Balgara the Blackguard
IsabellaW
Member Posts: 19
Preface:
What this is happens to be practice. It happens to be the spilling of my guts after playing all those hours. It's subjective to the point of not being recognizable, but it is my playthrough, and I mean it. On my interpretation of my blackguard, she's like Kylo Ren: "Unbalanced." Without wisdom. Too much style and forethought to achieve the ultimate: blackguard status. What follows is largely experiment. Forgive the lack of canon--it's just me.
I. Wounded Sky
In the sowing of the forest, I walk tall and brave, following my prey for the Dark Fathers who gave me these powers I wield. The longbow is my choice, sensuous and lean; long is its reach, powerful is its bite. None in Baldur's Gate stand a chance when I am on their tail.
And the song usually follows after the "btwanggg." the panicked screams as the arrow pierces a lung, or knee. I follow at my leisure, wishing for a glass of dark Sfrensio, made famous by the Sfrensio berries inland from here.
They see me in my dark leather gear, the blazing read hair, and the long curved dagger. They know what I am, and when I am that thing of horror. It's in the eyes mostly. That dark crown that blossoms on the outer rims of my iris. Bloody horror, horror, for I know know no bounds when a life is to be taken for my dark lord.
"Sleeeeet," the blood shoots from the neck, pumping out the crimson even as my victim squirms in agony from the arrorw and the deep, red cut. No words, just hiccups of blood. I put my foot on him, this petty thief who stole from my master. I enjoy the bite of the crisp evening air as its comes flooding from the forest.
It's good to be a Black Guard, a Black Guard of horrific proportions.
II. Red Eyes
And in my fantasies, Corwin's eyes go red, and the air around us goes winter. We clutch at the world, the shared crown of a dark throne. But in the night, around an honest bone-fire, on the march, we conduct our dark rites before our fallen soldiers, marching village to village, extinguishing all with our shared flame.
After supping on the fresh heart of my enemy, braised with oil over an open flame, I recline, dreaming of Corwin. Corwin, my weight, my bane, my weakness. Why Dark Father was I speared so maliciously through the heart by this lawful subject of the land? How I dream, hot dreams, of her moral ruin in my hands, tied down, struggling for release, struggling for her closely guarded ecstasy.
When she is near, I struggle for command, for order. I long to be the vampire of my own heart, take her into the woods, and sup on that pale neck. To taste that copper as it sluices down my tongue, oh, burning is what this is, Darth Father, burning for something I could so easily take like an apple on a tree.
And in my fantasies, Corwin's eyes go red.
What this is happens to be practice. It happens to be the spilling of my guts after playing all those hours. It's subjective to the point of not being recognizable, but it is my playthrough, and I mean it. On my interpretation of my blackguard, she's like Kylo Ren: "Unbalanced." Without wisdom. Too much style and forethought to achieve the ultimate: blackguard status. What follows is largely experiment. Forgive the lack of canon--it's just me.
I. Wounded Sky
In the sowing of the forest, I walk tall and brave, following my prey for the Dark Fathers who gave me these powers I wield. The longbow is my choice, sensuous and lean; long is its reach, powerful is its bite. None in Baldur's Gate stand a chance when I am on their tail.
And the song usually follows after the "btwanggg." the panicked screams as the arrow pierces a lung, or knee. I follow at my leisure, wishing for a glass of dark Sfrensio, made famous by the Sfrensio berries inland from here.
They see me in my dark leather gear, the blazing read hair, and the long curved dagger. They know what I am, and when I am that thing of horror. It's in the eyes mostly. That dark crown that blossoms on the outer rims of my iris. Bloody horror, horror, for I know know no bounds when a life is to be taken for my dark lord.
"Sleeeeet," the blood shoots from the neck, pumping out the crimson even as my victim squirms in agony from the arrorw and the deep, red cut. No words, just hiccups of blood. I put my foot on him, this petty thief who stole from my master. I enjoy the bite of the crisp evening air as its comes flooding from the forest.
