Thank you, @BelgarathMTH! I am so glad you are enjoying the story!
You are right that this reporting style slows down the pace of my game substantially, but that's fine by me. I am actually hoping that delving deep into the narrative will help me sustain my interest in the playthrough over time. Before starting this playthrough, I ran several characters up through the end of SoD before, each time, invariably losing interest and wanting to start over with someone new. Developing Ausar's character intensively and using it to chart a novel path open to unpredictability, though, is sort of a "game within a game" that I am hoping will keep my interest over the long-term.
Presenting dialogue can be tricky, and so your advice is well-taken. It is possible that I keep the screenplay style in my back-pocket as an option for when cross-talk is especially intense, or for when I am feeling a little lazy. Hopefully my facility with dialogue, and just with creative writing in general, improves over the course of this playthrough - another reason I am attracted to the long-form approach
As for the fight with Tarnesh, yes, the danger is very real. Stay tuned! haha
“Look what I found! It’s sooooo shiny - I bet it could even be a real diamond!” She plants her feet in the ground dramatically and then thrusts the gem skyward with both hands, as though to show all the world. It was a clear crystal, not poorly cut, and though I knew little of precious stones, I could not rule out her guess as utterly implausible. In truth, I must have gasped audibly, and Imoen cackled with delight.
“Put that away, before some bandit swoops in and steals it from us,” I chide, but she can sense I am not angry, “Where did you find it? Did you steal it from Kolssed?” I asked, hopeful.
“Kole-who? I just found it by a tree in the woods, just a little ways away from where I was stan-” she covers her mouth with her hands, but her whole face tells me she is smiling underneath.
“Are you telling me you didn’t keep watch like we planned?” My tone sharpens a bit: “Those men were dangerous, they might have put me in danger. Where would you have been then?”
“Oh, I was keeping my ear out for you - you did great! It’s so hard to stand still when there is so much out here to explore.” Imoen’s good cheer remains indefatigable. In fact, it is infectious.
“Imoen, your diamond is just what we need to save Gorion! Quickly, you need to take me to him.” My exuberance builds as my spirit swells with the hope that, soon, the world will be put right again. But as I crest, Imoen falls.
“O-okay, if that’s what you want,” she replies, her eyes downcast, “I just don’t know how -”
“Like I said, just trust me.”
Imoen leads me briskly northwest to a clearing that I can tell, even from some distance, has been scorched. In a flash, I recall the roaring pillar of fire, and Gorion’s own fiery ripostes. A number of bodies are lay strewn about the ground, left out to rot, charred and unburied. When we reach the edge of the clearing, Imoen points me in one direction and wanders off in another, mumbling about wanting to find out whether any of those “darn bandits” had anything in their pockets when they died. I rushed toward his body, eager to fulfill my part in my father’s plan.
Death was only a hiding place - not an oblivion but an oubliette. Gorion had bought me as much time as he could, so that I could escape. In ensuring my escape, though, he had also saved himself. He had trusted I would solve this one most important riddle, and I had: I was his contingency plan.
I ran it all over again in my head: I would carry him to Candlekeep on my shoulders, with Imoen covering our tracks and scouting for danger. Once we arrived, I would explain to the Gatewarden everything that had befallen us the night before - even the strictest of the sages would not oppose our admission in the wake of such a tragedy. Then, at the shrine of Oghma, I would petition Candlekeep’s high priest to raise my father from death, fanning the zeal of his faith higher with the promise of Imoen’s treasure, if need be. Although restoring the dead to life was a mighty power, I had read it was not beyond wise priests who had found favor with their gods. The Lorekeepers spent day and night reading scrolls, writing scrolls, organizing scrolls; surely by now, they had amassed a veritable treasure-house of favor with the Binder.
I admired my brilliance, that I had worked out this plan when it mattered the most. How many lesser men would have despaired, their vision clouded by grief? But I had found the winning move in this game of life and death. However strong that demon may have been, he was not cunning enough to outwit Ausar, prodigy of Candlekeep. It was elementary really, a classic victory of brains over brawn. With Gorion restored to them, the sages would finally have to acknowledge me, the foster child they had dismissed time and time again. No more. I pictured Ulraunt, for once in his life, being forced to bite his tongue.Comforted by this image, I slide back into the present moment.
@Rao. Very interesting. It's often been wondered how anybody's death means anything in a story world where magic to raise the dead abounds. I've never thought before about applying that problem to Gorion's death while trying to flesh out the game story into a book form.
I think I see where you're going with this. "Strictest of the sages..." indeed.
Also, I'm guessing you know that in traditional tabletop D&D, a diamond worth at least 5,000 gold is the material component for a Raise Dead spell. That's one way dungeon masters use to restrict access to it in their campaigns so their players will be careful and not throw their lives away on a whim.
This last weekend marked the one-month anniversary of this thread! A thousand thanks to all my readers, and a thousand more to all those members who have taken the time to show their support with their likes, comments, and private messages! I know this part of the forum is not the most active, so it really means a lot to see you all going out of your way to stop by.
Here’s to more great storytelling in this coming month, and in the many months to come
I look down at Gorion’s body. The sight cracks me like a hammer stroke to the skull. I retch, and vomit onto the ground.
His throat had been torn apart. Flecks of spine dotted the mangled mess, no longer a neck. Eyes gouged from sockets, pools of congealed blood to flood empty cavities in the skull. Left cheekbone sawed upward through the skin. Vertigo. Blindness. The acrid tang of vomit still in my throat. The world a blur, then back in cruel focus. He had been stripped naked down to his waist. Deep gashes rent his entire body, hacked musculature, exploded veins, cracked bones. A dark crimson hole on the left side of his chest. Incomprehension. Horror. They had ripped the heart from his chest!
A howling scream bursts from my lungs. Hot tears drip from the corners of my eyes. I fall to my knees, all the energy in my body forced through my chest into an explosion of inarticulate rage. My spirit filled with blood, death, and fire, became a torture chamber for that black beast. I would find a thousand ways to kill him, each one slower and crueler than the last. Who could do something like this? After all the solars had wreaked their vengeance on this fiend, I would repay him double, triple, until the hardest, coldest gods wept for mercy on his behalf. Never before could I have conceived of such a complete and terrible desecration. Everything was ruined. No such body could be raised. It would not even make half the journey to Candlekeep before falling apart entirely.
By now, Imoen had come behind me and placed her hand on my shoulder. I slapped it away.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I spun around, not bothering to control my voice.
“I was going to, but you kept in-”
I cut her off. “You are so worthless! You should have stayed back at Candlekeep to rot with everyone else. Nothing can bring him back now!” I cry, waving madly at the body.
“Aus-”
“Nothing! This whole damn journey was a mistake. I’m finished with you. Do what you want - just don’t get in my way.”
Imoen stands frozen, staring at me, her eyes on the verge of tears. I don’t care.
“What are you staring at? Bandit’s didn’t have enough gold in their pockets, so now you want to loot his body too? Look! Look what they did to him - and you don’t even care!” I can feel my face flush from shouting.
“I’m not the one who did this to him, Ausar!” Her voice breaks over mine. I turn away and keep silence. My mind circles back on that murderous fiend, so powerful and so cruel. My soul branded him Hakar - elvish for "enemy" - and my heart blazed against him, like the murder that blazed forth in his eyes on that dark night.
“You need time to be alone with him,” she says, her voice now soft and quiet. She steps away to the edge of the clearing, “I will be back.” I say nothing in reply. I will give her no gratitude.
Ausar confronts the mutilated body of his foster father. Imoen gives him time to grieve alone.
Alone, in the stillness of the clearing with Gorion, my heart and my mind fall into a cloud. Images half-materialize, then vanish: childhood memories of his warmth diffuse like rays of sun across mist. There are vortices of loss, spirals of unanswered questions and secrets that had passed away him. There are thunderheads of wrath. Shadowy figures in battle return to me again, and again, along with lightning and fire. There is Oghma, Mystra, and the Seldarine; there are the good gods of holiness and peace. They are passing by, but I do not know if they see me, a mere mote of dust tumbling through the fog. I do not know if I want them to. Who is my mother? All is indistinct; all melts together in this edgeless mental space. Time passes. Is she also dead? The thoughts of a minute and of an hour become indistinguishable. I remember back to one night when I was a little boy, and the wind had snuffed out the candle on the sill in my room, plunging everything into darkness. I began to cry, so scared of the dark I had been. Gorion placed one arm around me, and with the other conjured up two dancing lights that swayed playfully in the air, unbothered by the wind. I can still feel his hands, gaunt as they were, drying my tears. Had my mother loved me?
Now, I look down at Gorion, at his face. He had known none of the peace or love in death that he had earned in life. My eyes settle again on the broken bone protruding above his left cheek. Something about it pesters me, like an itch or a loose tooth. I stare at it blankly, comprehending nothing. I fall back into my cloudy meandering, for two minutes, or two hours, before I suddenly feel a sensation like a knot unraveling in my brain. The cheekbone was the one little piece of this horror I had foreseen - I had seen it in my dream. Discomfort with the eeriness of the recollection settled over me. If it was no idle dream, then perhaps more of it would come to pass, in an equally macabre fashion. Yet perhaps the dream also pointed toward an answer. I remembered the scroll in Gorion’s mouth, and the urgency with which I had felt compelled to read it. I scan the ground around the body, as though I had not already been staring at it for hours, for any scrap of parchment. Obviously, there was nothing. Overcoming my dread, I reach into the pockets of his robe, matted with blood. With a slight twinge of panic, I feel my fingertips brush against paper, and I draw out the scroll. There is no signet seal, or any sign of red wax; instead, it just falls open in my hand. I dive ravenously into the page:
“My friend Gorion,
Please forgive the abruptness with which I now write, but time is short and there is much to be done. What we have long feared may soon come to pass, though not in the manner foretold, and certainly not in the proper time frame. As we both know, forecasting these events has proved increasingly difficult, leaving little option other than a leap of faith. We have done what we can for those in thy care, but the time nears when we must step back and let matters take what course they will. We have, perhaps, been a touch too sheltering to this point.
Despite my desire to remain neutral in this matter, I could not, in good conscience, let events proceed without some measure of warning. The other side will move very soon, and I urge thee to leave Candlekeep this very night, if possible. The darkness may seem equally threatening, but a moving target is much harder to hit, regardless of how sparse the cover. A fighting chance is all that can be asked for at this point.
Should anything go awry, do not hesitate to seek aid from travelers along the way. I do not need to remind thee that it is a dangerous land, even without our current concerns, and a party is stronger than an individual in all respects. Should additional assistance be required, I understand that Jaheira and Khalid are currently at the Friendly Arm Inn. They know little of what has passed, but they are ever thy friends and will no doubt help however they can.
I lowered the scroll from my eyes with disappointment. Instead of answering questions, the letter only raised them, most significantly the identity of this mysterious “E.” He and Gorion had been divining some event, a burgeoning conflict between two sides: E and Gorion together on the one, and, I could only assume, the Hakar and his servants on the other. Yet if E had initially desired to remain neutral, as between Gorion and the Hakar, how could Gorion trust him? Only a coward or a fool would not align himself against such an obvious evil. It was unlikely that E was another Candlekeep sage; his letter betrayed too great an involvement with the outside world. But then again, the letter also indicated that my father had been more involved than I could ever have imagined.
Inexplicably, my life was the prize of this conflict, along, perhaps, with Imoen’s. The letter described the objects of Gorion’s care in the plural, and it was in fact Gorion who had brought Imoen as an orphan to Candlekeep, though it was Winthrop who had adopted and raised her as his own. But we had both lived within the walls of a glorified library our entire lives - how could we be a threat, or even pawns, to any interest on the outside? E was right: Gorion had sheltered me far too much from this gathering storm, and now he had died without communicating any of his intelligence on the Hakar or the larger battle. The only tangible information I had were the names of our contacts at the Friendly Arms.
Before I can weld any additional links onto this deductive chain, the faint pressure of Imoen’s hand breaks it. I turn to her; her expression is still, and her eyes patient. Even the Candlekeep sages who had known Imoen well might never have seen her half so somber. The passing of Winthrop’s wife had occasioned such gentleness in Imoen once before, but I would have ventured with confidence that it was the only other such time in her entire life. Nevertheless - here and now - it was welcome.
“It’ll be dark soon, Ausar.” Her voice quivers just a breath above a whisper. I scan the horizon and mark the sun well past its meridien. The uncharacteristic sobriety of her bearing, mingled with fatigue in sorrow, melt the cords of resistance inside me.
“I know, Imoen,” I hesitate, “but what can we do? I wanted to raise him. Now I -” my voice catches, “now I’m not even sure we can bury him.” Gorion’s body looks like one horrid wound, cut red against the earth. I blink back tears.
“Well...” her voice trails off as she scans our surroundings, as though the answer might be read in the human wastage of the clearing. “We can check the bodies, if one of those bandits was carrying an ax…” she studies my face for a reaction, looking to see if I could complete her thought.
