Ausar the Riven (Fighter/Mage Playthrough)
Rao
Member Posts: 141
Hi everyone - I’m a long-time lurker, first time poster on these boards. I have played through the entire saga (BG+SoD+SoA+ToB) only once, though I have finished BG itself many times.
Inspired by some of the playthroughs posted on this site, I thought I would start a new run and use it as a basis for a descriptive narrative. The write-up will be intended to mirror my progress in-game, with an emphasis on capturing the inner life of the protagonist as he sallies forth. If you are looking for a bullet-pointed summary of big combats, look elsewhere.
In terms of artistic license, my goal will be to remain faithful to the spirit of the games, while allowing myself the liberty to make expansions and amendments where they serve the integrity of the narrative. For example, I will directly incorporate much of the dialogue from the game verbatim, but will also add or subtract lines if it seems entertaining or otherwise appropriate. I may also “twist” some of the dialogue so that it has a different connotation than one might read straight off the computer screen. I am no expert in Forgotten Realms lore, but hopefully implausibilities in this respect will be not too egregious, or at least kindly overlooked
In short, I want everyone who reads the narrative to recognize the game we all love, while at the same time having the opportunity to experience it from a fresh perspective.
If you enjoy what I write here, please let me know with a post or a “like.” There is not really much sense in making a sustained effort if there is no interest.
Inspired by some of the playthroughs posted on this site, I thought I would start a new run and use it as a basis for a descriptive narrative. The write-up will be intended to mirror my progress in-game, with an emphasis on capturing the inner life of the protagonist as he sallies forth. If you are looking for a bullet-pointed summary of big combats, look elsewhere.
In terms of artistic license, my goal will be to remain faithful to the spirit of the games, while allowing myself the liberty to make expansions and amendments where they serve the integrity of the narrative. For example, I will directly incorporate much of the dialogue from the game verbatim, but will also add or subtract lines if it seems entertaining or otherwise appropriate. I may also “twist” some of the dialogue so that it has a different connotation than one might read straight off the computer screen. I am no expert in Forgotten Realms lore, but hopefully implausibilities in this respect will be not too egregious, or at least kindly overlooked
In short, I want everyone who reads the narrative to recognize the game we all love, while at the same time having the opportunity to experience it from a fresh perspective.
If you enjoy what I write here, please let me know with a post or a “like.” There is not really much sense in making a sustained effort if there is no interest.
Post edited by Rao on
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Yellowed scrolls unrolling in withered hands, long robes scratching against the flagstones, muted lips mouthing ancient lore - what more is there to know of life at Candlekeep? As a little boy, you would romp wildly across the grounds, laughing gleefully as imagined dragons fell before your wooden sword, and the wise masters would look on and smile. But in just a few years their smiles waned, then disappeared. It was time, the sages insisted, to instill discipline; Gorion, your foster-father, consented with a sigh and you entered a time of rigorous apprenticeship and study. The sages treated you with severity, as their own teachers had treated them, and you applied yourself to the utmost. The reward for success was seldom praise, but observing the remarkable deftness of your mind, Gorion eventually began to instruct you in the rudiments of magical practice. Around the same time, you began to train with the Candlekeep guard, much to the consternation of many of your other teachers, who openly declaimed such behavior as regressive, and a sure sign of your incapacity to appreciate the life of the mind. For your part, you swore that you would not allow yourself to be molded into just another sage, with the same withered hands, long robes, and muted lips. You would hone your body and your mind to a point so fine that they would one day pierce the impossibly thick walls of Candlekeep.
In a place of so few tender hearts, your thoughts turned often to your mother, or rather to the empty inner space where she should have been. All others had memories of being fed, soothed, and embraced by a woman with a real face, real hands, and a real voice. You had only the wind and aether of mystery to whistle through that empty place. Gorion was no help, except to say what seemed obvious - that she had been an elf, a friend of his for a long time, and that she had died in childbirth. Was it shame that held his tongue so tightly in place? You could never be certain. Though much more caring toward you than the others were, Gorion too could at will affect the aspect of a sage, throwing up disinterestedness and impatience as an impenetrable bulwark against further inquiry. One night, though, after forcefully denying your plea for him to - at the very least - take you to lay a flower on your mother’s grave, you imagined you could hear a gentle sobbing from behind his chamber door. To you, his tears were just another unanswerable mystery. So you honored your mother not with flowers but with the sword, painstakingly devoting yourself to learning, from faded pictures, the royal elven stances for combat with two blades. You can only hope she would have been proud.
Note to the Reader: I decided to download a custom portrait pack 98 experience points into this run. The first several screenshots you see, therefore, will depict Ausar with his original (much less fitting) portrait. Mea culpa!
“Take this,” Gorion said, dropping a bag of gold on my desk, without waiting for me to look up. By the time I did, he was already shouting over his shoulder on his way out the door: “Arm yourself. Buy what you need. We leave within the hour!”
“What? Where are we going?” I yelled back. But it was too late. The only reply to my query was the hurried sound of his footsteps receding further down the hall.
These last few weeks, Gorion’s warmth had left him. His lessons in the magical arts had lost their liveliness, and he no longer seemed to attend my progress with any real interest. At first, I had hypothesized that, in typical sage fashion, he had become fixated on some new idea for a treatise no one outside Candlekeep would ever read. My probing on this point proved futile.
When I asked him if he had been developing some new theory of the mythallar, or of the limitations of divination magic, or of the best ways to lose a week’s pay at the Low Lantern, he dismissed me with a shrug:
“What in the world could have possibly given you that idea?” he asked in a perfect monotone, not even looking at me.
“It’s okay,” I told him, throwing in a wink for good measure, “I promise not to steal it, but I do expect royalties - I’m your greatest inspiration, after all, and I’m sure it will be an instant best-seller.”
“Let’s try the identification spell one more time.” He hadn’t so much as smiled. If anything, he actually looked anxious, an emotion I was not used to reading on his face.
This increased distance had gradually become the normal character of our relationship, as solid and predictable as the walls themselves. Despite the occasional visitor, the inner life of Candlekeep was a closed system; nothing could remain exceptional for long. But then, this bag of gold, like a thunderbolt, had crashed down on the desk beside me. I rose from my chair, mind reeling, weighing the gold in one hand. It was no miserly sum.