It's good to be a Black Guard, a Black Guard of horrific proportions.
II. Red Eyes
And in my fantasies, Corwin's eyes go red, and the air around us goes winter. We clutch at the world, the shared crown of a dark throne. But in the night, around an honest bone-fire, on the march, we conduct our dark rites before our fallen soldiers, marching village to village, extinguishing all with our shared flame.
After supping on the fresh heart of my enemy, braised with oil over an open flame, I recline, dreaming of Corwin. Corwin, my weight, my bane, my weakness. Why Dark Father was I speared so maliciously through the heart by this lawful subject of the land? How I dream, hot dreams, of her moral ruin in my hands, tied down, struggling for release, struggling for her closely guarded ecstasy.
When she is near, I struggle for command, for order. I long to be the vampire of my own heart, take her into the woods, and sup on that pale neck. To taste that copper as it sluices down my tongue, oh, burning is what this is, Darth Father, burning for something I could so easily take like an apple on a tree.
And in my fantasies, Corwin's eyes go red.
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And the green dragon fell like a spring leaf, yellow-tinged around the edges, but life-green in the center. My bow, Malax, spoke, and the green dragon’s mighty hand was played. It thudded to the cavern floor, leaking lung fluid. In nature, far away from the conceits of mankind, there is peace and balance in the order of things, yet when life is played like so many cards to the shuffle, there’s a lack of gravity to these affairs.
Take Edwin for example. I could skewer him with Malax before his voice could sling even one spell. In that second, in the hip, would quiver a crippling blow, and then I would be upon with with my long knife, scalping what was left of his dignity. And his skull would eventually bleach in the sun, and his tongue would grow spotty before it would be yanked out by birds, kites, ravens.
These are the things we give up our dignity for: ignorance.
When Sarevok fell, I held the bow, a bow blessed by my Dark Father. It wasn’t Sarevok’s time, and though he tried to force his way, the seasons were out of joint. Too many dark gods jostling for the position to place their ward. And when he fell, I swear I heard my arrows strike an anvil, and then silence. Sarevok was no more.
In his defense, he brought us all together. It was he that brought me closer to my Dark Father, my one, true heart in all of this game of shuffled cards. Many a night leading up to the murder of Sarevok, I wondered what my true purpose was—all the while living it. I was the savior of two mines; I was the slayer of bandits; I was the Child of Murder looking for a reason.
Sarevok was my reason, and I didn’t even know it..
Sarevok, the demented; the lost; the bridge to destiny.
I remember wandering after he fell. Around in his personal space, feeling his tone, his attitude soak into to me like water into a sponge. There was a place in between realms, and I was feeling it, woozy like a girl who had her head bopped with an oar. There were doorways, but all were closed to me that day, except for one. In that doorway stood a headless maiden, my age. She beckoned me, sought to pull me into the mist that surrounded her, and then I came out of the swoon. Sarevok was still dead, but I was something else, something like a Child of Bhaal.
Caelar Argent.
Sister in Darkness.
Why masquerade as something you're not?
As Child of Baal, I saw the dread in your eyes.
Profound, thy target, did you even have a choice like me?
I noted thy tender reproach to my promised might.
Did you forsee thy end?
Oh, plush nihilism milked to the extreme.
Did you hear your Dark Father like me?
Or was it another extreme dreamed up by you?
Which face spoke first in our game? Angel or devil?
Who is it that needs your deliverance?
How meek the faces that look up to thee.
Will you tromp them down as you mow?
Heaven's fist knows no bound.
Did you hear your Dark Father like me?
Or was it another extreme dreamed by you?
Who is it that needs your deliverance, Angel of Night?
Only a stained persona like mine would be able understand what I am about to write on this blank page. Upon entering the dragon cave, we felt the great snores of the green dragon before ever we saw him. Massive, but just shy of mature, mature with muscles and awareness.
