Baldur's Gate : The Sword Coast Chronicles : NWN2 Persistent World

Valiant gritted his teeth, shooting glances left and right, praying no one had seen his moment of weakness. The dutiful shield. . . the darkness he cloaked his mind in to stave off the endless pitfalls of guilt, had solidified too much. He thrust it off then, and gasped.

His empty pride bespoke impulsive violence and evil. He stared down at the mangled remains of the man he slew in cold blood. Valiant grappled with justifications, desperately wanting something to fit. The dark circles under his eyes more prominent than ever.

He lied to me and let Pain escape. No. The -monster-. Mercy is a luxury better not spent at all.

He grimaced spitefully, allowing the pride to breath forth a hail of fire: He mocked my God. Called me a wanna be vigilante.

Valiant ran, cutting through a thicket of wood and plowing through an orc as if he were a haystack. He was met with a web of charging thoughts, for this had been different than the others whom fell to his blade.

He felt repulsive, as if spattered in a grease of fiendishness. He sucked in his breath, Gullykin's lights winking at him in the rapidly near distance.

He looked to his left, noticing a halfling sitting on the ground indian stye, tamping out his pipe with a puzzled expression. He paused the process and gave Valiant a dung eating grin.

Valiant stared seething bolts into the Halfling's eyes, "What?"

Somewhere rather isolated between Beregost and Nashkel. . .

The destination loomed ever closer, as Valiant paced himself forward with a golem's forlorn stride, head half-tilted down in shame or defeat.

Valiant's face set in a wild grimace, and mayhaps menacing if not for four day's growth of facial hair bestowing the persona of a disheveled, mountain man making a hard living carrying out bounties for goblins.

His facial hair always grew fast and he always trimmed it into the trademark vandyke he was known for on the coast. But not now, he was no longer that man. He recalled his reflection through the pond an hour ago and found it completely alien.

Lack of sleep compounded with agonizing trauma of what he did added years to his face.

His paled face.

Approaching the site, or what was left of it, the sunlight retracting off the darksteel. He wheeled his head right, then all around warily.

The broken knight nodded once as if deciding something monumental and removed the armor he breathed under for so long. Shattered and resolute on his decison, amongst wreckage of a warehouse he blew up months ago he couldn't help but think: it's over, it's finally over. If someone saw him, they'd likely sprint in the opposite direction soon as possible.

A naked man was one thing, but a naked man with a chest ravaged by torturous burns is another Mutliverse. Uncaring of his nakedness in the middle of nowhere, with the mere lonely rustle of the wind to keep him company.

Valiant offered a brief prayer and clutched his holy symbol so hard that it dug into his palm like a code does to a Paladin.

Valiant glimpsed remnants of a steel pole he had used to hang a man for casting undead. A family man.

Adjacent to the pole, charred bones and a broken off hilt of a scimitar.

A wild animal howled and yelped in the sunny and seemingly innocent distance. It appeared, the sun bore down it's heat personally upon him. Perhaps, it's righteous way of inflicting cosmic indictment.

The man had to give himself credit, the last meat he consumed was a King's feast and he felt full to the brim. Valiant didn't see suicide as weakness, but staying true to Hoar's Dogma. He had sacrificed much to the Doombringer, hadn't he?

Valiant dumped half a keg of ale over his person and grimaced painfully as it's sear clawed and tongued into his many cuts, scars, and burnt chest.

He grabbed a tinderbox off the ground gingerly, his entire body shaking suddenly with the knowing impact of this -full- measure. Striking the twig against a certain side of the tinderbox, the twig caught aflame fiercely- like he had just woke up a Demon.

A black thought crept across his mind, slapped him really. The Zhents had the right idea, after all. . .

Then, the inexplicable happened, a hand seemed to traverse through his mind and it was not painful in the least.

"Valiant?"

It was the Hoarite Cleric from deep Amn, the one whom converted him originally, Jeshaba.

"Jeshaba" He managed weakly.

"You don't sound too good, my friend. How does the gate and the surrounding lands treat you of late?

"I should of left these places behind years ago, all that is here to offer is pain and tragedy. Luckily, I don't have to worry about that any longer. . ."

"Whatever do you mean?" Valiant heard a prolonged chuckle surfacing through the sending.

"I mean to end my life, I murdered another in cold blood and as the Dogma states clearly: an eye for an eye."

"That it does, nevertheless, it is not your choice to make but the Doombringer." Valiant stared down at the twig in his hands, still burning intensely. Ready to swallow up gargantuan mountains and canyons if need be.

"This. . is what he would want, what the coast wants as well."

"Sounds like self-pity, tell you what. Come to Athlatka for three days and we shall set out for the desert. There, with our priestly combined insight, we shall derive an answer."

"That is never going to happen, Jeshaba. It is finished. . ."

"I see. But one last question if you shall permit it." Valiant felt the sending flickering out faintly.

