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

Return to the Coast
by Solwyn Astorio

After ages of strife
That pursues local life
Time has finally come to return

to The Coast.

I've been hiding in vain
From my dearest old pain
I've been trying to run far away

from my worst.

And for naught - there's no use.
For there shall be no truce
With the fiery mess, that resides

in your soul.

Does it roar! Does it burn!
It demands your return!
It shall never forget of the place

you've called home.

It demands I come back.
And with that I must pack...
I'm aware - it's a story,

familiar to most.

After ages of strife
That pursues local life
Time has finally come to return

to The Coast.

Op’s Adventures in Another Land - Through his Red Rimmed Glasses
by Cyrah Ru’othro

Within a small meadow there lay a small elf with a face that may well have been bashed on a shelf.
His eyes were surrounded with glasses in red and his skin had the pallor of someone quite dead.
He hummed to himself as he plotted his day. Would he find adventure? Well, who could quite say?
“Perhaps I shall have cherry pie” he thought.
He did like having sweets much better than not.

In the midst of his ponderings came quite a scuffle.
In the bush a black hare did scamper and snuffle.
“Oi oi!” it cried out, much to Op’s surprise. “I shall miss me whole contract upon the sun’s rise! I must surely be swift and be quick in the knees. I cannot simply be late whenever I please.”
And so off it dashed into a thick bramble where Op followed suit with a grunt and a scramble.
He dove beneath thorns and sharp pointed twigs. They snagged at his skirt and his tangled dyed wig.
Then suddenly giving, the earth ripped asunder, the land opened up and Op tumbled under.
He fell for an hour and then hit the floor. It hurt just a bit, but he had expected more.

He flopped all his limbs and he rose to his feet and he found he was in a library quite neat.
He marveled and gawked at a leather bound tome, its scent like the people he sniffed back at home.
But then as his gaze wandered over the room, he thought to himself, “I should leave this place soon.”
He searched until something had caught his red eyes. It was a door only one eighth of his size.
“No matter,” he thought, “I am a skilled wizard. I shall shrink myself down to the size of a gizzard, and then I can strut through and see where I am.” and he grinned as he slapped his thigh like a fresh ham.
So Op set to casting but found his spell failed. “Oh no, I am trapped!” the desperate elf wailed.
However, he spotted an item nearby. He felt it was magical and something to try.
He stepped up to a table and then did behold a miniature bottle all covered in gold.
And tied to its neck was a note wrapped up well. It read, “DEVOUR MY INSIDES! FREE ME FROM THESE HELLS!”
Op was quite startled, but gave a small shrug. He opened the bottle and started to chug.
And with a bright flash and a dizzying motion, his head smashed through the ceiling as he was grown by the potion.
He found he was standing within a large garden. A squirrel chirped in protest. Op said, “Beg your pardon.”

And so off Op went to explore this strange place. He stepped with a wiggling demonstrative grace.
Then upon a large table Op found he had stumbled. “How curious now.” the pointy eared mumbled.
Seated before him were odd figures three: a hamster, raccoon, and a great talking tree.
“Oh darhling, you’re late!” cried the scraggly Raccoon as she munched on some trash like a famished baboon. “Do come take a seat, meet my colleagues and friends. At this table the hour for dessert never ends.”
And surely enough on the table were laid many cupcakes and tarts and a bowl full of glaze.
“My weakness,” squeaked Op as he trembled with glee, “and you will just share all of these goodies with me?”
Then before they could answer, without much control, Op ate all the cupcakes until he was full.
In shock said Raccoon, “Darhling, I do not think-“interrupted by Tree, “So shut up then. Let’s drink.”
“But we have us no drinks!” squealed the hamster in rage. What ensued was a squabble to best any age.
But Op, having eaten, felt no need to remain. He set off exploring this strange world again.