I readied my bow, and the ill-luck that was. Before this Child of Bhaal knew it, the green dragon was on its feet, alert, staring. I let go with the mayhem, striking his throat off-center. Others in my band let loose their arrows as well, all blessed by blood, blessed by the God of Murder. Praise be Sarevok’s name. Would you were with me now, side by side, fighting like siblings of Bhaal. Never will we know that much togetherness.
Down goes the dragon, and I carve scales from his flank, stuffing them in my burlap hunter’s bag. Onward to the hasty fight with the trollkin. Thank the darkness we were all talented in spreading death. The blind woman. Woe to her, but that is the way of the priestess. Loved by some, hated by others. Even I, blackguard, would not eat someone’s eyes fresh from a brazier. Only blood from the fair make me insane like that.
We approached you, dear Xiatar. I smelled your reptilian scent all the way down to you, expecting you, longing for you. But then there was the faceoff, and you were knowledgeable of what was in my hunter’s bag. Fickle fate, how you turn blackguard upon blackguard without punishment. One day, in the Beyond, I will see that you get your punishment.
“Kinslayers,” she said, wings raised in alarm.
“Don’t do it, Xiatar, I come here with a promise,” I say.
“Promise nothing, murderer!”
“Stay, do not advance. We are archers and will lay you out.”
“Have at thee, kinslayers!”
We pinned her first: one, two, three, four. Unkind were the arrows, blessed by the Dark Father. She lay bleeding, suffering, and I would not have that. I advanced, death in human form. “Forgive me?” I asked, and she sneered. TWACK!!!! The arrow sounded, thudding into the side of her neck, breaking bones.
As she died, gasping wetly, my men went through her things. “Keys, mistress,” they said, proud of their find. I simply stared, thinking of Sarevok, of Xiatar. Unfriendly Death, how is it that you slay so many of the talented of the land without repercussion ?It’s you and me Master Death, you and me. One day. In the afterlife.
It happened at that damned bridge, the crossways to my true self. All along I’ve been called “Child of Bhaaal,” and gone along with it. Who doesn’t have a dark side to them? We have kings and laws to ensure we do not outright murder each other. It is our true self to desire power, but few are designed to attain it.
We did the unexpected, we attacked the crusader camp, showing no mercy. Mage and soldier bent double to my volley of Bhaal cursed arrows. Like silhouettes they fell slowly, slumping to the hams, slumping to their heels and then down to the earth that would reclaim them, finally. To worms. To worms.
Before I knew it, we broke ground at the bridge. A gaggle of troops and a mage lingered near some barrels. I saw red. Once again my bow sang, the mage–like all mages worth their salt–threatened incineration. He was chanting, shrilly, and the Bhaal inside me saw red. I took quick aim, eyes following the bow with some lack of speed, and from my dark heart, let fly the arrow that was destined to stop his heart.
My minions waded into the waddle of soldiers, hacking, beheading, all manner of human brutality, and then there was the birdsong, and we strutted across the bridge, dodging the barrels that stood like titans against my self-discovery.
There were two, and through the mist, I saw them clearly. Murder. Scoundrel. One murdered the other. My visceral senses told me “Cyric murders Bhaal,” dread, upheaval. Eyes blasted through with bright light. The sound of murder in my ears, a sound I cannot shake even unto this day. “Follow,” my heart sang, “follow.”
I saw the sign: the skull.
Upon coming to, others discovered me surrounded by the skull, a stain on the bridge like the stain on my soul. As I rose up from my leveled position, I knew I was the “heir apparent” of Bhaal. From hence forth I would sup on blood, know no life to be sacrosanct, and one by one, replace my followers with a blood-thirsty crew.
I, Child of Bhaal.
I, Child of Bhaal, live.
The charge, underground in the tunnels, blew parts of Caelar’s castle sky high. The dust lingered long, and we all grabbed our swords, spears, maces in anticipation of the final attack on Caelar.
Caelar, she who would be a god, shrank in her castle, the very stones debating whether to rise, fall, or stand still. Hephernaan, her court wizard, thrust her under a sturdy arch as a rain of debris peppered down from the ceiling.
