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

*leatherbound journal written in very simply drawn dwarven*

I have not written anything since filling out reports on the miners defence brigade. Watch captain Zheri held a very high standard for the reports... had a real bug up his arse about clean handwriting and proper language.

I do not speak like this in dwarven, but I do not butcher dwarven nearly so bad as common. I think the common tongue sounds silly, and I love it. Heh heh. The more silly I can make it sound with my accent, the better. If someone has a problem with it, they are not my kind of people anyway.

With all the chaos my life has been in the last few months on the sword coast, I thought I should spend some time thinking about where I came from and why I am here. I do not sleep under the sky, drink from the river and leave mead and axes behind on a whim. I have chosen my life deliberately, and intend to stay true to my purpose by writing my reasons.

Like all good dwarven fighters I was a brash youth. The first time I took a toy axe and shield into hand suddenly everything seemed right in the world. I never put them down. I carried them to lessons, I wore them to play... I even slept with them. My father had to fix a leather cord to the axe so I could have my hands free because he could not get me to set them down!

Everywhere I went I imagined hordes of goblins and orcs attacking, with my axe and shield the only barrier between my people and utter destruction. With my friends in tow, our basements turned into the deep underdark, my father's old armor stands became evil duergar armies. The steps to the Temple of Moradin became a high mountain peak where we sought out greedy dragons.

As I grew up, the orcs and goblins became real and true battle was the culmination of my life long passion. Every battle for my clan was the fulfilment of ultimate purpose. Bloody, loud, dangerous and glorious. My performance on the field earned me the nickname 'Fastaxe', and for years I was a terror to my enemies.

And then peace came. The orc raiding parties were chased away from our mountain and the goblin bandits learned to leave our caravans alone. Proud warriors became bored guards. Many of my combat brethren took up hammers and hoes. Not me, I was singular in purpose. My hands were meant for axe and shield.

But guard duty with no threat is a dreary thing, and I replaced exhilaration in the battle field with joy in the tavern, telling stories of battles past and drinking away my fears. My very real fears that my battles were over, that my axe was unneeded.

I remained a guard for years, keeping sober enough to always report to duty. A hope burned quiet in my heart that one day we would be attacked and my axe would be needed again. When years of quiet turned into decades, finally a new threat came. A dragon took root in Dytush's Resolve, a nearby mountain, and began raiding the area. Smiths put down their hammers and took up their axes. Bored guards became exhilarated warriors once again, and a battalion of eager volunteers marched out for glory.

We were led by the King's son, Guli Stoneaxe and his friend and close advisor Zheri. Zheri had been the leader of our Miner's defense brigade and I knew him well. While Guli was a likeable dwarven warrior, true to his word and strong of arm, Zheri was different. He had not grown up in the clan, but joined as an adult. He spoke with a human's accent and some said he practiced magic. He was a master of paperwork and friend to the prince, and did a fine enough job directing the defenders during peace time. He never participated in our boastful recounting of battle though, and did not love mead the way a true dwarf does. I accepted him as a boss in the mine, but his valor in combat was yet to be proven in my eyes.

I have no memory of the events upon Dytush's Resolve. I awoke days later in the temple, recoverning from burns and a bad head wound. All I know is that the dragon lived but left the mountain, and that no dwarf stood at the end. Of the fifty strong warriors that went up, only three survived. Guli and Zheri's body were never found. The tale became that they were eaten by the dragon and his indigestion made him decide to never eat another dwarf. Either way, they were gone, and the dragon let us be. It was not a victory... and with the dead prince, there was no celebration.

I never fully recovered. My burns turned less red and my head subsided its swelling, by my heart was broken. I put on a brave face and accepted the job of organising a new miners defence brigade, but quickly took to the mead with a terrible thirst. I grew angry and resentful and started many wild brawls in the tavern. I secretly wished I had died upon the mountain.