Striding into Candlekeep Inn, I found Winthrop, an inveterate lummox, but refreshingly amicable and unpretentious all the same. He looked up as the bell above the door announced my entrance.
“Well, hello there, young one! Come to visit your old pal Winthrop, have ye? Well don’t forget the 10,000 gold piece book entrance fee, as per Candlekeep’s custom, don’tcha know.”
I deepen my voice, and roar, “That is outrageous! What kind of a fool do you take me for?! Stuff your inn, and stuff your company!” I glower at him for added effect, and then we both burst out laughing.
“I see ye ‘ave been working on your impressions of late. Tymora, what a bastard that guy was,” Withrop says, shaking his head. “Now what can I do you for, my young man?”
“I’d like a room as clean as an elven arse!” I exclaimed. Winthrop, with his corpulent face, unused to hard labor or hard thinking, had a peculiar way of setting my mind at ease.
“Well, that’s going to cost you a pretty penny. How exactly do you plan on payin’?”
I hoisted the bag of gold onto the counter, and suddenly the smile fled from Winthrop’s face.
Second: I’m hooked ! It’s very immersive, well written, and I like exactly what you target: telling the story we all know, but with a bit of freedom and artistic license. Keep it up!!
I’m definitvely following this thread, and hope you’ll take us to the end of Tob with Ausar !
(Also, I love that you blurred the alignment on your PC, we’ll have to discover his personality & character by ourselves)
Thanks for the warm welcome! Glad to hear you are enjoying it so far, such as it is. I've also found the content you have been posting in this subforum very entertaining - hope you keep it up!
I am going to try updating this thread with new content on a regular basis, so stay tuned for the next installment in a day or two.
“Where did you get this?” Winthrop demanded.
“Gorion threw it at me, and ran away. He said I had to arm myself for a journey.”
“B-but where?” Winthrop’s astonishment returned me to the seriousness of the situation.
“He wouldn’t say, but he definitely wasn't joking around.”
I left the inn with paired swords, a helmet, and some leather armor. Winthrop polished the blades before I left, and as they flashed brightly in the sun, I realized how much I had always wanted swords of my own. With tight, controlled motions, I practiced an elementary progression of stances, testing the grip of the hilts and the weight of the blades. When I looked up, I noticed one of the sages had been watching. He sneered at me and moved along, muttering something about “wasted potential.” Nothing new.
With a few loose coins still weighing down the bottom of the bag, I set off in the opposite direction toward the shrine to Oghma. Gorion had called for arms, but arms were instruments of battle, and battle was the womb of injury. To buy a few potions of healing in advance, this was only logical. But unlike that sneering sage with his smooth hands and upturned nose, I was not afraid to live, to fight, and to bleed. Just like every other sage in that crypt of a library, he had grown turgid and lame poring over some nonsense, feigning sophistication to cover his weakness, locking himself away from the world. His potential was wasted - not mine! He would be lucky to write a mere commentary on the history of what I would accomplish, that fool! I could feel my blood was up.
The Lorekeeper stood at the top of the shrine’s marble dais, silently gazing into the blue waters of its reflecting pool. I knew he could hear my approach, but he kept his back turned.
“I am pleased to see that you have taken time to pay tribute to wise Oghma,” he sighed. Nothing could have sounded less believable, but in the world of Candlekeep form was everything.
I play along, and attempt the conciliatory approach: “I am wondering what you have to offer at this temple of wisdom.”
“The wisdom of Lord Oghma is like the water in this basin, wasted if poured out beyond the measure of its vessel. So, for one such as you, very little.” I bristle. His affect is as flat as the water’s surface.
“Look - I am leaving with Gorion. I just want to buy some healing potions.”
The news of our departure should have surprised him, but he remained completely unphased, I am certain, just to prove that I was incapable of interesting him in any way.
“I have eighteen gold pieces,” I said, shaking the bag, “How many can I buy?”
Now, I noticed, his lips turned upward in the slightest of smiles.
“None. Each potion is one-hundred and twenty-three gold pieces.”
“What?” I gasp, “You can’t be serious!”
“I’m sorry, but the rules here are very strict,” he intoned. At that, my temper snapped.
“Tell me, Lorekeeper, why do you waste your life worshipping a god of fleas?”
He whirled around, “Fleas? You really have been knocked on the head one too many times, haven’t you? Lord Oghma is the god of knowledge.” He spat the last word at me, as though I were unworthy to hear it.
“Then why does he receive the worship of fleas? Because all I see in this shrine is a flea - you catalogue, comment, write, and transcribe what? The deeds of others? Worse, the writings of others? All of it is pure bloodsucking, insect feeding on the lives of real men, men with the will to act and the courage to dare.
“Thi-”
I raise my voice over his, “Wise Lord Oghma didn’t pry your eyes open today, did he? Your life is parasitic. A derivative, at best.”
“You insolent child! I will not hear this blasphemy!”
“Then be blind and deaf.” I storm down the steps of the shrine, and rush towards the priests’ quarters - time was running short, and perhaps another lorekeeper would not be so insufferable. As I swing open the door, though, I realize immediately that something is amiss.
(sorry mate, couldn't resist)
The desk had been rifled through, and half-unrolled scrolls lay in disarray on the floor, which would have bordered on sacrilege for any respectable lorekeeper. I turned to my right, just in time to glimpse a figure stepping out from the shadows.
“Oh, goodie goodie! I’ve gone and found ye first! You are the ward of Gorion, no doubt?” His grin revealed a row of yellowed teeth. Mud was caked onto the bottom of his trousers and his sleeves; the smell of manure wafted from his clothes. He seemed like some swineherd or stablehand from a nearby farm.
“I do not recognize you. Who are you and what are you doing here?” Nothing made sense. Candlekeep was a closed system, and I knew the faces of all its members. At any time of day, I knew where each was likely to be, and what each was likely to be doing. But if this man did not belong, how did he gain entrance? Smuggling in such a simpleton hardly seemed worth the time or effort. Who were the others that he had beat out in finding me first? Where were they?