And soon he approached a small house in a tree. He wondered what manner of place this might be.
“Hoo hoo!” called an owl, “Do you plan to go in?” Its beak warped and stretched in a menacing grin.
“I do.” replied Op with a nod and a sigh. “I simply must find a way to climb that high.”
The owl guffawed and with a slap of its knee, it said, “You should just fly in the air, Sir, like me!”
“But I cannot fly.” stated Op with a frown. With a smirk the old owl dropped onto the ground.
“Nonsense!” did it cry; then with a flutter and sniff, it kicked skinny Op off the side of a cliff.
He tumbled and squealed as he thought he might die. Down below someone commented, “So, pigs CAN fly!”

Op finally landed in a plushy red chair. Beside was a rat with a comb of green hair.
“What are you?” it asked as it snorted some beer. “I have never seen anything quite like you here.”
“Where am I?” asked Op as he glanced to and fro. He saw sofas and tables in a lamp’s dim blue glow.
“You are here.” said the rat as it snorted some wine. “I shall keep you forever and you shall be mine.”
“Oh no!” shrieked Op as he leaped from his seat. “I thank you most kindly, but I have to retreat! I have much to explore, so I must move on quickly…”
But the rat had just drowned due to snorting some whiskey.

Away ran dear Op, that strange noodle limbed rascal. He next came upon a large shimmering castle.
Within it he found a small dusty courtyard with a hag and a jester and fluffy haired bard.
“Greetings, Tramp!” cried the hag and with large gap-toothed grin. “This is my place, so come in! Do come in!”
Op smiled and he entered, much pleased by the greeting. “I hope I have not interrupted a meeting.”
“Nah!” howled the hag with a grunt and a spit. “This is my bard Hamsie and my husband Peach Pit!”
“I’m not your husband.” did the jester declare, before he watched Op with a vacant dead stare.
“Oh, please do not mind her.” smiled the bard with a wink. “She is harmless no matter what things she may think.”
Op nodded to that so the bard would continue. “I play music here and I make drinks off the menu. My name is not Hamsie and I find it not clever. I care not otherwise, so you call me whatever!”
Before Op could reply, the hag butted in, “I’ll introduce myself, Tramp! To forget is a sin!”
All eyes turned to her as she stood with a puff; she began to list titles with an out of breath huff.
“I am a great warrior and tailoress, see! I snatched up a giant to break on my knee! I swallowed a barrel of tar with the feathers. My breath will add moisture to all sorts of weathers! That’s why they call me the maiden of rain! I’m also the captain of moldy old grain! But most of all known, I am Queen of the Pentacles!”
“Nice to meet you.” said Op, “I’m the wizard of tentacles!”
“A wizard, you say? Can you cast me a spell?”
“I would, but the last I tried did not end well.”
“Never mind!” the hag said, and then gave a great sneeze. As she blew her nose something smelled oddly of cheese.
At this, Op decided to no longer stay. As he left, Jester whispered, “Please take me away.”

Soon the pointy legged Op reached the end of the road. He paused and was met by a fat horned blue toad.
“Yip yip!” it cried out, “It’s the end of the line! I’m Kippy the Toad and YOUR FLESH TASTES JUST FINE!”
Op yelped as the toad revealed rows of sharp teeth. He disliked that his skin was he soon to bequeath.
But before it attacked, he heard a loud crash, as the black hare from earlier leaped from the grass.
With a swish and a swipe, it chopped off the toad’s head. “Me contract is finished! Old Kippy is dead!”
Op stuttered and stammered, unsure what to do. The hare turned toward him and simply said, “Boo.”

Op sat up quite frantic and sweaty, head pounding. A small lantern near him served to be quite grounding.
With a trembling he saw that he was in his bed. It was all just a dream and no toadlings were dead.
He smiled and he laughed, “What silly things I have dreamed!” then he found Kippy’s head on his pillow and screamed.

A Tribute to the People of the Muse
by Reiker Vexx

There once was an elf named Oth
Who some might say he was quite soft
With noodles for arms,
and a slight lack of charm
one might think he was a little off.

Fingal Darius was a man quite bold
with a terrible love of booze and gold
his hat never left his head
even in a woman's bed
perhaps his head got too little too cold?