"Go ahead."

"Can you still channel words of power?"

He paused on that, slightly conflicted. Hadn't he uttered a word of power that produced his meal today?

"Hoar's power has not left my body, regardless-"

"Then he has not abandoned you, but if you kill yourself, what will he think then?"

Valiant cursed silently and apparently Jeshaba heard it through the Sending, for he chuckled amusedly.

"I expect you soon."

Valiant was speechless but knowing the Sending ran on mere half-seconds he managed his trademark remark. "Yeah."

The Sending died off.

The broken, blonde-bearded man sucked in his breath, and then let it out in a carefree gesture, letting the tension slip from his arms; letting the darkness wash over him once more.

Making a big mistake! He thought frantically, as the twig bathed in flame plummeted down, a tell-tale sign of doom in itself.

His lower waist burst into flames , trailing up his arms like chaotic, red tentacles chopped off from their host and desperately seeking the consumption of new energy, new life. The flames grew dominant over his chest, knocking him to the ground in a torrent of spasmodic rolling and jerking. The fire crackled and ate upon his soon to be roasting flesh, seeming to seal the gateway of his lungs.

Choking off his oxygen, standing atop his chest like a vengeful stone giant out to play a game. A hard game.

He reached up for anything around him, but all he could find was a steel pole that seared his flesh as much as the flame. He tried to cough out a word of power, but failed. Time and time again. His thoughts diminished and a -real- darkness beckoned him.

Valiant gave a howl of his own then. . . much like the wild animal's but haunted and morose.

"I AM NOT DONE YET!" He bellowed forth determinedly, and with the outburst's energy, the word of power escaped his lips.

Instantaneously, the priestly magic took the pain away. The flames stayed upon his body but did not mar it further, but now he could at least limp.

No.

Crawl.

And that he did, oh how he crawled. . .

LOCATION: Athlatka

A performer played a sombre tune on a lute, his voice barely above a whisper. Valiant smelt his maggoty stench and grimaced.

"Blades of the righteous are hungry to dance in a field of red."

Dry docks all around, faces all frantic like and staring suspicion. A broken man crawled with a beard heavy in blood.

"The tips can melt off as their masters run in madness."

A broken man regularized his breath yet it came hard as ice.

"Fangs replace steel, and half-men chase evil designs for evil's bread."

Valiant croaked, "I need a temple."

"What's that ye' grip in yer grimpy paw?"

Valiant groaned as the sun stabbed him in merciless, downward arcs, choking on blood, every word spat out of his mouth muddled. The holy symbol slipped from his fingertips.

"Your a priest, and a dirty, naked one at that, bleeding out like a fat, sour boil. . ." It was evident, a performer dead brain drunk.

"Aye."

"The hells is a temple needed for then, aye?" The performer asked through a belch, scratching at his ugly face.

"I know a priest. . . he'll pay you." Valiant's voice all hoarse like, passer by's stared roughly.

"Why not I take you to him instead?"

He shook once and rasped, "Two thousand, -temple-."

"Say. . . you crawl all the way from Nashkel, mayhap? Heard talk of a riot, a frolicking one too."

"No, a wagon dropped me off."

"Yeah?"

"Does it matter?"

"Suppose it don't."

"The performer, who was as ugly as his height and girth, lifted Valiant onto his shoulder like a bundle of trading goods.

"Ye' better pay me right."

In the flirt with death, another sentence clubbed it's way out of his faltering, fire damaged lungs. "I'll pay you double to double your pace."

The performer immediately increased to a jog.

"And don't sing your music."

"Fair enough, grumpy."

Valiant shook his head distantly. Nothing is fair. It just was.

The sun growled high and wild in the desert sky.

Jeshaba: "New cape?" He eyed the billowing, blood red cape.

Valiant shrugged, donning the cape, his features still partially scorched. He had left the darksteel behind, lost it.

Jeshaba forced a grin, "Lighten up, in five or six days. . . you'll be as good as new. Though, I have to say the raspy voice is a superb fear tactic, lung damage aside."

Valiant faced Jeshaba, his mouth a tight line, betraying nothing. He felt an overpowering urge to crack Jeshaba upside the head.

Jeshaba took it all in, wise-eyed, "Your voice will be back too, relax."

"Where are we?" Valiant mused, observing the surroundings: a vast desert stretching on for endless leagues, full of features alien to him.

Nothingness.

"Not exactly a festival at the Duchal Palace, I know. This isn't the desired destination by the way." Jeshaba paused, gesturing widely.

Valiant closed his eyes for a minute.

"Mr. Ilmater, wake up! A lot of gold to be had out here."

"I don't care about gold."

"Aye. . . but you were mumbling in your sleep about a temple."

"I have the gold needed, already. It's safe too."

"To get the temple on it's feet, but what about running and thriving?"

Valiant scraped at his beard and eyed him suspiciously.

