A memory lost.

[Kiran]

The wine could not dull the ongoing heart-wrenching pain.

Althalous Fenwick, Senior knight of the Mystran Temple and caretaker would fill another full glass with a trembling hand, most of the wine never even reaching the vessel as he spilt most of the contents on the table, his other hand holding the one pouring, trying to stop the seizure that was engulfing him in that very moment as the hand shook uncontrollably.

"Mokep.."

The old man would softly utter the name which even after over a year could breach all of his defences. A single tear trailed down his old wrinkled cheek, clinging desperately to his beard and finally with a soft drip shatter onto the table. The old man watched as the single tear would blend and mix with the rancid wine that had been drenched all over the table

It had been raining that day.

The soft smell of freshly wet grass mixed with the putrid smell of the living dead that hateful night as Mokep strode forward to lay to rest another damned soul. The living dead were restless in this field as they had always been.

"Did you see me, Ser Fenwick, did you see me?"

Fenwick remembered smiling that day to see how far his Tiefling squire had come. It had been unusual for someone within the ranks of the Knights of the Mystic fire to take someone like Mokep on as a squire, someone the tieflings past and especially considering the age of this old paladin who had taken him on as one, many of his peers had mused this behind the old mans back as they sneered.

"Aye.. but don't get distracted, Squire Mokep, remember your training"

Fenwick recalled having said those very words a thousand times to his easily distracted apprentice, though by now he didn't truly mean it. Mokep had come far, and those who had been concerned at the very start, including Lady Neela, they had all come to see the potential of this tiefling squire, red face, horns and all. He had become a true knight of the Mystic fire... Fenwick could not wait to tell him that he was soon being done as a squire and to take up the mantle of a proper knight in the next tenday

The old knight would let out a shuddering gasp of pain as he first heard, then felt the wineglass shattering in his hand. Not realising his hand had clenched into a fist upon the fragile neck of the crystal.. It took long moments before he could let go of it as he would set to carefully pick each shard from his damaged hand, unclenching it finally. He looked to the utter mess he had created on the table. The now oppressing silence of the office in the Mystran temple encroaching on the old man’s sanity as his fractured memories took him back to that day in the field of the dead.

"If you insist on taking the cargo, I will have no choice but to order my men to kill you all.."

The commander of the knight of Tempus had no more words to share as he gripped his weapon. his knights, as well as the adventurers, they all tensed as they all stood around the precious cargo that was contained in the wagons. They likely contained silver which was utterly needed for the war effort against the devils at this time

"I order you to s..."

The last words of the commander of Tempus were cut short as an arrow took him first in the lower back then only seconds later in his neck, his voice now forever silenced as he fell to the floor in a bloodied heap, the other knights of Tempus attacking in a frenzied rage, targeting those that had decided to steal the cargo and killed their leader

"Squire, do no...! - "

But the words never managed fully to leave the old knight before Mokep did what he knew was right, going instantly into the defence of the knights of Tempus, striking out at the archers that had shot the knight commander in the back killing him. None the less, He stood no chance against the hail of arrows that suddenly turned from the now-dead knights of Tempus to the fast-approaching squire. The old Paladin was stood frozen, too far away to shield him, watching in horror as arrow after arrow punctured and ruptured the red tieflings body, going through armour and flesh without thought for the horror it was causing their recipient.

I recall it as if it happened yesterday...

I ran... the arrows turned on me but my shield took most of the damage, the rest forgotten in the adrenaline-fuelled shock as I covered Mokep with my own body, shielding him from further mortal punishment, those who had killed the Knights of Tempus, the same who had shot at my squire were lowering their bows as they saw I was not a threat, only wanting to shield the young tiefling from further harm...
The field had gone utterly still, the sudden killing was over, now everyone was stood as if frozen, watching the old knight quake with anguish as he covered the tieflings body, holding him close as his body shook with intense grief and pain, trembling visibly as he held onto the body, praying for things to have gone differently.. begging.

"S.. S...- Ser.. Fenwick....?"

Mokep's eyes were barely open, flickering as he tried to do all he could to hang unto life, a wretched cough of red inky blood spluttering out from his tortured throat as the arrows had done their lasting damage already, the blood pouring out as he could barely speak as his trachea filling with blood too fast.