A man with quite an intent stare
Nathan Goldemane with the fabulous hair
always last to get the pun
and first to grab Oth's bum
Some might think his head was full of air.

Kitsy the tiefling with skin so blue
was as troublesome as any i ever knew
the birds they did swear
because kitsy was there
to show them how to say "screw you!"

Now the muse I'm afraid is long gone
but the memories they still live on
Sitting here on my (hiney)
I'll raise my drinking glass
And cheer with my own little song

Two Stones
by Anonymous

Two stones - one gilded, one rough.

One admired, and one made into a hearth.

One slept in hoards and riches,

The other in soot and ashes.

Yet both are slave to sun and wind,

And both the sands their traces rescind.

Both riches and hearth end buried,

Yet with warmth’s memory,

Life’s fire would onwards be carried.

Morning
by Haiden

I look up at the sun, and I do not see beauty. I wonder how many corpses greeted its rising today..... Yeah

A Warlock's Lament
by Anonymous

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Extract from a Traveler's Log #31
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May you find mercy in reading this letter, which was found by the roadside in Marsember on the Coldest Midwinter's Night of my life.

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It began on the 30th of Myrtul, in the year of Forgotten Dreams. First came a storm. After the storm came thunder and rage and violence of the Lost Horde, which descended upon the Fields of Glory. Such was the fate of my kin, to wither and die in obscurity. To scream and beg in the uncaring dark, but I was not to share it.

Years had passed and bitterness became a hardened shell. I wore it like a warm coat. It hugged me, like a familiar dream. I have pacted and I have prayed and I have waited for the day I was given my due. The world owed me and I would collect payment, pound by pound of flesh if need be. But the world was not fair then and it was not fair now. There was no soothing balm for my shattered soul. No screams of foemen, no prayers for the dead.

Years had turned to decades and a hard shell became hard to carry. Age took its toll and bitterness poisoned my dreams. I have made oaths. I have served. I have made chains. I have enslaved. I have done all that man could that a man should never wish for, and through it, I have become so much less. I have outlived my foemen, the spectres, which haunt me from my past. Yet there was no salvation from within. No soothing balm for my shattered soul from without. No whispered thanks for a long lost people to lay my weary spirit to rest.

...There was only the quiet, inescapable rattling of dragged chains, which now cling upon my shattered soul.

So know this, my progeny, my only seed planted in the soil so hated. My only kinsman that I shall never meet. My only torment which I regret. Know that I am gone, but my chains do forever hold. They are what defines me. They are what remains when all is ash and dust. They are me.

And they are yours to bear, my son. Yours to bear, as I have born the shackles of my ancestral pitied screams.

Know that the world will never ease your burdens, nor will justice serve salvation.

Know this and grow bitter.

Use it as a hardened shell.

Wear it as a warm coat; let it wrap you like a shattered dream, for it is the only thing which will ever bring you comfort to your bitter days.


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So ends this transcript. And so ended a life, before it began, by the Hammers of Frimjaws upon the 30th of Myrul, in a year left unmarked

-Anonymous
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A Man Named Nathan
by Rosandra Rosita Wolfscarlett

Oh, what words can describe
Such luxury
As a golden mane of hair
Over two lips dipped in cherry wine
And whispering in my ear?
He says to me
You are much sweeter
Much braver
Much stronger
Than that white haired witch who chases me.
Your rear bests hers
Your eyes a dream
Though I have found another
And we may be far apart
I know you best that white haired pig
I know so in my heart.
Oh, my love, my dearest one
I pray that we may meet once more
Though I walk my days in Calimport
I think of you always and forever
I know that you remember me.
I remember your smile
As we danced beneath the apple blossoms
We pranced in the corn like horses
And always you would say
You are a beauty most fair.
One day I hope I may return
To walk the coast with you again
To hold your hand and kiss you
And know that you see me
In your words an eagle by the stream
And what joyous words my honey colored man.
Oh what joy
Your lovely face
And open heart
And graceful limbs
And manly spine
A man named Nathan.