"-Plus-, you need to convince the Dukes, hundred thousand gold isn't enough. That's a small room in the Lord's Alliance."

"Valiant listened, but refused to go about the social norms like nodding and eye contact. He only had room for brooding, planning, hating evil.

"I'll explain the rest when we get there, oh, a few friends I'd like to introduce you to."

Valiant scoffed in his head, what were friends but a distant memory and a detriment?

---------

Jeshaba led him to a brown, plain house, thirty leagues farther out in the desert.

"Seems innocent enough," Valiant said through a sneer.

"Ah, that's the smartass I know, after you sir knight."

Valiant nodded absently, letting himself in. The room housed a grimy, stained couch, three bound and gagged men struggled restlessly upon it, another door loomed opposite of the couch.

A kitchen, mayhap?

"What the hells is this?" Valiant snapped briskly, eyes darting dangerously.

Jeshaba piped up, "Your father is Saul Blinncraft, correct?"

"Yeah. . ." Valiant said unevenly.

Jeshaba spoke with a repugnant mixture of condescending, sarcasm, "Well, your dad came to me and -mine-, about a little problem."

Two burly men emerged from the backroom, clearly bodyguards of a sort.

Valiant stared at Jeshaba, cursing himself for getting the stupid all over him.

Jeshaba gave a rustic sigh, "A gambling problem. . . something about zhents torturing his son."

Valiant suddenly tensed, felt an unseen, cold knife twisting it's way into a racing heart, his belly welled up with dread. He couldn't believe it, the zhents who tortured him due to his father's lack of restraint and cowardly choices were -here-.

Jeshaba smiled softly, still gesturing wide, "Don't look so joyful."

Valiant: "If these are the men you claim them to be, shed their masks."

Jeshaba: "Though, I don't think they work for the Zhentarim in any official capacity."

Jeshaba took too long, so Valiant removed their masks, but left the gags on.

Valiant winced, the Zhents looked terrible, faces all jelly like and disfigured. It -was- them. His personal tormentors. Valiant screamed, red faced, "This isn't right, a few punches and a hanging would of been just fine!"

Jeshaba stuck his tongue out mockingly, "Fight evil with evil. Sometimes, you have to be mean."

"That -isn't- what the Doombringer's dogma means!"

Jeshaba's eyes gleamed with mischeif, "It's poetic justice too."

"Your not walking the line," Valiant growled.

Jeshaba gave a heartless chuckle, and exchanged glances with the bodyguards. "I think your old Paladin ways dilute your judgement."

"Your pursuing vile acts for evil's agenda."

"It's a fitting punishment, Valiant. . . check their chests, will you?"

Valiant inched closer to one of the bound zhents and undid his tunic.

A chest burnt beyond recognition. . .

An ominous ringing flared alive in Valiant's head, jaw no longer clenched in anger but open and vulnerable with shock. "This is blind bitterness," Valiant said slowly, sweating hard and fast.

Jeshaba snorted, "Spoken like a true Tyrian."

"-Hoar- wouldn't want this to happen." Valiant heard others rattling about in the other room.

"You don't know what Hoar wants, but I can tell you. An eye for an eye. To disagree, is heresy. . ." Jeshaba's voice tightened, the sarcasm vacant.

"Then I'm a heretic," Valiant croaked.

"Rather ungrateful, Valiant. Bad choice, and such a rash of them lately."

Valiant shifted into a high, fighter's stance, a hatred blazed behind his eyes that few beings can attain."Sometimes righteous men have to do hard things."

"So be it."

Bodyguards rushed forward, Valiant cracked Jeshaba sharply in the nose, the back door slammed open, crossbow bolts sailed, Amnians cursed, Jeshaba screamed, lights ruptured in unison; the sound of metallic boots clambering, and a darkness tantalized all.

When I finally escaped the desert, the cleric Jeshaba penetrated my head, firing off a quiver of profanities i'd rather not highlight.

But for the sake of dredging up bad memories . .

Jeshaba: "Do you have -any- idea how long it took me to find those banites! I'll have you thrown in a cell with them and tortured! You think banites know how to put the pain on, wait till you see!"

I ignored him, grinning ear to ear, amazing what can be done in a matter of days I thought with measured moroseness. Dry docks all around, I had made it.

Two days ago

I read the seemingly eon old, yellow parchment in a small corner of Bentley's bar- a shot of sweating whiskey before me, untouched.

The whiskey cried out to me. It wanted me to accept a dullard existence most poor or oppressed men readily resigned to. I didn't feel oppressed, I felt awake, ready for a second chance if only I concentrated hard enough.

My dark blue eyes suddenly fascinated on the parchment once more. . .