I sigh. Imoen’s clever and unconventional mind had always yielded its surprises, but at this suggestion I could only grimace. With an axe, we could fell branches, perhaps even saplings, as kindling for a funeral pyre. Then a mere spark would commit Gorion’s body to the flames, free at least from the predation of wild beasts.
I shook my head. The cremation of a body was one of the gravest sacrileges of the Oghmite faith. Just as the Binder abhorred the burning of any codex or scroll, so too did he abhor the conflagration of his faithful: the reduction of order to ember, form to ash, and information to wind - this havoc courted the wrath of the Wise God. At Candlekeep, sages shelved tomes in the library and gravekeepers shelved sages in the crypt. In this way, all things at Candlekeep stood in actual and symbolic union against the entropy that Oghma so despised. I recalled all of these teachings not for fear, but in memory of Gorion. He had never sworn priestly oaths, but he had revered Oghma and loved the seat of his worship at Candlekeep. My heart ached with pity. Gorion would not have wanted a shroud of flames.
“I know, I know,” Imoen said, as though she had regretted the suggestion as soon as she had made it. Without shovels, though, burial was not an option.
“We need to cover him,” I said, glancing again at the body, so obscenely wounded, “Let’s strip these men of their shirts, the ogres too - they look cheap and light enough to tear.” Imoen and I set about this task in silence. Handling the bodies of these vermin filled me with disgust; I was glad to deprive them of whatever I could. We tore the garments into bands of cloth, and wrapped Gorion’s body as well as we could. As we reached his waist, my hands brushed against the leather of his belt, which was warm to the touch. It was, I realized, the belt that Gorion had enchanted to keep his “old bones” warm in the drafty corridors of Candlekeep.
“Take it. He would have wanted you to have it, to remember him by,” Imoen urged, noticing that my hands had lingered there. For a few moments, I did nothing. Then, without a word, I unbuckled it, and placed it in my pack. I could not bear to don it for myself.
We continued our grim work. The end result was a patchwork of rags, the cocoon of some stillborn butterfly. Shame flushed through me and I ground my teeth.
“Help me pick him up - I know where we can take him,” Imoen said, now taking the lead. It was not long before we set his body down again, mummy-like, in the shade of an outcropping of trees Imoen had found at the side of a fjord. The utter wrongness of leaving Gorion’s body in such a state seared my heart like an iron. So, although the hour was growing late, I directed Imeon to help me carry small and midsize rocks away from the stone circles that marked the battlefield where Gorion had fallen. Together we laid them gently over Gorion’s body, improvising a cairn. The last stone was no easier to lay than the first, but eventually, the work was done. My breathing slowed in the failing light of dusk. I could hear the water lapping at the foot of the cliffs below; Imoen had indeed drawn us to a place of peace. She looked at me, at a loss for how to continue. Could we really just leave him there, never to look back, years of love ended with one last turning away?
“Imoen, help me say the Litany of Preservation.”
“I don’t remember the words.”
“I do; I have been to their funerals. You can say the response.”
Imoen nodded in agreement. My impieties at the shrine of Oghma flitted across my heart, but the gravity of the moment swallowed my hypocrisy. I breathed deeply.
“Lord of knowledge,” I began.
.....“Preserve him,” Imoen replied.
“Lord of tomes - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Lord of scrolls - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Lord of proverbs - “
.....“- preserve him.”
“Lord of parables - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Lord of order - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Bard of bards - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Poet of poets -”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Scholar of scholars - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Scribe of scribes - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Sage of sages - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Teller of tales - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Librarian of the heavens - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Archivist of all things - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Vault of wisdom - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Cosmic inkwell - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Unbreakable spine - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Unpierceable codex - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Unstainable page - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Prosemaster - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Wordsmith - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Binder - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Oghma, preserve the soul of your faithful from consuming fire. Safeguard it in integrity, inviolate for eternity. At the end of the scroll of the life of Gorion, your faithful servant, write, we pray thee, one final line of peace, unending, unbroken, for all time.”
The nightsong of crickets was the closing requiem of our beggar’s funeral. In the darkness and in our grief, we removed ourselves from that place.
Ausar and Imoen share a moment of silence after laying Gorion to rest.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
As you can see, I had some technical difficulty making indents in my post. I tried the "tab" key and space bar, but to no avail. If anyone knows how to do this properly and would like to share their wisdom, please send me a direct message. As always, thanks for reading!
We laid down in the open air to rest that night, but whenever I closed my eyes the image of Gorion’s mutilated body arose to haunt me. I hurled my fists down against the hard ground. I had killed; Gorion also had killed. Would I then die as Gorion had died? That looming tower of black iron, the Hakar, now roared into mental focus, blotting out all other thoughts. Anger throbbed within me like a second heart. I clutched at that rage as tightly as I could, in the way a patient locks his jaw upon the bit, just as the surgeon saws into his leg. Imoen’s chest rose and fell in the rhythms of a peaceful sleep. I wondered how far down this spiral of death she too would fall.
With barely any sleep, I woke Imoen at the first light of morn.
“We are going back to Candlekeep.”
“Why’re we goin’ back there?” Imoen rubs her eyes, still groggy with sleep.
I showed her the note I had recovered from Gorion’s body. Although the likelihood of E living in Candlekeep as a sage was exceptionally low, I explained, it was also exceedingly improbable that Gorion and E had developed their plans regarding the Hakar in perfect isolation. They must have consulted with other parties on the inside; at the very least, the ever-moving undercurrents of rumor in Candlekeep would have spread news about E to a few of the library’s quiet quarters. It was true that Gorion had sacrificed his life to secure our flight from that place, but the fatal ambush of two nights ago had fundamentally altered the calculus of our situation. The Hakar had the power to strike with lethal precision and force, emmenating in large part, no doubt, from his informational advantages. He knew so much more about me than I did about him, and until I narrowed that gap, I would never escape his crushing grip, much less deliver him the death he so thoroughly deserved. Based on E’s note, Khalid and Jaheira likely knew nothing of value; returning to Candlekeep was our best opportunity to arm ourselves with the intelligence we needed to prevail. Also, if the Hakar was, as I suspected, a fiend, then it was in Candlekeep we would learn the ritual needed to banish him from this plane.
“Informational what?” Imoen asked, her eyes glazed over. She had never been a morning person.
“Let’s just get going,” I said, and we did.
The journey back was long but uneventful. Intermittently, the image of Gorion’s body, laid out in the open, would flash before my mind. The Keeper hardly raised his eyes as we approached, but barked out in rote the salutation that had doubtless turned away thousands: “Hold, travelers! Before you will be allowed entrance, you must donate a tome of great value to our library.” I could not resist a wry grin; form truly was everything in Candlekeep. With as much nonchalance as I could muster, I replied, “We don’t have a book, but I used to live here.” The effect was exactly as desired. The Keeper was shaken to full attention, his eyes widening in surprise. He stammered, his words now unrehearsed, “I - I am sorry, friend. I know that you are the child of Gorion and have dwelt here all your life,” his next words all tumbled out of his mouth at once, “but I cannot exempt anyone from the sanctions of the most high Ulraunt.”
Ausar and Imoen seek reentry to Candlekeep.
“But Keeper, there is an emergency - Gorion has been slain. I saw it with my own eyes. You need to let us back in!”
I spoke with such urgency, that the Keeper must have imagined an invading army. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword, “Are they on your heels? Have you brought enemies to our gates, Ausar?”
“No,” I replied, “there has been no sign of them since the ambush two days ago, and I do not believe we are being followed.” I glance back at Imoen, thinking I had spoken with more confidence, perhaps, than was warranted.
The Keeper visibly and immediately relaxed, and when he spoke now he drew upon the authority of his station. “No man enters Candlekeep but pays the price. I am sworn as Keeper of the Portal to uphold this law, as all Keepers before me have done and all Keepers after me shall do,” and then, in a somewhat more solicitous tone, “I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do for you. Ulraunt himself informed us of your departure, and bade us specifically to stand guard against your return. I do not understand it, but it is not my place to question. Without the toll, I cannot allow you to pass.”
“Ulraunt?” my voice rose, “He told you not to let us back in?” The Keeper nodded, but said nothing. My anger roiled and frothed, rushing past the Keeper, predictably content to play the pawn, and up toward Ulraunt. He had always been the most insufferable of the sages, only ever speaking to me in condescension, and now I felt vindicated in my resentment, which only trebled its magnitude. I would not let him hide.
“Ulraunt!” I roared at the top of my lungs. Having spent my whole life in Candlekeep, I knew exactly how far a loud voice could travel through those grave-quiet corridors. Unless Ulraunt was actually strolling through the crypts, he would hear. I shouted his name again, and again, and again. “Ulraunt! Ulraunt!” I imagined that, in his pride, he might have savored the opportunity to ignore a single shout, the ultimate sign of station being to take no notice of one’s inferiors, but his patience was not great enough to endure an incessant outcry, raised before the ears of almost every other sage and visitor in Candlekeep. Enough rage filled me to shout myself hoarse, if I had to. But it was not long before Ulraunt appeared on the battlements, rich blue robes draped about him, and in his hands an unweathered staff, diamonds set in the intricate carvings at its top. It was the symbol and enforcer of the authority of his office, Keeper of Tomes. From high atop the walls, he glowered at me.
“Be silent, you mindless gibberling! Or keep shouting and prove to the whole Library that idiocy really is a progressive disease.”
“Gorion is dead, and the ones who killed him are hunting for me! Let me in!” I continued to shout. I had expected that news of Gorion’s death would surprise Ulraunt, but he did not hesitate before replying.
“You will not bring your troubles back here, ingrate,” he spat, “Gorion was a fool for bringing you here, and I will not repeat his mistake by taking you back.”
“You bastard! He is dead!” What I had hoped would be a roar broke into a shriek. Even under normal circumstances, Ulraunt had always baited out what was coarsest in me.
“And it was a death he courted for a long time. You are so pathetically ignorant, you do not realize the half of peril to which he exposed this place. Candlekeep is secure, and now I will have order within these walls.”
“I need to come in! I -”
“All you need is a sound flogging. And if you do not leave, now, rest assured, you will have it,” Ulraunt growled.
He knew something, but what?
“What was Gorion doing? Who is E?” I demanded.
“Who is E?” Ulraunt asked rhetorically, “What should a single letter mean to me? Sort out his web of intrigue for yourself. Get thee gone!” He turned to leave.
“Wait! Gorion’s body, it needs to come back to the crypts.” At this last demand, coming at the crest of a rising wave of desperation, Ulraunt whirled around.
“You truly understand nothing. What happens outside these walls is no concern of ours, and he who steps outside their protection bears the risk. The sages of Candlekeep go forth for no man, especially,” Ulraunt added icily, “one who is already dead.” Desperation shattered like a shell of thin glass, and anger surged forward again.
“Damn you, Ulraunt!” I cried out, my fists clenched so hard they shook. “The hells take you! And by Oghma, I swear, the next time I come here I will not leave one stone standing upon another. I will revenge Gorion against the thing that killed him, and then, I will revenge him against you!”
“You dare threaten me? I will have no more of this. Keeper!” Ulraunt shouted now, but I had already turned my back. For all I cared, Candlekeep could burn.
Two announcements as we leave Candlekeep behind: First, @Adam_en_tium, I want to specifically thank you for reading and showing your support. I started seeing your likes shortly after I had just thanked everyone else by name, and wanted to let you know that I appreciate your readership. Thank you!
Second, there will be no installment this coming Friday, but installments will resume as per the usual schedule starting the Monday after.
Thanks, @Adam_en_tium, I really appreciate that. I too wish I could post here more often, but alas, the constraints of a busy time in life limit what is possible for me (for now). I do enjoy crafting the narrative, though, so as long as I see readers, I am very likely to keep giving them something to read.
Ausar's return to Candlekeep should be very interesting, and I too am already looking forward to it. Will his adventures imbue him with the sensitivity and mercy he might need in order to lay aside his oath of vengeance, or will his trials stoke his wrath yet higher, blazing like a furnace so hot that even the memory of his foster father will be powerless to quench it? Only time will tell . . .
Even hours after Imeon and I had retaken the path toward the Friendly Arms Inn, we had not spoken so much as ten words to each other. Her eyes roved along the road, into the underbrush, even up toward the sky above, but always darted to the side as soon as they touched my face, like a hand springing away from a hot iron. I had set my face like a mask, holding it stiff and expressionless through force of will. So we plodded forward, minute after minute, hour after hour, stone after stone on the road.
Then suddenly, this monotony snapped. Imoen grabbed my arm with one hand and stretched her other hand out to point further down the path. In the near distance, a man robed in silks of scarlet strode unhurriedly, but unmistakably, in our direction. Upon his head there loomed a tall, conical hat of the same scarlet, stretching up to end in a point over a foot above its soft brim. I faltered between bemusement and flight. Kolssed, it would seem, had been but the first marshal in a parade of absurdities. Yet for us, hunted out here in the wilderness, survival would demand suspicion of all. Drawing Imoen into the crook of my left arm, I pushed us toward a stone outcropping at the side of the road. It was too late.