“Who I am is unimportant, but who YOU are is very much so, I apologize for this dirty bit of business, but I must seek your death. A pity, I know, but it would seem your head is worth an exceptional amount to me. I kill you myself and I need not share credit with anyone.”
I must seek your death. Those were not the words of a swineherd. A dagger blade gleamed in the light as he drew it. Were the trappings of a swineherd just a clever disguise? Could this man be a trained assassin?
He had caught me by surprise, before I had even thought to don my armor. Only a thin layer of cloth separated my flesh from the seeking point of his blade. He lunged, but far too early, and I sidestepped easily. With a wave of my hand, I wove an illusion, became in his eyes a wolf black as night, with slavering jaws that opened wide as the maw of Baator. A pallor spread instantly across his face. He threw himself toward the window, sheathing his dagger, hoping only for escape where moments before he had hoped only to kill. The spell had been a success.
But I had never killed before, and forebore from killing him now. Instead, I threw him down on the floor.
“Who are you?” I yelled. “Who sent you?” Still caught deep in the grip of the illusion, though, he could only gibber incoherently and roll around, desperately trying to escape. I slapped him across the face with the back of my hand. “Tell me!”
He squirmed away, though, dashing to the far side of the room toward the window on the opposite side. I scrambled to my feet to make pursuit, and drew my blades. It occurred to me that I might need to maim him; a quick cut to the tendons in his leg would render him helpless. Then I would have my answers.
I rushed toward him, but his posture had become more rigid and composed. He kept his back turned. Did he know I had drawn? Was he confused? Plotting? His hand darted to the handle of his dagger.
No! He can’t draw! He can’t!
I thrust my blade upward through his back, burying it up to the hilt. A shriek of agony tore through the room. The windows rattled. I thought it would never end. I thought it would grow and grow until the entire universe was one skin-rending scream. With a groan, I tugged at my blade, trying to work it loose. He whimpered, slowly, and then fell still. His face thudded against the floorboards. He was dead.
When I wrenched my sword free, my hand was shaking. The sword in my left hand, clean and unblemished, had slept through it all. Not so, his brother, now drenched in gore. I wiped it on the dead man’s clothes. All I wanted was to hide the act, bury it away in some deep, undiscoverable place. This is not how it was supposed to happen. I had dreamed of besting a worthy foe in fair combat, a villain whose skill with the sword would be equalled only by the perfidy of his heart. Victory would taste sweet, and the death dealt out, righteous. Instead, I had stabbed in the back a man whom I had vastly outmatched. This was no hero’s blow. It was the bite of a coward and a thief. All the graceful techniques I had trained in so assiduously had collapsed, at the crucial moment, into an act of thoughtless brutality befitting an orc, perhaps, but never an elf. My features contorted into awful shapes. I had always hoped my mother would look down on me with pride, and I could not bear the thought of that tender gaze turned to shock and shame, no doubt, at such dishonor.
Outside, Sage Parda bounded toward me. The scream, I thought, should have drawn all of Candlekeep.
“What was that? Ausar, you cut yourself above the brow, there - What is wrong, child? Something in your eyes tells me that something is very wrong indeed.” It was no cut; it was not even my own blood. I thought I could exercise restraint, but as I felt the slick of that other man's blood, my quavering resolve melted before the concern of a sage who, rare amongst his peers, had always been my friend.
“Oh, Parda! There was a man in there, he smelled like the stables, and he - and he tried to kill me, it was horrible.” I wiped at my brow urgently, as though the blood there would burn my flesh.
He attacked me. He forced my hand. Yet my tongue refused to utter those terrible words, “I killed him.” Somehow, Parda seemed to understand.
“Hurry then, child. Equip yourself at the Inn and go join Gorion on the steps of the library...I had a sense something like this might happen.”
That last phrase struck me down in redoubled shock. What foul and bloody game was afoot? What did the sages know? How much had been whispered behind my back? Gorion loomed now, cloaked in his months of coldness, as the foreboding gateway to truths I could never have imagined.
As I entered the Inner Grounds, I could hear the midday chanting of the prophecies of Alaundo the Seer.
A high, thin voice warbled through the air.
The Wyrm shall wander the earth and such a pestilence will follow in his wake, that all that know of his passing shall be struck down by the plague. So sayeth the wise Alaundo.
I could not focus on their meaning, but the words themselves cast even deeper shadows over my blood-addled mind.
In this walking nightmare, Imoen ran up to me. Imoen, a young girl and a rascal, had been my one true companion here at Candlekeep. What she lacked in steely resolve, she made up for with pure innocence. The severity of the sages could only ever be theater for her. Their reproaches slid off her like dew drops off a leaf. Now, though, her cheer rankled me.
“I’m surprised that stuffy ol’ Gorion let you away from your studies and chores. That ol’ fiddle faddle. I snuck off too. Old Puffguts Winthrop was looking for me, but I’ve got all day to do his chores. You have time for a story today? No, I can tell you don’t. What have ya been up to?”
“Leave me be! I’ve no time to waste on you today, child.” The harshness of my words felt unnatural, but the world was harsh. Could she imagine what I had been forced to do?
An octave deeper, the chant continued: When shadows descend upon the lands, our divine lords will walk alongside us as equals. So sayeth the great Alaundo.
“If that’s the way you want it, then fine. Get lost, you smelly ol’ gully napper!” Imoen’s eyes had grown wide; she was surprised, and hurt. Her long hair blew behind her as she ran away.
I placed my feet on the first step of the library. Gorion waited for me at the top, his eyebrows turned down and his face creased with many cares. A knot clenched my throat tight. I loved him too much to tell him what I had done, but I feared that, if he asked, the whole story would tumble out from my open mouth in an unstoppable cascade. Gorion, however, was preoccupied.
“This is very unnerving, I know, but you must trust me. It is very important that you pack your possessions so that we may leave Candlekeep immediately. Hurry, for there is no time to tarry! The keep is well protected but not invulnerable.”
He had observed my unease, and imagined that it was just some generalized anxiety. But he was wrong - I already knew that the keep was not invulnerable! I wanted to confess everything, cry out for help, but could not manage it.
“Please father, tell me where we will be going,” I begged.