"D... d.. d-did I do you.... pro..-"

His body convulsed as he took his second last breath... eyes wide set with panic and fear, reaching upwards to the old man above him, but his body failing him in his last moments as his hand fell back weakly at his side

"Do I hav... h- h... have your permission....t.... to.... to...?"

The old man could not hold the tears back as he nodded, holding the tiefling close, the one he considered his son... his friend... his squire... he held him there till Mokep took his last breath, his Mokep...
The old man would look over to those that had killed his squire, vision turning an intense red... but he knew his duty. Even when his weapons screamed at him he knew his damned duty. His old worn body screamed at him as he lifted the red tiefling into his arms, exhausted beyond comprehension the old paladin carried the now dead body of his former squire from the field, those who had killed him silently watching as the rain covered both body and paladin in a wet blanket. The steps of the elderly knights had to be careful to avoid slipping in the blood-soaked mud as he carried him back to the temple of Mystra where he could say his final goodbyes to his squire and bury him proper

The old man gasped as he woke up to find himself on the floor, more than a year later after the incident on the field of the dead, lying face down in his own blood and spilt red wine, his right hand was throbbing with pain as there was still small remains of glass within the soft wrinkled flesh. He carefully gathered himself slowly, struggling to stand, his ancient bones denying him for a few moments before he forced himself upright with a grunt of pain. He now looked to the spot of where once his dead squire had lain; now only remnants of a drunken night as the evening's wine had mixed in with the very old blood that had soaked into the wood and stone beneath him a year ago.

As he looked around, he was sure he recalled the people who had been there, the ones who had killed his squire... a weak memory of hearing their laughter, echoing in the field of the dead as he carried his squire away...

[Kiran]

“Don’t leave me to die….”

Blood poured out of Gareth’s mouth as the old knight tried to stem the obvious fatal wound to the youth’s stomach, the young man’s guts were slimy and slick like wet eels as the elderly knight tried to somehow push them back into Gareth’s belly, to no avail.

Gareth was dying.

The near-complete darkness of the woods and the slick thundering rain made the bloodied ground beneath the pair treacherous as Fenwick held his tower shield aloft, his plated legs and arms caked in mud as he scrambled to try and cover both of them from the onslaught of necrotic magic. Thankfully his wards were holding, for now, though his injuries were many and taking their toll on the ancient paladin.

Another explosion hurtled towards Fenwick as his shield took most of the impact, though the blow was strong enough to instantly break his arm with a loud snap, making the paladin cry out as he dropped his shield uselessly to the ground.

Looking up from the man dying beneath him, Fenwick held up his war mace weakly in a feeble attempt to protect himself from the next necrotic maelstrom that the hooded figure was preparing. The old man thought he saw a faint hint of a smile and amusement beneath the hood obscuring the robed figure as he unleashed another torrent of magic against the pair on the ground.

Just as the hooded figure was raising another gloved hand to end both Gareth and the old paladin, suddenly a large form rushed out of the woods, body slamming itself into the masked creature just as it released its necromantic magic’s, lifting the robed figure and running a few steps as the pair of them slammed up against a tree.

Grock the Earth Genasi let out a howl of victory as he looked down to the slumped form of the figure he had crushed against the tree, his eyes wide with bloodlust as he started to unceremoniously pummel the smaller figure below.

“Gareth…?”

The old knight spoke weakly, a spike of pain running up his broken bones, he let out a grunt as he knew that the young man had died, and if he didn’t help Grock, somehow, so would the Earth Genasi and he.

The hooded figure who had been giving out those foul gems, even under the relentless pummeling of Grock, was able to stand up and unleash another barrage of magic upon the Earth Genasi, his usually thick skin cracking and melting beneath the corrosive acid spewed forth from the creature, another blast wave hurling back the Genasi to slam into the approaching Paladin as they both went tumbling to the muddied ground in a heap on the floor, the rain pelting against both of them.

“Gro… Grock tried…”

The Earth Genasi’s skin was melting before the old knights grey eyes, his soft grunt barely comprehendible. The old knight was barely able to move as he tried to rest, if only for a moment, next to Grock, kneeling against him.

