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

"Skye, come to the Winding Way Inn now.”
Her gut had tied itself in a firm knot when she had received the sending. It had nearly made her gag. Now, all she remembered was that dreadful sensation and immediately abandoning the stinking orc cave to travel north.
No, that wasn’t true.
She remembered walking there too, in some kind of bloody haze. Not really knowing why she was going there. Who was that bloke sending the message again?

Their strange band of adventurers entered the ruins. She trotted along and occasionally flung a snarky remark of her own into the constant banter.
“Hm... Cillian, are we looking for anything?”
The knife-eared fingerwiggler was all right. Didn’t seem to give much of a pike about anything. She could relate.
“Mostly, I’m bored. And this is a great place to not run into malicious hagspawn.”
“Gave up lookin’ for your family, pumpkin?”
She didn’t smile. This group didn’t need their jokes delivered with a siding of sugar.
"I will just stand behind in the name of conservation, and applaud when you kill something."
Some shapechanging rust bucket was there, too. And Destin.

Blast it, she couldn’t even remember seeing anyone once she'd gotten there. She had told someone a bunch of irrelevant things though, hadn’t she?
Falling behind, she pinched the bridge of her nose and cast a side glance at the hooded paladin.

Pissing poet. He was the type to prod you till he found a soft spot, dig a finger in till you wept, and then offer you his comfort. When not absorbed in his own blasted misery that was. She couldn't stand it.
Still, better company than her thoughts at that point.
“What bloody difference does it make whether all that rot’s in a book or in your head? You whine all the same.”
The sun had long set when they reached Beregost. The clouds were pissing lukewarm water.
“We see it differently.”
“Obviously, aye. That a problem?”
“A problem for what?”
“The hells do I know. Your feelings.”
“What sort of company have you kept, that you expect everyone who shares something true wants something from you?”

What sort of company had he kept, that he thought people cared about anything but themselves?
She knew she didn’t.
Couldn’t drink selfless acts. Couldn’t plough good deeds. And committing them was like pissing yourself in the dark. Warm feelings, but no one was gonna notice.

Whatever.

"Don't just stand there 'n sweat."
She told him some hours later, and, ironically, forgot all about her mental blackout thereafter.

Crap. She couldn't make any sense of that dream.
Why had it changed?

She absentmindedly stared at the dead oaf's face as if expecting his void gaze to meet hers.

The first part was old news. Some returning memory from back when she still used those pissing toothpicks. So she believed, at least.

Blood slowly poured from the single, lethal wound in the man's chest and mixed with the soil beneath.

But it had changed then. She'd held her new sword. Could it be a more recent, somehow lost memory? Did that mean there was some unlucky tosser at the bottom of a cliff somewhere?

"I always hoped to meet you like this, Skye, stood over a corpse, triumphant and aura'd in glory."
A small crowd had gathered around the murder scene. Idiot. She had forgotten to move on.
"I know. Try not to catch fire while I shed sparks of splendor."
The weirdo in black was a bit too interested in the dead bloke.
"I would gladly... dispose of the body, if you've no idea how to, hmm, get rid of it."
"You would? Pikin' wonderful. Go ahead."
She dug the tip of her boot into the dirt in an attempt to clean off the blood.
"Real sweetheart."
"I think I can still... make some use of it."
"Right. Whatever tickles your funny bone, hun."
The paladin wasn't so ticklish. They got into an argument, conveniently so for her. She left them without having been questioned.

There were cliffs near Candlekeep. Stupidly close to the path though.
Coin changed hands for a trip along Ulgoth Beard's coast.
The boat rocked gently with the waves while she scanned the cliff ledges.

Nothing.

Pike this. What in the bloody hells was she doing, anyway?
Pissing lunatic.
Her head landed in her hands and she momentarily squeezed her eyes shut before turning to watch the horizon instead.
At least a quiet boat ride in this weather was somewhat nice.

Trolldung.
Sleeping in a mist of whiskey was nicer.
She fumbled for the flask at her belt.

Her awakening wasn't so tacky. No bolting straight up drenched in sweat. No screaming or gasping. Just a numbing feeling of dread that let her do nothing but slowly roll onto the side and stare at the wall.
With every passing moment her body seemed to grow heavier and the prospect of moving more unlikely.

She didn't feel sorry. Just pissing mad that someone had made her do it. That she'd let someone make her.

Piss on it. She was going bloody nuts. Just a dream, idiot.
Her anger fueled her enough to get up. The crap novel still laid there on the floor next to the bed.

Still.
She had to check.

When she reached the top of the mountain pass she didn't feel any less groggy. For a moment she wondered if she was even awake this time.
The wind whipped strands of hair into her face. No need for a pinch.
That was the abandoned wagon right there, that much she was sure of.
She took a few steps toward it, narrowing her eyes and lifting a hand to shield them.

And there it was. A figure, slumped against the back wheel.
Funny. The blood pool's diameter was about the same as the wheel's.
His hood was drawn up.

Another blue tendril slapped her cheek.
Another moment passed.

Sh*t.
The wagon. The crimson.
Sh*t. Sh*t.
She turned on her heel and ran.