DOGMA OF THE EVEN-HANDED: Reveal the truth, punish the guilty, right the wrong, and always be true and just in your actions. Uphold the law wherever you go and punish those who do wrong under the law. Keep a record of your own rulings, deeds, and decisions, for through this your errors can be corrected, your grasp on the laws of all lands will flourish, and your ability to identify lawbreakers will expand. Be vigilant in your observations and anticipations so you may detect those who plan injustices before their actions threaten law and order. Deliver vengeance to the guilty for those who cannot do it themselves.

I re-read the last line, grimacing hellishly.

Deliver vengeance to the guilty for those who cannot do it themselves.

I swiped at my wet brow and mused, didn't seem very lawful. . . in fact, seemed right out of the Doombringer's Dogma.

I instantly thought back to the supposedly civil, open-minded conversation I held with two Helmites in Nashkel. I had arrived, in light of recent news of Nashkel's chaos- the riots against the very temple of the Great Guard whom I respected greatly.

I had claimed justice and vengeance to be the same, with only a slight difference.

The elder Helmite, Durek, proclaimed justice and vengeance were different beasts altogether, that the act of revenge took it a step further, often with a punishment far greater than the original party suffered.
Drahano asked Durek whom Drahano clearly looked up to as a father figure, least how I figured, "Your saying there is evil in the doombringer?"

Drahano said yes.

I stood there, feeling like an idiot, insignificant and unworthy of the all-knowing wisdom and vigilance of these Helmite incarnates.

The Helmite Drahano shot back at me mockingly as if i were a dried fungus floating in pond scum, "I believe in justice, I believe in fighting evil without mercy, I follow the Doombringer." He had said "Doombringer" as if it were a vile curse, or the beginning of a necromantic experiment.

The conversation endured, each Helmite pretending they could stomach a philosophical conversation, but when I left Drahano spat on the ground before me, it may of hit my boot, I cannot recall.

Durek gave me a slight nod which for some reason enraged me -more- than the younger one's action, suppose it had something to do with me bowing.

I swept a hand across the table, brushing past the whiskey shot, and twisting the tap off the waterskin.

I drank some, wondering where my thoughts would take me next.

----------------
One day ago

You know how you wake up sometimes after an enlightening dream and that warm feeling of safety hovers through your soul for the rest of the day like a lone, invigorating light in a sea of madness? Maybe not. But that is exactly how I feel today, this may sound crazy but when I picked up the dogma of Tyr this morning I felt a distant dragon's roar in the distance. I felt a purpose, and I'm not shi**ing you.

The Dukes ordered Uriel Honorblade to find the warlock Pain and bring him back to the Duchal Court for immediate questioning concerning the Lich's ring. It was just I, Cela, and Uriel at first, the entirety of the pursuit could not be explained better than a maddening fever.

My feet bled hard and fast in the darksteel boots, I suggested to search the village of blue menaces whilst the elf and the knight ferreted around Nashkel for this luskan-bred lout. It took most the day to reunite with Uriel and Cela, I stopped in Beregost and ran into Gabriela there, whom had been searching intensely for the dirty lock herself.

Pain seems to have inflicted pain on many, directly and indirectly.

It was such a boon from the heavenly Triad above when I, Uriel, Cela, and Gabriela discovered Pain on that dark tradeway. I must point out however, none of this could of came to fruition without Honorblade's vigilance.

The warlock was brought to the Duchal Palace swiftly, I hear his interrogation commences on the morrow. I also pointed out to Sir Uriel that Merek Asher lied to us about Pain's whereabouts, he seemed to believe me and assured me Merek would be questioned. I can only pray for the billowing effect of Justice, may it come fair, may it come fast, may it come full circle.

It is strange how irony seems to be -haunting- my steps, and its merciless counterpart impending doom.

The day I renounced Hoar, snapped His belt over my leg in the bar in front of Paladin Honorblade, and later cast the accursed banner into a dark corner of my closet I felt an inexplicable sense of relief, freedom.

Yet that very night, in the seething darkness past Gullykin, bordering the looming tower of Durlag, in the company of friends new and old; the palpable mood of light banter between Jax and the boisterous halfling masking any hint of danger's descent, a drow came at us bellowing and hissing in its foul native tongue. . . only one word rang understandable in that malestrom of evident expletives.

"Swine!"

I pretended not to be seized by the fear of their sudden presence, "A bit too late for revenge?" I asked the Drow caustically, his allies flanking him in the far distance, over and under the strange, tan hills.

The leader of the Drow served easy sport with the aid of friends, such a rare commodity in this mad age but it did not take long for more dark elves to come pouring out of the hills, out of the bent, vengeful darkness pointed at me and now the people who had nothing to do with this months old feud.

The drow's blades and arrows assaulted us with the polished grace that only seasoned, sociopathic assassins can orchestrate. Through the entirety of the ambush, I kept asking myself feverish questions: Why should others have to pay for former acts of blind bravery, why did the assassins choose to attack me now, without my combat prayers to harden my resolve?

When I finally began my climb of repentance for a thousand, malicious transgressions these drow were here to tell me it wasn't good enough, that it meant nothing.