As Grock coughed, spitting up something that resembled blood, his chest cavity was now exposed from the acid coursing through and into his system, his eyes changing, just for a brief moment as he looked to Fenwick, another soft grunt escaping him as he reached for the knight, his arms almost failing him completely.
Fenwick barely was able to grasp the massive paw of a hand offered to him, but he took it in his, squeezing, the fearless Grock of the Iron company reduced to a husk of his former self, the acid having already done more than enough damage to kill any other creature, but not Grock….

“G… Grock… Knew…”

The old paladins' wrinkled brow furrowed as he looked at the Earth Genasi below him, their eyes meeting as Fenwick tried to make sense of the two simple words spoken, it took some moments before comprehension finally dawned on him as his eyes widened, his body utterly still with shock.
The hooded figure was kept occupied by the combined attacks of Captain Corey and his lieutenant Maya, both of them dancing back and forth in a flurry of blows against the hooded creature, though both of them taking deliberating injuries moment by moment.

“Grock.. knew?”

The old man asked his question soft yet filled with something he had not felt for a long time, something akin to betrayal.
The Genasi beneath him simply nodded, repeating the words..

“Grock…-”

Before the Genasi could finish the words, the knight squeezed Grock’s hand, The Genasi smiled, clearly relief over having said what he just had, though it was short-lived. With his good hand, Fenwick took from Grock the dagger from his belt that always hung there, he turned it and placed the point to Grock’s eye which had now widened in shock. Grock quickly lifted his arm to try and fend off the sharp end of the dagger, both hands on the old man’s one which was pushing downwards.

They both knew in any other situation, Grock would have had the advantage, but the acid had already done so much damage that the knight, though straining with all of his reserves, managed to beat the larger man and impale the knife into his eye socket, ending the life of Grock.

Fenwick breathed hard, his eyes fuelled by rage, yet the injuries and age were too much as he slumped down upon the Genasi he had killed,.
Before passing out he felt the touch of Maya on his broken arm, dragging him away from the scene, the pain was too much as the old man passed out.

A month before Grock's and Gareth's demise:

"This was found on Gareths body after he and Zahira killed a Banite priest and were shortly afterwards caught in their temple... Gareth claims he has no idea why this note was left with him."

The old knight looked confused as he was handed the note by the Captain of the Iron company, Corey. After some moments, then some more as he re-read the note he looked up

"Why do they think I am involved..?"

Althalous Fenwick sounded confused, looking to the Captain for answers as he handed him the note back. The Captain would shrug, clearly as confused as the old paladin.

"Banites... more than likely they are simply trying to cause a rift between you and us, Ser Fenwick, you know what those creatures are like, simply can't trust them"

The knight nodded, thinking little more about it at that moment as it made sense.

[Kiran]

The old knight sat in his office, the air was stale, a hint of drying sweat and sour alcohol mixing in the warm breeze which gently whistled through the window into the poorly candlelit room. Already an emptied bottle of red wine stood on the cluttered desk, another bottle was opened, half-empty, the rest of its content stirring in the man's glass slowly which he sips from between grunts as he reads over a very short letter.

"You should have been the one that died"

The letter was nearly completely unreadable by now, the smudging of the ink-stained parchment corroded from likely being held for so long and so often by naked flesh. But the old veteran knew each letter and word as if carved unto him.

The elderly paladin crumbled up the note as he had so many times before and scrunched it back into his pocket, wheezing softly as he emptied the glass of wine in hand. He poured himself another, though having to place the glass on the table, using two hands to hold the bottle, one to steady the shaking of his arm as he splashed a second glass full of red wine, muttering a curse.

The last few weeks had gone in a blur, the tediousness of simply keeping things running in the church taking its toll on the knight who had been called out of retirement, the paperwork seemed endless.

One day however a knock disrupted this pattern, if just for a moment.

"Ser Fenwick, there is someone here to see you, shall I let her in?"

The senior guard waited a moment for the paladin to reply before nodding and leaving the old man with his own thoughts once more... It had been over a moon, maybe even two since she had died and the moment was still seared into his head, the wound was still fresh, too fresh. He recalled the moment he had found out as if it had been yesterday, he was stood in Soubar, inside the tavern, in a tiny room.

