabins and luxurious estates. Their nights they had spent at some of those estates. At each place Tenebra would speak her peculiar formula in order for the residents to treat them in the same complaisant manner as the wizard at the North Market had done. He had gathered by then that she was a spell caster, and that the words she had uttered were some sort of charm. In secret he had tried to imitate her incantation, but he wasn’t sure whether he’d been doing it right. He had yet to test it on someone. Their journey ended when they reached the dark temple, the same temple that was now ablaze and on the verge of destruction. He had helped her prepare for a ceremony where twelve other children were, as he was told, to be given ‘to their father and his’. He had never known his father but according to Tenebra he was someone very important. The other children had been ‘unworthy’, unlike him. Again, he had had no idea what she had been trying to tell him exactly, but when he had asked her she had assured him that everything would become clear to him in due time. But so far it hadn’t, and maybe it never would.
The ceremony had barely started when a group of gatecrashers entered the temple, led to his alarm by the wizard he had tried to pickpocket back home at the North Market. “This foul ritual ends here and now! Surrender or you shall regret it!” the wizard had shouted. Had the mage come for his ring? – he had wondered. Two ranks of temple sentinels had tried to stop the intruders, but exploding balls of fire had blown them asunder and set the temple on fire. The wizard and his entourage had rushed past him, in the back of the temple, toward Tenebra, the priests and the children by the altar. Soon more fireworks and the clashing of steel on steel had followed. He hadn’t been able to see much of what went on. The clamor had lasted for some time, but now all was quiet except for the crackling and the sighing of the insatiable fire and for the moans of the wounded.
The thick fumes severely impaired his vision. Carefully he zigzagged his way to the front of the temple, eyes cast upon the ground, screening the place for Tenebra. He finally found her in a quiet corner, sat with her back against the wall. She didn’t look wounded but her heavy, irregular panting told him she was hurt. When she saw him approach, she tried to speak but she merely gurgled, and blood flowed out of her mouth. He looked at her in horror, almost feeling the pain she was in. After some coughing, her second attempt at speech was more successful, though her voice was weak.
“Come here child. I won’t be able to finish my work, but at least you’re still alive. Give me your hand. You must take this dagger, and plant it…” she shrieked in pain as she gave him the weapon and moved her arm to place her hand on her heart, “bury it right here, with all your might.”
“No, no I can’t! We must get away from this place. Together.”
“Do it!!” Tenebra cried out in agony. “I have no more spells, and I’ve been afflicted with some kind of toxin. Poisoned darts. It’s corroding my innards as we speak. I’m already dead, my boy”.
Tears streamed down his face as he observed Tenebra’s pleading look, until – sshhluck! – the dagger pierced the woman’s chest and then her heart.
His first kill. Tenebra’s eyes opened widely for a second, but they relaxed right after. Her final look at him, before death took her, had been one of approval.
“May I ask you what you’re doing with that ring you have in your hand? You look distracted, is there something weighing on your mind?”
Sarevok put the ring away in a small pouch attached to the strap of his scabbard. His eyes he kept on the road ahead, as if he hadn’t heard his lover’s words. Moments passed, and when he finally answered, he spoke in a gravelly voice that sounded far off, as if he was only there in body, but not in spirit. “Reminiscing events of years long gone. Maybe someday I’ll tell you about them.”
The two then went silent again. They had spoken little since their departure from Beregost, which had everything to do with Winski’s Ogres. The monsters’ sluggish pace had proved to be a genuine test of the duo’s patience, especially Sarevok’s. At one point he had proposed to leave the summons behind but Tamoko had advised against it, and Sarevok had reluctantly heeded his lover’s advice. Apart from their slowness, there was something else about the Ogres that bothered Sarevok and Tamoko. Even though both monsters were dire-charmed and incapable of coherent speech (and thus betrayal), the adventurers experienced the creatures’ mere presence as a breach of their intimacy.
A few hours later, the morning was already well underway, the party of four approached the crossing of the Coast Way they had been walking, and the Way of the Lion that led west to Candlekeep. From behind a huge stone signpost two young men appeared, both dressed in leather armor and equipped with bows.
“Will you give us your gold, or shall we give you our arrows?” spoke one of them defiantly. He was the tallest and oldest of the two, a stringy fellow in his mid or late twenties with sandy hair, a flaxy moustache and a plain face with features that Sarevok had come to identify as relatively common amongst lowborn folk of the Sword Coast (wide-set eyes, a low forehead, and a weak jawline). The bandit’s posture and his look suggested self-confidence.
Sarevok smiled briefly at Tamoko, and saw his lover respond with a smirk of her own. “This won’t take long,” he said to her. Unmoved by the threat he had just received, the massive warrior stepped forward toward the ambushers. The bandits responded by retreating in order to keep their target at a comfortable shooting distance, and they split up so that Sarevok could approach only one of the two. Sarevok chose to go after the one that had just addressed him. The other bandit, a slender boy with shoulder-length brown hair, then aimed, drew and released his arrow, sending it straight to Sarevok’s chest. It clanged against the warrior’s mail before it ricocheted harmlessly off the armor and onto the ground.
The boy froze as he realized the futility of his effort. His mouth hung open and his eyes expressed concern. Sarevok turned around to his lover. “What a fool!” he said to her but his voice was loud enough for his words to be audible to the bandits as well. “If this is the kind of people that’s going be working for me, then I might as well abandon this whole bandit business here and now. Yes, you heard me boy. You’re going to be working for me, and so is your associate.”
The two bandits looked helplessly at each other.
“Oh it’s not so bad,” said Tamoko. “You’ll learn a few tricks of the trade, and become better at what you do. You’ve already shown us that you’re brave men. The Ogres didn’t scare you, nor did my companion. And I liked the way you split when he approached you. That’s not a bad start. What are your names? I’m Tamoko.”
“I’m Domm madam, and this is my nephew Vattel.”
“Domm and Vattel, it’s good that we’ve met. Now come with us, we’re on an important mission.