“Looks like it’s going to hold,” he said.
“It seems as though your knowledge of future events is a tad off.” She stood, brushing off her plate wrapped shoulders, scowling at him.
“I apologize, my lady. I shall prove myself with this next act: surrounding the castle with a spell of paralysis.”
“Do it,” she growled.
Truly, the spell did its job, stopping Balgara’s forces for a few precious moments. Yet, Caelar was shocked to find that she herself was trapped within the walls. No way in. No way out.
“Damn you mage! What were you thinking?” Hephernaan was bent over a ritual pentagram in the back, sprinkling something that looked like blood. “Belhifet be praised,” he whispered, and a mist rose up. Without a thought, without a thought about his lady's safety, Hephernaan walked into that black, swirly mist without looking back.
“Caelar,” a voice from the hall called. It was loaded with what many would call genuine sympathy. But the author, Caelar knew who she was--that blackguard. Balgara was a sea of uncertainty to Caelar, defying the wisdom of the blackguard pattern. She could be bloodthirsty, could be fair, could be difficult. She was perhaps a young blackguard, unattached to a deific standard of being. Damn that girl.
“Don’t,” Balgara commanded, a single hand stretched out as if to grab Caelar. But it was an empty gesture. Caelar vanished into the void, bright light erupting, almost blinding. A handful of her finest soldiers appeared, grim, determined. And in a second, they too vanished into the airy void with their beloved leader.
Like two runners who have spent their reserves, went slack, and lost the will to excel, so us, we ardent mix of disciplines. The Underworld was like a furnace stoked by souls, blasting sweat into our eyes as we swung at demons, as I pulled my bowstring back, back, back to pierce the heart of the foe. In that mad season of melee, there was was only the barest reckoning of who was foe, who was friend.
It took two to three on one to take out the demons who fought with hungry tenacity. I saw a glimpse of The Shining Lady parrying twin cleavers, or so it seemed; nobody should have to melee a tyrant of a demon alone, so I sent a few arrows his way, stomach, shoulder, neck. They stuck, quivering, and the lady pressed forward. I turned to address more woes, and lost sight of her.
We turned this way and that. I flicked out my short blade to tickle loose a hamstring on a swollen demon leg; my companions did well for themselves, even the thief who backstabbed with great alacrity. The mage slung spells against spell-hardened foe, but it only made him try again on the lesser minions. And as for my Frieda, the berserker, I was proud of each severed arm, head, hand. Ichor was slick on the flagstones of Hell.
There was a raised chorus amongst the few demons who were left. The Shining Lady was rebuffed in an advance, and slid across the stone floor, while the demon she combated laughed. I sent more shafts at the great demon, this cackling giant of gray flesh, scoring a direct hit to his left orb. His tantrum was remarkable, allowing the lady to regain her purchase, and to rejoin the attack.
We all gravitated to the fight, joining it as we could. And it wasn’t long before the tyrant fell, ichor leaking from a hundred wounds at least. “Hear me,” The Shining Lady spoke, “I did all this to save my uncle, and now I see how vain the prospect was. Baal-blood opened the portal you came in on to hunt me, now I offer you a way out. My blood for your escape. If anything you think be cross, think of me here, in the Underworld, fending off the foe. What job would be better for me? My life for yours.”
And at this, she unsheathed a short blade, glossed it across her palm, and when the blood ran like a streamlet, she held it over the portal ground, flinching as the magic portal woke up to her caress. “Leave now, before thy come in greater numbers. This is my price to pay.”
And so we left as asked.
Eyes on the Shining Lady.
Hearts in the gutter.
We all spent a week in a tavern, trying like the dickens to remove the tainted ashen scent of hell from our tongues, nostrils, flesh. We were together, but each mind riveted on the ghastly sentence of The Shining Lady. Holy knight in hell was the motto, and as we slept our nights away in goose-down beds, awakening in the mornings to begin a fresh assault on tankards of ale, we saw The Shining Lady fighting the good fight, doomed for eternity in Hell.
--Finis