"She's dead, Fenwick - She's been dead for nearly a ten-day now.... did no one tell you?"

The hooded figure seemed a bit confused at first as she stared at the old man's expression which was also, one of confusion at first, but then it quickly shifted to complete hopelessness as the old paladin sank to his knees, his fists tightened, knuckles white. His usual wheezing breath becoming something utterly lost as spittle and tears ran down his cheeks and into his white beard for just the briefest of moments. The drow seemed uncertain what to do at this moment, staring at the fallen and broken paladin before her.

He let out a shudder, some from the memory, some from the pain of the glass shards which were in his hand, having broken the glass in his absent-mindedness. He grumbled as he cleaned up the mess hastily, picking the tiny shards from the palm of his hand, his other tying a rag around the tiny wounds. He went to fetch two glasses just as the visitor came through the door, a soft yet eerily familiar voice speaking softly.

"Thank you for seeing me Ser Fenwick"

As the old knight looked at the young woman who was now stood in the office, silhouetted by the doorframe, he tried his best not to stare as it all came back, the rush of it as if the floodgates had been opened. For a moment it was if he was seeing her again, Melissar.

"Ser Fenwick?"

The young girl looked concerned, likely seeing the elderly paladins expression as a bit odd. The old man finally recovered, offering the young girl a glass of wine and then sitting with evident difficulty, the young woman came across offering her arm to help the old knight of Mystra to a seat.

"Sorry miss Solang'e, caught me by surprise. How can I and the temple of Mystra be of assistance? this afternoon?"

[Kiran]

In a newly refurbished temple within the city of Baldurs Gate in the Eastern District, an elderly man is sitting pouring over some missives and reports, a soft wheeze escaping him as he looked over to the wine rack he had left untouched in over a year now positioned by his desk.

Another hoarse wheeze was followed by a reluctant sigh as he turned to the next page, looking at smudged pages of accounts paid and unpaid and some frivolous rumours of court, both making him shake his head and glance over to his wine collection, this being likely the tenth time this evening he had done so.

He looked to the Cucumber sandwich that had been left on the table by one of the Mystrans as usual, reminding him he had not eaten since midday as he took a reluctant if appreciative bite of the meal placing the reports down and just closing his eyes for a moment, enjoying the moment of silence.

A shriek.

Then complete silence.

The knight let out a sudden guttural howl of anguish as he started to rip up the reports, shredding and tearing them apart as tears soaked the used parchment, proceeding to throw the food and plate across to shatter against the expensive tapestries in the office before finally breaking down into a wailing gut-wrenching sob as he collapsed to the ground, rocking back and forth.. back and forth.. back and forth.

Mystra was gone.



A week or so later an elderly knight was seen headed north, his usual fine clothing somewhat filthy, covered in food stains and old wine spills, his beard and hair somewhat unkempt.

[Kiran]

One of the butlers kindly provided by the Vale Estate had gently wakened the snoring knight, however, this time not to escort him back to bed for the hundredths time, but to give him news, fantastic news.

“What you mean Mystra has returned…mrmm?”

The old man growled at the butler of house Vale, eyes red-rimmed from many nights of imbibing as he tried to stir himself awake, slowly managing the difficult process.

“It’s all over the city, people are saying that magic is working again, is it not great news!?”

The old knight wheezed, eyes bloodshot, yet at that moment, for a brief instant, the butler saw something a bit curious and a little bit odd in the eyes of the elderly knight. He saw what looked to be a man filled with utter terror.



“I am sure your gifts will return once we leave the dead zone, Ser Fenwick”

The man, who spoke, spoke with such an obvious air of certainty that even the old knight started to believe, if only for a moment, clad now once more in ill-fitting armour of his order, the metal clearly having shrunk somehow in the months he had spent within the Estate of Lord Vale.

The elderly knight tried not to meet the eye of the one known as Blackstaff, simply nodding acceptance, knowing his magic would still fail outside the city, his gifts from Mystra having mysteriously abandoned him.

The old man reached down to a satchel at his side, ensuring the letter he did not trust to keep anywhere but on his person was still safe, the words written on them perhaps the very reason he knew his powers and goddess had turned away from him, he had memorized the words, uttering them beneath his breath with a soft wheeze.