I can merely conclude one foul, morose answer: Because the Doombringer wasn't done with me, He didn't forgive me for my slight, He had two things left with my name on it: irony, impending doom.

And though the drow lay splayed and defeated for the now, I know they also do not forget, forgive or fall permanently.

I am not afraid now, for a Paladin fears no fear as I heard the Paladin Elril say, but what feelings does a redeemed knight of Tyr have left?

An unfathomable worry for these hideous denizens of the world below to strike at me again, mayhaps in a moment of deeper weakness, or against beloved allies who cannot defend themselves.

If this were to happen I cannot think of any worse punishment.

So I am left to anticipate on a fisher's hook, i'm a cantankerous worm among a host of innocent worms waiting to be picked and mindlessly cast into an azure of death.

The knowledge of living on the plank of death is more explicable than ever now.

I am hunted. . . and haunted.

Twenty three years ago.


An eighteen year old Valiant stared in awe at the knight in blackened armor.

A tattered black cape whirled and thrashed about the knight and his sword bathed in holy flame whilst the dock thugs tried bold, risky combat moves. Valiant found his eyes back on the cape, covered in multiple symbols, a clash of religious art- balanced scales resting on a warhammer, a right-hand gauntlet held upright with palm forward below the warhammer, and tracing the bottomside of the cape like an ill-traveled whisper in the wind: a pair of white hands bound with red cord

It was a knight of the triad, and a real one at that. Valiant shifted his shaking stance, grimacing in mild apprehension yet suspended in intrigue and admiration. A sword plunged into the knight's kneecap but he did not make a sound, the other rat alley thugs miscalculated and roared laughter.

The knight slowly turned his head to the laughter and slid open the narrow opening of his full helm of dark steel.

"Let the women and children go, or your lives." The knight righted his position then pointed at the building spitting fire and heavily billowing smoke.

"Their already dead." The thug who stabbed the knight hard in the kneecap said richly, proudly.

"I guess that means only one thing." The knight replied sad and calm, closing the slit of his full helm.

"What's that, psycho?"

The knight whispered, Valiant -strained- to hear.

"A vast black."

"Eh?" A thug asked, itching his armpit, eyes red with alcohol.

"Where there is only me when the last storm boils." The knight seemed to conclude, sword of silver flames dripping sparks behind him with every slow, resolve-filled step he took.

Lightning flashed in the distance, crows zoomed by as if the only choice available was to look away.

A thug dropped a crowbar from his crusty hands and it clattered to the ground like a yelping golem after the master alchemist taught it how to feel loss.

"Your going to murder us like some cold killer. Listen, I have gold. Barrels and barrels of it."

The knight feinted right on a thug, but at the last minute leaped left- slicing out entrails of a thug leaning against a cold, dark wall all mellow like a second before, blood spurted and streaked his blazing, dyed blue hair red.

The injured thug's scream persisted for half seconds, his body clinged to the ground and then rolled into a huge pit of trash and dung with one violent, thrust of the knight's boot.

The knight appraised the two left, running back down the dark alleyway they came from, but it didn't matter, two crossbow bolts sailed into their backside at maximum speed.

Funnily enough, both their backs jerked spasmodically upwards like someone had just stuffed ice down their undergarments. The knight sighed and put the crossbow away.

Valiant stared at the knight with dark blue, wide-set eyes, Valiant opened his mouth like a soldier unsheathes his sword before the heat.

"W-why did you do that, sir knight?" Valiant hated himself for sounding so weak and fragile.

The knight croaked back full of humility yet laced in unmistakable, righteous determination, "Justice."

But the next moment, the Knight was found sprawled out defeatedly on the ground, in his own death throes. The Knight croaked something unintelligible and stared at his sword, contemplating.

Valiant barely moved three steps in the last ten minutes, his eyes never averting from the Knight whom cast his helm off and began taking off the darksteel.

"I am going to leave you with my armor, do with it what you will. But you must promise me something."

"Sure."

"When I die throw my sword in the water."

"Your wounds can still be mended, sir."

And in the same dazzling speed the knight avenged dead families, the sword showered in silver flame punctured through his chest in a smooth, natural motion. Valiant found his hands over the sword hilt and stared in awe.

I could keep it, you know. Leave it in that secret spot in the basement.

He went to take the scabbard off the knight and hesitated, needles of shame already puncturing his thoughts.

No. Someday, I will find a sword of my own. Earned by my own right.

Valiant hurled the brilliant sword into the body of water.

I hear the Calling of Tyr steadfast throughout the day and in my waking dreams, yet the urges still crawl under my skin, skulking and leering and digging deep from the -darker- half of me.

The moonlight flowed into my room, I watched the hues of light zig and dance across my ruined desk with black conjecture.

Whiskey, bread, cheese, pork and loads of shellfish littered all around me in my small, dimly-lit room of starved features. The full whiskey bottle sat there dauntingly, as if it grinned over a private joke I did not understand.

