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

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These will be my first thoughts of memories, experiences and challenges as the road before me turns a bend into the unknown. The purpose of me writing to myself in the late watches of the night, is in many ways a selfish habit and seems to me quite eccentric; like the stories of sages that granny always told me about...

Yet it is, I must confess, the rekindling of hope that guides my hand through these pages. It is my sincere hope that I one day can look back an old man and read these journals with a more wisened brow.

Therefore these journals will be my most trustworthy companion through the days, months and nights.

Come what may...

Ultimately this seemingly daunting task I have accepted and the vow I have made, although impossible to comprehend or view in its entirety and scope. Will in the end either claim my life or if by the will of the Gods, grant me a flicker of hope for redemption.

And this I accept.

Gladly.

I have been given one chance to rectify my past. And although at first I found Old Silvereye a mad old pilgrim. I have come to understand the necessity of it all; The world has grown full of peril and this Sword Coast is right in the middle of the growing storm.

It is with these final words I set out to the city of Baldur's Gate.

May Helm be ever watchful..

Loken Brogashin

Father, soldier, son..

There is a softness to the bard's voice that is rare I must confess. She made me think of Arian and Isabel, of the life we had and the joy I felt holding both close in my arms. It is also why I with a heavy heart walk up the wooden stairs this night, to gather what sleep I can. Although as I open the door and rest my head on the simple pillow I know; no oblivion shall come to me, when my eyes close.

Only her voice remains. Singing of companionship, friends and family and of all the good things that has gone before and now has turned into frail stained glass.

Yes..

The bard had a softness to her voice seldom heard on the coast of swords...

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The axe lead the way slicing down with such strength it sent the lizard shaman crashing into the tree behind it. From the side, crude spears thrusted towards the smaller figure but was intercepted and forced aside by a grey ornate shield held by a young man.

For long moments the muffled sounds of battle ensued throughout the Cloak echoing through the trees with metal striking metal and a gruff merry laughter followed instantly by a cry of unintelligble outburst of pain and curses.

The fog within the woods was getting thicker creeping now with increasing intensity around the two wanderers. As if the old Hags of legend had returned to make their last brew in their dark cauldron of mortal flesh and bone.

"Meeehahahaeeeh" the dwarf laughed with a certain gruff mirth and slammed another lizard warrior down on the fog covered earth followed by a spray of blood as his axe had found a main artery.

"A fine hit Master Dwarf!" Loken commented with an outburst and again used the size of his grey shield to gain some maneuverability between their attackers; pushing them back with some effort.

"I believe this is the last of them sir!" The dwarf turned and appraised their situation with a veteran's glare at their assailants. "Aye lad! Have at them now!"

Theme of Loken Brogashin "The Vow"



I remember...

"...I am Loken Brogashin of the former House Ellad Brogashin.

My oath to protect the Coast of Swords I will take upon my shoulders with humility and honour.

I will keep both the road and land close to my heart. As a child nurtured by the strength of a father and the compassion of a mother.

I will strive to be.

More and beyond.

Whether for poor or rich, elf, dwarf, hin, man or any race still unknown to me.

I will lend aid.

Given freely and without stipulations.

And in so doing I will sacrifice that which is most precious to me, willingly serving ideals which I neither cared for nor understood. But found needless.

Until the day of my reckoning.

So shall it be.

Of this I swear beneath the eternal gaze of the almighty Helm and all his patrons. May he judge my soul at the end of roads.

And to you my teacher and dearest of friends who cleared my eyes from the fog of ill intentions...

...I shall not fail!"

That day. I was reborn.

My past is a colorful swirl of all too bright glimpses of deceit, dark moody alleyways of malcontent and a wide range of unbalanced emotions; ready to burst like puss from a stale wound.

As if, a painting of me with the rough edges of youth, the strong wooden oak base and yet consisting of a sick frailty infested within the core of the frame - would create a heavy dislike and almost a noxious experience even to the most hearty and willfull.

Indeed, If one stared long and hard at the painting of my past. Then summed up all the different missmatching and miniscule parts to a gathered whole, then the word confusion would come to mind.

And yes, truthfully, I was one confused boy...

