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

A dark figure sits alone in a dark forest, the only sounds the everpresent flickering of a small campfire, and the silent, stuttering scrawl of pen on parchment. The figure, hooded and cloaked, sits hunched over the parchment, his face hidden even from the night itself, as cloaked as the soul that lay beneath. With a flourish, and a flick of the wrist, the shadowy figure of a man finishes his scrawling, and lets out a long, deep sigh, his breath jetting out into the cool night air. "Well." He says, to himself, a soul to the watchful, hidden eye seemingly at home with his own voice, on still, dark nights. "Nothing left but to peruse my handiwork, and of course, mail it to my dear father." he says, bitterness echoing forth, even with none there to hear it, before its swept away by a dark, cold laugh, as the irony provokes his mirth.

Picking up the parchment, his eyes begins to flick along his flourishing handwriting, following its curves with his practiced eye, before returning to the start, to grasp the words themselves:

Dear Father, mine,

Its been a long time since we've spoken. I hope the long years have treated you well, and that you come to visit soon. Its been a lifetime since we've caught up on each others lives---

The scrolling eyes break away from the text, dislodged by a bitter, ironic laugh, as the writer indulges himself in self deprecating irony imbued in the parchment. The eyes slip back down, resuming their plodding course along the elegant lettering.

It seems my life has taken a turn of late. At first, it seemed, perhaps, that some of my assumptions about the nature of things might for once, be broken. I wish, I think, I could have the satisfaction of being proven resoundingly correct. In the space of less than half of a month, I've broken two of my own rules, much to the detriment of what little is left of me. Still, no need to be vague with you, father dear. After all, I save that for those that aren't family.

I suppose, as all tales do, it started with a woman. Then again, most of my tales start with a woman, and end with either an angry husband, a barfight, or my being thrown in jail. Go figure. She was something else though. Not my normal type, mind, but she had something about her. Tricked me the first hour I met her, and left me in a bar with a tab for my own drink. Good first impression, that. Still, it made for bad news, all told. Let my guard down, and broke the first rule. You would, honestly, think that I would have learned it. The one mantra I could repeat in the blink of an eye, woven into every movement of my body, and ever waking moment. Must have been some first impression, looking back.

I should have stuck with logic. Cold, but always right, and cold is better than where I'm at now. One of her friends decided to threaten me, a few days earlier, and then bowl me over, to leap in beside her. I've never taken that from anyone before, and I wasn't about to then. Knocked him down right in front of her. Surprise surprise, guess how that turned out. One of these days, I'll get "damaged goods" tattoo'd onto the back of my eyelids. See if I forget then.


Flicking aside from the text, the prowling eyes once again avert their meandering gaze, as the shadowy man reaches out to brush at a few damp spots on the parchment, licking his fingers to rub out a smudge of ink where the predecessor of the current pen met its untimely end. With a grunt of displeasure, and a small sigh, the darkened writer returns to the child of his mind.

That's all in the past though. I said I wouldn't forget again, but I find myself unable to control myself, sometimes. Emotion seems to be guiding me too much of late. I showed a bloody demonblood assassin the results of Thannen's tender, loving care. I think I'm starting to slip. I'm not sure what scares me more, though. The thoughts of what I want to do those bloody hypocrits. How I would hurt them, and make them writhe in pain, begging me for my mercy, or the fact that I feel like I might enjoy it.

I have to fight it, these urges. Fight it. -- a jerk, and a another blot of ink, with a violent swipe of yet more ink cover the next few inches, before the text resumes, the stroke of a third brush gracing the parchment -- Then again. Maybe not. I could have whatever I wanted, when I think about it. Could show that druid wench the monster she was too good for. After all, one mans damage is another mans strength. Perhaps I should line her friends up, and let her watch as I turn them into my own personal army of shades?

I guess that's the first sign there really is something wrong with me. I have the knowledge, I have the power. Whats stopping me? Morality? I've scoffed at the concept my entire life, yet I find myself held back, for reasons I can't place. Just have to hold on, I can feel it creeping in again, on the edge of my mind. Have to be careful. These Fist don't play around. I need to be in control.

