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

*As you reach down and pick up the scroll you notice the age of time itself had worn down the pages. Carefully unfolding the scroll in your hands dust spills to the floor, the corners burnt and damaged yet as the letters appear on the magical parchment they are as clear as day. You read on.*

“Belshea, by order of the flaming fists of Baldurs gate we sentence you to a life of silence for treason of the dieties and conspiracy. From this day forward you will not speak the heinous words of Bane… “ Read off the magistrate of the flaming fist. The wood elf, red feathers in hair waving in defiance as cold eyes stared towards the panel of justicars. Shackles on his wrists binding so tight blood trickled from his finger tips.

In the beginning…

This is the story of Belshea Delthenia, the Silenced caller of bane. Back 100 years ago there was a wood elf, raised like all elfs would normally be raised. Belshea was given to the baldurs gate militia in an attempt to turn him into something worthy of the north tribe. His family gladly making an alliance with the militia men of the city to aid in the efforts to thwart evil. Many wood elfs entered the ranks in those years, being trained from a young age to fight for the military or to be inducted into the flaming fist as patrol men. The strong heart, will, and body of the elves made them fine rangers aswell for scouting parties.

However, Belshea was trouble from the beginning.
One day while amidst the trainees something called to him. A deeper voice then any he had heard. At first the poor lad thought someone was calling to him for something he may have done, but as he looked around the encampment he saw no one hailing to him. “Belshea……” it called out eerily and the wood elf child began to grow uncomfortable. He stood from his table and made his way towards the camps sleeping quarters to hopefully rid himself of the delusions… “Belsheeeeaaaa…..” it called out again. The boy was wracked with fear as it seemed the voice was in his own head. Gnawing at his mind and thoughts. He gripped his ears in fear and knelt down. Belshea felt a trickle of liquid coming from his face and as he looked to the floor where it had splattered he saw blood…his own blood… With a scream that seemed to go silent he peered down to his palms in shock. The sigil of bane marked his hands. Cut into his skin and flayed open for him to relish. Though as pain was starting to over come him he sat up quickly, still at the dining table he had left. The other recruits coming to him with odd expressions.

One of the human children reached down to the elf child “Whats Bane Bel?...” he asked as the elf child looked up with fear “Get away from me!...leave me alone!...” he said pushing the child back and running out of the tent in a panic. A few adults went after while another, the general of the recruits, came to inspect what had happened. In Bel’s slumber the words “Bane shall come….” Were etched into the wood top. Bits of fingernail still protruding from the scratch marks.

Bel was found whimpering under some bed rolls in the same place his visions took him. The men who had found him taking him to the clerics as this forbidden knowledge was quite important. The following years would be excrutiating as the clerics of the flaming fist would disect every inch of his mind trying to figure out how this malicious evil had invaded the poor childs….

60 years later…

At the age of 125 Bel was finally released from the clerics hold on him. The flaming fists giving him citizenship as they thought the taint had been finally removed. All along it was that one day that had sentenced Belshea to the torture of the “rightful”. Anger…Resentment…Despisement filled every inch of him for those who had saught to destroy him for what something else had placed on his head and thoughts began to roll through his mind…
After his release he traveled out wards to find a meaning to his visions from his childhood. He traveled as far as candlekeep where he found an older human by the name a Nathaniel…No other name was given to him besides that, it was mysterious yet trustworthy. Bel began his research into the diety known as “Bane” a Silent god of malicious murder, wrath, and destruction. That was all he wanted…From there he began to scower the undercity of never winter for more information on how recruits are implemented. That is where he found his trainer… “Belshea you have traveled far and wide to offer yourself to our Lord…The lord of Murder…Why do you bring yourself to us?...Why do you think youself as…worthy…?” the cleric asked him…

So Belshea told his story…what the flaming fist had done to him…what he had become from it…and his visions of long ago…The clerics of Bane heard his story, could he be the prophet of blood? They had faith in this…”Belshea…I wish for you to go…strike down one of those who had harmed you…” the high priest commander ordered…”only then when you bring me his blood stained pendent will you be initiated. Spread our word and Spread their blood Bel…you shall be the Prophet of Blood if you so complete this trial…”

Bel agreed to this and made for his long journy back to Baldurs gate…His words flooded the streets while he searched for one in particular. An older gentlemen known as Marick Darnon. The head cleric of the temple of Tyr. In his search however the law caught up to him. During one of his speeches to the Bane faithful in a small seedier bar in the east harbor the Flaming fist had an informant waiting. A signal arrow shot high in the sky and the brutish military grunts cascaded in through the doors. Bel was quickly out numbers and aprehanded. But not before slaying 5 militia men with his axe he had near him on the floor. Though through the massacre of his people they kept him alive for trial…

After his sentencing…


Belshea. The deserter of his people, the blood prophet was chained and shackled before being brought outside the city walls to the graveyard where a large symble of Tyr had been harnessed to a post. Strapped to it and bound he screamed his obscenities praising Bane. Quickly a metal mask was placed over him. A bit shoved between his teeth to quite him but still his crys for his savior and that of revenge filled the air. However, as the sentencing continued a large metal rod, seering with divine magic was speared through his jaw forever silencing him. His mouth could not move and suprisingly the pain subsided with a soft hiss of sparks. He looked around before all he saw was darkness. Ghouls and skeletons roaming around. It had been 3 days since his prosicution. His stomach rumbled in hunger while his shackles held tight. Though as the haze of defeat and death began to take hold he saw a shadowed figure coming from the monestary. With a wear mind he tried to speak but nothing came forth…then darkness.

With a fury he sat up only to find a light blinding him and a metal mask obscuring his vision. He touched his face, the engraved metal cold to the touch. “Quiet now…you are in good hands Belshea…we know…” said the words. He looked up to see Marick hovering over him, a symbol of bane around his neck and armor as red as the blood itself adorning the muscled older gentlemen “Why do you think we took you Belshea…? We follow the path of blood just as you do….you are the blood prophet…you are a legend in the making…” The gruff voiced spilled into his ears. He had been saved…His journy just starting…he would seek revenge on the flaming fist for what they have done…blood would be spilled in the name of bane…It would only be time…