“I agree to your request.”

Memories flashed of a dark room, two men, both old, tired, and weary, a drink in both their hands, words uttered best left in that shadowy place.

Yet promises were made.

The elderly knight would blink, looking at the man known as Blackstaff. Hours had passed, and he felt exhausted. Khelben Blackstaff Arunsun spoke some last departing words before leaving the temple.

“Remember, these are the enemies of Mystra”

The old knight nodded, having not truly followed the conversation, nor indeed understanding it. However as he heard the last words, he did not see the image that the Blackstaff likely wanted, what he saw was something else. A vision.

He knew he was dying; the explosion had killed almost everyone around him in the large stone chamber. The cries of those still living were weakly echoed by the utter stillness of the dead. Young or old, it did not matter, most of those who had died were knights, armour previously pristine now ruined with the devastation caused in this room.

The putrid stench of the burned corpses and still-burning people would likely have caused horror in anyone there. People from outside were rushing in, trying to make sense of the massacre
Yet all that the knight could do in those moments as the flames flickered across his vision was one thing.

He smiled as he died.

[Kiran]

The old Mystran paladin looked around the finely furnished meeting room within the famed Bladestone Foundation, his memory of the Earthen Genasi who created it bringing a creased and wrinkled smile to his weary face. He spoke carefully when it was his turn.

“I learned yesterday eve that the Zhentarim plan to take the body of Castus, by force.”

Seeing many of those whom he had called allies over the years, as well as some newer ones reacting to his words, the elderly man sat in silence as others started speaking and commenting on the latest revelation.

As the many voices coalesced the old knight sighed as he recalled a much more lavishly appointed hall and upon a throne, a terrible visage.

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The woman who had caused so many people, including himself, such misery and pain spoke in a quiet yet supremely confident voice.

“Thank you for coming, Fenwick, can I offer you anything to eat or drink?”

The elderly man took in the large decorated hall, the many attendants present in the shadows, most of their heads bowed towards the woman. All of the tables were laid as if for a feast, fine chalices and bottles worth a small fortune adorning them.

As the pair sat opposite one another at the luxurious table, the old man recalled his previous conversations with the witch of Darkhold, hands clenched tightly beneath the table, his knuckles white as he struggled to maintain a neutral expression. After a few tense pleasantries, the hostess dangled her deliberate bait before her guest, a smile ever present on her exterior.

“I can offer you Zhentarim elite soldiers to deal with this fallen Celestial. I understand you have been asking others for aid, let me help you.”

The old man was unable to hide his surprise at this unexpected offer.

“And in return?”

The old man asked the question carefully, knowing the answer would likely be something he could not offer or give to the dictator of Darkhold.

“His body.”

The senior knight could not help but hide his surprise and confusion for the second time, chewing over the offer that the woman before him had made. He finally met her eyes after a complete minute of silence, asking a question he hoped not to get an answer to.

“Why do you need his body..?”

The woman kept her ever-present smile, though she was impossible to read at the moment. She seemed to consider the question, and in a more hushed voice, she told the servant of Mystra her reason for needing the body of Castus. As the old man listened to her story, he knew as the telling was complete, any aid from the Zhentarim would be impossible.

“My people will not agree to this, knowing what I now know, Tarina”

Her smile became even wider, much less consideration needed this time before she spoke.

“There are ways I can make you forget that last part if you will only allow me..”

Many hours or perhaps it was days later the old man finally made it back to the temple of Mystra within Baldurs Gate, his body shaking with the cold and exhaustion as he returned home, doffing his wet and soaked cloak before sitting down carefully on the stone bench within the entrance hall.

Not a moment passed before an impossible brilliant radiant light blinded the old knight, his instinct was to fall to his knees, averting his eyes as the brilliant light pulsed. He knew he was in the presence of the divine.

“My Knight, you have failed me, you have fallen..”

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"A man concurs with these points. In summary: the scout report will offer the insight needed to plot the best chance for our strike."

The old Mystran paladin looked around the finely furnished meeting room within the famed Bladestone Foundation, his memory of the Earthen Genasi who created it bringing a creased and wrinkled smile to his weary face. The meeting was coming to its conclusion with Wulfrik dismissing those present.