Tell mother I said hello, I'm sure she misses me deeply.


At the bottom, it is signed, in flowing elvish:

With love, Unknown.

As the darkened figure finishes reading, he stands. "Time to mail it home," he says quietly, tossing the letter up into the air, and encanting a simple spell, sending it tumbling through the air, into the forest he stands, his body straightening, and his head looking up for the first time, an expression of pure, unadulterated fury and rage revealed in the flickering firelight, as red, bloodshot eyes follow the path of the drifting message. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, the man plants his right foot forward, encanting an intricate spell, his eyes closing, only to open as he thrusts his hand out with a cry of unearthly rage, a lifetime of fear, pain, and boiling hatred released in a storm of pure destruction and chaos as balls of flaming energy fly from his hand to explode, incinerating the letter, and a large portion of the surrounding woods. The figure slowly, almost reluctantly relaxes his pose, forcing his face back to cold detachment, as he surveys the scoured land. "Talk to you again soon, father." He says, turning his back without another word, the small fire flickering angrily, only to fall flat against the darkness of the departing figures cloak.

On an inauspicious day, much like any other, the sun rises once more, sending its vibrant light forth into the fading night sky, only to be locked in battle with the rising gloom of a thick, grey fog, rolling into a rocky harbor as the first rays of light touch upon the water. A light, miserable rain falls to patter faintly amongst the scents of cheap perfume, watery beer, and the ever present stench of greed and despair.

A darkened figure, once more, sits upon the winding road up to the tavern, his back against the wall, huddling under a rock outcropping to shield himself from the miserable, cold rain, his cloak thrown forward, covering his legs, and the writing tablet and parchment nestled thereupon. As the cloaked and miserable looking man scrawls lightly upon the parchment, the words easily flowing forth from his mind, and even his very soul, if such a man could be said to possess such still, it might interest the curious observer to know that for once in the shadowy mans life, he felt not at home with the miserable climate of the place, but strangely at odds, as if the once familiar atmosphere had taken on an oppressive, foreign taint to it.

Looking up briefly, through the rain and gloom and out over the harbor, a ghost of a smile crosses his face, his eyes forcing themselves slowly away, as if pulling free from some sort of adhesive, to travel slowly to the right, along the trail to a point just above the bend; a reminder of the topic which has lead his mind astray.

Scribbling a few more lines, and slipping into the flowing script that often typifies elven writings, he signs the parchment with a flourish, and begins reading over his work, once again adhering to the bizarre ritual of perfection that often accompanied such letters.

To my dearest Father,

I've thought about many things in my life. Dark. Strange. Hopeful, even, at times. How to kill a man in his sleep, from outside his home. How to magically conceal features of one's body. How to mimic gold, when one is short on gold, and long on hunger. If you had asked me if I had ever thought I would find myself contemplating this particular topic, at any point in my life, I'd have thought the bringer of such askance daft, insane, or a foolish idealist.

Still, one must accept the wanderings of ones own mind, and see it to its end, or force it down, to the depths from which the thought will never resurface save in the realm of nightmare and dream. After three sleepless nights, however, such a luxury is not to be mine, apparently. What is the question at hand, I can sense you wondering, now, knowing you as well as I do.

The question is, what is good, and what is evil? That, and why should I care? It never seemed to matter in the past. Survival, that was the only thing that mattered, and after survival, seeking respite from the ever gnawing pain. Why does it torture me, then, now? I am not a good man. I know this to be true. I have lied, murdered, stolen, cheated, and beaten my way to where I am now. True, I thought it was necessary, usually, but what of when it wasn't? Does striking down those that threaten my life damn my soul? Is it already damned? No god has ever seen fit to grant me a single respite from my miserable lot, and I've returned the favor in kind; am I not doomed by choice in response?