The old man called out in an aged but hearty voice, “Ho there, wanderer. Stay thy course a moment to indulge an old man. It’s been nigh unto a tenday since I’ve seen a soul walking this road, and I’ve been without decent conversation since.”
Ausar and Imoen encounter a mysterious figure in red.
Then, in a tone solicitous but subdued, “Traveling nowadays appears to be the domain of either the desperate or the deranged. If thou wouldst pardon my intrusion, may I inquire which pertains to thee?”
At the word “deranged,” my mind flicked back to the green fire in the eyes of the necromancer I had met along the way. By now, though, the old man had drawn close, the shadow cast by his scarlet hat darkening my face. I tilted my chin up slightly so that I could meet his gaze. His brown eyes, deep and dark, struck a strong contrast to that frenzied green. They held the dolefulness of age, interlaced with a sort of pity. Gorion had sometimes looked at me in this way, but that had only been - I assumed - because of my resemblance to my mother. In this old stranger’s eyes was just such a look sympathy for Imoen and I, or - the barbs of suspicion bit into me yet again - was it regret for what he was about to do?
The scarlet cloak around the wanderer’s neck was affixed with a clasp of silver that had been etched with a strange symbol: a sphere floating between the horns of a crescent moon turned on its side. Whether the insignia of some cult, or political faction, or ancient family line, I could not tell. I had certainly never seen it on any page or visitor of Candlekeep. The old man’s considerable nose hooked down, like the beak of a hawk. My eyes followed it to a lustrous beard, white as snow. No, this man was no Gorion. My tongue caught in my throat.
Imoen, though, hardly waited before opening her mouth, “A fair bit of desperate, actually. Might you know the way to the Friendly Arm Inn? We were told we might find some friends there.” Panic flashed through me. If this scarlet-robed figure was a man of evil design, in the pay of the Hakar, he would not just kill us, he would kill our “friends” as well. Any hopes of realizing Gorion’s grand plan, whatever that may have been, would be utterly demolished.
“That I would,” the old man replied, “The inn is a short distance to the north, and its doors are open to all. I have no doubt that thy friends shall be there, waiting with open arms. My sympathies for any hardships the road may have inflicted on thee, though I am certain everything will turn out for the best.”
At these words, I released a heavy breath I had not realized I was holding. The old man’s optimism had inflated the truth past the point of bursting, but at least it was a lie of sympathy and not a prelude to mortal danger - at his hands, anyway. I nodded, but the old man did not see. He had turned his gaze into the distance, cocking his ear as though to hear something far away.
Before even Imoen could speak, he started up again, “My, but I have wasted too much of thy time and said too much already. I shall take my leave and wish thee all the best.” As he strode past us, sturdy walking staff in hand, it occurred to me that this old wanderer, surely a nobleman of some kind, had addressed us in an honorific register throughout his entire exchange with us, two bedraggled scamps, who from our appearance may as easily have been criminals escaping as escaping criminals. I had not spoken even one honorific in return. In memory, that old man’s eyes sang of pure sincerity. I felt my cheeks grow hot. Imoen could be excused. For an elf, though, to reply to such kindness with silence and suspicion was boorish in the extreme. I thought to rush back, to apologize, to ask his name, but when I turned around, all trace of that peculiar man had vanished.
The peace that followed lived but a few breaths. Imoen and I had not continued much further along the road when a shriek from the northwest crashed against us. A gibberling burst into the open. That shaking mass of sinew and fur caterwauled and whined, bellowed and wept, all the while advancing toward us in some grotesque stagger halfway between a lope and a roll. Imoen wasted no time. Hardly pausing to aim, she loosed two arrows in quick succession. The first arrow grazed its body, but the second flew true, striking the beast in the head. It fell backward with a thud, dead in its tracks.
First combat in a while (at least for us, if not for Ausar)! Imoen's second attack roll lands her a natural 20: an early sign of an auspicious playthrough? or am I already using up all my good luck?
“Did you see that, Ausar?” Imoen cheered, spinning around with her shortbow raised triumphantly above her head, “I got ‘im!”
Sword drawn, I approached the gibberling’s carcass.
“Pretty good for a non-elf, huh?” she continued, a playful lilt in her voice.
Imoen’s arrow stuck straight up from the gibberling’s right eye. A lucky shot, indeed. And a fitting end for such a repulsive creature. Its grey skin was swollen with black tumors. I lanced one with the point of my sword. A greenish-yellow pus oozed out amidst a waft of one of the most putrids odors I had ever smelled. On the point of gagging, I dashed back toward Imoen, hoping the tailwind would clear my nose.
“Nice shot,” I winked at her, “For a non-elf. But I wouldn’t get too close - that thing reeks.”
Affording the gibberling’s corpse a wide berth, we continued along the path until reaching a tall stone obelisk at a three-way crossroads. Carved into the rock: “North to Friendly Arms Inn, Beregost to the South, and the Lion’s Way Road West to Candlekeep.” Candlekeep. My gaze bored into that word. I felt my anger seething, boiling up like magma to fill the empty crevices that made up each letter. I would not forget my oath.
When I looked up, Imoen was already scampering off the path, nocking and loosing imaginary arrows, no doubt at imaginary gibberlings. I continued along the path, with Imoen, as now seemed to be her wont, roving through bushes and trees, “scouting” ahead for signs of danger. I tracked her movements for a time before losing her to distance. If I had to be the only one of us not playing games, focused on keeping us alive, then so be it.
It was not long, however, before Imoen came racing back to the road waving a hand that glinted with gold.
“Look what I found!” she hollered, in a voice that seemed loud enough to reach the Friendly Arms Inn. I shook my head. Did she not understand we were the quarry of trained killers? Had she not seen what they did to Gorion? Her uncanny luck was Tymora’s slight to my caution.
I held one finger to my lips and shushed her loudly, but it was hopeless.
“I am getting married, Ausar! One of those gibberlings proposed, and - of course! - I said yes!” Imoen yelled as she bounded toward me. She thrust her left hand out in front of her to display the golden ring that now adorned her ring finger.
“Enough!” I snapped at her as she skidded to a stop and pushed her hand into mine. A large amethyst was set into the center of the band, its deep violet like a well for the eyes amidst the band’s bright yellow gold.
“We knew you wouldn’t approve, but we are going to elope! And there is nothing you can . . . .” Imoen continued to yammer on at around the same volume, but my attention was fixed on the ring. I rubbed the face of the amethyst with my thumb and felt a slight tingle along with a different sensation, that of straining to recall the sound of a musical note right at memory’s edge. It was a sensation I had first felt back in Candlekeep, when Gorion had let me examine some of his trinkets as part of my education in the arcane.
Suddenly, a deep voice spun us around, “If ye don’t mind, please try to keep your voices down. There are beasties about with better hearing than we.” The husky voice belonged to a man with a thick beard who carried a bow on his back and a long knife at his a belt - a hunter or forester by the looks of him. Imoen immediately fell silent and shoved her left hand deep into her pocket. That ring won’t be worth much to her, I thought, when we are both gutted by a stranger we never saw coming. Now to the question, hunter, are you one of those “beasties”?
I draw myself up and try to match the man’s level tone, “What should I be wary of in this area?”
The man scratched at his beard before replying, “‘Round here? I wouldn’t worry yourself too much, unless you’re brainless and charge everything you see. Mostly gibberlings, but they aren’t too much of a hassle. A fair bow and a good sword arm could handle one, maybe two. More with cleric or magic backup. Wolves have become a bit more predatory lately. I think it’s because more people are hunting for their food, seein’ as how the iron shortage took away their normal livelihoods. A hungry wolf is a nasty thing, and I wouldn’t travel without a group if I were you.”
I thanked the man, who seemed guileless and content to carry on with his business. Nevertheless, I watched him go before turning back to Imoen. She had perched the ring at the lip of her pocket, as though to bury it again at a moment’s notice. I stretched out an open palm and raised one eyebrow. Her hand darted back out of sight.
“I’m not going to take it, Imoen. But let me see it again. I do not think that is any ordinary ring.”
She relented, placing her hand in mine. The two sensations I had felt before were unmistakable, but I brushed the amethyst again with my thumb, just to be sure.
“Imoen, this ring is enchanted.” Imoen eyed the ring thoughtfully.
“Enchanted? But I just found it on the ground, by some rocks,” she said. And then in a voice quickening with excitement, “What does it do?”
“I-” I stuttered and then stopped. I remembered that the identification spell had been the topic of my last lesson with Gorion. “I don’t know.” I bit off my words before they were swallowed by the tightness in my throat. “Let’s go.” I set a brisk pace, Imoen now staying quietly at my side, content, perhaps, to flash an admiring look every now and again at her newfound treasure.
We pushed northward for hours, the sun sinking further and further into the west. Yet the Friendly Arms Inn was nowhere in sight. When the sun was a pinkish blob trembling on the edge of the horizon, Imoen opened her mouth as wide as she could and yawned. I cursed under my breath.
“We have to keep going, Imoen. I won’t sleep in the open tonight. We need to make it to safety.”
“I didn’t say anything, you old gulleysnapper!” Imoen protested.
“Fine, but stop dragging your feet. It can’t be that much further.”
Twilight fell, and dusk followed. All sight of the Inn eluded us. The path before us dimmed as the last of the sun’s rays stretched thinner and thinner over the land, and then dissolved entirely into darkness. My elven eyes could see by starlight, but Imoen stumbled, for what must have been the third or fourth time. We stood silently for a moment, engulfed in night.
“It’s so dark, Ausar. I can’t even see my own feet. I wouldn’t know it if I was walking straight between an ogre’s legs. Except for the smell, maybe. Can you make a light for us? Pretty please?” She affected a mock-simper, but I could hear sincere desperation close to the surface.
I've been following this for a while now, and just wanted to say how much I'm enjoying it so far. You have a really descriptive voice, and I love how you're creatively incorporating the dialogue into the text itself, without it sounding clunky or awkward. I'm keeping my eye on this, and waiting eagerly for more!
Wow! Welcome to the forum and to this thread! @energisedcamel, I can't tell you how honored I am that one of your first posts on these boards has been to express your appreciation of my work. Thank you so much, not just for reading, but for taking the time to let me know.
“No. I will not light a beacon for our pursuers,” I said. But then, hearing Imoen’s disappointed sigh, I relented with a true confession, in a much softer voice, “Also, I do not have the strength for it. A firefly could outshine me tonight.”
“What are we going to do? It’s so dark, and for all we know we could still be hours away.”
I imagined Imoen floating away from me in the darkness, like an untethered skiff being born out into open waters by the tide, farther and farther, until the harbor became a distant dream. I imagined her crashing into the Hakar, that juggernaut of black steel bearing down upon her slight frame with his horrible, burning eyes. A pang wracked my heart. I remembered Gorion’s face contorted in agony as he died.
“Hold on to my arm. We’ll make it through.”
“Hmph! As though I need your help, you big taddlewam,” Imoen protested. But before the words left her mouth, she had already latched on.
We pressed forward, no longer speaking. Every sound chilled me. Would I blink and open my eyes to that horrible gaze of wrath, blazing with apocalyptic fire? Or would it be a simple dagger between the ribs, quick and unseen? But necessity compelled my steps. As the hours passed, time gradually lost its shape. Imoen’s pull on my arm became heavier and heavier. She kept her eyes open with more and more difficulty, gradually losing her battle with sleep as our journey leeched the strength out of her, mile by mile. When I felt as though I were all but dragging her forward, I hoisted her over my shoulders, like a small child. She was remarkably light, and to my surprise she did not protest. Her breathing soon assumed that peaceful cadence of sleep, except for once or twice where I thought I heard her mouth the word “Winthrop.” The pang in my heart deepened as I pushed on into the night.
Eventually, the bright lights of the Inn revealed themselves. But by then, I could feel my strength had waned, especially with the extra exertion of carrying Imoen on my back. My breathing was heavier, my steps plodding - for an elf, at least. I could not sense that anyone had followed us, and now the promise of safety and sleep fortified me for this one last stretch. I was not sure though whether, once we arrived, I would make it to a bed, or whether Imoen and I would collapse on the floor like a pile of limp rags. As I approached, I could trace the outlines of a high wall, ramparts, and other impressive fortifications; the Friendly Arms Inn must have been built originally as a fortress, or else the founder must have constructed it at the center of a war zone. I did not know what I would do if the gate were locked without a night guard. But even these simple thoughts soon became too burdensome. Fatigue had fogged my brain. Forward, was all I knew.
I met two night watchmen at the gate, their iron swords glinting in the torchlight that spilled out from the inner courtyard.
At long last, Ausar and Imoen reach the Friendly Arms Inn!
“By the gods, man, it’s an hour past midnight,” one barked, and then, jabbing a bony finger in Imoen’s direction, asked, “is she alright?”
“Just sleeping.” I slide her off my back and wake her up with a shake.
“A-are we there yet?” Imoen’s drowsy eyes blinked away sleep. I ignore her question.
“We need rooms.”
“Well, then you came to the right place - if you have the coin for it, that is. Welcome to the Friendly Arm, I trust you know the rules of conduct within?”