“Alas, I cannot, for I have not truly decided yet. All that is certain is that we will be safer on the move.” At this admission, my heart stopped. Gorion had always been a paragon of precision planning. His deliberations explored every possible line of action and a response to even the most improbable of contingencies. What enemy had been so powerful as to shield himself from Gorion’s penetrating eye, so sly as to outstrip his predictive powers? The assassin in the priests’ quarters must only have been a harbinger of the darkness to come.
“Perhaps,” Gorion continued, “the woods might offer some secluded security, or perhaps the city of Baulder’s Gate would offer cover amidst its teeming throngs of people. I do not know where we shall end up, but I have a few friends here and there. Hmm, I will think on this.”
Such unprecedented uncertainty on the part of Gorion terrified me - he had no idea what to do next, and so we were to throw ourselves blindly into the roiling chaos of the world beyond Candlekeep. All I wanted to do was hide myself in the folds of his garment, just like when I was a little boy. I stifled this thought quickly. There was no room for such mewling in the breast of a warrior, I reminded myself desperately and without the least conviction. All I could do was consent to his madness.
“I’m ready to go right now,” I croaked, trying to force a firm voice over the knot in my throat.
Together, we descended the library steps, close but not touching.
Another chanter, in a voice deeper and more resounding than all before, submerged the Inner Grounds in one, final verse: The Lord of Murder shall perish, but in his doom he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny. Chaos will be sewn from their passage. So sayeth the wise Alaundo.
A long pause passed between Gorion and me, as the last echoes of Alaundo’s name faded away.
“Listen carefully, if we ever become separated, it is imperative that you make your way to the Friendly Arms Inn. There, you will meet Khalid and Jaheira. They have long been my friends and you can trust them.”
This instruction proved reassuring, because it demonstrated that Gorion had developed, contrary to my first impressions, some semblance of a plan, complete with preparation for at least a few contingencies. I nodded in acknowledgment, and together we departed from Candlekeep. My mind skipped back to Winthrop’s joke, which no longer seemed quite so funny. The way back would be barred, perhaps forever.
Gorion led as we roved through the wilderness, careful to keep our distance from the main roads. Though I was reflexively straining all my senses to the point of fatigue, we crossed paths with no one, save for the occasional creature of the woods, which would scamper back to the safety of its den or nook at our approach. Once, at the sound of a twig snapping underfoot, I swept my hand to my sword and drew it halfway from its sheath, so that it glittered icily like some malevolent eye. Gorion calmly placed his hand on mine. It had only been a passing doe. I could not laugh, though, and refused to speak. Even though we had been traveling for hours, Gorion would reveal nothing.
Eventually, the shadows drew long as dusk seeped out of the sky and over the earth. It became more difficult for Gorion to see, and he had begun to stumble.
“Let’s hurry, child, the night can only get worse, so we must find shelter soon,” he said. I did not even look at him. He sensed my antipathy, but replied gently: “Don’t worry, I’ll explain everything as soon as there is time.” I grunted, and we pressed on.
Then suddenly, the clank of metal sounded from somewhere just out of sight. Gorion heard it too, and stiffened immediately.
“Wait! There is something wrong. We are in an ambush. Prepare yourself,” he barked.
Without hesitation, I drew my two swords. The metallic tang of fresh blood returned to my nostrils, as I remembered my would-be assassin, face down on the floor, his filthy rags thirstily lapping up crimson. Gorion threw back his cloak and raised his hands to the ready.
Then, out from the darkness strode a colossus of a man, clad in plate armor blacker than midnight in the Underdark. The moonlight glinted off vicious spikes at the knee caps and elbow joints of his armor, on his shoulders and on his bracers; they were all honed to draw blood. The killing edge, though, he brandished in his right hand, a greatsword that even the strongest men I had ever met would have struggled to wield with a double grip. The helmet was the crown of this behemoth’s horror. Modeled on the visage of some unnameable demon, black fangs like daggers obscured the lower face and the forehead, and two curved horns mounted the top. Was this even a man? I wondered, aghast. At first his eyes could not be seen, so steeped were all things in shadow, but then they blazed forth in wrath, burning like two coals. No, it was no man. This was death and power, irresistible murder in the flesh. Behind him loomed two ogres wielding gigantic morningstars, and behind them two men bearing the bow. They did not matter. All was dust before the terror that led them.
“You’re perceptive for an old man. You know why I’m here. Hand over your ward and no one will be hurt. If you resist, it shall be a waste of your life.” The voice was deep and assured, brimming with a dark vitality. I instantly despaired for my life; Gorion had loved me, true, but no mortal could stand against such a man, if man he truly were.
“You’re a fool if you believe I would trust your benevolence. Step aside and you and your lackeys will be unhurt.” Gorion’s defiance broke across my mind like a thunderclap. I realized that he had not so much quickened his breathing, and that he stared at the abyssal menace in our path steadily, without fear. Gorion seemed to have ascended to a higher plane of being, leaving me caught between two powers I could not comprehend. My heart, though, cleaved to him in awe. As I tightened my grip on my twin blades, I felt ready to die for my father.
“I’m sorry that you feel that way, old man,” the armored horror retorted. It was a death sentence.
The ogres roared and charged at Gorion, who - releasing a massive magic charge - was instantly enveloped in a flash of white light. Gorion’s image had been refracted into eight, and his skin had become grey as stone. Suddenly a bolt of pain seared my side - one of the archers had hit his mark. I grimaced, but prepared to rush forward to intercept an ogre about to flank my father. Before I could act, though, all eight of his images turned to me at once.
“Run child! Get out of here!” To disobey would have been impossible. In the face of Gorion’s power, my spirit could only submit to his command. He turned away. Gorion spit a word into the night, and five bolts of pure magical energy shot from his hand, striking the ogre approaching him from the left.
Fleet of foot, I dashed from the scene; none could hope to overtake me, and I found cover out of their sight. My elven eyes, fortunately, could see much further in the dark than theirs.
When I raised my eyes to the battle, I saw that one of the ogres had vanished, and a new figure had appeared. She was armored, and wielding a flail, but I could make out nothing further. She thrust both her hands upward to heaven with a cry. Just then, a pillar of fire engulfed Gorion. I clawed at my hair; my mind unraveled at the sight. No man could have survived such an inferno. Yet by some miracle I could not fathom, when the column lifted, Gorion emerged unscathed. His riposte: a crackling bolt of lightning that killed the remaining ogre instantly.