As the old knight went to leave at the end of the meeting, standing with some difficulty, his vision blurred as he tried to blink away the obfuscation, rubbing his eyes, he wheezed softly, a wide smile for a moment appearing before him as if a dream....

"Ser Fenwick, can we talk?"

Rubbing his eyes, the old knight blinked as he saw the knight, Ser Lyonaler, before him.

"Ah mrm... of course we can, this way..."

[Kiran]

It had been many years since he had felt this good.

"Ser Fenwick, how are you feeling?"

It sounded as if there was some concern in the voice of the younger knight, but it was quickly brushed off

"I feel.. wonderful.. thank you for mrm... lending me the blade, again, go see to your preparations, Sean."

No pain.

The old knight looked to the others gathered, mostly ignoring the last-minute preparations as he started a few practice swings of the blade, the movement was swift and sure, no shaking or ache in his old bones as he continued to practise old techniques taught from his days as a young squire in Waterdeep. Taking a deep breath the old knight let out a silent gasp of surprise, his typical wheeze gone as he looked at the blade held dearly between his plated gauntlets.

"I forgot.. mmrm, how good.. this.. feels"

Looking around to see no one paying him much mind he started to do something he had not done in aeons. A light jump up and down at first, stretching old muscles, perhaps a few arm swings in turn, the heavy plate mail barely restricting his smooth and even movements, it honestly did not feel too heavy. Every movement became quicker and sharper. He went back to swinging the blade. Small arcs went into more of an elaborate advanced momentum as he moved from side to side, fighting whatever invisible enemy only he could see at this very moment.

Though many minutes had passed, he barely was having any difficulty breathing and checked his forehead to find he was not even sweating. Steady and balanced he knelt on the ground. What had once been old aching bones and battle wounds previously preventing him from even bending over was all but gone. It was a miracle.

As the knight knelt in the mud, doing a prayer, he could not help but let out a soft chuckle as he caressed the blade.






Many hours Later.

"FENWICK, GET BACK IN LINE!"

The Giant blade of the Balor was easy to avoid, a quick side step as the demonic titan missed by just a few inches. Striking at the legs made it stumble for a moment. The back and forth continued for several minutes as more of his companions joined in the fray, bringing the behemoth to its last legs.

Feeling exalted the Paladin let out a sudden grunt of annoyance when he tried to push onward into the horde of demons. craning his neck he looked back and saw Layla holding onto his cloak firmly, a stern look and a shake of her head as she spoke.

"Stop running off - Sean said you need to stay back and reserve your energy."

The old knight muttered a curse and had to hold himself back from pulling away and running into the fray as he heard the clash of battles ahead. Though it had been a few hours he did not even feel slightly winded, he could swear he had more energy than when they started this expedition. Did the air even feel lighter?

"Charge!"

They had won. It was a small victory, but as the expedition stood gathered many hours later outside Baldurs Gate the older knight could not help but smile with joy. Everyone was exhausted, wounded and bloodied.

It had been a long and hard road, yet the old man could not help himself and did a few more practice swings with the wonderful sword in his hands. He did not feel tired at all. Honestly, he was considering going for a walk around the city which he had not done in a long time. As he was contemplating this, caressing the blade in his hand, he finally heard the voice that had been trying to get his attention.

"Fenwick, the sword, please?"

Sean looked at the old knight, clearly with some concern in his voice, yet there was also a hint of demand in it as if he was ordering him.

"Sean, it is alright. I can take care of the sword for the night, I will bring it to you soon."

Yes. This was a good idea. He could sleep a proper night's sleep. No pain. No struggling to breathe when lying down. No damned wheezing waking him in the middle of the night. This was the perfect solution. He would feel a bit sore in the morning, but better for having a good nights sleep

"Fenwick. Give me the sword. Now."

The voice was demanding. No. This was wrong. The sword belonged to him. It made him useful. It made him... everything that he was. They could not take it away from him. It would be wrong. It would be unfair. He had to prevent them. They did not understand.