Poem Duet
by Sophia

I have walked in pale moonlight
sparkles of shine shimmering
upon the world of wet glass.

I have gazed from mountains
into the rocky cascade of oranges and blues
from the early morning night.

I have stood upon the brown shores
where distance is vastly blue
and the sound winter white crash.

But nothing have I been near
no vision so crystal clear
as when I see you my dear.
---------------------------------------------

When We Were Together

When we were together
climbing slippery oak tress with rustling leaves.
Were we happy?

I still bitter taste the end.
When white walls crumbled
and billowing winds
blew it all away.

I now have a new brick red house, built with these
two small hands.
But I wistfully recall
that first house
were I lived for nothing
but you at all.

Silver Knight
by Rose

In eerie darkness moonlight shines on the silver knight
He marches the ranks to his final fight
Rain drops tink tink on his plates
He charges in knowing his fate
Each step sinks into wet soil
Rage like fire in his heart did boil
Steel blades meet as army's crash together
Our silver knight had met his better
Dead his spirit marches everyday
Replaying what put him in his grave
Lost In time he falls again
When will his humiliation end
Hopes to end this endless loop
So no longer he to slip in poop

A Cryptozoologist’s Day At Boareskyr Bridge
by Bobbin

Journal entry 237.

This afternoon I observed a strange occurrence across the bridge. Usually, at that time of day Outsiders known as Lemure tend to bask in the sun if it is not raining. Their commanding Infernal Imps tend to lazily fly about, nap, or if on watch banter endlessly with each other. As written before, while the Balor attacks have been unfortunate it has been quite informative in regard to Outsider behavior.

Today the Lemure and Imps did nothing of the sort. Throughout the morning half a dozen Imps arrived to the area herding two or three times their number of Lemure. Scouts on this side of the bridge promptly informed their officers in nearby Soubar and continued to watch for further developments.

By afternoon there were over thirty Lemure gathered near the western side of the bridge with others groups clumped about father away along the river.

If one were not familiar with Lemure they may mistake their gathering on the road as the area having been used as a latrine by giants. Each Lemure crawled about in the manner one would expect of a slug or snail to move with homely faces, that remind me of my brother’s wife, forming their front end. The constant motion and mumbing, perhapse faces as well, would keep anyone from mistaking them as turds upon closer inspection. Finally the stench carried across the river by the wind reminded me of a pot of stew left unattended for a month mingling with the less offensive smell of a well used latrine or overflowing sewer.

If not for the Imps, at this distance seeming as flies buzzing about, they surely would have wandered off leaving a trail of excrement for poor passerby to step and slip on. The Lemure have even been ovserved to fall into the river and drowned themselves in the past, leaving their mass to float down river. Surely bewildering simple farmers and fishers which observe their husks.

Come mid-afternoon one of the scouts spotted a traveler approaching from the northwest along the road. Either indifferent or unaware of the large number of Lemure they were nearing they walked into a rock’s throw of the large force.

With screeching and shouts that could be heard on this side of the river the Imps marshaled their Lemure and rushed at the approaching traveler. No doubt each Imp wished to be first to sink their tiny teeth and feast on the hapless soul. Slowly and surely the Lemure crawled after the imps.

As the Imps began to converged on the traveler something unexpected happened; the traveler seemed to explode in a fiery inferno which immediately engulfed the nearby Imps. As the Imps fell from the air in burning heaps the traveler was no were to be seen. The Lemure, perhaps confused by the sudden loss of their psychic handlers, seemed to freeze in place.

A few moments passed as the Imp burned and the smell wafted across the river, adding to the fecal stench already hanging in the air.

With no sign of the traveler for a minute or two I was startled by a loud boom and another conflagration which engulfed a number of Lemure. Before I could understand what was happening several more explosions sounded as more Lemure were set ablaze.

Terrible wailing and screams carried across the river.

–The-traveler,-now-near-the-burning-mass-of-shi–
[The prvious line contains a line through it.]

The traveler, now near the mass of Lemure, seemed on fire himself and throwing flask after flask at the Lemure with each flask erupting into a fiery explosion. Soon after the breeze brought proof of what we were seeing. The sharp stench of burning crap was near overwhelming.

