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

“And? Did you get the prisoner talk?”

Owen turned, a small smile at the corner of his mouth. “Ah, Jotta. Not yet. I trust you have resecured the northern flank?”

Jotta nodded. “I did. It’s funny though how they could have missed those traps. I thought they were so good at setting traps themselves.”

“Well, don’t fret, good lad. Our new tactic’s working.” Owen’s eyes swept the busy camp. “This place is the perfect bait. When they gaze bewitched at the gaps in our defenses, they forget to check what’s right under their feet. I think that point has been proven, and even Malken can’t deny that.”

Jotta snorted. “He seemed all ecstatic. At least for now… with things finally moving in the right direction.”

“Aye.” Owen’s nod was thoughtful.

Jotta saw it. “Until things… Listen, Owen. It’s none of my business, but on the next bad luck… someone else…”

“No.” Owen cut him off, hard. “Don’t say that. Not out loud and not like this. Unless you have a deathwish. And should we ever disagree with leadership, we handle it like we always handle matters like that. With a challenge, in front of all. No whispers nor suggestions in corners.”

Jotta’s shoulders tightened. “Very well. Anything else you like me to do?”

“Well, it’s time to mess up their water. Take a few men and go throw those barrels with the garbage we agreed upon in the stream. Any who drinks of it downstream will be sick in the very least. Doomed if we’re lucky.”

Jotta gave a short, easy nod and took off.

Owen looked around. The camp hummed with activity. New tents were being erected and men wired stakes, laughing out loud. Things looked good. For now.

…

He watched like he was weighing the wind. The late afternoon light hung low and heavy, slanting through the rock peaks in gold and grey. The camp’s hustle and bustle had shifted into something that looked like a half-sleeping beast.

Patrols came and went in lazy circles. Never far. Never long. He counted their steps, memorized the rhythm of their boots and tracked the paths they carved visible and invisible throughout the landscape.

This was going to be hard.

Then, finally, something changed.

A pair of guards strayed a little too far, drawn by talk or boredom. Their laughter carried between the rock.

Leif’s eyes narrowed.

Normally, these guys weren’t supposed to venture this distance. Perhaps they were looking for something. Or just lacked some obedience. Either way, it was a crack in the pattern.

Still, the light was too bright. Even stones seemed to glint.

But the chance might not come again.

He moved. Slow, soundless. A step, then stillness. As he proceeded he kept the wind in his face, the slope at his back.

It felt like old habits returning, the rhythm of the hunt, the way his heartbeat seemed to count every step.

The men had stopped near a toppled rock formation, one leaning his spear against it while the other knelt to unbuckle his belt.

Leif eased closer, low to the hard surface, his fingers brushing moss. He could hear their voices now.

Close enough.

He measured the distance. Two men indeed. Neither alert.
If he struck fast enough, maybe one would fall before the other could shout.

But something within him resisted the idea of killing them off. There were already enough corpses to feed the crows.

Change of plan.

He reached for a stone and tossed it lightly behind the guards.

The sound made them turn.

Leif slipped forward.

…

The lookout motioned.

Malken strained his eyes in the direction where the man pointed. “I don’t see what you mean. It’s getting dark. Open the gate. You and you, with me.”

At a stone’s throw from the camp, Malken saw it. Some sort of package. He recognized it as clothes tied together, with a letter on top.

“What is this…?” He murmured as he motioned one of the others to investigate the perimeter.

“A message of sorts? Those look like the clothes of Jeron,” the other guard said.

“What… why are his clothes…” Malken ripped the letter from the package.

As he unfolded the material he began to read as he glanced between the message on the garments.

I HAVE YOUR MEN. THEY LACK STYLE. RELEASE THE PRISONER AND THERE WILL BE NO FURTHER BLOODSHED.


The scrap of cloth trembled in Malken’s hands as he read the blocky letters a second time. Around him the camp had quieted, men curving their shoulder-lines like beasts listening for the next sound.

The brazier’s glow painted his face red. Malken’s jaw worked and even Owen was silent. For a heartbeat Malken glanced as if unsure whether to toss the note to the wind or tear it across his palm. Then his voice cut the hush.

“Bring the prisoner!”

A murmur rolled through the rings of men as two warriors went to fetch Ingritt.

Owen’s head snapped up at a sound. Jotta was two paces behind him. They nodded at each other.

A moment later Ingritt was dragged forward toward the fire pit.

Malken’s voice was like a blade. “Seems like your fellow ghosts like playing ransom.” He turned to his men. “Hands up who wants to hand her over!”

Voices rose and fell, some angry, some afraid. Skerv’s shout was hot and high: “No! We don’t barter like cowards! I say let them die. If they got caught, they were disobeying orders.”

Owen offered Skerv a stern look. “Our numbers have already been severely reduced. Not all because people disobeyed orders.”

“On the contrary…” Jotta murmured behind him.


The men around the brazier reminded Ingritt of a rough amphitheatre she visited during her childhood. Only this time she wasn’t just a spectator. Her face was streaked with soot and blood as she sat bound to a pole under the darkening sky.

The air smelled of smoke, panic and opportunity.

It seemed Leif had succeeded capturing some of the raiders and put them up for a trade. From what she gathered though these men had been going through a rough time, and she didn’t think they’d give her up that easily. Especially not after what Leif had been doing to them these past months.

The man she got to know as Owen was speaking now.

“At least our ghosts have manners. They speak through cloth, and write without errors. Very sophisticated. Very polite.”

Skerv’s voice rose like a crude blade. “We don’t barter for our dead! We don’t hand over our catch for losers!”

A dozen throats answered him with the same hot, brimming anger. Malken’s grin broadened; he liked the noise. Strength was a currency.