“There are rules? What kind of rules? Can’t this just wait until morning?”
The other nightwatchman, stockier than his companion interjected, “Perhaps ‘rules’ is a touch too formal. It is unwritten, but accepted, that while herein you will act with the utmost civility to all other guests. This is neutral ground, and all grievances are left at the gate. If the grievances come in, then you will go out.” He waved his hand as a signal for the other members of the guard to open the gate. “Enjoy your stay. The Inn is just up-”
But I had already started walking past him - the way to the main building was so obvious a half-orc could have found it. Imoen stretched her arms in the air and rolled her wrists.
“We finally made it!” Imoen was wide awake, and peered up and down the torchlit courtyard. “Do you think they have anything for us to eat?”
“Not this late, Imoen.” All I wanted to do was sleep. We began walking up the flight of stone steps, when a shadow interposed itself between us and the main hall. As I drew closer, I could make out its features better: a young man with a smooth face and blond hair. He wore a black robe trimmed with emerald green along the neckline and the sleeves. I tried to pass him, but he stepped in front of me, smiling.
“Hi, friend,” he intoned, “I’ve not seen you here before today. What brings you to the Friendly Arms Inn.” A hired greeter, at this hour? How insufferable.
“Nothing much, really. Just road-worn travellers, looking for a place to rest,” I replied, attempting mere dismissiveness but unable to suppress a tinge of exasperation. All I wanted was to pass. The greeter seemed entirely nonplussed.
“I see, I see,” he cooed, “Pardon me for being too forward, but you’ve the bearing of someone I’ve been looking for. About your height, they were. Same style of dress, or thereabouts, I daresay, you seem to be the spitting image of them. Might you have traveled from Candlekeep by any chance?”
Was this Khalid? The question echoed like a muffled gong inside me. I scanned his face agan - small nose, pale blue eyes, nothing remarkable. I decided to hold out for some more definite sign.
“I may have visited there on occasion. What of it?”
“Oh nothing, I’m just looking for someone from that region. Would your name be Ausar, by chance?”
It must be Khalid. A friendly face at last!
“Why, yes it is.”
“Perfect,” his small, almost dainty lips curled up in a smile, “you are indeed the person I seek. Hold still a moment, won’t you?”
Before I could react, the man was enveloped in a flash of white light. I felt an arrow whiz within inches of my face. In a split second, two things happened almost simultaneously. First, the flash disappeared, revealing that the man had been refracted into five identical images. Ten pairs of pale blue eyes stared at me, cold and predatory. Second, the arrow that had flown past my cheek grazed the shoulder of one of the five, tearing the robe’s black fabric and drawing a little blood. The man cried out as I roared with frustration, panic, and sheer rage. That he would use such a spell to shield himself from me! It would serve him no better than it had served my father!
Another of what must have been Imoen’s arrows flew from behind me. It struck a false image, causing it to unravel from everywhere at once and dissolve into nothing. I swung with my right sword for the man with the bloodied shoulder, but he side-stepped and I cut through another false image instead. The image offered no resistance whatsoever; it was like slicing through smoke. My assailant never had a chance to counterstrike, though. The tip of my left sword was already gliding crossways to intercept him. I slashed his unprotected throat before he had a chance to scream.
Imoen lands a lucky shot to start off the fight with Tarnesh.
. . . And Ausar lands the killing blow.
Well, @BelgarathMTH et al., there was the fight with Tarnesh we were all worrying about. No crafty tactics, no guile, no reloads, just Ausar's quick sword-hand and a little bit of luck. Admittedly, this fight could have gone a lot worse, but with Imoen's lucky 20 on that gibberling on the road over here, I thought I would just roll the dice. Hopefully this mindset won't get me into too much trouble down the road . . .
The guards on patrol had by now closed on our position, swords bared.
“Halt!” they shouted. “Weapons on the ground!”
I snarled at them, hardly hearing their words. The blood, adrenaline, and exhaustion roiled in my head like a whirlpool. I do not know what I would have done, if Imoen had not reached out and placed her hand on my forearm.
“Put them down, Ausar,” Imoen said, letting down her bow with her free hand. I could feel her hand was trembling.
I lowered my swords, and one of the guards kicked them away with a heavy boot. The unbloodied sword clattered as it fell down the stairs. The bloodied blade, though, had been kicked at the grip, so that it spun as it slid only a short distance away. When its scarlet tip stopped spinning, it was pointing at me. And so I crouched, head bowed, accused by my own weapon.
“Hands behind your heads, I won’t have any tricks out of you! You even think about drawing a weapon, and you are finished!” the guard nearest me shouted. The other guard, standing over the body, called back over his shoulder to state the obvious, “he’s dead - sliced right through his jugular, they did.” The pool of blood continued to ripple outward, and the guard took a quick step backward to save his boots. “Killed the man for his coin, no doubt,” he surmised.
“Your kind make me sick,” the nearer guard shouted again, “killers and thieves.” He spit down on my face. I felt my face flush red as the phlegmy mass dripped across my cheek. “I have a mind to-” I was about to charge him right then, tear out his throat with my teeth. But at that very moment, Imoen cried out.
“Guard, no- wait- it was all in self-defense! That man wanted to kill us, and he would have, if we hadn’t gotten him first. We’re innocent!”
“Ha- that’s what they all say. All we saw was a classic mirror image, and judging by the looks of things it seems to me like he probably was doin’ so in self-defense himself. Now shut up an-”
“Search the body!” Imoen interrupted.
“What?” the guard growled.
“You heard me. Just search his body, check his pockets. There’s proof there that we’ve done nothing wrong.” Imoen gesticulated at the dead man’s body.
The world was buzzing. What was Imoen talking about?
“How could you possibly know that? And who do you think you are? Do you think I take orders from you?”
The guard was raising his voice again.
“Pleeeease,” Imoen said, “we didn’t murder that man, please just look.”
For a few seconds the guard just stood there staring, then he shook his head. “Turp, see what the man had on him.”
“Turp,” whose eyes had been pasted to the boundary of the blood spill the entire time, shuffled around to the opposite side of the body and rifled through the man’s robes. Before long he drew out a parchment. Judging from the way he moved his head back and forth as he read each line, he had not read very far, when his louder, less patient counterpart stomped over to him and snatched it out of his hand. A few more moments of silence. The faint sound of dishes clanking against each other reached us from inside the Inn.
“Pfah!” he exclaimed, thrusting the scroll into Imoen’s hand. “I suppose this one’s Ausar, isn’t he?” he asked, sweeping his hand in my direction.
“I am. Glad my name wasn’t too tough on that thick tongue of yours.”
“Shut it, arseface.” The guard turned back toward Imoen, “Look, I don’t care who you two are, or what you two are up to. But whatever it is, it stays out of this Inn. One more incident, whether it’s your fault or nay, and I will haul you out of here by your britches,” now he turned back toward me, “personally.”
“Let’s move out, Turp,” he yelled. The guard trampled my sword underfoot as he swept by us. As Turp was about to pass us, though, he stopped for a moment, “You are entitled to whatever is on his person. Victim’s rights. He had a few more papers. Mayhap a coin or two.” He smiled apologetically and then scampered off to catch up with his partner.
Wow @Rao - this is more like reading a novel than reading a playthrough. I like it! Especially how you provide flavor to the NPC guards that have no personality at all in the game itself. Great read!
I turned to Imoen, who looked from the parchment to the body and back again. She let the parchment fall slack in her hand. In the light seeping out from the Inn, her face looked ashen, and I could see that, with a trembling lip, she was on the verge of tears.
“Let’s go,” I said. After gathering up my swords, I tore the paper, still hanging limply, from her hand. Then, I stomped up to the dead mage’s body, heedless that I was planting my boots in his blood. I reached into the robe’s inner pockets and grabbed all the other papers there in a single fist. There would be no delicacy for this man - at least not from me. With Imoen close behind, I tracked dirt and blood into the Friendly Arms Inn.
When we set foot in the main hall, all of the few people still there were silent and staring. All, that is, except one man, who staggered about, babbling to no one in particular. It was not long before he fastened on to us.
“I can’t stan’ the way the roads are cut off these days!” he jerked his arm in a sort of clumsy salute, the ale in his tankard sloshing onto the floor, “My uncle’s in Baldur’s Gate an’ I can’t get there to see ‘im.”
I clenched my fingers into a fist. Had Ao confused me with Ilmater this night? I was in no state to suffer this fool gladly.
“How come the roads are cut off?” Imoen entreated, flashing me a cautionary glance.
“Where you been these last few months? The roads are crawling with brigands and bandits after every scrap o’ iron you got on ye. Surely you must have fled some on your trip here . . . lest you came by the west road, that is.” He had slung an arm across my shoulder, and craned his head around to the front of my face, so that he exhaled his obnoxious breath right under my nose.
I shook him off roughly. “Well, for your sake and mine,” I said, biting off each word “I hope the roads clear up soon. I’ll see you around.” This man was pathetic, but a veiled threat was more fitting from an elf than a tavern brawl. I did not wait for a reply. Nevertheless, the drunkard lobbed one over my shoulder.
“Well, I sure ain’t going nowhere’s.” Fool! A grass monkey had more behind its eyes.
The Innkeeper was, curiously, a gnome named “Mirrorshade,” who could barely see over the top of his own bar. Perhaps sensing my mood, he proposed a room and a price, and asked nothing more. My legs and back throbbed as I climbed the stairs. This day had again been too long and too dark. As soon as I lay down in bed, my soul fled headlong into sleep.
A little over two months in, and Ausar has finally reached the Friendly Arms Inn. Thank you to everyone who has been with Ausar from the beginning, or has joined somewhere along the way. I know there are some of you who snap up every new installment within a day of its being posted, and some who like to save them up, so that you can “binge” them intermittently. I know that there are some of you who have been reading along anonymously. Thanks so much to each and every one of you.
Even though we are still so early on in our journey, I hope I have begun to show you all how full this game is of open spaces, just waiting to be filled by the player’s imagination.
Because it has been a while, I am going to throw this thread open to you - the readers - just like I did at the end of the Prologue. Feel free to react with anything that’s been on your mind: questions, comments, criticism, theories, speculations, predictions, advice, etc. There is, of course, no need to say anything at all, but if you want to, here’s your chance. I’d love to hear what you have to say.
To this end, I will be “summoning” many of the readers who I have seen engaging with this thread by tagging them at the bottom of this post. Again, this is not meant to pressure anyone into saying anything, just a means of making sure that people who might not check the thread every day have a chance to participate as much (or as little) as they have a desire to.
To make space for any potential discussion, I will not be posting any new installments before late Tuesday night.
That’s all for now. As the discussion goes on, I will do my best to be present and answer any questions you might have. Everyone is invited to speak, even if you have never commented or “liked” in the past. That having been said, if you have been reading, let me know by “liking” this post. There’s nothing like your support to warm the cockles of my heart haha
You're not only doing excellent storytelling there but also you're bringing unity to the community. Those are very nice first 56 posts for a forum member. I'm glad you're with us, Rao.
I don't have much to say except to reiterate how much I'm enjoying what you've done so far. As I said before, I think you have a really vivid writing style and I love the little characterisation details (such as Ausar thinking an elf would never start a tavern brawl, Imoen shooting at imaginary gibberlings after her critical hit). Have you thought much about whether you'll stick with a core party of 6, or if you'll switch people in and out?
You're not only doing excellent storytelling there but also you're bringing unity to the community. Those are very nice first 56 posts for a forum member. I'm glad you're with us, Rao.
Thank you, @JuliusBorisov - glad to be here as well It's been so much fun to engage with the folks here and see how much creativity people are still managing to bring to what is, by now, a fairly old game. Long live Baldur's Gate! Long live the Challenges & Playthroughs subforum
I don't have much to say except to reiterate how much I'm enjoying what you've done so far. As I said before, I think you have a really vivid writing style and I love the little characterisation details (such as Ausar thinking an elf would never start a tavern brawl, Imoen shooting at imaginary gibberlings after her critical hit). Have you thought much about whether you'll stick with a core party of 6, or if you'll switch people in and out?
@energisedcamel, I really appreciate you noticing those little things. Including them is part of what makes the characters more real, at least to me.
As for your question about party stability, I have given a little bit of thought to it, yes. There will probably be a little less stability than in most of my past playthroughs, where I tended to plan a team ahead of time and then not deviate at all, because here each character will have his/her own personality and hence his/her own reasons for wanting to stay in or leave the party. I also want to be cautious about planning too far ahead, because there is always the chance some "non-essential" party member will get chunked (see my play guidelines on page 1 of this thread for more info on this). If I keep running up to threats like Tarnesh without any tactics, then that's bound to happen sooner rather than later haha...Anyway, the short answer: I am hoping there will be a "core" 4 or 5 (with 1 - 2 rotating as helpful/required), but it may not be the core you (or I) expect.
@energisedcamel, I really appreciate you noticing those little things. Including them is part of what makes the characters more real, at least to me.