At that moment, I knew he would conquer all. The archers had re-trained their aim on him, but their arrows flew wide of his true person, or clattered off uselessly. The armored figure, previously content to observe the battle from behind, now stalked toward the fray with deadly purpose. But it would be for naught. Gorion retreated a few steps, gaining a little distance to cast a protective ward of some kind. The demon in black strode forward to his death, too proud, I thought, or too foolish, to understand that he confronted a superior force. An explosion of fire erupted behind the creature. Gorion had burned the two archers to cinders, though the woman remained standing. Now, the armored figure had closed quarters, towering above Gorion, his massive greatsword poised to strike. He swung again and again, all in vain. Gorion seared him with acid, provoking a pained grunt from his assailant. At any moment, I knew, my father would burn the heart from this beast in a final blaze of light.
Then, with one mighty thrust of his greatsword, that demon clad in night impaled Gorion. The blade tore through cloth, and flesh, and bone. Gorion’s body crumpled upon its steel like a withered leaf.
I ran. I ran into the night until I could see no more.
. . . And thus concludes the Prologue. Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading along, and special thanks to @monico, @JuliusBorisov, @StummvonBordwehr, and @Blackraven, who have all taken the time to show their support. Every comment and every “like” really means a lot!
Now that we have reached a natural breakpoint in the narrative, I wanted to temporarily freeze my regular schedule of posting installments in order to create a space for you all, the readers, to sound off. Everything is on the table! What do you like? What don’t you like? Do you have any theories about what kind of person Ausar is, or hopes/fears about who he will become? Any questions about how in-game action has or will translate into the narrative? Miscellenia, jokes, and memes are also welcome. I am glad for any constructive criticism, and promise that I will receive it in the spirit that it is given.
Regular posting of installments will resume soon, but this is a forum thread, not my personal notebook - I wanted to make sure everyone who wanted to speak would have a chance for their voice to be heard.
Again, thank you all!
P.S. While I have your attention, I just wanted to cross-promote the recent thread by @Aerie, a playthrough posted to the General Discussions board (here: https://forums.beamdog.com/discussion/78442/aerie-plays-baldurs-gate-ii-playthrough#latest). It’s a creative twist on BG2 and - to my knowledge - one of the only other RP-inticted playthrough threads currently live on our boards. Check it out!
I can also point out to https://forums.beamdog.com/discussion/70029/working-on-a-fanfiction-adaption/
I like your story and looking forward to the continuation.
Surely the Baldur’s gate books would have been better if you had done the writing. Overall I found the pieces well constructed and with a beautiful narrative.
I hope that Ausar will pick up companions and there will be focus on them as well - with interactions and tension between them. I know that these interactions are not done easily in writing - at least if you want quality content. But I hope you can pull it off, the first parts have shown great promise.
Like @StummvonBordwehr , I look forward to the interactions with (temporary?) companions.
Extensive RP and writing takes a very long time for you, so I just hope you won't stop this difficult and committing playthrough.
EDIT:
Also, I'm curious on how you can integrate gameplay into your RP.
So far, you aptly described the rounds of the 2 battles (describing each spell / attack, etc.), but that cannot be done for each and every gibberling you face.
And since I'm as much a powergamer as a RP fan, I'd love some reports on how actual tough fights turned out (like a lucky crit happening at the right time), but describing your buffs/attack rolls would break immersion I guess.
Maybe a few screenshots added to your narration ? But I'm not sure if it would feel natural with the storytelling. So, I wonder and look forward to how you'll manage to make this not just a RP story, but also an actual account of your playthrough.
Wow - that's really a wealth of resources! It's always a pleasure to see how much creativity this game has inspired. I really appreciate you taking the time to pull these all together.
That's very flattering. I know the official books by reputation only, and from what I've heard, they have disappointed many. If whoever owns the intellectual property rights is listening and wants to pay me to do a rewrite, I am all ears
Regarding companions, I am hoping that there will be several. What is an adventure without friends? As for whether I can pull it off, I will let you be the judge.
Thanks, monico! First-person seemed a lot of fun to me for precisely that reason. I'm glad you seem to enjoy reading as much as I enjoy writing it. My life is busy, and so what I can produce is limited. My hope is that by setting very modest deadlines for myself, I will be able to stay consistent, which seems most important - this was always going to be more of a marathon for me, anyway.
Integration of the gameplay into the narration will involve screenshots (it's a fluke of the way I started this project that the Prologue does not have any). I am planning to embed these in spoiler windows, so that readers who don't want to look at the "guts" of the game can ignore them. As for how detailed my narration of the combat log will be, that will probably be highly contextual. First fights with a new kind of enemy or fights that are especially significant to the story will receive more detailed treatment, whereas reporting on "filler" combat will probably eventually be omitted altogether.
My overall goal is for the relationship between the narrative and the gameplay to be reciprocal, rather than merely a one-way street. Done right, it should create enough chaos/uncertainty to make both playing and writing even more fun.
Will you reload so the gameplay obeys the writing ? Or will the writing follow along the randomness of dice rolls?
Because every in-game temple worth its salt seems to have a priest that can raise the dead, a standard death will generally not present too much of a problem. The death will be reflected in the narrative, and if the party wants their traveling companion back, they will find their way back to a temple, when convenient, to pay for a casting of raise dead/resurrection. E.g., the party is two floors deep in its raid of the Cloakwood mines when a character bites the dust; if nobody in the party has a scroll of raise dead, then the party will apply to a temple for resurrection/raise dead only after the raid is complete.
"Chunking" and other forms of permadeath will pose more of a challenge. In certain instances, I may reload such that, for narrative purposes, that fatal version of the encounter never happened. In others, I may allow the character to die forever, or else apply some artistic license to craft a suitable "penalty" on the gameplay side. Rather than try to delineate a lengthy set of rules and exceptions, here are some hypothetical examples to show you what I have in mind right now.
