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

Valiant witnessed the gigantic right hand burst into view above the congregation surrounded by a nimbus of burning blood, then tumble away into darkness and fade from view. Valiant clapped excitedly at that, his face decidedly alit with ardor. He turned to the nearest priest and proclaimed: "Order and justice can only be successful through personal sacrifice. Tyr could of grown a new arm, instead, he replaced it with a fist of silver. Praise him! Hey-- do you gentlemen need help preparing for these around the clock rituals? My manners seem to of ran away from me. Valiant Blinncraft, devout of Tyr. This place sort of needs a home-like feel to it. Some are more willing to turn to the triad and confess their sins with a full belly. Just a few servers in here mayhaps? Nothing grandiose." The man concludes his ramble and awaits the priest's reaction.

He looked around the outside of the temple and still couldn't shake that feeling; the air was so heavy, hostile to his presence even. The temple guards threw the temple doors wide and Valiant strode in, his boot-heels soundly clattering on the gray floor. Valiant lowers his head, looking grim and worse for wear and says a prayer softly; a decibel above a whisper so most in the room could hear the words: "Great God of Justice. . . Help me see why others doubt thy divinity so I may right the wrong. Lord. . . give us guidance in the dark, remorseless times when the power of Evil triumphs, when all is but a dark pool of blood and Evil has bent the Law to its warped angle and gained treasonous acts through rampant bribery. Help us show others that Good always triumphs over Evil, fill my mind with thy wisest insight. Great God of Justice. . . give me a reason to remain prideful of my country when it has allied and organized obscene trading route in yon sacred land with the scurrilous likes of Darkhold and the evil men of the North."

Valiant moved away from the dimly-lit corner and sat upon a bench, lowering his head reverently in prayer. But he couldn't concentrate as much as he'd anticipated. He heard the sound of boots thudding through the cold, tired, worn-out faces, everyone held that same far-away gaze. He cleared his throat, forcing the violent imagery from his head and began to concentrate, white-knuckling his holy symbol and smiled.

The dim candle in the temple library flickers through the night yet again, freshly replaced with another for the fifth eve in a tenday. Time passes unnoticed as the young woman focuses on her task and though weary she remains well-kept. On the table before her are various tomes, stacked high on the table around the blonde haired paladin. Her brow furrows as she pours over the text, the spines of the books covering the topics of liches, politics and history; among other things.

Taking the time to scribe a few notes here and there, Cecilia taps the feathered quill to her lips as she reaches for a large mapped parchment. Seemingly detailing the Western Heartlands, she makes a few marks on various areas to the west before pulling a heavy tome onto her lap.

As dawn breaks, the heavy leather cover of the final tome closes and an exhausted, though pleased sigh leaves her lips as the looks to the window and instinctively offers a prayer to the Morninglord. Her delicate hands move to clean up the table, her fingers bringing the last of the cheese and bread to her lips in the process. The clinking of metal follows her morning prayers at the altar and she dons her armor once more, the temple door closing behind her as she exits; returning once more to the open-skies of the Gate.

Early in the morning just after sunrise, a tall, darkly-clad man in a green cloak enters the Temple of Tyr. He makes his way to the altar to murmur fervent prayers to The Even-Handed. Despite seeming to be a beggar, this man obviously reveres the god greatly.

Once finished with his prayers and quiet introspection, this old fellow queries the clergy about the possible whereabouts of one Cecilia Lafayette. Hearing that she could be at the temple of Ilmater (and knowing this is not the case), he instead hopes that the suggestion of her southern home at the Song of the Morning is accurate.

This information baffles the fellow, but he does not outwardly react. Why would a Tyrran live at the Song of the Morning? No matter. The seemingly old beggar thanks the priest and heads out of the temple. On the streets of Baldur's Gate, he pauses and looks toward the direction of the palace district. Shaking his head, he next looks toward the East Gate much as he had the previous night and thinks to himself. On to Beregost, it would seem. So much the better. I wished to look upon the Song of the Morning while on the Coast anyway. And...and I can look upon Billy's tomb.