As for your question about party stability, I have given a little bit of thought to it, yes. There will probably be a little less stability than in most of my past playthroughs, where I tended to plan a team ahead of time and then not deviate at all, because here each character will have his/her own personality and hence his/her own reasons for wanting to stay in or leave the party. I also want to be cautious about planning too far ahead, because there is always the chance some "non-essential" party member will get chunked (see my play guidelines on page 1 of this thread for more info on this). If I keep running up to threats like Tarnesh without any tactics, then that's bound to happen sooner rather than later haha...Anyway, the short answer: I am hoping there will be a "core" 4 or 5 (with 1 - 2 rotating as helpful/required), but it may not be the core you (or I) expect.
I'm glad to hear this! I can't wait to see how you bring other characters to life. Given that some of the NPCs are quite cartoon-ish, I'm sure some will be easier to write than others, given the tone of the story so far (although, I think Ausar is too sensible to join up with a fair few of the zanier characters).
As a fellow player, of course I hope you can avoid companion deaths, but as a reader, it will be great as I am sure it will give you some juicy material to work with
We'll see how it goes haha...Not everyone is equally open or quick to trust, and so I don't imagine Ausar (with his limited, first-person perspective) will be equally capable of seeing deep into the soul of each of his traveling companions.
His wisdom is also to be desired, so he may be somewhat prone to misinterpret the behavior of others, especially those he doesn't know well. Do you guys also interpret the wisdom stat in that way for role-playing purposes? I hadn't considered it overly much before I started this playthrough.
Hmm...a lot of balls to juggle here haha...We'll see what I can do as more companions start arriving on the scene.
Comments
You are right that this reporting style slows down the pace of my game substantially, but that's fine by me. I am actually hoping that delving deep into the narrative will help me sustain my interest in the playthrough over time. Before starting this playthrough, I ran several characters up through the end of SoD before, each time, invariably losing interest and wanting to start over with someone new. Developing Ausar's character intensively and using it to chart a novel path open to unpredictability, though, is sort of a "game within a game" that I am hoping will keep my interest over the long-term.
Presenting dialogue can be tricky, and so your advice is well-taken. It is possible that I keep the screenplay style in my back-pocket as an option for when cross-talk is especially intense, or for when I am feeling a little lazy. Hopefully my facility with dialogue, and just with creative writing in general, improves over the course of this playthrough - another reason I am attracted to the long-form approach
As for the fight with Tarnesh, yes, the danger is very real. Stay tuned! haha
Imoen taps me on the shoulder.
“Look what I found! It’s sooooo shiny - I bet it could even be a real diamond!” She plants her feet in the ground dramatically and then thrusts the gem skyward with both hands, as though to show all the world. It was a clear crystal, not poorly cut, and though I knew little of precious stones, I could not rule out her guess as utterly implausible. In truth, I must have gasped audibly, and Imoen cackled with delight.
“Put that away, before some bandit swoops in and steals it from us,” I chide, but she can sense I am not angry, “Where did you find it? Did you steal it from Kolssed?” I asked, hopeful.
“Kole-who? I just found it by a tree in the woods, just a little ways away from where I was stan-” she covers her mouth with her hands, but her whole face tells me she is smiling underneath.
“Are you telling me you didn’t keep watch like we planned?” My tone sharpens a bit: “Those men were dangerous, they might have put me in danger. Where would you have been then?”
“Oh, I was keeping my ear out for you - you did great! It’s so hard to stand still when there is so much out here to explore.” Imoen’s good cheer remains indefatigable. In fact, it is infectious.
“Imoen, your diamond is just what we need to save Gorion! Quickly, you need to take me to him.” My exuberance builds as my spirit swells with the hope that, soon, the world will be put right again. But as I crest, Imoen falls.
“O-okay, if that’s what you want,” she replies, her eyes downcast, “I just don’t know how -”
“Like I said, just trust me.”
Imoen leads me briskly northwest to a clearing that I can tell, even from some distance, has been scorched. In a flash, I recall the roaring pillar of fire, and Gorion’s own fiery ripostes. A number of bodies are lay strewn about the ground, left out to rot, charred and unburied. When we reach the edge of the clearing, Imoen points me in one direction and wanders off in another, mumbling about wanting to find out whether any of those “darn bandits” had anything in their pockets when they died. I rushed toward his body, eager to fulfill my part in my father’s plan.
Death was only a hiding place - not an oblivion but an oubliette. Gorion had bought me as much time as he could, so that I could escape. In ensuring my escape, though, he had also saved himself. He had trusted I would solve this one most important riddle, and I had: I was his contingency plan.
I ran it all over again in my head: I would carry him to Candlekeep on my shoulders, with Imoen covering our tracks and scouting for danger. Once we arrived, I would explain to the Gatewarden everything that had befallen us the night before - even the strictest of the sages would not oppose our admission in the wake of such a tragedy. Then, at the shrine of Oghma, I would petition Candlekeep’s high priest to raise my father from death, fanning the zeal of his faith higher with the promise of Imoen’s treasure, if need be. Although restoring the dead to life was a mighty power, I had read it was not beyond wise priests who had found favor with their gods. The Lorekeepers spent day and night reading scrolls, writing scrolls, organizing scrolls; surely by now, they had amassed a veritable treasure-house of favor with the Binder.
I admired my brilliance, that I had worked out this plan when it mattered the most. How many lesser men would have despaired, their vision clouded by grief? But I had found the winning move in this game of life and death. However strong that demon may have been, he was not cunning enough to outwit Ausar, prodigy of Candlekeep. It was elementary really, a classic victory of brains over brawn. With Gorion restored to them, the sages would finally have to acknowledge me, the foster child they had dismissed time and time again. No more. I pictured Ulraunt, for once in his life, being forced to bite his tongue.Comforted by this image, I slide back into the present moment.
I think I see where you're going with this. "Strictest of the sages..." indeed.
Also, I'm guessing you know that in traditional tabletop D&D, a diamond worth at least 5,000 gold is the material component for a Raise Dead spell. That's one way dungeon masters use to restrict access to it in their campaigns so their players will be careful and not throw their lives away on a whim.
This last weekend marked the one-month anniversary of this thread! A thousand thanks to all my readers, and a thousand more to all those members who have taken the time to show their support with their likes, comments, and private messages! I know this part of the forum is not the most active, so it really means a lot to see you all going out of your way to stop by.
Here’s to more great storytelling in this coming month, and in the many months to come
I look down at Gorion’s body. The sight cracks me like a hammer stroke to the skull. I retch, and vomit onto the ground.
His throat had been torn apart. Flecks of spine dotted the mangled mess, no longer a neck. Eyes gouged from sockets, pools of congealed blood to flood empty cavities in the skull. Left cheekbone sawed upward through the skin. Vertigo. Blindness. The acrid tang of vomit still in my throat. The world a blur, then back in cruel focus. He had been stripped naked down to his waist. Deep gashes rent his entire body, hacked musculature, exploded veins, cracked bones. A dark crimson hole on the left side of his chest. Incomprehension. Horror. They had ripped the heart from his chest!
A howling scream bursts from my lungs. Hot tears drip from the corners of my eyes. I fall to my knees, all the energy in my body forced through my chest into an explosion of inarticulate rage. My spirit filled with blood, death, and fire, became a torture chamber for that black beast. I would find a thousand ways to kill him, each one slower and crueler than the last. Who could do something like this? After all the solars had wreaked their vengeance on this fiend, I would repay him double, triple, until the hardest, coldest gods wept for mercy on his behalf. Never before could I have conceived of such a complete and terrible desecration. Everything was ruined. No such body could be raised. It would not even make half the journey to Candlekeep before falling apart entirely.
By now, Imoen had come behind me and placed her hand on my shoulder. I slapped it away.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I spun around, not bothering to control my voice.
“I was going to, but you kept in-”
I cut her off. “You are so worthless! You should have stayed back at Candlekeep to rot with everyone else. Nothing can bring him back now!” I cry, waving madly at the body.
“Aus-”
“Nothing! This whole damn journey was a mistake. I’m finished with you. Do what you want - just don’t get in my way.”
Imoen stands frozen, staring at me, her eyes on the verge of tears. I don’t care.
“What are you staring at? Bandit’s didn’t have enough gold in their pockets, so now you want to loot his body too? Look! Look what they did to him - and you don’t even care!” I can feel my face flush from shouting.
“I’m not the one who did this to him, Ausar!” Her voice breaks over mine. I turn away and keep silence. My mind circles back on that murderous fiend, so powerful and so cruel. My soul branded him Hakar - elvish for "enemy" - and my heart blazed against him, like the murder that blazed forth in his eyes on that dark night.
“You need time to be alone with him,” she says, her voice now soft and quiet. She steps away to the edge of the clearing, “I will be back.” I say nothing in reply. I will give her no gratitude.
Alone, in the stillness of the clearing with Gorion, my heart and my mind fall into a cloud. Images half-materialize, then vanish: childhood memories of his warmth diffuse like rays of sun across mist. There are vortices of loss, spirals of unanswered questions and secrets that had passed away him. There are thunderheads of wrath. Shadowy figures in battle return to me again, and again, along with lightning and fire. There is Oghma, Mystra, and the Seldarine; there are the good gods of holiness and peace. They are passing by, but I do not know if they see me, a mere mote of dust tumbling through the fog. I do not know if I want them to. Who is my mother? All is indistinct; all melts together in this edgeless mental space. Time passes. Is she also dead? The thoughts of a minute and of an hour become indistinguishable. I remember back to one night when I was a little boy, and the wind had snuffed out the candle on the sill in my room, plunging everything into darkness. I began to cry, so scared of the dark I had been. Gorion placed one arm around me, and with the other conjured up two dancing lights that swayed playfully in the air, unbothered by the wind. I can still feel his hands, gaunt as they were, drying my tears. Had my mother loved me?
Now, I look down at Gorion, at his face. He had known none of the peace or love in death that he had earned in life. My eyes settle again on the broken bone protruding above his left cheek. Something about it pesters me, like an itch or a loose tooth. I stare at it blankly, comprehending nothing. I fall back into my cloudy meandering, for two minutes, or two hours, before I suddenly feel a sensation like a knot unraveling in my brain. The cheekbone was the one little piece of this horror I had foreseen - I had seen it in my dream. Discomfort with the eeriness of the recollection settled over me. If it was no idle dream, then perhaps more of it would come to pass, in an equally macabre fashion. Yet perhaps the dream also pointed toward an answer. I remembered the scroll in Gorion’s mouth, and the urgency with which I had felt compelled to read it. I scan the ground around the body, as though I had not already been staring at it for hours, for any scrap of parchment. Obviously, there was nothing. Overcoming my dread, I reach into the pockets of his robe, matted with blood. With a slight twinge of panic, I feel my fingertips brush against paper, and I draw out the scroll. There is no signet seal, or any sign of red wax; instead, it just falls open in my hand. I dive ravenously into the page:
“My friend Gorion,
Please forgive the abruptness with which I now write, but time is short and there is much to be done. What we have long feared may soon come to pass, though not in the manner foretold, and certainly not in the proper time frame. As we both know, forecasting these events has proved increasingly difficult, leaving little option other than a leap of faith. We have done what we can for those in thy care, but the time nears when we must step back and let matters take what course they will. We have, perhaps, been a touch too sheltering to this point.
Despite my desire to remain neutral in this matter, I could not, in good conscience, let events proceed without some measure of warning. The other side will move very soon, and I urge thee to leave Candlekeep this very night, if possible. The darkness may seem equally threatening, but a moving target is much harder to hit, regardless of how sparse the cover. A fighting chance is all that can be asked for at this point.
Should anything go awry, do not hesitate to seek aid from travelers along the way. I do not need to remind thee that it is a dangerous land, even without our current concerns, and a party is stronger than an individual in all respects. Should additional assistance be required, I understand that Jaheira and Khalid are currently at the Friendly Arm Inn. They know little of what has passed, but they are ever thy friends and will no doubt help however they can.
Luck be with us all.
I’m getting too old for this.
E”
I lowered the scroll from my eyes with disappointment. Instead of answering questions, the letter only raised them, most significantly the identity of this mysterious “E.” He and Gorion had been divining some event, a burgeoning conflict between two sides: E and Gorion together on the one, and, I could only assume, the Hakar and his servants on the other. Yet if E had initially desired to remain neutral, as between Gorion and the Hakar, how could Gorion trust him? Only a coward or a fool would not align himself against such an obvious evil. It was unlikely that E was another Candlekeep sage; his letter betrayed too great an involvement with the outside world. But then again, the letter also indicated that my father had been more involved than I could ever have imagined.
Inexplicably, my life was the prize of this conflict, along, perhaps, with Imoen’s. The letter described the objects of Gorion’s care in the plural, and it was in fact Gorion who had brought Imoen as an orphan to Candlekeep, though it was Winthrop who had adopted and raised her as his own. But we had both lived within the walls of a glorified library our entire lives - how could we be a threat, or even pawns, to any interest on the outside? E was right: Gorion had sheltered me far too much from this gathering storm, and now he had died without communicating any of his intelligence on the Hakar or the larger battle. The only tangible information I had were the names of our contacts at the Friendly Arms.