I think of these things, and perhaps, not for my sake, there is a faint tugging to change my ways, but day in, and day out, I am reminded of the so called "goodly" people of this world. How they judge without knowing, strike without thinking, insult and threaten as if they were themselves gods. If that is good, then why should I aspire to it?

I know things, things of great power, as well as of great evil. Things no man should know, that give me the power that, looking back, no man should have, over another. What keeps me from exercising it? I could have anything I wanted. Women. Power. Wealth. The priests of hypocrisy, at least, insult not that which they fear, as well. I know this to be true, as sure as I know my ability to achieve such ends.

Such power. Such awesome, earth shattering power. Held at bay by a lonely halfling merchant, and a trembling druidess, who sends my thoughts scattered to the four winds. I don't consider myself a wise man, and you know better than any, I am not a good one, despite any preconceptions others might hold. It seems to me, though, the one of two things must be true. The first, that I am weak, and that I have let emotions cloud my judgement, as I have often done of recent weeks. The second, which I confess tugs at that faint spark of hope still left flickering inside; that perhaps, as powerful as darkness is, perhaps it is in the lost hopes and dreams of those two unlucky souls that goodness holds its true power.

Then again, perhaps I truly am broken. --The line stands alone, by itself, a singular thought, without justification, digression, or comment--

I cannot think of any reason that the presence of one woman should send so many things rushing through me. Such hate, such unbridled rage, flowing through me, that I believe I am to blame for breaking her very spirit, the thing that at first caught my attention. Other things too. Emotions so very familiar, yet so long forgotten. I know them well, still, but I don't know how they can be. I know I should leave, and never come back, or send her wailing from my presence, never to return, yet the reason I find for wishing to do so is so that I will not hurt her. Which isn't entirely true, but that rests in the past, as does so much else.

Should I, though? My mind races through a thousand things at once, but of the very few things I am certain of these days, one is that I don't wish to. I will come to grief over that, I know. Those who do not remember the past are doomed to repeat it. I remember my past all too well. I do not know what she is to me, but I know well enough that I am nothing more than a lost child, to be brought to the light, to her. Ah, the hells does it matter, anyways, maybe its time to roll the dice, and hope its at least a fun journey?

It may be a very long time until we speak again, father mine, for I feel trouble brewing, and I cannot allow myself to take the actions necessary to head it off. I have angered a pompous, foolish, arrogant priest of some form, and I am certain he has taken it upon himself to report my "name" to as many other arrogant, hypocritical do-gooders as he can spare the precious time to contant. A member of some sort of famous family of holy men, or some such. As all such "goodly" men are, he is far too quick to draw steel, far too slow to use wisdom and, dare I say it, compassion. It sickens me to find myself in a position to defend him, to the very core, but he accomplishes something noble, if by accident, and for the glory of his own status, in his duties. I will keep him alive, if needs be, as much as I would like to see him wither, and die a horrible bloody death.

I always thought it would be a woman that got me killed. Ironic, that it is one of the few rules by which I adhere, it seems, that might accomplish it. Here is hoping the end is swift, or the hunters incompetent, hey?

Your loving son, Unknown.


As the man's eyes lift from the paper, his gaze once again stares off into the gloom. As the mornings rays pierce through the foggy murk, his mind roils with questions unanswered, almost as if to match the water itself in depth and turbulence. As he stands, a faint, ironic grin alights upon his face, curving his lips slightly upwards. The pleasure of the bittersweet irony mingles with the anticipation of the exertion soon to come, as he pulls the parchment over a finger, forming a crinkled funnel, and with a pointing finger an an arcane incantation, he sends the parchment jetting out into the air, only to incant another spell moments later, a bolt of pure electricity flying forth from his outstretched hand to connect with the rapidly fleeing letter, incinerating it in a burst of white hot flame and lingering ozone. The figure barks out a small laugh, before turning and walking back to the tavern for a drink. As he departs, the man whispers into the wind. "Talk to you when I can, father."

(( As a brief aside, I've literally never written any journals before this. Any tips, comments, or help is more than appreciated, and most certainly desired.))