I twisted the cap off and upended the bottle, a few drops hit my tongue before I spit it out abruptly.

And what did i expect, to no longer be human? To no longer feel the impulse to slam a luskan-bred bastard's head against a wall for acting the uncouth fool? Most do not regard me as a Paladin, for they either did not know me when I was one or viewed my endeavors when I was as farce, or have first hand seen the violence I am capable of.

So I cannot blame them, and if others still wish to refer to me as "fallen paladin" and "drunken knight" by all means continue, for it does not deter a Knight.

My primary concern is keeping that dark part of me in a cage, like the magical barrier Kaltyra and mayhaps other unwilling souls waste away in. She came to me requesting aid, and I could do nothing.

And now, as the Nature's Faithful or whatever suggested, Kaltyra is to be promised in execution to the diluted people of Triel. Its hard to care about those wretches now, I almost hate them with a righteous fever.

An orc tried to charge a toll from several warriors training and slaughtering those foul lizardmen in proximity to the Friendly Arm Drunk, I had arrived on the scene without my dark steel, in dark leathers from head to toe, attempting a new skill I've been training countlessly for weeks now. Luckily the would be robber did not see me skulking in the shadows and when he ran I pursued. I asked him if he thought this was funny, he retorted with dullard wit. He thought I was funny. I warned him if he did not come with me for his attempted theft, I'd resort to physical means. Apparently this sparked him to action, for he screamed into a red rage and I had no choice but to drop him into unconciousness with my blade.

It is hard to see hope and promise with so much death and turmoil on the coast of late, but I will not show my depression.

And by the gods, I will not break again.

It is amazing how many -choose- not to see the tyranny of "the rock"- a man who adamantly defends the dukes despite their callousness in the matter of Triel, despite their decision to actively let Zhentarim seize up a strategic territory in the north. Its amazing how weak and lacking of substance some of the people of the coast are.

I've seen firsthand the tyranny of the rock, his tactics upon the weak, and it allows me to conclude his diluted philosophy easy enough. Thedran believes in rule by the sword, which is only a nice word for fear.

And to think I used to respect this supposed Helmite, now all I see is a dirty zhent who follows a hollow, self-serving duty.

He got right in my face with his ruined face locked in a perpetual sneer- for I had been voicing my opinion and of course that goes against the law of tyranny. Rock began to swing at me, so I tried to smite him repeatedly with my fists for all i could see was an evil.

There were many who came upon the scene, and only one helped me, the cleric of Mielikki Jax but the others did nothing! Even, the Paladin Katarina did nothing besides telling us to go our different ways like -I- had broke the law!

Another sick day on the coast, another day of politics and the might of a brute overpowering truth and picking away at the righteous, honorable code us Paladins hold dear to our hearts and souls.

Blood smears and streaks the yellow, tattered parchment all over. The writing is rushed and half-legible.

You ever take a walk in the Palace District, take in all its glorious sights then enter a derelict back alley or the ruins of what we call a Harbor District? Its like traveling from the beautiful countrysides of Cormyr to the cesspool markets of Calimport. Or how females always choose the bad boy cur over the honest, true gentlemen. I can't believe . . . you know, forget it. I need to take a break from this writing business, its not helping. I guess I lost.

Again.

PART TWO: THE KNIGHT IN DARK

10 Nightal, 1339: Year of the Weeping Moon, some bar in the Dalelands


Valiant peered into the dancer's eyes as she swayed gracefully in hypnotic, embellished dance- hardly suppressed by the elevating laughter of dregs and stale pipe smoke.

He found himself in this bar on most days and he didn't feel one bit bad about it. Valiant flicked a few coins at her feet, eyes red from his favorite drink of late: Shadowdark. A frothy ale on the table before him, near bubbling over with yellow foam atop a cloudy brown, bulging liquid. He couldn't deny, the ale seemed to harbor darkness and cut you with a strangely, manageable bitterness. He read the label, his thoughts too loud and jarring to realize his own voice bleeding over the bar's raucous noise.

"Brewed in shadow. . ."

The dancer got all in his face

"Damn." He said.

"Brewed in shadowdamn, huh," She asked through a sneer.

"Just dance."

An old man spoke up then, with a rather random comment, "Seems there was too much peace and quietude here for the zhents liking. Had to kill a good man."

Deep into his shadowdark, Valiant spat sourly, "What are you raving about?"

"Lord Aumry ruled peacefully over the dales for decades, seems that's all over now. . ." The old man concluded, hiccuping, rubbing at his dried eyes.

" Zhents are pigs," Valiant offered, slurring.

"Shadowdale just wanted to be left alone, we're a . . . farming community."

Valiant grunted, "Don't lose faith, its weathered more in the past."

"Wise words, are you a knight sir?"