Before I can weld any additional links onto this deductive chain, the faint pressure of Imoen’s hand breaks it. I turn to her; her expression is still, and her eyes patient. Even the Candlekeep sages who had known Imoen well might never have seen her half so somber. The passing of Winthrop’s wife had occasioned such gentleness in Imoen once before, but I would have ventured with confidence that it was the only other such time in her entire life. Nevertheless - here and now - it was welcome.
“It’ll be dark soon, Ausar.” Her voice quivers just a breath above a whisper. I scan the horizon and mark the sun well past its meridien. The uncharacteristic sobriety of her bearing, mingled with fatigue in sorrow, melt the cords of resistance inside me.
“I know, Imoen,” I hesitate, “but what can we do? I wanted to raise him. Now I -” my voice catches, “now I’m not even sure we can bury him.” Gorion’s body looks like one horrid wound, cut red against the earth. I blink back tears.
“Well...” her voice trails off as she scans our surroundings, as though the answer might be read in the human wastage of the clearing. “We can check the bodies, if one of those bandits was carrying an ax…” she studies my face for a reaction, looking to see if I could complete her thought.
I sigh. Imoen’s clever and unconventional mind had always yielded its surprises, but at this suggestion I could only grimace. With an axe, we could fell branches, perhaps even saplings, as kindling for a funeral pyre. Then a mere spark would commit Gorion’s body to the flames, free at least from the predation of wild beasts.
I shook my head. The cremation of a body was one of the gravest sacrileges of the Oghmite faith. Just as the Binder abhorred the burning of any codex or scroll, so too did he abhor the conflagration of his faithful: the reduction of order to ember, form to ash, and information to wind - this havoc courted the wrath of the Wise God. At Candlekeep, sages shelved tomes in the library and gravekeepers shelved sages in the crypt. In this way, all things at Candlekeep stood in actual and symbolic union against the entropy that Oghma so despised. I recalled all of these teachings not for fear, but in memory of Gorion. He had never sworn priestly oaths, but he had revered Oghma and loved the seat of his worship at Candlekeep. My heart ached with pity. Gorion would not have wanted a shroud of flames.
“I know, I know,” Imoen said, as though she had regretted the suggestion as soon as she had made it. Without shovels, though, burial was not an option.
“We need to cover him,” I said, glancing again at the body, so obscenely wounded, “Let’s strip these men of their shirts, the ogres too - they look cheap and light enough to tear.” Imoen and I set about this task in silence. Handling the bodies of these vermin filled me with disgust; I was glad to deprive them of whatever I could. We tore the garments into bands of cloth, and wrapped Gorion’s body as well as we could. As we reached his waist, my hands brushed against the leather of his belt, which was warm to the touch. It was, I realized, the belt that Gorion had enchanted to keep his “old bones” warm in the drafty corridors of Candlekeep.
“Take it. He would have wanted you to have it, to remember him by,” Imoen urged, noticing that my hands had lingered there. For a few moments, I did nothing. Then, without a word, I unbuckled it, and placed it in my pack. I could not bear to don it for myself.
We continued our grim work. The end result was a patchwork of rags, the cocoon of some stillborn butterfly. Shame flushed through me and I ground my teeth.
“Help me pick him up - I know where we can take him,” Imoen said, now taking the lead. It was not long before we set his body down again, mummy-like, in the shade of an outcropping of trees Imoen had found at the side of a fjord. The utter wrongness of leaving Gorion’s body in such a state seared my heart like an iron. So, although the hour was growing late, I directed Imeon to help me carry small and midsize rocks away from the stone circles that marked the battlefield where Gorion had fallen. Together we laid them gently over Gorion’s body, improvising a cairn. The last stone was no easier to lay than the first, but eventually, the work was done. My breathing slowed in the failing light of dusk. I could hear the water lapping at the foot of the cliffs below; Imoen had indeed drawn us to a place of peace. She looked at me, at a loss for how to continue. Could we really just leave him there, never to look back, years of love ended with one last turning away?
“Imoen, help me say the Litany of Preservation.”
“I don’t remember the words.”
“I do; I have been to their funerals. You can say the response.”
Imoen nodded in agreement. My impieties at the shrine of Oghma flitted across my heart, but the gravity of the moment swallowed my hypocrisy. I breathed deeply.
“Lord of knowledge,” I began.
.....“Preserve him,” Imoen replied.
“Lord of tomes - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Lord of scrolls - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Lord of proverbs - “
.....“- preserve him.”
“Lord of parables - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Lord of order - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Bard of bards - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Poet of poets -”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Scholar of scholars - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Scribe of scribes - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Sage of sages - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Teller of tales - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Librarian of the heavens - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Archivist of all things - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Vault of wisdom - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Cosmic inkwell - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Unbreakable spine - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Unpierceable codex - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Unstainable page - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Prosemaster - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Wordsmith - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Binder - ”
.....“- preserve him.”
“Oghma, preserve the soul of your faithful from consuming fire. Safeguard it in integrity, inviolate for eternity. At the end of the scroll of the life of Gorion, your faithful servant, write, we pray thee, one final line of peace, unending, unbroken, for all time.”
The nightsong of crickets was the closing requiem of our beggar’s funeral. In the darkness and in our grief, we removed ourselves from that place.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
As you can see, I had some technical difficulty making indents in my post. I tried the "tab" key and space bar, but to no avail. If anyone knows how to do this properly and would like to share their wisdom, please send me a direct message. As always, thanks for reading!
We laid down in the open air to rest that night, but whenever I closed my eyes the image of Gorion’s mutilated body arose to haunt me. I hurled my fists down against the hard ground. I had killed; Gorion also had killed. Would I then die as Gorion had died? That looming tower of black iron, the Hakar, now roared into mental focus, blotting out all other thoughts. Anger throbbed within me like a second heart. I clutched at that rage as tightly as I could, in the way a patient locks his jaw upon the bit, just as the surgeon saws into his leg. Imoen’s chest rose and fell in the rhythms of a peaceful sleep. I wondered how far down this spiral of death she too would fall.
With barely any sleep, I woke Imoen at the first light of morn.
“We are going back to Candlekeep.”
“Why’re we goin’ back there?” Imoen rubs her eyes, still groggy with sleep.
I showed her the note I had recovered from Gorion’s body. Although the likelihood of E living in Candlekeep as a sage was exceptionally low, I explained, it was also exceedingly improbable that Gorion and E had developed their plans regarding the Hakar in perfect isolation. They must have consulted with other parties on the inside; at the very least, the ever-moving undercurrents of rumor in Candlekeep would have spread news about E to a few of the library’s quiet quarters. It was true that Gorion had sacrificed his life to secure our flight from that place, but the fatal ambush of two nights ago had fundamentally altered the calculus of our situation. The Hakar had the power to strike with lethal precision and force, emmenating in large part, no doubt, from his informational advantages. He knew so much more about me than I did about him, and until I narrowed that gap, I would never escape his crushing grip, much less deliver him the death he so thoroughly deserved. Based on E’s note, Khalid and Jaheira likely knew nothing of value; returning to Candlekeep was our best opportunity to arm ourselves with the intelligence we needed to prevail. Also, if the Hakar was, as I suspected, a fiend, then it was in Candlekeep we would learn the ritual needed to banish him from this plane.
“Informational what?” Imoen asked, her eyes glazed over. She had never been a morning person.
“Let’s just get going,” I said, and we did.
The journey back was long but uneventful. Intermittently, the image of Gorion’s body, laid out in the open, would flash before my mind. The Keeper hardly raised his eyes as we approached, but barked out in rote the salutation that had doubtless turned away thousands: “Hold, travelers! Before you will be allowed entrance, you must donate a tome of great value to our library.” I could not resist a wry grin; form truly was everything in Candlekeep. With as much nonchalance as I could muster, I replied, “We don’t have a book, but I used to live here.” The effect was exactly as desired. The Keeper was shaken to full attention, his eyes widening in surprise. He stammered, his words now unrehearsed, “I - I am sorry, friend. I know that you are the child of Gorion and have dwelt here all your life,” his next words all tumbled out of his mouth at once, “but I cannot exempt anyone from the sanctions of the most high Ulraunt.”
“But Keeper, there is an emergency - Gorion has been slain. I saw it with my own eyes. You need to let us back in!”
I spoke with such urgency, that the Keeper must have imagined an invading army. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword, “Are they on your heels? Have you brought enemies to our gates, Ausar?”
“No,” I replied, “there has been no sign of them since the ambush two days ago, and I do not believe we are being followed.” I glance back at Imoen, thinking I had spoken with more confidence, perhaps, than was warranted.
The Keeper visibly and immediately relaxed, and when he spoke now he drew upon the authority of his station. “No man enters Candlekeep but pays the price. I am sworn as Keeper of the Portal to uphold this law, as all Keepers before me have done and all Keepers after me shall do,” and then, in a somewhat more solicitous tone, “I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do for you. Ulraunt himself informed us of your departure, and bade us specifically to stand guard against your return. I do not understand it, but it is not my place to question. Without the toll, I cannot allow you to pass.”
“Ulraunt?” my voice rose, “He told you not to let us back in?” The Keeper nodded, but said nothing. My anger roiled and frothed, rushing past the Keeper, predictably content to play the pawn, and up toward Ulraunt. He had always been the most insufferable of the sages, only ever speaking to me in condescension, and now I felt vindicated in my resentment, which only trebled its magnitude. I would not let him hide.
“Ulraunt!” I roared at the top of my lungs. Having spent my whole life in Candlekeep, I knew exactly how far a loud voice could travel through those grave-quiet corridors. Unless Ulraunt was actually strolling through the crypts, he would hear. I shouted his name again, and again, and again. “Ulraunt! Ulraunt!” I imagined that, in his pride, he might have savored the opportunity to ignore a single shout, the ultimate sign of station being to take no notice of one’s inferiors, but his patience was not great enough to endure an incessant outcry, raised before the ears of almost every other sage and visitor in Candlekeep. Enough rage filled me to shout myself hoarse, if I had to. But it was not long before Ulraunt appeared on the battlements, rich blue robes draped about him, and in his hands an unweathered staff, diamonds set in the intricate carvings at its top. It was the symbol and enforcer of the authority of his office, Keeper of Tomes. From high atop the walls, he glowered at me.
“Be silent, you mindless gibberling! Or keep shouting and prove to the whole Library that idiocy really is a progressive disease.”
“Gorion is dead, and the ones who killed him are hunting for me! Let me in!” I continued to shout. I had expected that news of Gorion’s death would surprise Ulraunt, but he did not hesitate before replying.
“You will not bring your troubles back here, ingrate,” he spat, “Gorion was a fool for bringing you here, and I will not repeat his mistake by taking you back.”
“You bastard! He is dead!” What I had hoped would be a roar broke into a shriek. Even under normal circumstances, Ulraunt had always baited out what was coarsest in me.
“And it was a death he courted for a long time. You are so pathetically ignorant, you do not realize the half of peril to which he exposed this place. Candlekeep is secure, and now I will have order within these walls.”
“I need to come in! I -”
“All you need is a sound flogging. And if you do not leave, now, rest assured, you will have it,” Ulraunt growled.
He knew something, but what?
“What was Gorion doing? Who is E?” I demanded.
“Who is E?” Ulraunt asked rhetorically, “What should a single letter mean to me? Sort out his web of intrigue for yourself. Get thee gone!” He turned to leave.
“Wait! Gorion’s body, it needs to come back to the crypts.” At this last demand, coming at the crest of a rising wave of desperation, Ulraunt whirled around.
“You truly understand nothing. What happens outside these walls is no concern of ours, and he who steps outside their protection bears the risk. The sages of Candlekeep go forth for no man, especially,” Ulraunt added icily, “one who is already dead.” Desperation shattered like a shell of thin glass, and anger surged forward again.
“Damn you, Ulraunt!” I cried out, my fists clenched so hard they shook. “The hells take you! And by Oghma, I swear, the next time I come here I will not leave one stone standing upon another. I will revenge Gorion against the thing that killed him, and then, I will revenge him against you!”
“You dare threaten me? I will have no more of this. Keeper!” Ulraunt shouted now, but I had already turned my back. For all I cared, Candlekeep could burn.
Two announcements as we leave Candlekeep behind: First, @Adam_en_tium, I want to specifically thank you for reading and showing your support. I started seeing your likes shortly after I had just thanked everyone else by name, and wanted to let you know that I appreciate your readership. Thank you!
Second, there will be no installment this coming Friday, but installments will resume as per the usual schedule starting the Monday after.
Keep going it's really cool. I can only imagine when Ausar will come back to Candlekeep
Ausar's return to Candlekeep should be very interesting, and I too am already looking forward to it. Will his adventures imbue him with the sensitivity and mercy he might need in order to lay aside his oath of vengeance, or will his trials stoke his wrath yet higher, blazing like a furnace so hot that even the memory of his foster father will be powerless to quench it? Only time will tell . . .