What happened next... I cannot write. I will, but not today. My heart seizes in my chest and my mouth grows dry. My fingers curl in a death grip and I have already broken both my quills. I will write the truth, and all of it. I owe it to him and his family.

For the longest time all I did was forget. Willfully. I would fight back memory like my life depended on it. With my suicidal thoughts, maybe it did. I was banished for a reason I made myself forget. I almost convinced myself that I was not banished, but that I left willingly. I travelled from town to town burning through the gold I had saved for a lifetime. I drank, I yelled, I fought, and I forgot. I forgot what happened to my axe. I forgot what happened to my clan. I forgot what happened to my heart.

Until Bran Stoneaxe showed up and brought back my axe, and with it the truth. I awoke in the forest tied up with Bran standing over me, a familiar axe in hand. The axe that had failed me on Dytush's resolve. I recognised it from the engravings on the blade, and the burn marks on the handle. The axe that reminded me of my failure and lack of purpose. The axe I had thrown out a window in a drunken rampage. The words 'DRUNK' were now engraved on one side. Bran held the axe so I could see the new etchings clearly.

When I had still been the Miners Defense Bridgade captain, I had gotten drunk and thrown the axe out of my own window and it had planted itself into Ary's arm. Ary was just ten years old. An innocent dwarfling still full of the hope that comes from youth. Ary had nearly died that day and I was arrested. I was held by the king in prison for three weeks while they waited to see if Ary would survive. If he had died, then I would have too. It was a miserable time full of regret. My body seized with tremors as I sobered up. I prayed nightly that the boy would die so that I could finally be put to the sword and end my torment.

But Ary had lived and in recognition for my service the king had me banished. I would never walk the streets of the Stoneaxe clan, and I would never wear their standard again. I had taken my savings and left my axe. I thought maybe with distance and enough drink I could escape the damage I had wrought.

But here it was. The axe had found me and bore the truth upon it. As I stared at the axe Bran held over me, he turned it slowly. The trees shaded the axe for a moment, but the light broke through and I saw what was written on the other side of the axe. 'DAMNED'.

"He will nere work tha forge." Bran's words were heavy with emotion, his chest heaving with every breath. "He will nere bear a shield."

He was in the right position to chop my head off. As soon as I imagined my execution, I longed for it. "Its not just 'is arm..." his voice shook, "ye took his spirit."

A tear streamed down his face and I realised my own cheeks were wet and hot with shame. "His eyes.. if you could see his eyes."

He gazed off as he said it, seeing his broken son in his memory. Abruptly he locked my own gaze to his. "And YE! Ye dance off ye merry way on a drunken pub crawl." He shook with his rage. He heaved with the effort of bearing such pain.

My mouth moved. I wanted to speak. I wanted to tell him that I was not merry. I wanted to tell him that I paid a price every day. But what was my meagre suffering in the face of a father's misery?

"Ye were let go. But where tha King's Justice failed, -I- will not." His body moved suddenly and the axe fell. In his rage the blade's aim was false, and it barely cut my thick arm. Years of swinging an axe could not be softened by a few months of neglect. My muscles were as hard as stone. I screamed, not in fear or pain, but in frustration. He swung again and again. Finally it landed square in my arm and bit the bone. He let go and the wretched axe stayed in the wound.

I moaned and my vision swam. I laid there in misery, feeling the blood slowly trickle down my arm. With the axe still in the wound, it stopped the blood from flowing too freely. I would find no quick respite from this life. I agonised for some time until I smelled smoke, then the axe was ripped loose. The smell of burning leaves and burning blood filled the air. Then Bran stepped into my vision once again, my axe smoking hot in his hands. He was covered in sweat and his face wild.

"Bran.." my voice broke as he leaned in close, his breath washed across my face and mixed with my own. "Kill me" I pleaded in a whisper.

"No!" he hissed, and pressed the hot axe to my forehead. My vision flashed white hot with pain, then fell to darkness.