Example #1: In the flesh-golem cave, a flesh golem chunks Imoen. But Imoen is essential to the deep structure of the game up until at least mid-way through Shadows of Amn. I reload and pretend, as far as the narrative is concerned, that nothing ever happened.
Example #2: In the gnoll fortress, Minsc chunks Dynaheir while flailing about in "berserker" mode. But in Shadows of Amn, Irenicus is responsible for Dynaheir's death - an important detail worth preserving in the narrative. I reload and pretend, as far as the narrative is concerned, that nothing ever happened.
Example #3: During a battle with the ogre magi under Baldur's Gate, a stray lighting bolt chunks Safana. But Safana makes minor appearances in both Siege of Dragonspear and BGII. I bite the bullet and let her die forever, writing her death into the BGI narrative and reshaping the SoD and BGII narratives so as to omit her appearances therein.
Example #4: During the hunt for the bandit camp, a bandit in Peldvale chunks Imoen. I reload, win the fight without Imoen dying, and temporarily drop her from the party. In the narrative, I spin a yarn about how two bandits abducted her in the chaos of the melee and are holding her hostage at the bandit camp. This narrative decision will, in turn, impact how I approach the bandit camp in-game (e.g., No full frontal assault! Otherwise, they will kill Imoen!). When the dust settles at the bandit camp, I add Imoen back to my party.
Example #5: In the crypts of Candlekeep, a fireball trap chunks Kivan. Although Kivan has no "hardcoded" role in the in-game story, I have developed his character intensively in my narrative. I bite the bullet and write his death into the narrative. Everyone has their time, and the dice have spoken!
As mentioned, on this approach some characters will be a lot more vulnerable than others, but hopefully it also builds in enough uncertainty that you - the reader - are never *exactly* certain how any given character will come out of a particular encounter.
I know it's not neat - but I think it'll be a lot of fun! Hope that helps
First of all, three cheers for the five new faces on this thread! @BelgarathMTH, @Aerakar, @Gusinda, @Skatan, @Zaghoul, thank you so much for reading and for taking the time to show your support! The expressed interest of the community is, I think, what will sustain me over the long haul.
I know I usually post a new installment on Mondays, but as per my earlier Note, today’s installment is suspended to make space for any additional discussion arising out of the Prologue. If there is anything anyone feels inclined to share, this time and space is for you! Otherwise, sit tight: Chapter 1 opens this Wednesday
And of course, if you decide to post about the exploits of your ruthless and cunning (or not so cunning, as the case may be) assassins on this subforum, I will be sure to check it out. Cheers!
Throughout this Chapter, I will intermittently post screenshots in spoiler windows, so that you can match up the narrative with real in-game action, or just enjoy a pretty picture. If so inclined, I may subtitle some of these screenshots with out-of-character commentary.
Also, for those who are interested, I am playing an unmodded game on Core difficulty (except w/ max HP gain on level up for Ausar - sorry, old instincts die hard).
Finally, not sure if you are following this thread, but thanks for stopping by @Aerie - hope your own playthrough is going well!
I am drifting across a field, long ago farmed by honest men, now darkened in the twilight. Once, long ago, these honest men harvested its bounties in abundance. Then they beat their harvest scythes into swords; sandals became boots; the ass became a warhorse. My field had become a field of war, and fallen fallow. Drunk with the blood of honest men, this land could nurture no wholesome seed. Its loamy womb bore only nettles and thorns, to bite like serpents at the ankles of the traveler. I am drifting across this field, a wraith in the last, dying breath of day, beneath a rust moon bleeding its mealy light - a cosmic ulcer I can feel in my own body. The soil is dark and rich.
My coming is a homecoming. But a stranger has gone before me. He has cleared the field of its brambles, and plowed it with foreign beasts. Usurper of my hearth. I look for him in the gloom and I see him, a shadow stooped over the furrows. Who is this man, who has left me an exile in my own land, a beggar at my own table? Crows peck at worms slithering blind underground.
I press forward to meet him, time lengthening like the darkness. He remains focused on his work, sowing seeds for next season’s harvest. I am close enough now to touch the hem of his garment, but I fear that, if I touched it, I would surely die. He scatters the seed, hands filled with blood. Each furrow is a burial mound.
At our feet, Gorion’s face stares up from the dirt like a lily floating on the surface of a pond. The white of his left cheekbone blossoms from an open wound. There is a scroll in his mouth, sealed in red wax with his signet, the scholar’s oil lamp. I know it is a scroll I must read, but I am powerless to break the seal.
Despairing, I look up into the stranger’s face: It is my own.
The dawn is especially cruel this morning. The sunlight tears at my eyelids, wrenching me into consciousness. Chaotic images roar over me like a torrent: hideous ogres, a lightning bolt, eyes of wrath that burn like coals. Last night’s arrow is still lodged in my side. I am sweating and shivering. The arrow had pierced my leather armor, and just barely penetrated the soft flesh beneath my ribs. Lying still on my back, I could feel the iron point in my body, a raw, pulsing pain that threatened to erupt into agony if I shifted my weight. Had the arrow passed an inch or two deeper, I knew, I would have bled out last night from the inside, as I lay helpless, collapsed and in shock.
As it was, my life had not fled with the night, nor had my chances, but I perceived that I was terribly weak, weaker than I had ever been before. Sliding backward on my elbows, I reached a nearby tree, and, with a heave and a groan, propped myself up against it. My head felt light as I improvised with my life: I snapped the shaft of the arrow, howling as I accidentally shifted the point beneath my skin. A spreading moistness against my skin told me that fresh blood had begun to seep out of the wound. I clench my fist around what remained of the arrow. Only one thing remained. Three quick, harsh breaths, and then a scream - I pull the arrowhead loose. In a dizzying moment, the world darkens, recedes, but then springs back into the light. My entire body is damp with sweat.
I lie back down on the ground. Blood continues to flow from the open wound, but my strength is depleted, my ideas exhausted. I grit my teeth, struggling to remain conscious and in control. Then, I hear the sound of boots stirring in the grass behind me. Twisting my neck around, I spot a figure at some distance, slight and girlish, an arrow already nocked in her bow as she proceeds, cautious, surveying the land. Her hood casts a shadow that obscures her face. I turn away, resting my head on the grass again.