Even hours after Imeon and I had retaken the path toward the Friendly Arms Inn, we had not spoken so much as ten words to each other. Her eyes roved along the road, into the underbrush, even up toward the sky above, but always darted to the side as soon as they touched my face, like a hand springing away from a hot iron. I had set my face like a mask, holding it stiff and expressionless through force of will. So we plodded forward, minute after minute, hour after hour, stone after stone on the road.
Then suddenly, this monotony snapped. Imoen grabbed my arm with one hand and stretched her other hand out to point further down the path. In the near distance, a man robed in silks of scarlet strode unhurriedly, but unmistakably, in our direction. Upon his head there loomed a tall, conical hat of the same scarlet, stretching up to end in a point over a foot above its soft brim. I faltered between bemusement and flight. Kolssed, it would seem, had been but the first marshal in a parade of absurdities. Yet for us, hunted out here in the wilderness, survival would demand suspicion of all. Drawing Imoen into the crook of my left arm, I pushed us toward a stone outcropping at the side of the road. It was too late.
The old man called out in an aged but hearty voice, “Ho there, wanderer. Stay thy course a moment to indulge an old man. It’s been nigh unto a tenday since I’ve seen a soul walking this road, and I’ve been without decent conversation since.”
Then, in a tone solicitous but subdued, “Traveling nowadays appears to be the domain of either the desperate or the deranged. If thou wouldst pardon my intrusion, may I inquire which pertains to thee?”
At the word “deranged,” my mind flicked back to the green fire in the eyes of the necromancer I had met along the way. By now, though, the old man had drawn close, the shadow cast by his scarlet hat darkening my face. I tilted my chin up slightly so that I could meet his gaze. His brown eyes, deep and dark, struck a strong contrast to that frenzied green. They held the dolefulness of age, interlaced with a sort of pity. Gorion had sometimes looked at me in this way, but that had only been - I assumed - because of my resemblance to my mother. In this old stranger’s eyes was just such a look sympathy for Imoen and I, or - the barbs of suspicion bit into me yet again - was it regret for what he was about to do?
The scarlet cloak around the wanderer’s neck was affixed with a clasp of silver that had been etched with a strange symbol: a sphere floating between the horns of a crescent moon turned on its side. Whether the insignia of some cult, or political faction, or ancient family line, I could not tell. I had certainly never seen it on any page or visitor of Candlekeep. The old man’s considerable nose hooked down, like the beak of a hawk. My eyes followed it to a lustrous beard, white as snow. No, this man was no Gorion. My tongue caught in my throat.
Imoen, though, hardly waited before opening her mouth, “A fair bit of desperate, actually. Might you know the way to the Friendly Arm Inn? We were told we might find some friends there.” Panic flashed through me. If this scarlet-robed figure was a man of evil design, in the pay of the Hakar, he would not just kill us, he would kill our “friends” as well. Any hopes of realizing Gorion’s grand plan, whatever that may have been, would be utterly demolished.
“That I would,” the old man replied, “The inn is a short distance to the north, and its doors are open to all. I have no doubt that thy friends shall be there, waiting with open arms. My sympathies for any hardships the road may have inflicted on thee, though I am certain everything will turn out for the best.”
At these words, I released a heavy breath I had not realized I was holding. The old man’s optimism had inflated the truth past the point of bursting, but at least it was a lie of sympathy and not a prelude to mortal danger - at his hands, anyway. I nodded, but the old man did not see. He had turned his gaze into the distance, cocking his ear as though to hear something far away.
Before even Imoen could speak, he started up again, “My, but I have wasted too much of thy time and said too much already. I shall take my leave and wish thee all the best.” As he strode past us, sturdy walking staff in hand, it occurred to me that this old wanderer, surely a nobleman of some kind, had addressed us in an honorific register throughout his entire exchange with us, two bedraggled scamps, who from our appearance may as easily have been criminals escaping as escaping criminals. I had not spoken even one honorific in return. In memory, that old man’s eyes sang of pure sincerity. I felt my cheeks grow hot. Imoen could be excused. For an elf, though, to reply to such kindness with silence and suspicion was boorish in the extreme. I thought to rush back, to apologize, to ask his name, but when I turned around, all trace of that peculiar man had vanished.
The peace that followed lived but a few breaths. Imoen and I had not continued much further along the road when a shriek from the northwest crashed against us. A gibberling burst into the open. That shaking mass of sinew and fur caterwauled and whined, bellowed and wept, all the while advancing toward us in some grotesque stagger halfway between a lope and a roll. Imoen wasted no time. Hardly pausing to aim, she loosed two arrows in quick succession. The first arrow grazed its body, but the second flew true, striking the beast in the head. It fell backward with a thud, dead in its tracks.
“Did you see that, Ausar?” Imoen cheered, spinning around with her shortbow raised triumphantly above her head, “I got ‘im!”
Sword drawn, I approached the gibberling’s carcass.
“Pretty good for a non-elf, huh?” she continued, a playful lilt in her voice.
Imoen’s arrow stuck straight up from the gibberling’s right eye. A lucky shot, indeed. And a fitting end for such a repulsive creature. Its grey skin was swollen with black tumors. I lanced one with the point of my sword. A greenish-yellow pus oozed out amidst a waft of one of the most putrids odors I had ever smelled. On the point of gagging, I dashed back toward Imoen, hoping the tailwind would clear my nose.
“Nice shot,” I winked at her, “For a non-elf. But I wouldn’t get too close - that thing reeks.”
Affording the gibberling’s corpse a wide berth, we continued along the path until reaching a tall stone obelisk at a three-way crossroads. Carved into the rock: “North to Friendly Arms Inn, Beregost to the South, and the Lion’s Way Road West to Candlekeep.” Candlekeep. My gaze bored into that word. I felt my anger seething, boiling up like magma to fill the empty crevices that made up each letter. I would not forget my oath.
When I looked up, Imoen was already scampering off the path, nocking and loosing imaginary arrows, no doubt at imaginary gibberlings. I continued along the path, with Imoen, as now seemed to be her wont, roving through bushes and trees, “scouting” ahead for signs of danger. I tracked her movements for a time before losing her to distance. If I had to be the only one of us not playing games, focused on keeping us alive, then so be it.
It was not long, however, before Imoen came racing back to the road waving a hand that glinted with gold.
“Look what I found!” she hollered, in a voice that seemed loud enough to reach the Friendly Arms Inn. I shook my head. Did she not understand we were the quarry of trained killers? Had she not seen what they did to Gorion? Her uncanny luck was Tymora’s slight to my caution.
I held one finger to my lips and shushed her loudly, but it was hopeless.
“I am getting married, Ausar! One of those gibberlings proposed, and - of course! - I said yes!” Imoen yelled as she bounded toward me. She thrust her left hand out in front of her to display the golden ring that now adorned her ring finger.
“Enough!” I snapped at her as she skidded to a stop and pushed her hand into mine. A large amethyst was set into the center of the band, its deep violet like a well for the eyes amidst the band’s bright yellow gold.
“We knew you wouldn’t approve, but we are going to elope! And there is nothing you can . . . .” Imoen continued to yammer on at around the same volume, but my attention was fixed on the ring. I rubbed the face of the amethyst with my thumb and felt a slight tingle along with a different sensation, that of straining to recall the sound of a musical note right at memory’s edge. It was a sensation I had first felt back in Candlekeep, when Gorion had let me examine some of his trinkets as part of my education in the arcane.
Suddenly, a deep voice spun us around, “If ye don’t mind, please try to keep your voices down. There are beasties about with better hearing than we.” The husky voice belonged to a man with a thick beard who carried a bow on his back and a long knife at his a belt - a hunter or forester by the looks of him. Imoen immediately fell silent and shoved her left hand deep into her pocket. That ring won’t be worth much to her, I thought, when we are both gutted by a stranger we never saw coming. Now to the question, hunter, are you one of those “beasties”?
I draw myself up and try to match the man’s level tone, “What should I be wary of in this area?”
The man scratched at his beard before replying, “‘Round here? I wouldn’t worry yourself too much, unless you’re brainless and charge everything you see. Mostly gibberlings, but they aren’t too much of a hassle. A fair bow and a good sword arm could handle one, maybe two. More with cleric or magic backup. Wolves have become a bit more predatory lately. I think it’s because more people are hunting for their food, seein’ as how the iron shortage took away their normal livelihoods. A hungry wolf is a nasty thing, and I wouldn’t travel without a group if I were you.”
I thanked the man, who seemed guileless and content to carry on with his business. Nevertheless, I watched him go before turning back to Imoen. She had perched the ring at the lip of her pocket, as though to bury it again at a moment’s notice. I stretched out an open palm and raised one eyebrow. Her hand darted back out of sight.
“I’m not going to take it, Imoen. But let me see it again. I do not think that is any ordinary ring.”
She relented, placing her hand in mine. The two sensations I had felt before were unmistakable, but I brushed the amethyst again with my thumb, just to be sure.
“Imoen, this ring is enchanted.” Imoen eyed the ring thoughtfully.
“Enchanted? But I just found it on the ground, by some rocks,” she said. And then in a voice quickening with excitement, “What does it do?”
“I-” I stuttered and then stopped. I remembered that the identification spell had been the topic of my last lesson with Gorion. “I don’t know.” I bit off my words before they were swallowed by the tightness in my throat. “Let’s go.” I set a brisk pace, Imoen now staying quietly at my side, content, perhaps, to flash an admiring look every now and again at her newfound treasure.
We pushed northward for hours, the sun sinking further and further into the west. Yet the Friendly Arms Inn was nowhere in sight. When the sun was a pinkish blob trembling on the edge of the horizon, Imoen opened her mouth as wide as she could and yawned. I cursed under my breath.
“We have to keep going, Imoen. I won’t sleep in the open tonight. We need to make it to safety.”
“I didn’t say anything, you old gulleysnapper!” Imoen protested.
“Fine, but stop dragging your feet. It can’t be that much further.”
Twilight fell, and dusk followed. All sight of the Inn eluded us. The path before us dimmed as the last of the sun’s rays stretched thinner and thinner over the land, and then dissolved entirely into darkness. My elven eyes could see by starlight, but Imoen stumbled, for what must have been the third or fourth time. We stood silently for a moment, engulfed in night.
“It’s so dark, Ausar. I can’t even see my own feet. I wouldn’t know it if I was walking straight between an ogre’s legs. Except for the smell, maybe. Can you make a light for us? Pretty please?” She affected a mock-simper, but I could hear sincere desperation close to the surface.
So happy to have you here!
“No. I will not light a beacon for our pursuers,” I said. But then, hearing Imoen’s disappointed sigh, I relented with a true confession, in a much softer voice, “Also, I do not have the strength for it. A firefly could outshine me tonight.”
“What are we going to do? It’s so dark, and for all we know we could still be hours away.”
I imagined Imoen floating away from me in the darkness, like an untethered skiff being born out into open waters by the tide, farther and farther, until the harbor became a distant dream. I imagined her crashing into the Hakar, that juggernaut of black steel bearing down upon her slight frame with his horrible, burning eyes. A pang wracked my heart. I remembered Gorion’s face contorted in agony as he died.
“Hold on to my arm. We’ll make it through.”
“Hmph! As though I need your help, you big taddlewam,” Imoen protested. But before the words left her mouth, she had already latched on.
We pressed forward, no longer speaking. Every sound chilled me. Would I blink and open my eyes to that horrible gaze of wrath, blazing with apocalyptic fire? Or would it be a simple dagger between the ribs, quick and unseen? But necessity compelled my steps. As the hours passed, time gradually lost its shape. Imoen’s pull on my arm became heavier and heavier. She kept her eyes open with more and more difficulty, gradually losing her battle with sleep as our journey leeched the strength out of her, mile by mile. When I felt as though I were all but dragging her forward, I hoisted her over my shoulders, like a small child. She was remarkably light, and to my surprise she did not protest. Her breathing soon assumed that peaceful cadence of sleep, except for once or twice where I thought I heard her mouth the word “Winthrop.” The pang in my heart deepened as I pushed on into the night.
Eventually, the bright lights of the Inn revealed themselves. But by then, I could feel my strength had waned, especially with the extra exertion of carrying Imoen on my back. My breathing was heavier, my steps plodding - for an elf, at least. I could not sense that anyone had followed us, and now the promise of safety and sleep fortified me for this one last stretch. I was not sure though whether, once we arrived, I would make it to a bed, or whether Imoen and I would collapse on the floor like a pile of limp rags. As I approached, I could trace the outlines of a high wall, ramparts, and other impressive fortifications; the Friendly Arms Inn must have been built originally as a fortress, or else the founder must have constructed it at the center of a war zone. I did not know what I would do if the gate were locked without a night guard. But even these simple thoughts soon became too burdensome. Fatigue had fogged my brain. Forward, was all I knew.
I met two night watchmen at the gate, their iron swords glinting in the torchlight that spilled out from the inner courtyard.
“By the gods, man, it’s an hour past midnight,” one barked, and then, jabbing a bony finger in Imoen’s direction, asked, “is she alright?”
“Just sleeping.” I slide her off my back and wake her up with a shake.