Footfalls that once clicked with an echo of metal now padded across the cobblestone with the muffled shuffling of leather as Cecilia steps into the halls of Justice for the first time in a number of tendays. At her heel and quick to veer off the the side as she approaches the altar, enter a paladin of the Loyal Fury and his half-elven companion. The two remain by the door, seemingly waiting for the blonde haired woman to conclude her business.

Having conversed quietly with High Priest Eldric, Cecilia, clad in a simple grey tunic, kneels before the altar of the Just God and bows her head to engage in quiet prayer. Her words are softly spoken, unheard by those within the stoned walls save for the nearby priest.

"The sun rises tomorrow on a new dawn, Father of Justice. I had come intending to pay my final respects unto you and yet. . . I know now that is not the case. Come what may, a piece of my heart will always remain with you, your presence. . . your scriptures shall always be venerated. Everything I endured, every trial and lesson learnt would not have been possible without your guiding hand."

Reaching out slender fingers, the Lady-Knight lights an offered candle, placing it among the others at the altar's base as she continues her quiet prayer.

"You have watched over me, taken me in as one of your own paladin. Provided. Taught. All the good that I did, became, was in your name. I failed you, however, with my self-doubt and uncertainty . . . questioning instead of turning to and trusting in you when I needed it most. Desperate to the point of blindness. You know what occurred, the words need not be said. Thoughts. Struggles. This is my failure. My mistake. For that I beg your forgiveness. You know the path I have been set on now, your hands gently surrendering me to a trusted ally should he be willing to accept this broken knight. I only regret not having been strong enough to have been able to serve you better."

The prayer continues for some time, the volume of which dips and raises over the next hour. Finally, at it's conclusion, the woman prostrates herself before the altar and presses her lips to the stone before her in a brief but heartfelt gesture. Raising from the floor moments later, Cecilia takes her time counting out a bag of coin equivalent to the amount of roughly ten thousand which she places on the altar alongside a splendidly cut diamond. Her fingers trail gently along the edge of the offering table, before her cool blue eyes drift up to the looming one-handed statue.

"My gratitude unto you, Even-Handed. Be it by my hand or others, may justice continue to prevail. Always."

With that, the woman takes a slow breath and bows her head to the icon with a militaristic salute of fist over heart. Farewells are exchanged with the High-Priest before the trio remove themselves from the building and move South once more.


/// 10k to be given to Maecius tomorrow.

"I've always enjoyed the feel of a cobbled street beneath a thick-heeled boot."

"You're just sick of the road."

"... true."

The companions passed through the eastern gate and entered the metropolis that is Baldur's Gate, road dust clinging to their boots, their breeches, their gear, their faces. Signs and slogans reached out toward them, begging their attention for some sale or some service, though they were quickly retracted upon better perusal of the travel-weary duo.

"Have you ever seen so many people in one place?" the first asked the second, his blue-and-gold-flecked gaze twisting down the alleys, up the walls, through the windows of the city that now engulfed them.

"No, my people don't 'hive' like this," replied the second. The man seemed almost an elf, with his slender features and pointed ears, and he made constant reference to "his people" in recognition of half of his parentage.

Through a yawning portcullis, and the streets grew cleaner, the people a bit sparser. Gardens replaced gutters, and the opulent spires of well-tended temples pierced the sky.

"We're getting somewhere," said the second.

The first ran his hand through his blond hair, then grunted in some disappointment as he remembered his dirt-coated digits. "There."

The symbology was clear - the hammer and scales of the Just God - and the companions made their way to its waiting door. With little fanfare but full confidence, the first pulled it open and stepped inside, followed closely by the second.

"Empty," remarked the second upon entering, and the two strode up to the priest attending the altar.

The first began. "Edhart Vale and-"

"Tigen Amastacia," the second interrupted.

"Crusaders," the first continued, "of the Just. Does the temple have a bath?"