"Just a few.. more moments.. please.. "

Why did his voice sound like he was begging the younger knight instead of telling him? He should not have to ask for permission. The sword wanted him to keep it. This was right.

"Fenwick, you need to give the sword over, you know what it did to you last time"

The voice was different, a voice he once tried to silence with this very blade. No. That can't be right. The sword was made to aid the older paladin. It made him a bastion against the dark, a shield for those who could not shield themselves. He looked at Nathan, shaking his head. He would never hurt Nathan. Unless he tried to take the blade of course. The only reason Nathan would do that is.. is if he worked for the enemy.

"Get away from me.."

The old knight backed away, his eyes on Sean as the younger man approached cautiously, concern in his eyes. However, the older man should have kept his eyes on Nathan instead. Soon it was all Darkness.

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He wanted to die.

The pain was all-encompassing, every tiny movement or breath was agony, yet as he sat within the temple of Mystra days later, being spoon-fed by a priestess of Illmater, he still had enough hate in his body to share it with his latest visitor. Sean.

"You knew it would do this to me. yet you let me linger here in agony?! Bring me the blade!"

The older man's voice was full of vitriol as he looked at the person who had caused him all of this pain. His body was screaming in protest as he tried to raise an accusing finger at his target.

The young man once considered like his own son, stood there and took the avalanche of abhorrence coming from the older knight. It didn't work. Soon after came the begging and pleading.

"If you ever cared for me as you say, you would get me the sword now... Can you not see my suffering?"

The words were hard to hear and say as the old knight's wheezing was more evident than ever, each word a hoarse desperate whisper. When begging did not work, bargaining was next. The young knight however stood firm, no matter how much it may have pained him and shortly after he left the temple to the curses of an old sickly knight following in his trail.

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More days passed in excruciating pain as the old knight tried to sleep. Earlier in the day he had convinced several people to go and get his sword for various rewards or favours, knowing one of them was likely to succeed or attempt it. Using the coffers of the temple was the right thing to do he knew as he tried to fall asleep in his bed, though, his dreams when he fell asleep had become strange and twisted as of late.

He was once more preparing for the battle to come, his body once more vibrant and full of energy, yet something was wrong. He could not put his finger on it. Yet once more holding the blade removed any doubt he had as he sighed with relief. The Blade was his once more.

As the knight knelt in the mud, doing a prayer, he could not help but let out a soft chuckle as he caressed the blade.





However, as visions and delightful dreams of holding the two-handed sword once more swam in his mind, he woke up and could not help but blink in shock as something flared in his nostrils, a slight tickling. He attempted to sit up, his body failing and unable to.

The sensation was alien to him and he could not control it. He suddenly let out a very soft and painful sneeze, his body flaring with anguish at the sharp noise. Wiping his nose carefully he thought little of it as he went back to his wonderful dreams of once more wielding the blade that made him feel like a young man once more.

[Kiran]

Another loud, echoing clang shattered the early morning.

The two heavily clad armoured men threw blow after blow at one another with their two-handed blades. Over the loud sound of steel ringing on steel an old and exhausted voice would try and speak over the din as he wheezed weakly between the strikes:

"I've told you before, watch your mrm footwork, one slip on the battlefield, and your life could end!"

The older paladin wheezed softly as he knew the trick had worked the last time. As the younger squire looked down at his own feet, the older knight struck fast, extending himself with the last ounce of energy left in his bone-weary body as he threw a heavy two-handed swing at his opponents torso.

Too late:

The younger man easily sidestepped the heavy swing, grabbing hold of the old man's over-extended arm, pulling him further over to then drop him onto the ground in an awkward tumble. The heavy armour let off a loud clash as he crashed to the ground from the sudden tug. The old man then also felt a swift if somewhat moderate sting on his backside whilst lying in the dirt as the young knight tapped him on the ass with the broad side of the blade.

"Can't make me fall for the same trick twice, Ser Fenwick"

The younger man removed the bascinet, wiping the sweat from his brow as he offered a small, brief smile of triumph, his brow barely glistening with sweat. This was very much unlike the old man on the ground, who was wheezing heavily, struggling to get to his feet. The younger man aided the old man to his feet, his earlier triumph replaced with obvious concern for having hurt his older master. The squire had to do most of the heavy lifting as the elderly knight finally removed his helmet, wiping his thinning grey hair with a plated glove as he tried to remove the torrent of sweat dripping from his brow.