We covered our noses and mouths with wet cloth in an attempt to escape the putrid stench.

Suppressing gags we observed the traveler quickly make his way across the bridge to relative safety.

Upon his arrival to this side of the bridge a pair of scouts briefly questioned him to find that the Tiefling was a wandering mercenary or adventurer. Upon his dismissal by the scouts he stepped a little ways off then threw a flask down at his feet, laughing all the while as he caught fire from the explosion. After dusting himself off and patting out the fire he wandered off.

This day’s observations have drawn me to the conclusion that disposing of Lemure using fire is ill advised and that in general Tieflings may be insane.

Fractals
by Lady Netanya

Exquisite in their natural design
Divine in their repetition
Mesmerizing in their infinity

Witness the snowflake
A symphony of fractals
Each one unique
Each one its own symphony

Witness a field of snow
A field of endless symphonies
A field of infinite beauty

Lady Netanya
House Divine

Turmish and Its Wizards
by Kanthu, Mystran Priest
Wielder of the Power and the Art

Alaghôn is, without exaggeration, the greatest city in Turmish. Almost all of the country's trade passes through there, and it is known as the "throne of Turmish" for its central role in the national economy.

I grew up in this great city, as the son of two skilled wizards who own a mageware shop. From an early age, I knew my parents had the respect of everyone they met. Their light robes of black and green cloth announced that they were wizards, as did the three dots Turmishan magic-users customarily paint on their forehead. The fact that my parents were magic-users was an instant mark in their favor. Other Turmishans often turned to them for advice and help.

My parents conducted themselves with honesty and integrity in all of their dealings, and they drilled these values into me as a child. I grew up learning the Art from them and working at their mageware shop. Every day was a lesson in the importance of integrity in both business and magic. When I had learned the fundamentals from my parents, they had a friend of theirs tutor me in more advanced magecraft. He took me around Alaghôn as part of my studies, to show me other wizards. I learned that my parents’ emphasis on integrity was not some odd peculiarity unique to them, but rather a widely-held value shared among most Turmishan wizards.

But I have also learned that mages in other nations do not always value honesty and integrity, and are thus not revered and respected in their lands. Indeed, wizards are often feared in places such as Thay or Amn. This seems a shame to me, and I would like to take this opportunity to encourage mages across Faerun to aspire to do better. To this end, I will elaborate on Turmish’s wizard culture, and the similarities it shares with Mystran values.

Understand that Turmish is not a war-loving nation, despite how often you might see Turmishan mercenaries traveling abroad. As a matter of national policy, we focus more on commerce than on war. And we believe that our economy is served well by promoting education and integrity. As such, education is valued highly in my culture, especially in the areas of business and agriculture. What’s more, our merchants are honest and fair. You might have even heard the phrase "as square as a Turmishan's beard," which refers to a fair deal throughout the Vilhon Reach. I believe that Turmish's prosperity is largely built on our merchants’ reputation for honesty. Other people know they can trust us, so they're willing to do business with us.

The wizards of Turmish, like the merchants, also follow this code of honesty and fair play. We are usually not battlemages who incinerate foes with fireballs. Indeed, most Turmishan mages are skilled diviners rather than devastating evokers. We use our magic to help our friends and neighbors. We are often called upon to help with mundane issues more so than to slay some rampaging monster. And we are happy to give freely of our time and advice. We understand that a good reputation is more valuable than any coin. After all, when everyone in Turmish understands that their friendly neighborhood wizard is only there to help, there is no need for a culture of fear or suppression like you see in some other lands. Things flow better, and everyone can live and prosper freely.

So rather than harboring fear or suspicion toward mages, Turmishans have high standards and expectations of Turmishan wizards. And I'm proud to write that we have earned that reputation for honesty and fairness. To be a wizard in Turmish is to live by a certain set of ethics and morals in all of one's affairs. This benefits everyone, ourselves included.