Owen’s eyes flicked to Ingritt for a fraction of a breath. She met his stare; no pleading now, only something like resolve.

And then he turned back to the men. “Why don’t we name our own conditions? We can do this as clean as we like. It’s clear they want to have her back.”

Malken’s jaw tightened. He loved a theater of authority, but there was much at stack. More than just this prisoner and his captured men.

Before he could say anything, Skerv barked a laugh that held too little humor. “And you’d trust their word? You’d trust these hunters’ promises?”

Jotta stayed to one side, silent, but his eyes measured the mob.

A young man at the edge shouted, “We send her! We send this witch to them and show strength!” A cheer rose from a cluster of raw, hungry men.

The mood teetered toward blood, and Owen saw it like a flame licking tinder.

A line of sweat ran down his temple. He had to keep a visage of control and leadership. But he also needed something for his men’s hunger. Malken reread the message again. It had been clear mockery, and it had done what it aimed to do. Making his authority a battleground.

He was much, though he wasn’t stupid. These hunters knew a thing or two about warfare. And he couldn’t let them succeed.

“Fine!” he suddenly barked, his teeth bared. “We’ll tell them we agree only if they agree with conditions of our own.”

Skerv turned to Malken. “And what conditions would that be?”

Malken folded his arms. “Simple. We’ll let them stay, and help them rebuild their village. Make it better than before.”

“You actually think they’d agree on this? After all that happened?” He looked around the circle of men. “And after all our men they k-”

“Enough!” Owen shouted as he intervened. “It’s time for us to make a deal. And right now, any deal is good. Or this will go without any party reaching satisfaction. I agree with Malken to get some sort of banter going. And with a bit of luck, something good may come forth from all this. They are an impressive folk after all. If they’d be allies instead of enemies-”

“Oh c’mon, lad! Do you even hear yourself talking?!” Skerv nearly screamed at Owen.

“We all hear you, Skerv. Loud and clear. But what else would you want us to do? Do you have any constructive suggestions? I dunno if you already noticed. We’re almost out of food. There is a lack of wildlife on this island, aside from fish. And in less than a month it will be getting pretty cold out here again. Maybe it’s time we show a little respect to these people. Unless you wanted to wait for reinforcements?”

Ingritt couldn’t see all of the raiders as it was dark, and backs blocked her view. But she heard them alright. She didn’t believe her people would ever make a deal with these raiders. Even though it was good to hear at least some of them respected her culture.

…

The night had settled over the basin. With as only company the broken ribs of the burned village still jutted up against the pale strip of shore, the guards huddled near what had been the jetty. The wind sighed through the charred remnants like the breath of something long dead.

A lantern was set between them, the tiny flame stuttering in the cool breeze.

“This is so stupid,” one muttered. “Why does Malken even think a merchant ship may arrive any time now? Especially after what happened with the previous one?”

The other guard sighed. “I wish I had drawn the shortest straw for the inland watch instead.”

They both spoke in half-whispers. Not out of fear, but out of habit. There were after all still ‘ghosts’ active. Behind the pair was another pair of guards asleep.

The first man glanced at the water. Then, he squinted. “Hey… did you see that?”

“Hm? See what?”

“I.. I don’t know. There, by that cliff. Like something was moving in front of it?”

At first the other man shook his head. “I don’t see any-... wait… isn’t that… driftwood?”

They both stood up now, eyes fixed on the apparition gliding over the surface.

There was some sort of outline, something black but becoming more clear now. Something large was rising out of the dark like a moving shadow.

Like… a hull.




“That’s… no driftwood…” the first guard breathed.

They both froze as they were able to perceive more details. The shape was wide and low, its figurehead a frozen snarl. It was a dragon carved from pale wood, its jaws gaping toward the shore.

Shocked they beheld the slow, deliberate approach. The ship glided almost soundlessly, its oars hidden beneath the inky sheen of the internal sea.

And then another appeared behind it.

The horizon began to change, a darkness upon a darkness upon darkness.

More shapes materialized one by one, five… or six of them slipped from the void as if the sea itself had decided to return what the raiders had taken. No sound was coming from those ships. No other details visible. Only the sea reflected a faint gleam of their wet flanks.

For a heartbeat, neither man moved. The lantern flame trembled between them, painting their stunned faces.

“Are… are those our reinforcements…?”

“I… I don’t think so.” The first guard swallowed hard. “And they’re coming straight for us.”

Then the first sound reached them: the faint creak of timber, the slow hiss of oars breaking the surface.

That was enough.

“Run!”

Their warning woke the others, who all turned and fled, stumbling through the burnt remains, following the lantern light swinging wildly ahead.


Behind them, the basin filled with movement, hulls gliding closer, the whisper of waves rising to a steady rhythm. The dragon ship led the way, its prow breaking through the veil of darkness like a specter reborn. Behind it, the rest followed, six long shadows in total sliding toward the shore, their sails still furled, their intent silent and sure.

The dragon ship glided in until its hull kissed the shallows. For a heartbeat longer, it lingered there, motionless.

Then came a splash.

And another.

Dark figures broke the glassy surface, their movements precise, unhurried. Men in furs and mail, the water streaming off their shoulders like oil. Axes gleamed dull in the half-light, reinforced shields floated beside them, bound with ropes to prevent them from sinking.

No orders were shouted. No voices rose. Only the soft hiss of water, the murmur of oars as more ships came in behind.

They might as well have been Undead.

One man reached the shore first, tall, broad-shouldered, his beard silvered by frost and years.
The waves pulled back from his boots as though the sea itself obeyed him.

He turned once toward the ships, lifted his hand, and more shapes followed in silent discipline.