“A-are we there yet?” Imoen’s drowsy eyes blinked away sleep. I ignore her question.
“We need rooms.”
“Well, then you came to the right place - if you have the coin for it, that is. Welcome to the Friendly Arm, I trust you know the rules of conduct within?”
“There are rules? What kind of rules? Can’t this just wait until morning?”
The other nightwatchman, stockier than his companion interjected, “Perhaps ‘rules’ is a touch too formal. It is unwritten, but accepted, that while herein you will act with the utmost civility to all other guests. This is neutral ground, and all grievances are left at the gate. If the grievances come in, then you will go out.” He waved his hand as a signal for the other members of the guard to open the gate. “Enjoy your stay. The Inn is just up-”
But I had already started walking past him - the way to the main building was so obvious a half-orc could have found it. Imoen stretched her arms in the air and rolled her wrists.
“We finally made it!” Imoen was wide awake, and peered up and down the torchlit courtyard. “Do you think they have anything for us to eat?”
“Not this late, Imoen.” All I wanted to do was sleep. We began walking up the flight of stone steps, when a shadow interposed itself between us and the main hall. As I drew closer, I could make out its features better: a young man with a smooth face and blond hair. He wore a black robe trimmed with emerald green along the neckline and the sleeves. I tried to pass him, but he stepped in front of me, smiling.
“Hi, friend,” he intoned, “I’ve not seen you here before today. What brings you to the Friendly Arms Inn.” A hired greeter, at this hour? How insufferable.
“Nothing much, really. Just road-worn travellers, looking for a place to rest,” I replied, attempting mere dismissiveness but unable to suppress a tinge of exasperation. All I wanted was to pass. The greeter seemed entirely nonplussed.
“I see, I see,” he cooed, “Pardon me for being too forward, but you’ve the bearing of someone I’ve been looking for. About your height, they were. Same style of dress, or thereabouts, I daresay, you seem to be the spitting image of them. Might you have traveled from Candlekeep by any chance?”
Was this Khalid? The question echoed like a muffled gong inside me. I scanned his face agan - small nose, pale blue eyes, nothing remarkable. I decided to hold out for some more definite sign.
“I may have visited there on occasion. What of it?”
“Oh nothing, I’m just looking for someone from that region. Would your name be Ausar, by chance?”
It must be Khalid. A friendly face at last!
“Why, yes it is.”
“Perfect,” his small, almost dainty lips curled up in a smile, “you are indeed the person I seek. Hold still a moment, won’t you?”
Before I could react, the man was enveloped in a flash of white light. I felt an arrow whiz within inches of my face. In a split second, two things happened almost simultaneously. First, the flash disappeared, revealing that the man had been refracted into five identical images. Ten pairs of pale blue eyes stared at me, cold and predatory. Second, the arrow that had flown past my cheek grazed the shoulder of one of the five, tearing the robe’s black fabric and drawing a little blood. The man cried out as I roared with frustration, panic, and sheer rage. That he would use such a spell to shield himself from me! It would serve him no better than it had served my father!
Another of what must have been Imoen’s arrows flew from behind me. It struck a false image, causing it to unravel from everywhere at once and dissolve into nothing. I swung with my right sword for the man with the bloodied shoulder, but he side-stepped and I cut through another false image instead. The image offered no resistance whatsoever; it was like slicing through smoke. My assailant never had a chance to counterstrike, though. The tip of my left sword was already gliding crossways to intercept him. I slashed his unprotected throat before he had a chance to scream.
Well, @BelgarathMTH et al., there was the fight with Tarnesh we were all worrying about. No crafty tactics, no guile, no reloads, just Ausar's quick sword-hand and a little bit of luck. Admittedly, this fight could have gone a lot worse, but with Imoen's lucky 20 on that gibberling on the road over here, I thought I would just roll the dice. Hopefully this mindset won't get me into too much trouble down the road . . .
The guards on patrol had by now closed on our position, swords bared.
“Halt!” they shouted. “Weapons on the ground!”
I snarled at them, hardly hearing their words. The blood, adrenaline, and exhaustion roiled in my head like a whirlpool. I do not know what I would have done, if Imoen had not reached out and placed her hand on my forearm.
“Put them down, Ausar,” Imoen said, letting down her bow with her free hand. I could feel her hand was trembling.
I lowered my swords, and one of the guards kicked them away with a heavy boot. The unbloodied sword clattered as it fell down the stairs. The bloodied blade, though, had been kicked at the grip, so that it spun as it slid only a short distance away. When its scarlet tip stopped spinning, it was pointing at me. And so I crouched, head bowed, accused by my own weapon.
“Hands behind your heads, I won’t have any tricks out of you! You even think about drawing a weapon, and you are finished!” the guard nearest me shouted. The other guard, standing over the body, called back over his shoulder to state the obvious, “he’s dead - sliced right through his jugular, they did.” The pool of blood continued to ripple outward, and the guard took a quick step backward to save his boots. “Killed the man for his coin, no doubt,” he surmised.
“Your kind make me sick,” the nearer guard shouted again, “killers and thieves.” He spit down on my face. I felt my face flush red as the phlegmy mass dripped across my cheek. “I have a mind to-” I was about to charge him right then, tear out his throat with my teeth. But at that very moment, Imoen cried out.
“Guard, no- wait- it was all in self-defense! That man wanted to kill us, and he would have, if we hadn’t gotten him first. We’re innocent!”
“Ha- that’s what they all say. All we saw was a classic mirror image, and judging by the looks of things it seems to me like he probably was doin’ so in self-defense himself. Now shut up an-”
“Search the body!” Imoen interrupted.
“What?” the guard growled.
“You heard me. Just search his body, check his pockets. There’s proof there that we’ve done nothing wrong.” Imoen gesticulated at the dead man’s body.
The world was buzzing. What was Imoen talking about?
“How could you possibly know that? And who do you think you are? Do you think I take orders from you?”
The guard was raising his voice again.
“Pleeeease,” Imoen said, “we didn’t murder that man, please just look.”
For a few seconds the guard just stood there staring, then he shook his head. “Turp, see what the man had on him.”
“Turp,” whose eyes had been pasted to the boundary of the blood spill the entire time, shuffled around to the opposite side of the body and rifled through the man’s robes. Before long he drew out a parchment. Judging from the way he moved his head back and forth as he read each line, he had not read very far, when his louder, less patient counterpart stomped over to him and snatched it out of his hand. A few more moments of silence. The faint sound of dishes clanking against each other reached us from inside the Inn.
“Pfah!” he exclaimed, thrusting the scroll into Imoen’s hand. “I suppose this one’s Ausar, isn’t he?” he asked, sweeping his hand in my direction.
“I am. Glad my name wasn’t too tough on that thick tongue of yours.”
“Shut it, arseface.” The guard turned back toward Imoen, “Look, I don’t care who you two are, or what you two are up to. But whatever it is, it stays out of this Inn. One more incident, whether it’s your fault or nay, and I will haul you out of here by your britches,” now he turned back toward me, “personally.”
“Let’s move out, Turp,” he yelled. The guard trampled my sword underfoot as he swept by us. As Turp was about to pass us, though, he stopped for a moment, “You are entitled to whatever is on his person. Victim’s rights. He had a few more papers. Mayhap a coin or two.” He smiled apologetically and then scampered off to catch up with his partner.
I turned to Imoen, who looked from the parchment to the body and back again. She let the parchment fall slack in her hand. In the light seeping out from the Inn, her face looked ashen, and I could see that, with a trembling lip, she was on the verge of tears.
“Let’s go,” I said. After gathering up my swords, I tore the paper, still hanging limply, from her hand. Then, I stomped up to the dead mage’s body, heedless that I was planting my boots in his blood. I reached into the robe’s inner pockets and grabbed all the other papers there in a single fist. There would be no delicacy for this man - at least not from me. With Imoen close behind, I tracked dirt and blood into the Friendly Arms Inn.
When we set foot in the main hall, all of the few people still there were silent and staring. All, that is, except one man, who staggered about, babbling to no one in particular. It was not long before he fastened on to us.
“I can’t stan’ the way the roads are cut off these days!” he jerked his arm in a sort of clumsy salute, the ale in his tankard sloshing onto the floor, “My uncle’s in Baldur’s Gate an’ I can’t get there to see ‘im.”
I clenched my fingers into a fist. Had Ao confused me with Ilmater this night? I was in no state to suffer this fool gladly.
“How come the roads are cut off?” Imoen entreated, flashing me a cautionary glance.
“Where you been these last few months? The roads are crawling with brigands and bandits after every scrap o’ iron you got on ye. Surely you must have fled some on your trip here . . . lest you came by the west road, that is.” He had slung an arm across my shoulder, and craned his head around to the front of my face, so that he exhaled his obnoxious breath right under my nose.
I shook him off roughly. “Well, for your sake and mine,” I said, biting off each word “I hope the roads clear up soon. I’ll see you around.” This man was pathetic, but a veiled threat was more fitting from an elf than a tavern brawl. I did not wait for a reply. Nevertheless, the drunkard lobbed one over my shoulder.
“Well, I sure ain’t going nowhere’s.” Fool! A grass monkey had more behind its eyes.
The Innkeeper was, curiously, a gnome named “Mirrorshade,” who could barely see over the top of his own bar. Perhaps sensing my mood, he proposed a room and a price, and asked nothing more. My legs and back throbbed as I climbed the stairs. This day had again been too long and too dark. As soon as I lay down in bed, my soul fled headlong into sleep.
A little over two months in, and Ausar has finally reached the Friendly Arms Inn. Thank you to everyone who has been with Ausar from the beginning, or has joined somewhere along the way. I know there are some of you who snap up every new installment within a day of its being posted, and some who like to save them up, so that you can “binge” them intermittently. I know that there are some of you who have been reading along anonymously. Thanks so much to each and every one of you.
Even though we are still so early on in our journey, I hope I have begun to show you all how full this game is of open spaces, just waiting to be filled by the player’s imagination.
Because it has been a while, I am going to throw this thread open to you - the readers - just like I did at the end of the Prologue. Feel free to react with anything that’s been on your mind: questions, comments, criticism, theories, speculations, predictions, advice, etc. There is, of course, no need to say anything at all, but if you want to, here’s your chance. I’d love to hear what you have to say.
To this end, I will be “summoning” many of the readers who I have seen engaging with this thread by tagging them at the bottom of this post. Again, this is not meant to pressure anyone into saying anything, just a means of making sure that people who might not check the thread every day have a chance to participate as much (or as little) as they have a desire to.
To make space for any potential discussion, I will not be posting any new installments before late Tuesday night.
Finally, I want to thank @Gurkengelee - a very recent addition to the forum - for taking the time to comment just yesterday. For those of you who haven’t already seen it, he is writing up a narrative playthrough for a chaotic evil barbarian here: https://forums.beamdog.com/discussion/79049/chaotic-evil-playthrough-narrative-minimal-reload#latest. He’s off to a great start. Check it out - you’ll have a blast!
That’s all for now. As the discussion goes on, I will do my best to be present and answer any questions you might have. Everyone is invited to speak, even if you have never commented or “liked” in the past. That having been said, if you have been reading, let me know by “liking” this post. There’s nothing like your support to warm the cockles of my heart haha
[Hear Ye, Hear Ye: @monico , @StummvonBordwehr , @JuliusBorisov , @BelgarathMTH , @Aerakar , @Adam_en_tium , @Gusinda , @energisedcamel , @Gurkengelee . Also, if you don’t like being “summoned” in this way, let me know, and I will refrain from doing so in the future.]
Thank you, @JuliusBorisov - glad to be here as well
@energisedcamel, I really appreciate you noticing those little things. Including them is part of what makes the characters more real, at least to me.
As for your question about party stability, I have given a little bit of thought to it, yes. There will probably be a little less stability than in most of my past playthroughs, where I tended to plan a team ahead of time and then not deviate at all, because here each character will have his/her own personality and hence his/her own reasons for wanting to stay in or leave the party. I also want to be cautious about planning too far ahead, because there is always the chance some "non-essential" party member will get chunked (see my play guidelines on page 1 of this thread for more info on this). If I keep running up to threats like Tarnesh without any tactics, then that's bound to happen sooner rather than later haha...Anyway, the short answer: I am hoping there will be a "core" 4 or 5 (with 1 - 2 rotating as helpful/required), but it may not be the core you (or I) expect.
I'm glad to hear this! I can't wait to see how you bring other characters to life. Given that some of the NPCs are quite cartoon-ish, I'm sure some will be easier to write than others, given the tone of the story so far (although, I think Ausar is too sensible to join up with a fair few of the zanier characters).
As a fellow player, of course I hope you can avoid companion deaths, but as a reader, it will be great as I am sure it will give you some juicy material to work with
His wisdom is also to be desired, so he may be somewhat prone to misinterpret the behavior of others, especially those he doesn't know well. Do you guys also interpret the wisdom stat in that way for role-playing purposes? I hadn't considered it overly much before I started this playthrough.
Hmm...a lot of balls to juggle here haha...We'll see what I can do as more companions start arriving on the scene.