Well, Gorion, I tried - I tried to live. No doubt all hope was lost, for who else but that black demon’s band could be roaming this wilderness? In crying out, I had certainly already alerted her to my position, and she, diligent as she seemed to be, would not miss a man lying in plain sight. Desperate, I grope for some magic, but my spirit is dry as bone. The footsteps behind me pick up their pace. I am sorry, Gorion, that you died in vain. Thinking one last time of my mother, I gather the resolve to turn, to behold the face of my killer, to swear one last curse against the villains that killed the only father I had ever known. I twist my neck around, and I gasped as that lithe figure, now sprinting toward me, threw off her hood.
“Heyya! It’s me, Imoen!”
“Imoen!” Never before had I felt so grateful to see her face. I try to sit up, but wince and let my back fall on the ground again.
“What’s wrong, Ausar? Are you hurt? What did they do to you?” The words somersault over each other as they tumble out of her mouth all at once.
“They shot an arrow at me - I had to pull it out. I...have been losing blood,” I reply, indicating with my forefinger the location of the wound, unnecessarily: that part of my armor had already been soaked through.
“Quick, Ausar, let’s use these!” She produces from her bag a number of healing potions and salves. Before she can uncork the first vial, though, I grab her hand.
“We will need to stanch the bleeding first,” regaining hope, I found I had regained with it some mental-self possession. With my help, she cut my armor, so that we could remove it, and then she tore a strip from my undershirt to dress the wound. After the bleeding had abated somewhat, I directed her to apply the healing salve. She stared at the wound in disgust, but said nothing. Something about this ordeal had managed to turn even Imoen serious.
“Where did you get these anyway?” I asked, trying to take her mind off her work.
“I swiped them from the shrine; the worst I’ve ever seen those lily-livers hurt is a paper cut.”
“Good riddance,” I answer, smiling somehow, despite everything.
As she dabs the ointment squeamishly around the edges of the wound, she starts speaking again, anxious to fill the silence.
“Sorry I followed ya, but I never get out of Candlekeep and those monks are such a bore. Never a decent coin in their pockets neither. I...I saw Gorion, and I am SO sorry! Kinda figured something bad might happen to you out here.”
“How could you have known? Gorion did not even tell me.” Had everyone known except for me? Maybe now, I would finally discover the full extent of the circumstances surrounding my hurried departure.
“I...accidentally...read a letter on his desk the other day. Can’t remember exactly what it said but he might still have...It might still be on his...body. Anyway, I’m not going to let you wander out here all alone. Never let a friend down, no, sir! Stick with you until you say otherwise, I will!”
She attempts to conjure up some of her characteristic joviality, but her speech is forced, and her attention is far away. What did she see of Gorion’s body? Where? To whom was Gorion hoping to send the letter she had read? My tongue is too heavy, though, and the warmth of Imoen’s healing salve begins to lull me to sleep. There would, I sensed, be time enough for questions.
When I wake, the sun is still high; it is not yet far past noon. My swords, shirt, and armor had been tossed in a heap on the grass - Imoen’s handiwork, no doubt. I rise up off my back. The healing salve had satisfied its purpose, closing my wound and erasing the traces of that night upon my body, if not upon my mind. Run child! My obedience to that command had cost my father his life. I could have interposed between him and that monster, parried until my swords broke, fought on with the hilts, as long as I had to, until Gorion had found the right spell. Or did he know, in that moment, he would die? Had he spent his life willingly, for me? Back in Candlekeep, he had seldom spoken of his adventuring days, but he had told me often that a mage out of plans is a mage out of luck, and soon, out of life. In my head I see him die again, impaled on the steel of that awful blade.
Unless he had a plan!
Thanks Rao,
Yeah like yours, my own playthrough is going great!
The shock of a new hope jolts me into action. I rush to dress and equip myself, whirling around to look for Imoen. I shout out her name, heedless of the danger. Hearing no reply, I shout it out again, “IMOEN!”
“Are you trying to tell the whole forest we are here?” Imoen hisses, emerging from the brush. The seriousness of her rebuke cuts into me, and I cut back. Who was she to chide me?
“Well, what do I matter to you anyway? You left me lying out in the open, totally exposed and defenseless - easy prey for bandits, or worse! You can’t just walk off - no wonder Gorion didn’t want you to come!”
“I was scouting! You ungrateful hobgoblin, if it weren’t for me you’d ‘ave died too!”
At the mention of Gorion’s death, a hush fell between us - we both realized we had gone too far.
“I’m sorry, Imoen, but look I have a plan - it might not be too late to save Gorion. You need to take us to his body. I will explain everything then.”
But a shadow passes over Imoen’s eyes - not the gleam of hope I had expected.
“Trust me.”
“Okay, but when I was out scouting, I saw something. Two men, just that way down the road,” she says, gesturing, “one of them is really small, like he ne’er had his growth spurt. The other man is regular height, but keeps scratching his face, and...and he smells funny.”
“Smells funny? How close did you get, Imoen?”
“Not close at all!” she complains, defensive for a moment, “but I was standing downwind. Anyway, the small one was shoutin’ and hollerin’ and seemed real mean. He has a sword.” I see the worry creep back into her eyes, “What do we do?”
“I don’t want strangers like that at our back. Here’s the plan: you wind around them and hide in the brush at their backs; keep your bow drawn. I will approach them from the road, and find out who they are and what they want. If they start any trouble, you step out and together we’ll scare them off, okay?”
“Aye, aye, cap’n,” Imoen replies, throwing a mock salute, and then runs off. I marvel at her as she disappears behind a tree; even at a time like this, she finds her joke. I can feel my own heartbeat racing as I walk along the road, fighting the urge to advance with hands clenched on handles.
Just then, a plump man saunters out from the woods, bedecked in fine silks that have been soiled and torn. I raise an eyebrow. He seemed utterly unconcerned with the state of his garments.
“Well, a busy day for me today indeed. Strange noises throughout the night, and now a plethora of people strolling about the wood. You do look a touch more hospitable than the last two I met though. Well met, stranger. I am Kolssed.” For a moment I wonder whether this is an elaborate ploy, another man disguised as something he is not.