As I recall, the days were many where I would beat up the Quartermaster's boy Denrin. Always behind the tannery, where I could hit him in peace without Father having evidence of the fact, aside from the bruises I gave the boy.

I would normally lie my teeth out, when Father or Uncle for that matter, came with angered voices and accusing proclamations of how it was beneath me to hit someone with lesser skill and station. An outright and unprovoked attack, to pummel someone into submission without nothing to gain other than self satisfaction; held no honour or value. None.

I cared not. It was fun to watch Denrin cower and beg to avoid the experience when I met him in the alleys. His face would convulse into a mixture of tears, panic even outright terror as I descended upon him with another beating of the day.

At one time I got caught though.

Father had by chance witnessed it, when we had visited the tannery.
There I was, one hand around the throat of an almost unconscious Denrin and my other hand, formed into a fist, which in return, was beating down with measured punches on the boy's face.

With a certain degree of callous concentration on my brow I had stopped as the door in front of me had opened. Followed by an all too recoqnisable silhouet and voice of my Father.

Amidst the clothes of nobles I had gotten the worst beating of a lifetime in the tannery's drying room. And poor Denrin had gained some retribution from watching the ordeal.

Forced to apologise to the boy in front of our household not to mention Denrin's family, made it even worse.

I remember secretly swearing revenge, laying plans and scheming my sweet victory over the Quartermaster's boy that in the end I chose to forget the lessons Father and Uncle had tried to teach me.

Months after I was caught, Denrin got the worst beating I had ever given anyone, promising him an onslaught of fists to his lips if he ever told anyone about it...

I was indeed becoming a lesser son of greater sires...

"Knight of the Hare?" He had said with an undertone of amusement to his curled sardonic lips. "yer telling me that yer a Knight of a bunny?! Now aint that just the jest of the week! Hah!" The man had been a part of a complicated matter involving an attack from a dwarf who had had too much to drink and an elf, who clearly was birthed with the sign of arrogance towards the dangerous situation.

In many ways I was at a loss of what to do. Dwarves, elves and the many tales of various degrees of animosity and outright scorn was not unknown to me. Therefore I understood the insult the dwarf was so angered about; In some dwarven clans it is seen as a sign of great dishonour to spill mastercrafted ale from your tankard. That goes double when it happens by accident and triple when it is an elf who is the accused of the deed.

On the other hand, it was only a tankard and the dwarf's beard which got wet. Adding to that a very drunken dwarf indeed, who seemed oblivious to empathy, or for that matter any kind of regret of the ordeal.

In any case the elf and as aforementioned his arrogance spilled over when the very enraged dwarf did not listen to his countless apologies. It ended with bickering and soon after a severely wounded elf, slowly dying on the floor in front of me.

For one slight moment I forgot my promises and costly vow and wanted to kill the bastard dwarf right then and there for such physical prejudice. Yet the elf was still alive and thank Helm my thoughts of Gunrimm, Silvereye, Zula and Isabel overshadowed my primal instincts and returned me to my vigil state.

I remember running to the door and into the night, every ounce of determination flowing through my veins. If other wanderers were in near vicinity I would not have to deal with this by myself. "There is strength in numbers" Silvereye had said. "And you will need that strength young Loken if you are going to succeed in this task." This was as good a time as any to test that theory.

Helm's righeous gaze was with me and within minutes I had found several adventurers who was gathered outside the Friendly Arms Inn at the local campsite.

Suffice to say it ended within the confines of the law. The dwarf went with me, to face trial and testimony. Guarded by another soldier which seemeed trustworthy and, truthfully, more experienced in this kind of situation. Nevertheless I guess it will not be the last time I will hear amusement, concerning my chosen and most unharmful symbol. The Hare.

Yet ignorance is not a luxury the poor and weakest has to claim for their own. Again my thoughts go to the story of the Ear-Tied Hare and I feel the rekindling of justice in my heart. Indeed, words, vows and honour are nothing if you do not back them up with decisions brought to life.

And so I did...

I will return to this subject another day.

As a personal sidenote I think the dwarf at the very least showed strength to carry through his own sense of honour and justice... Then again the law must be respected, it is there to protect the weak and create peace, freedom of expression, whether it is racially related or not...