Valiant glanced down at his dark steel, caked in the road's dirt and wet with tonight's cheapest ale. "No."

The old man nodded almost apologetically and purchased two ales for them, Valiant didn't find the dance as interesting suddenly.

The old man began anew, yet his voice still lined in daunting sadness, like he had a black stain he couldn't remove. . . "I don't know what it is but this bar calls to people, like me, like Alrond," He pointed to a diminutive man howling excitedly in a corner, moving a bishop piece on a chess set animatedly.

"I see." Valiant said awkwardly.

"His father, Earl, came to this same bar for thirty five years up untill he decided to go camping, he wanted to go somewhere the exact opposite of the dales so he embarked for Icewind Dale. You could say Earl got a wild streak in him as the years piled on. Time does that too men sometimes, You see, Earl had a propensity to treat his horse in bad form.

One day- Earl spurred the poor horse on too hard, and the horse threw him right off the saddle and galloped away. Auril was raging relentlessly that winter and Earl never made it back home on foot.


When Alrond found his father's body, it was frozen under the lake, his face twisted in a soundless scream, Alrond near died getting the corpse free. Seems he carries on Earl's legacy nowadays, he certainly doesn't go camping." He remarked morbidly, gesturing over to Alrond who hollered random condemnations to any who would pass or glance in his direction.

Valiant:"Or leave the bar."

Valiant buried his face in thick, calloused hands, trying to relax his position.

But he could not have this moment's respite, the old man spun Valiant around with a ragged, insanity in his eyes.

"You know what Shadowdale's original name was?"

"No. . . I do not sir."

"Land Under Shadow."

-----------

"Linnard!" The old man's voice nervy, like on the cusp of victory.

The Bartender turned his head with a surly expression that near demanded payment of a sort, but the words spat from his oversized mouth stung like a Hellwasp.

"You ever holler at me in my own pub again and I'll toss you in a Wyvern feast.* After saying this, the bartender went back to cleaning the bar counter constructed of Zalantar.

The old man had grey eyes, inflamed from hard alcohol and still flickering in ragged insanity, pasty skin and a big mouth, not like the bartender's. but a big mouth nevertheless. . . "Alot of gold coursing through the Dales, is that how you got connections to Chult?"

The Bartender scoffed at the old man without skipping a beat and licked his lips in the sort of way only a savage can do, yellow rot winking at Valiant and the old man, before Linnard cut back with a lean, cold quip of his own.

"You expect me to be a dung-ridden, ogre-eating, farmer-? Become carrion like the rest? Raise a family and feed them my sparse remnants of carrion just to see them die by Zhentish warmongers?"

"You know alot about those guys, aye?" Valiant piped up, all sluggish-like, the shadowdark was wearing the platelegs tonight. He stumbled off the makeshift stool and flicked a contemptous gaze at Linnard and grasped the bar tightly. The old man dug into his nose hair.

Valiant made a face.

The bartender forced a sneer, "I don't know what your talking about."

Valiant wasn't exactly sure what triggered him to say it, but he felt it had something to do with the way he stared hate into Linnard. "Your a dirty zhent."
That clearly irked the Bartender, hard, he motioned to a bouncer leaning against the far wall, centered around a gargantuan statue of Waukeen. Valiant and the old man hadn't realized, but the bouncer had watched their entire conversation in a vigilant intensity and he had a few feet on both the men.

The old man hit the ground first, and Valiant threw himself between the bouncer and the half-collapsed table of darkwood. The bouncer, had cut open his hauberk somehow, a horn protruded out of it, as the monstrous tiefling fixed Valiant with those hungry, red eyes poking out the narrow slit.

Valiant heard a clatter of raw, cold laughter and grimaced slightly at the profound evil behind it. The bouncer gave a broad smile, seeing his side had won as several more bouncers found themselves ensconced into the room as if it were predetermined.

"Take the old man and leave." Linnard said confidently from behind his bar.

Valiant:"How about our drinks?"

The Bartender:"You came into my bar and accused me of aiding the Zhents, in light of Lord Aumry's death. I don't normally let people go who bad mouth, bad for business. So take this stroke of luck or face the flails."

Valiant had a belching fit then, dark circles under his eyes, the walls whirled, "Just. . . give us our due?"

The Bartender motioned to the four bouncers, "Cleave'em up, carve'em up, boys. I bet they open up like an auction before the high earners strut into town!"


----------

Present Day

Sometimes, righteous men have to do hard things. I do not say that in vain, or because I find the phrase catchy, but i do notice something. My definition of what it means has changed, you cannot save the world in one day, you cannot change the cruel laws of the land in one day, you cannot give the knights of holy orders across the war torn realms the honor and glory they deserve because people are hard-headed in their ways and do not see the light at the end of the darkening tunnel. They only see the action, and not the mass effect of what a Paladin's duty entails. Some say, the Code is designed in a way where one cannot effectively push back the horrors of the world. That the code is too demanding, and in its method rings a hollowness and complete lack of connection with today's cultures. I must say, to think such is utterly moronic. Plain and simple.