Those familiar with the teachings of Mystra will recognize many similarities between the Turmishan wizard culture and the Lady of Mysteries’ dogma. Although the Mystran church is not very large in Turmish, the sense of restraint and honesty among Turmishan wizards is what Mystra wishes for all practitioners of the Art. After all, she teaches us to not use magic as just a weapon to shape the world to our will. “True wisdom is knowing when not to use magic. Strive to use magic less as your powers develop, for often the threat or promise of its use outstrips its actual performance.” We wizards of Turmish live these ideals in our everyday dealings. I believe that the Turmishan wizard culture can serve as a model for mages across Faerun.

Ten Green Fields
by Emrys Kerr

[This work is composed in two languages written side by side, Waelan on the left and a translation in Common on the right]

What did I have, said the fine old woman
What did I have, this proud old woman did say
I had ten green fields, each one was a jewel
But strangers came and tried to take them from me
I had fine strong sons, who fought to save my jewels
They fought and they died, and that was my grief said she

Long time ago, said the fine old woman
Long time ago, this proud old woman did say
There was war and death, plundering and pillage
My children starved by mountain, valley, and sea
And their wailing cries, they shook the very heavens
My ten green fields ran red with blood, said she

What have I now, said the fine old woman
What have I now, this proud old woman did say
I have ten green fields, six of them in bondage
In strangers' hands that tried to take them from me
But my sons had sons as brave as were their fathers
My six green fields will bloom once again, said she

The Minstrel Boy
by Emrys Kerr

[This work is composed in two languages written side by side, Waelan on the left and a translation in Common on the right]

The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone
In the ranks of death you will find him
His father's sword he hath girded on
And his wild harp slung behind him
"Land of Song!" said the warrior bard
Tho' all the world betrays thee
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard
One faithful harp shall praise thee!
The Minstrel fell! But the Northman's chain
Could not bring that proud soul under
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again
For he tore its chords asunder
And said, "No chains shall sully thee
Thou soul of love and brav'ry!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free
They shall never sound in slavery!"

Deathgrowl wrote: ↑Sat Jun 02, 2012 10:28 pm

Dragons and their connection to the Weave.

Possibly the most powerful creatures on the prime, perhaps some of the most powerful beings among the planes apart from the deities themselvs, are the Dragons. They are mostly known for their long lives, vast treasures and breaths of powerful elemental force. Another feature of Dragons, is their innate ability to wield the weave.

Innate magical abilites isn't unheard of among the races of Toril. We can see it in the Genasi, for instance, inherited abilities from their respective elemental ancestors. Other planetouched creatures have inherited abilites as well, such as the Aasimar and Tieflings. Even among some of those native to the prime, we find innate magical abilites, such as in the Drow's ability to cast Faerie Fire.

Dragons have similar abilities that reflect their specific species. For instance, Blue Dragons – who mostly live in the desert – are able to magically create and destroy water even as wyrmlings. Gold Dragons, often considered the noblest of dragons and often resemble paladins in attitude, learn in young age to cast a Bless spell.

Differing from many other races, Dragons also innately develop spells of their own, much like we see in Sorcerers among other races. This has lead many sorcerers to conclude that they are descendants from dragons, a theory that might be true for some. As Dragons age, their magical abilities grow stronger even if they choose not to actively pursue a path of magic, and often become more powerful than many mages among other races. Some species of Dragons are even able to access spells most commonly associated with divine magic, like the Cure and Heal spells as part of their repertoire.

Despite their strong natural affinity to the Weave, they are limited to only a somewhat small amount of spells known, and often rely mostly on their natural strength and breath attacks whenever engaged in combat. This means that most dragons choose spells of utility, such as Dispel Magic and Scrying, rather than direct attack spells. And indeed for those species that can access such spells, the Cure and Heal spells are commonly learned.

A curious fact about Dragons' innate arcane abilities, which is another testament to their strong connection to the Weave and makes them rather different from mages of other races, is that they most often do not require spell components when they cast magics.

Laitae Lafreth
Arcane Scholar and Avowed of Candlekeep