Well...

Most of the time...

Loken, Early Watches, Baldur's Gate

I watched the dawn rise behind the woods of the Cloak this morning, ever so slowly fighting of the cold of night and the retreating shadows therein. As with anything worth noting these days in my journal, it gave me pause and made me consider the many days I now spend travelling the Tradeway.

It is clear to me that people have begun recoqnising me on the road. The other day a farmer shared a meal with me. And for some reason trusted me with his trouble. I felt honoured to help the man; his wife makes a fine stew and my belly was empty. A fair exchange on all accounts.

Also I think Helm has guided me towards a man named Thedran. A finer example of sword prowess I have only seen Old Silvereye display and that is flat out impressive to say the least.

He seems a law abiding man and I have a feeling it will not be the last time, he and I, secure the Tradeway together. More experienced in these matters and with a hard boiling attitude towards those who would cause trouble for the less inclined, he holds the law as his shield.

Yet for some reason, I get the feeling Helm has guided me to the man for more than just learning experiences upholding the Duke's laws. In many ways he is strong, willfull and with a snappy mouth that would leave many courtesans in Suzail speechless. No, It is his view on the world and its people which I ponder and which in return seems cold and distanced.

Fighting off a gnome's devilry in the form of his shadows and conjured dragon whelp he had said with some serious expression to his otherwise relaxed mannerism, that "These folk aint worth it Armsman." And in return, and with some curiosity as to his law abiding manners and yet his dislike for the people gathered, I felt the need to state my own allegiance. "Here we disagree sir."
It was a short statement but enough for both Thedran and I to understand one another. Our differences and yet our kinship.

When it comes down to it, truthfully, I like the man. Many, I guess, does not.
Upholding the law can have costly consuequences on your social life and upholding justice even more so. Indeed, loneliness on the road is not an enemy you can fight off with a sword. It is a constant battle which you fight on a daily basis in your mind and sometimes you lose.

Yes...

...I will pray to Helm this night to give Thedran Rock strength to prevail, wherever the Watcher guides him.

Loken, Noon, The Tradeway

I barely block the attack by turning to the side, letting my shield take the brute force from the downward slash. The heavy rain is falling around me like tears from the Gods. Creating small ponds in the already drowned earth.

With every movement, splotches of mud flies from the ground like small darts with no true aim. My following ragged breath harsh evidence of a lingering fatique reaching its peak.

One wrong decision, one fatal mistake and my present torment will end. Like a singular candle's wavering light snuffed out; Leaving it without hope in the encompassing darkness.

Water mixed with blood falls from my wounded brow almost completely obscuring my vision. Another forceful slash pushes me down to my knee's. My arm agonised by the impact, the pain excruciating as I feel my shoulder joint snap from the pressure. Leaving my shield arm dangling useless and broken.

My defiant scream seems distant and hollow and I watch my assailant's mud covered yet slender dark boots through a grey haze of exhaustion.

The next slash almost opens up my ribcage, I manage to parry with my weapon, my arm flailing out wide from the weak attempt. My sword spiraling through the downpour.

Gone.

Images of Isabel's kind blue eyes, innocent mild face and golden hair comes to me in a blur of emotions. I am a smiling father with Isabel in my arms. I am watching her ride her horse Ena for the first time in the courtyard, I sing her lullaby as she lies on my shoulder fast falling asleep from a day of playful adventures, comfortably breathing, her small nose twitching.

I watch her as she cries - tear stricken for not wanting me to leave...

I see all of this as the scythe slowly descends from an upward arc to a side measured slash towards my exposed neck; cleaving drops of falling rain with near perfection and an edge of certain beauty to its silver sharp reflection.

I watch as it barely misses as I thrust my boot dagger into the groin of the arrogant Drow with a defiant snarl of sheer rage born of survival.

I watch as the spraying of dark blood clouds my face...

Death is with all it's weary contempt for life the ultimate end and yet it reflects another beginning. It is by all accounts a journey of our soul and whether for good or ill, your many deeds through life will be weighed, scrutinised and measured on the Scales of Judgement.

Each deed made, each sin commited is another smaller bloodied coin echoing through eternity. Burdening the scales further and ultimately deciding your servitude and thus your definite fate.

