On a chill winter’s eve, storm clouds gather over an ancient cemetery far to the east. Moonlight filters through, washing over grave stones and rendering them a phantom white. As though coalescing in union with the oncoming tempest above, a dense low-lying mist pools across the grounds. The ghostly vapors serpentine about tombs, snake down desecrated crypts, and lie coiled about the feet of dismembered statuary. Far below lie the catacomb crypts of the noble houses of Eltabbar. Despite the lifeless environs, the necropolis broods with fell energy.
The stillness of night is split by a blast of thunder that gives way to a piercing wail of agony. On a wide stone table, a woman writhes under the pain of labor. Lightning highlights her tormented features. Twisting her head from side to side, she breathes fast and strains hard for air, much as she did the night the child was conceived on this very stone. Mulhorandi blood clearly flows through her veins, yet she also exhibits the dusky features and thick black locks of the Rashemi. An inticrate pattern is traced upon her belly, scribed in blood. Two bare-chested handmaidens attend at the woman's side, one grasping her pale hand, the other dabbing sweat from her brow. Each wears the heavy iron collar of a Thayan slave.
Arrayed around the stone, attending acolytes grasp long-stemmed torches with both hands. The flames sputter in the cool, moist air. To the side stand three hooded figures garbed in robes that disappear into the mist. Their raiment is adorned with arcane sigils that give off a crimson glow. Sharp countenances jut from beneath shadowed cowls. The dour mystics look on with restrained anticipation. A pair of dire jackals sits obediently before them, amber eyes alit from their massive wedge-shaped heads.
As the contractions intensify, the tallest of the red-robed mages makes a palm-down motion, sweeping his hand from right to left. A handmaiden steps forward, rips a crescent knife from its sheath, and draws it quickly across the pregnant woman's throat. Blood sprays across the slave's face and chest, yet the handmaiden remains indifferent, staying true to her years of harsh discipline.
The trio of Red Wizards maintain their somber, expressionless stance. The mage in the center, apparently of elite status, nods to his companion on the right. The subordinate seer-sage moves forward without pause, appearing as though floating upon the knee-high fog. Secreted free from his deep sleeves, the mage holds a skull-hilted dagger tip down. The blade glints in the moonlight. Much like a needle to the weave, the mage traces over the infernal pattern, completing the ritual. The birthing altar flows red. Pupils rolled back, the woman's visage remains locked in a lifeless stare.
The third mage has already stepped forth to secure the breeched babe. With cupped hands he holds the newborn up to the moon and whispers a demonic cant. The acolytes lower their heads as the torches blaze violently. "The ceremony has been a success", imparts the high mage from behind. "This one shall serve the Zulkirs well. Szass Tam will be pleased.” Dripping dagger grasped in clenched fist, the second mage nods in affirmation. One by one, the Thayan cultists slowly file out of the ancient burial ground.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Decades later a templar knight appears before the iron-shod doors of Baldur's Gate. The swordsman is tall and gaunt. He is clad in ornate black armor, each plate segment intricately forged and wrought in the shape of barbed flame. His tower shield bears a cryptic emblem, and a spiked gauntlet protects his sword hand. From his pauldrons drapes a heavy greatcloak. Ritual tattoos trace over his sallow countenance, forming an eldritch pattern that hints of exotic origin.
Perhaps by mocking twist of fate, the grim traveller arrives during the Time of the Plague. Whether dark harbinger or not, the guards are on full alert and all travellers remain subject to inspection. As the knight enters beneath the archway, a small garrison of soldiers rushes forward bearing lanterns, weapons drawn. They bar the way with crossed spears. With a flash of steel the knight unsheathes a wicked looking longsword. Fiery runes glow along its length. Assuming an offensive stance, he emanates an aura of menace, though difficult to discern whether it stems from malign intent or sheer lethal prowess.
From the offices of the gatehouse a thickset sergeant strides forth with purpose. He is a stern man and shows neither patience nor leniency. "You will stand down. All who enter the Gate are subject to search – and denial of entry”. The moment intensifies. Knight and sergeant, each appears to test the others nerve. The knight's eyes remain fathomless pits, black as midnight. “Fool, are you not aware there is a blight upon this land”? The officer sweeps his arm to the field beyond where oily smoke drifts up from a pile of smoldering bodies. Several more corpse pyres burn nearby. As though on cue, a scabrous arm flops out from a tarp-covered wagon to the side. With stoic resolve, the knight resheathes his blade.
The guards rummage through the knight’s satchel. Apparently satisfied, or more likely disappointed by not finding the contraband they had hoped for, they toss the bag back at his feet. The sergeant gives a nod toward the inner portal. “Enter at your own risk”. His expression is glum, his tone morose. “Darkness has breeched our walls. Fear infects the city like a vile contagion. And death.” With head hung low he turns and trudges back toward his office.
The knight grimaces in passing, savoring the hidden, double meaning behind the officer’s words. Cloak trailing behind, the dread templar crosses under the archway and makes his way down the rain-strewn avenues of Baldur’s Gate.
