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

The shadowy shape of a man drifts silently through the night, his feet leaving the beaten path to trod upon the grass, seeking some destination further from the road. This particular night finds the man limping through the grass, determination carrying him through the lingering pain. Spying his destination, the man speeds his pace, the limp all but disappearing in his haste to find a resting place.

As Uriel reaches the banks of the waterway, slowly winding it's way towards Beregost, he let's out a sigh of relief. Relief was fleeting and brief, however, as his leg chose that particular point to collapse out from under him, sending him toppling ignominiously to the ground. Attempting to right himself, he tries to cross his legs, only to find the position too uncomfortable. Finally, he settles on leaving the injured leg sticking out somewhat.

The Druid closes his eyes for several long moments, forcing away the discomfort, before slipping out a large leather tome, opening it to reveal literally years worth of scribbles, notes, diagrams, and pictures. Flipping past the midway mark, the pages become barren and empty. Letting his fingers run over the thick parchment, he let's out another sigh, before speaking to the empty night air. "Tarsakh always said I should write more. I suppose he won't mind that it took the years it did to heed him." He speaks in a soft, quiet voice, almost as if the night could understand him. Reaching down to find one of the pens secreted away in his pockets, he let's out a faint laugh. While the pen had survived, the pocket had been pierced in three different places, matching the rest of his now battle damaged and ragged attire. Collecting himself he gently set's the tip of the pen on the parchment, and begins to right.

"I've always had a strange way of looking at life. I suppose you have to, having lived a life like mine. We all bear our scars in different ways, and in different places. I should be grateful to be alive to still bear my own. Yet, waking to find myself alive, and unchained, it brought such relief, at first. Even joy. Fleeting joy, though, it would seem now, as the reality of things sets in.

I've always known it was likely I would die in some particularly painful manner. Whether in battle, or by the hands of the enemies I have made down the years. It's an easier choice than some might think, at least for myself. Far from noble, when given the chance to choose your own death, rather than be forced to live under conditions where someone else can choose it on a whim, I think most would take it. I've had close calls before, more than few. Each time, I'm reminded that even in accepting death, I am glad that I'm still alive.

It seems such joy is a thing of but a faint, sparkling moment, this time, though. I am alive, although not what I once was. Even sitting here, I'm reminded of the grove that once resided nearby. Tarsakh, Mia, Chiriu. The Ancient one. Calem. Elohir, Galen. So many names, and so many faces, slowly fading into the mists of time. People I cared for. People I trusted. I'd have given my life freely for any of them, I think, and have been glad to have made a difference.

I wonder, though, what difference I can make here, in these dark times. At every step, I see pride, arrogance, greed, and hatred, clouding the minds of those who would claim to holy, just, and true. I wonder, at times, if I'm any better than they, myself. I cannot even bring myself to slay a single necromancer, even though I fully expect her to betray me as soon as it becomes inconvenient. That still, ever present memory of a wounded soul, staying my hand. The faint hope that somewhere inside her, there does exist true compassion, rather than some front to manipulate others.

I think, sometimes, I belong in the past, laid to rest with those many friends of mine who have fallen along the way. Fate has decreed that such isn't my place, though, so I live on. Perhaps, if it's the way of things, I should try to bring a little of the past with me, into these dark times. That will be my purpose, for now.

Tarsakh. Teacher. Friend. Leader. I remember you. I remember your wisdom, and compassion. May it guide me, and strengthen my resolve.

Peace find you, my brother, wherever you may be."

Finally, he signs his name at the bottom of the letter. He slips out a knife, deftly cutting the parchment off near the binding. Sand folding it into a little paper plane. Standing, he throws it high into the air, before calling on the winds to carry it off into the distance, not knowing, nor minding, where fate took it. Staring off into the distance, he closes his eyes, before turning and walking off, bearing the weight of his wounded leg without complaint nor limp.

On the trade road, between Baldur's Gate, and the Friendly Arm Inn, lies a small shrine, flanked by two banners of a green leaf. Many seasons have come and gone, witnessed by the unchanging stone. Many souls have passed it's way, or stopped to give respect. It was no different this day, when Uriel, hooded and wrapped from head to toe, dropped slowly to kneel before the ancient altar. Taking a deep breath, he slowly starts to speak, his voice clear and confident, with strength unfelt by the speaker.