In the end we are judged.

Either we are found wanting and thus cast down to, whichever diabolical hell awaits us. Be it thralldom, reliving nightmarish sinful acts we conceived in life or complete and utter torment for the enjoyment of our captors.

Or, bestowed honor by joining the ranks of whichever deity we followed in life and thus earns peace in the light to the end of days...

Some, care not about these things and life is led like a work horse. Blinded, except for the immediate road ahead. Unlike hell their fate will forever be sealed as a nameless piece within the wall of the damned. Utterly forgotten and oblivious to their past.

Others, take heart in the reassurance of the almighty wisdom of the Gods. They follow the path of the devout and listen to the divine song of our makers. They journey the roads of our old world with a strength and conviction which in it's own right is an envious display of strength, compassion or indeed cruelty. They, in so many ways show us some part of ourselves imbedded deeply beneath our physical appearances. Yet the decision is always ours to make; Do we need guidance or not...

Then there are the people like myself, that has just begun to fully comprehend the meaning of it all. Who has led a life of reckless abandon, poorly made decisions without morale and subsequently a fickle hope for redemption through deeds still left untold and unwritten.

And it is these people which I often see traversing the Tradeway. Starting a new life for themselves, out here, where the stars shine the brightest and the hungry wolves howl at night.

so it with this knowledge my strength stems from, with this wisdom I take heed and with my next breath of life my resolve increases...

...I must not fail...

May Helm judge me worthy in the end.

Loken Brogashin, Old Hag's Cottage, Sword Coast

It is with renewed strength i write the next entry in my diary and turns the page to another chapter of what has become my life and sole purpose to even exist. Out here beneath the stars in the land of swords, where an ill turned step will lead you to adventure and beyond, it is good to have purpose...

I feel myself oddly unburdened. For the first time in my life I sense I could do anything if I set my mind to do it. My heart lightens when old friends greet me with a hearty hello and I am filled with peace and quiet contemplation, when we are gathered around the fire.

To me it is the smaller aspects of life that I have grown to care for. Friendship, balance, peace of mind and in no small measure the respect I have earned from my peers. Suffice to say they have earned mine - yet I must confess my past largely remains hidden. A topic I rarely touch upon these days. It is time to look forward and climb the mountain which lies before me and not look back over my shoulder towards the dark clouds now lingering beyond my reach.

A strange thought touches my mind as I write this.

The old woman who found me lying on the hill, dying, who cared for me, nurtured me back to life; She never once asked for any thanks or payment for having a wounded man live with her.

On our parting she told me this strangest of things.

She said...

"When the shadows between the light and earth grows young Loken - The answer will be set in stone..."

At the time I thought her mad. Indeed, sometimes she would speak to herself in the late watches of the night. I always thought the woman old and slightly senile. Yet now, while I rest within the peaceful walls of the Friendly Arms Inn I must confess that the shiver down my spine tells me otherwise..

What an odd yet compassionate old woman...

Loken Brogashin, Late Watches, Friendly Arms Inn.

The world is old...

A statement some wanderers adhere to when they journey upon the less travelled road and within the more desolate places of the Realms. Out here beyond the reach of civilisation, the stone tells us of millennia of struggle against the wind, earth and sea, the trees whisper of forgotten tales. And those cursed with immortality, who in return have been left behind in either grief or winter long contemplation - remembers what have gone before...

It is only in Man you find a self proclaimed ignorance and petty delusion of grandeur. We praise ourselves for attaining status, material goods and even power. It is only in Man we neglect to see the truth looking back at us.

We are nothing more than mere insects...

And yet we reach for the unreachable. Constantly striving to better ourselves and learn. Some for the betterment of others. Helping those who are less inclined and who have been dealt a set of poorly stacked cards. And others, believing themselves superior to those around them, profitting on the behalf of the weak from a sense and instinct born of either hardship, grievous scars of experience or indeed a lack of principles and values.

For better or worse we build, destroy, live and die, conquer and strive for the ultimate prize of succes...

...Yet in the blink of an eye we are gone leaving behind a world which remembers...

It is time to take a stand...

Loken, Dawn, Hunter's Lodge