"Are you alright?"

The squire carefully inquired as he helped the old knight to a wooden bench to help him sit.

"I am fine.. nothing damaged except my pride.. and my left ass cheek.. mrm.."

The old knight grumbled, yet he could not hide a brief smile at how easy it was now for his squire to beat him even when he tried to trick him. For a moment, he contemplated that fact. He had not been able to defeat his squire in many weeks without using some trick or other, and even then, it usually still went the younger man's way. Finally the old man uttered:

"You have learned more than I can teach you of swordsmanship, Holgart."

The old man was happy to admit the fact as he realised he was tired of spending most of their sparring on the defensive, and then typically on the ground after yet another beating. The younger knight would nod, though seeming somewhat disturbed by the notion for a moment.

"Does that mean you are done training me?"

The old man chuckled weakly, still exhausted from earlier. He took out from beneath the bench a shining new two-handed blade, a magical glow gently shining from it as he presented it to his squire. The younger man took in the presentation and likely the small fortune spent on the newly forged blade, fit for any knight of Torm.

"No, Alexander" The old man wheezed - "I am, however, done training you with the sword, but there is a lot more to being a knight. We will arrange for more skilled individuals to enhance your combat training so you can continue to hone your skills."

"So.. are you just saying I am just better than you, Ser Fenwick?"

The younger man would chuckle as he teased his old teacher. The older man blinked as he recalled those words whilst looking at his younger squire, who was admiring his new blade as he tested it with a few well-rehearsed practice swings.

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"What do you mean you know where the blade is?"

The old man stood up from the table, the earlier pleasantries of the evening utterly forgotten as he stared at the speaker. The female figure would smile, though there was nothing pleasant in the expression. She stood from the couch and approached the silent older man, her wounds making each step excruciating.

"And what if I did... what would you do?"

She watched him as whatever had kept him somewhat composed earlier was completely stripped from him, his eyes intensely fixed on hers as he knew she knew.. something. His mind was racing as this sudden opportunity has arisen, what did she know?

"Gold.. power.. I can.. offer you anything you want.. mrm.. what do you want.. tell me.. I can get it for you.. just name a price.."

The former paladin could not help but move closer to the injured individual before him as he spoke those words. Whatever sympathy he might have had earlier for the woman's wounds was utterly gone as she knew where the blade was hidden. She could lead him to it. It would finally be his once again and he could...

he could...

he...

...

"You are better than this, Fenwick!"

The soft yet firm voice of the elven woman in the room made him stop for a moment. Something internal was screaming in his head for him to stop, his will barely able to resist the cacophony of shrieks in his skull. Yet as the tiefling before him stepped closer, he could feel his destiny approaching, and whatever caution or even self-esteem that was left in the knight escaped him as he pathetically pleaded with the woman before him.. begging her..

"Please.. tell me.. where it is.. I will do whatever you mrmm, ask.. I will.. hurt your enemies.. tell me what you want.. please"





All he could envision was holding the sword again, clutched between eager hands as everything else was gone, the pain, the memories and the hunger... He likely never saw the disgust or pity from the others in the room as they looked down upon the broken once knight.

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In the deeper sanctuary of the Mystran temple in Baldurs Gate, an old man sits hunched over, wheezing weakly as he clutches what looks to be a blue ribbon of some kind, pressing it to his heart. He looked over to his right, where once many years ago another of his squires had bled out on his carpet, the blood stain never truly removed from the ancient rug no matter how often cleaned.

"You were never better than me.."

The old man mutters to himself as he places down the familiar ribbon in his hand, knuckles still white from having gripped too tightly. There was a small embroidery on the cloth showing a tiny gauntlet stitched into the pattern, repeated every so often.

As the old man sighed, his nightmares were never too far away these days. Thoughts of a massive, large red dragon soaring in the sky enveloped his vision, their eyes meeting as it smiled, a tiny glowing sword gripped in it's huge talons. The old man sighed, eyes closing as he could stay awake no longer, hand reaching upwards towards the blade, muttering softly..

"You were better than all of us"