A Paladin must obey his duty, despite potential backlashes, socially or even on a political scale. A Paladin must be willing to lose friends, family, and even romantic interests if such come between him and the code. That is why I attribute following the Code, as wading into a darkness, it is a calling much as a sacrifice. As Knights, we must sacrifice our worldly desires and -never- live for decadent pleasure or to chase heathen women outside of a marriage hosted by one of the triad's high priests.

I will not complain about it, I will accept it as treasure. I'll celebrate the graces and responsibilities bestowed upon me from the Seven Heavens, and understand this duty is mine to uphold.

I will make of myself a vast black where there is only me when the last storm boils. Where there is only duty.

10 Nightal, 1339: Year of the Weeping Moon, some bar in the Dalelands

The red-eyed brute swung first, and Valiant barely parried the power behind it as the old man attempted to retreat and died.

The Bouncers directed their assault back at Valiant who burst into a series of counterattacks- in the midst of penetrating the horned brute's defenses. The brute proved full of feints and Valiant felt the deadly slam of a flail shatter his toe and the ice-hot nick of a longsword along his sword hand.

Valiant winced and struck the brute's hauberk right off. The brute smiled, a dark mischief in his burning eyes. The brute backed off, towards the bar, and motioned for the bouncers to continue the fight. Valiant recklessly cleaved his way through the mass of bouncers, his enemies scoring near crippling bashes in their death wake. He could barely stand when he was done, exhausted before he started.

The brute's voice was hoarse but not strained. "You fight foolish, You must slowly fall into the offensive, but not before learning the opponent's defenses and techniques."

"I am death's door. You killed an innocent, time to walk through that door." Valiant spat arrogantly.

"You started this mess, -drunk-," Linnard blurted out, weeping over his bar and walking around to examine various wreckage in disbelief all the while rubbing his nose obsessively, which Valiant could determine broke in several places long ago.

"Oh come now," Valiant gritted his teeth, donning a dead bouncer's helm.

The brute half-nodded, picking up his hauberk.

The monstrous tiefling proved to be an impressive specimen of his bizarre bloodline, but somewhere along the line he got lazy.
Valiant fell back into a host of toppling tables and shattered vases, ale leaking all around, ale leaking into the bloody fray of men and half-monster of minor status who would never be talked about or wrote about in the gossipy, seething newsletters.The brute's wound left Valiant sprawling backwards, recovering slowly, arching his back into a corner.
The brute smiled his victory and contempt, dropping his flail and raising the gleaming longsword overhead Valiant.

Despite the clear evil that radiated from the brute, he was not a being to act in a. . . what was the word for it?

In a uncouth manner.

"Any last words?"

Valiant had no biting quips, let alone something meaningful to say, he instead said raspily through his cut up lips, "You go to the Hells."

The Brute chuckled as if enjoying a meal, "I thought you'd say that."

Valiant closed his eyes, imagining himself in a afterlife with the family he was supposed to have in this life.

The brute gave a ghastly grunt, right as a strange, distinctive sound flew through the quiet, dead of night.

Shoooom!

Valiant gasped, wide-eyed, as the tiefling's head ripped from its unnatural body in a torrent of red to somewhere unknown. Valiant tried to get up but a thick, calloused hand forced him down followed by a warm, angelic smile from a haggard, whiskey scarred face. An old man, sporting a heavy crossbow and in mid-grimace.

"Son."

Valiant responded bitterly, "Saul."

The Bartender Linnard found his shaking hands pushing the double-doors ajar, before twisting over his good knee and screaming at the large bolt lodged into his chest now.

Valiant staggered, heavily wounded in the belly from a longsword thrust. Saul looked over the wound carefully, wrapping an arm around Valiant's shoulder, before staring back at Linnard with those empty, blue eyes. "Let's take you to a temple, son."

Valiant grimaced spitefully at that, as if Saul held him under a lake of acid.

"What about him?" Valiant asked

Saul shrugged distantly, "Seemed to me you were trying to kill him."

"What about him?" Valiant persisted, glaring widely.

"There is not much we can do for him. . ."

Valiant shifted in his father's embrace, staring seething arrows at him. "Help him."

"You know, I would. But the poison will take him before we ever reach a temple."

Linnard assumed the fetal position on the ground and began sobbing hard.

"This is Tyr's work, Valiant. He hires fiend bloods and from what I overheard is a dirty zhent "

" I made a misake, and overreacted. These people's deaths are on my hands now. Take me to the temple and leave, I don't wanna see you ever again."

"You would be dead if I hadn't reacted."

"Your dead to me, now."

Valiant found his feet heavy as stalagmites and all he could see for miles was quiet, country backroads dispersed by lush, rich farms and decent freeholds followed by large expanses of brooding forest.