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

The Young Champion Arrives at Baldur's Gate



The late afternoon wind picks up speed as the sun begins it's decent in the western sky. A three-wagon caravan reaches the farmlands, slowly but steadily moving towards the entrance to Baldur's Gate.

The wagons bear the markings of the church of Tyr, and alongside the wagons march three armored men, one to each caravan, warhammers in hand.

As the caravan maneuvers the roads south towards the gates, the sun begins to set, and darkness descends across the farmlands. With synchronicity, each man raises their hand high, and a burst of light blasts into existence above each wagon, pushing the encroaching shadows back into the fields of corn and wheat.

Once at the gates, the captain of the guard stops the caravan and speaks quickly with the lead wagon chaperone; a scroll is presented and reviewed, accompanied by some gestures towards the third and last wagon.

Waved along by the captain, the caravan pushes forward into the city...as the third wagon crosses the gates, the man on foot alongside the wagon pauses before he crosses the gate. Removing his hood, the gray eyes from a dark-skinned seraphic face, scan the ramparts. It is a young face, yet stern in expression.

Seemingly content with his visual review of the city walls, he walks quickly to catch up with his wagon, as the caravan takes a deliberate path towards the Tyrist section of the city.

(OOC: If there are any Tyrists or paladin tyrists out there that have advice for me on where to go and who to contact in Baldurs Gate, feel free to PM me about it.

Also, if wish to RP with ??anytime during this tale, you are invited to do it via this thread, on this forum.)

The room is cold and sparse. A row of candles flicker from a slight draft through the small glass window that looks onto the city. It is evening now, and the lights of the city dance though the heavy lead glass panes. He sits at the end of the bed polishing his breastplate with the piece of cloth brought to him with the evening meal. Shallow lines cross his forehead, as thoughts race in his mind.

A knock at the door. Before he can answer, a man enters—it is the cleric from the stables, the one who received the wagons, and distributed the goods carried within.

"He will see you know."

Beyond the main hall lay the headmaster of the clergy's office. Less dreary than the other rooms and far better lit, a somber looking man is busy with a quill. After entering the room, the door is shut behind.

Blank, is it? Sit or stand, I do not care." The somber man raises his head as Blank walks toward the desk, and remains standing.

"It seems you had some trouble on you way south, eh? We gave word to all merchants and caravans traveling south through Daggerford that caravans were under threat...but you types seem to thrive on the danger, eh?" Rising from his desk, he rummages around to find one particular scroll.

"Blank, your uncle, member of the Merciful Swords, has sent you to me from Neverwinter in response to my request. You are....young, and...well, how should I put it...inexperienced? But it is not lost on me the celestial blood that runs through your families blood, that strength...nor the sacrifices your forefathers have made to Tyr and his divine judgment...."

The man sits back down, scroll in hand. Blank continues to listen.

"But nonetheless...this will become your new home, and your new family, yes. We have great need of a warrior, and you will carry Tyr's wise judgement with you throughout this region."

Blank watches the man unroll the parchment and read a bit of script.

"I have need of you and your hammer immediately, yes. Troubling times Blank....troubling times. If it was not pointed out as you entered the city, there is a large city graveyard yonder, and recent events have conspired, by dreaded individuals, to put life back into the dead. This cannot stand!"

"Moreover, a great sin has been committed against our order—a long dead champion of Tyr, a great swordsman of yore, buried many years now in the graveyard, his body has been seen walking amongst the graves, searching and moaning throughout the night...but most strangely and disturbing is he is seen without his sword hand, yes, seen only with one hand! The sacrilege Blank, the soul disturbing truth of it all!"

The once somber face had now turned bright red. As for Blank, the pale gray eyes tighten in their stare.

"Tis not my knowledge why nor where the body lost the hand, or vice versa, but to have one of our order walking undead is beyond...beyond...". The man stutters his way into silence.

"Blank, I give you this quest, to go forth to the graveyard, find what you can to where the paladin's hand has gone, and do justice to our Order and return it to the resting place of the body, our Order's crypt."

The man reaches down behind the desk and brings forth a rather large sack.

"Here is one thousand coin from the Order's coffers. Equip yourself well before leaving the gates. Show me, and your uncle, that no wrong decision was made in sending you here...and as well, prove to Tyr himself that you bring His judgement of law and retribution to this corner of Faerun."

Blank speaks for the first time: "In this I will succeed. Rightful justice will be had...of this I promise you from this moment forth!"

As Blank turns and leaves the room, sack of coin in hand and a look of fierce dedication upon his angelic features, the eyes of the man behind the desk linger at the place the young champion recently stood.

"If it is true, as his uncle has written, then I worry the boy is already lost to us...."

The sun set's slowly on the third night of Blank's watch. For two days now, Blank has looked for the ghost of the champion paladin, the one who haunts the Gate's graveyard, having lost his swordhand, as told to Blank by the Headmaster.

Indeed, the graveyard is haunted…Blank has held aloft his warhammer to strike down undead walkers more times than the young champion can remember...yet no sighting of the ghost paladin. Many adventurers also come to the graveyard seeking...things. Most of them act careful and wary around him.

As Blank waits until the last rays of sun leave the graveyard so that the spirit might begin to walk, he considers the stories of this long dead champion of Tyr, told to him be a few other clergy at the temple of Tyr, as he made his preparations for this quest.

Those few clergy that were willing to share a bit of lore with Blank, spoke whispers about this dead paladin's true god, not Tyr, but in fact the wandering god Hoar, the bringer of retribution and revenge. The clergy, although careful with their words, did speculate that the lost swordhand—from which the ghost paladin did seek—was in fact part punishment and lesson given by Tyr himself.

These tales—and most likely rumors—did infect Blank's thinking, as he pondered what would befall him this night, as he searched to right whatever wrong had been done to this dead paladin. Would Tyr be so harsh in his judgements to his own children, thought Blank? And, Blank was not a stranger to the knowledge of Hoar—a god of judgement whom had been often spoken of within his family and during his upbringing...but always with a slight hesitancy. It had always been obvious to Blank that his family kept many secrets, even in their long established service to the lord Tyr...Hoar factored into that, Blank was certain of it.

"Another time perhaps I will learn more from this tale," Blank spoke aloud. "But for now, I will complete this quest given to me, and prove my worth to the Headmaster. I will see this paladin given his deserved rest."

Walking off into the darker sections of the graveyard, Blank summons a great light to burst in the air above him, lighting the path ahead...and the earth beneath his feet starts to subtly rumble and shift, as if being pushed up from below....