"Father. You know my heart as well as any. My mind and soul. I feel... as though I am at an ending, of some sort. Perhaps of my own strength. This lost feeling... the aimless, purposeless wandering... I have grown weak, in my wanderings. The twists and plots of the civilized world, they take their toll on me. I ask for strength, Father, that I may be survive. Strengthen my resolve, and forgive me for my failings. Now, more than ever, I feel them weighing down upon me, a yolk I feel I cannot support." He speaks slowly, each word almost seeming to drag the thought itself out of his mind.

"Forgive me, Oakfather. I ask that you send me a mission. Something to bury myself into. That is all I ask." He finishes speaking, before touching his forehead lightly and placing his fingers against the ground in front of the shrine.

A lone figure pads quietly through the grass, glancing up at the formidable walls of Candlekeep looming just up the road. Spying the dying embers of the campfire nearby, he approaches cautiously. His emerald eyes pierce the darkness with relative ease, assuring himself that he is indeed alone, for company was not what he sought this dark night. Sitting down heavily next to the fire, he closes his eyes, forcing himself to breath in a slow, steady rhythm. Forcing away all thoughts of the world, he attunes his senses to the world around him. The sound of the insects, playing their nighttime serenade; the soft roar of the waves crashing into the cliffs far below.

Finally, he opens his eyes, letting them adjust to the flickering light of the dying campfire. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he slips out his journal, letting his fingers run along the crude symbol burnt into the heavy leather cover. Finally mustering the courage to open it, he begins to flip through it, page by page. At first, only small, nondescript scribbles occupy the pages; notes of faces and souls long passed from the coast. Gradually, the writing on the pages thicken, fully formed thoughts and notes splashed here and there. Eventually, he flips past an odd removable page with what appears to be an inventory on it. Picking up speed, he flips through the journal in earnest, as if seeking something. Soon, notes and words give way to scribblings and drawings. The first, a group of elves and men, with a female grey orc, all gathered around a brightly glowing tree, deep within some long forgotten cave. Soon, individual forms appear, before finally, he stops. Turning the page slowly, he sighs, letting his gaze roam over the page slowly.

"There you are." He says to himself, in a quiet, soft voice. He let's his fingers trail along the page, the rough vellum surface broken up by the coloration upon it. The drawing, which seems to have taken some time to craft, if only in order to gather all the various ingredients to color it properly, is intricately done, with great attention to detail. Not so much an incredibly skillful drawing, as it is incredibly diligent.

The drawing itself details a woman, cloaked in a dull, dreary grey. Her face, in contrast to the dullness of the drab grey attire, could almost be said to be faintly glowing. The woman appears to be upset, almost on the verge of tears, yet somehow defiant, with her eyes set and determined. Looming in the background behind her are the Cloudpeaks, wreathed in a perpetual cloud of ice and mist, while around here lay a scene of forest and greenery. Both the mountains and the tree's are washed out, almost pale, causing the drab robes almost to seem bright in comparison, and the face of the figure, even more so. Off to the woman's side, cloaked in black, are two other figures, one male, and one female. They have their arms linked; both with a confident, almost cocky smile. They appear almost shadow figures, there, but almost as if only ghosts in the drawing, touching it, but not a part of it.

"Funny, what one a single mistake can lead to. Funny, how things change." He runs his fingers along the page again, before proceeding to tear it out, leaving a ragged edge. Behind it, a clean, precise cut show's another page recently removed as well. Closing the tome with a loud "whumph," he set's the book aside, and stares at the fire. After several long moments, he tosses the picture into the fire, only to have it caught up by an updraft, and carried upwards into the night. "Stubborn as usual." He murmurs, to himself, before jerking his head to the side slightly, forcing his expression back into that calm neutral once more. Standing slowly, he glances out into the night, eyes trying to search out where the drawing might have drifted, before finally giving up. His eyes slip back to the flames, before he reaches into his bag, and slips out a single, purple flower. Holding it up to his eyes, he looks at it closely, twirling it in his fingers. "Red and Purple. I wonder, how long will I wake up thinking of red and purple? One single mistake, one single forlorn hope, and I'm suddenly an infant, unable to do the slightest task." His eyes flicker to the fire, and for a long moment, it seems as though he might throw the flower into it. Finally, he kneels down, setting it gently onto the dusty ground by the campfire. Straightening, he glances back one final time at the Cloudpeaks, before walking off into the night once more.