“Why are you in the woods? I have heard nothing but how dangerous they are,” I answer, testing him.
“Me? Oh, I’m a hermit. Well, I’m rather new at it actually, and I haven’t quite got the isolation bit down yet. Too much of a people-person, I suppose. Used to be a merchant in Nashkel I did, but lost everything due to the iron shortage. Been wandering the woods for a while now and it’s been rather relaxing, I must say. Aside from eluding the occasional bandit, that is. I’m generally left alone because I have nothing of value.”
My jaw almost drops open. The man is every bit as much a buffoon as he looks. Perhaps, though, I can wring some information out of him.
“What of those two people you saw? I was to seek friends at the Friendly Arm Inn. Perhaps these were them?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I curse myself for revealing too much. He may not be a threat, but he might easily be captured by an enemy who is.
“I doubt these are the ones you seek. They do not seem the friendly type, and are far afield of the inn. If you wish to meet them, I left them not a moment ago just up the road. You will have to pass them anyway if you want to go to the Friendly Arm. There is a crossroads a ways to the east and the Inn is just north of that.”
“Thanks for your time,” I say without an ounce of sincerity, “I shall be on my way.”
Totally oblivious to my tone, the man waddles away, back into his fantasy. How long, I wonder, before he skins his knee and cries all the way back to Nashkel.
“Fare thee well, as they say,” he calls over his shoulder. What a waste of time, as they say.
A brief experimentation with form in today's installment...Based on the odd way it came out, I probably won't be repeating it, but I figured it would be better to post and forge ahead to continue write new installments rather than take the time to rewrite. Once you hop on the rewrite "train," there is no telling when you will get off again haha...Hope you enjoy anyway
CHAPTER 1, Part V
But it is not long before I catch sight of the pair Imoen described: the shorter man, I realized, was no man at all, but a halfling, sturdily built, eyes darting from an open parchment, up to the world, and then, resignedly, down to the parchment again - the perfect picture of a lost traveler and his map. The look of his companion, however, chilled my spine. His green eyes bulged out from his face, staring with burning intensity into the empty air. Inexplicably, his hands crawled like crabs across his face and through his hair, scratching here, burrowing there. He had painted certain symbols that spanned both his skin and his clothes, as though there were no natural division between one and the other. With a sinking in the pit of my stomach, I recognized some of these symbols from my old forays through Candlekeep tomes - they were necromancer’s glyphs. Here stood a madman who would dance with death itself.
But it was too late to turn back. The halfling, at least, had already noticed me advancing toward him, and had begun to roll up his map. What his companion was thinking, only the gods could say. Now I am up close, blood pulsing like a drumbeat in my ears.
THE NECROMANCER: “A child wandering the wilderness? Surely you must be none too bright to be traveling these roads.”
(Now that I am close, I can smell the reek that Imoen had complained about, a dank, rotting smell, like some drowned vermin that had long ago begun to decompose.)
THE HALFLING: “And ye look a bit scuffed, too. A fine pair of troubles all your own.” (The halfling’s eyes flit to the blood caked on my leather armor.)
THE NECROMANCER: “Indeed. I can offer you healing potions, if you wish, as a token of goodwill.”
(One of the madman’s fingers has wanders too close to his mouth, and he chews at the nail absent-mindedly. All his fingernails, I observe, have been bitten down, and some of his fingertips even show little spots of blood. The vast absurdity of this character, of the incongruity between this speaker and his speech would have tickled me, if the danger were not so acute. Surely, I think, any potions from the hand of such a man were as likely to poison as to cure.)
ME: “I prefer to manage on my own.” (I utter the words gruffly, sounding not at all as diplomatic as I had hoped.)
THE NECROMANCER: “You do not trust us?” (The madman frowns instantly, as the finger he was chewing skitters off behind his ear.)
THE HALFLING: “I’ll not be insulted by this whelp!” (The halfling balls his fists as he shouts.)
THE NECROMANCER (to THE HALFLING): “Now Montaron, had I just been attacked I might be leery as well.”
THE NECROMANCER (to ME): “So be it, I shall not heal you.”
THE HALFLING (who is MONTARON): “Refuse if ye wish.”
(I open my mouth, but their speech runs so closely together, that I cannot, between the two of them, fit in a word edgewise.)
THE NECROMANCER: “Neither shall I hold thee to a debt of honor for slighting my good intentions, though your conscience may.”
MONTARON: “Just like all good people.”
THE NECROMANCER: “Perhaps as payment you would go with us to Nashkel. It is a troubled area and we mean to investigate some disturbing rumors surrounding the local mines. Some acquaintances are very concerned about the iron shortage. Specifically, where to lay blame in the matter. You would be useful, though I’ll not hold you to it. We are to meet the mayor of the town, a man named Berrun Ghastkill, I believe.”
(I feel my temper beginning to flare - these two were truly outrageous, that they would attempt to manipulate a stranger with gifts, as though they were calling due a debt!)
MONTARON: “Your conscience be your guide.”
(I can bear no more. I keep my voice low and quick, and my intent clear.)
ME: “Go on your way and leave me be. I would go my own path.”
THE NECROMANCER: “You won’t do this for me? You’re bad, and I’ll have someone hurt you! You’ll see! That one’s a meany, Monty, not a nice child at all!”
MONTARON: “Now you’ve gone and set him off! Blasted mage will blither for hours! Off wit’ ye! I’ll not suffer the both of ye!”
With that final shout, an exclamation of profound frustration, Montaron grabs the necromancer by the sleeve, and pulls him away. I remain motionless, my heart still thumping in my chest, as the two take their leave southward.
Novelizing a playthrough is probably the most work-intensive reporting style, although it can also be the most rewarding, especially as you can go back later and read it yourself, and have something to be proud of. It takes a lot of time from actually playing the game, though, as every little thing requires paragraphs and paragraphs of challenging creative writing to novelize.
Since you've rejected Montaron's and Xzar's help, the fight with Tarnesh will be challenging. You have no access to Remove Fear, so you'll either need very lucky dice rolls, or you'll have to get the guards positioned to help. I look forward to seeing how you write up an intensive combat like that.
Then, the encounter with the hobgoblins outside the FAI alone could take up a chapter in a book.