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

I created this as a place to do some creative writing during the spare moments I find here and there. I am not a gifted writer, but I do enjoy trying to craft stories, and I have found that the process helps me get to know my characters a little better.

These tales will be glimpses into Vanira’s reverie, memories of an elf who has lived for centuries. Some entries will be short stories that lead into the memory she is dwelling on, while others will simply be the memory itself. There will be no strict timeline; the events will appear in no particular order.

The moments will draw from many places in her life: her backstory, roleplay from an NWN1 server, unseen moments between scenes, and events that have happened here on this server.

What I love most is that Vanira was originally created to be a disposable character, yet her story grew and moved in directions I never expected. Over the years she has lived a long and often difficult life, becoming a far more complex character than I ever intended. She continues to grow and has surprised me more than once during the time I have played her.

With that said, I suppose it is time to begin.
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Vanira settled onto a sofa near the fireplace in the dining hall. At this late hour only a handful of the Order remained awake, those rotating through the night watches or lingering over low conversation before sleep. Even so, she preferred this place to solitude.

Here, the presence of others felt strangely comforting.

She trusted them.

The thought still surprised her.

Once she had questioned her decision to formally join the Order of the Radiant Heart. Those doubts had faded with time. The work demanded different skills than she had once relied upon, and some tasks were more difficult now, yet the change had shaped her into something better.

Her duties rarely involved standing beside them on the walls or riding out to meet danger directly. Instead she listened and watched for the quieter threats. Rumors, whispers, subtle movements from those who preferred to work unseen. Baldur’s Gate had many enemies, and not all of them announced themselves openly.

Groups like the Zhentarim thrived in shadows.

Shadows she understood well.

The dancing flames glinted off the gem as she drew it from her pocket. It was a stone she often used to focus her mind before slipping into reverie. The blue diamond had been a cherished gift from a dragon she had aided near Candlekeep, and it had become one of her most prized possessions because of the memories bound to it.

Though tonight it was not that memory she sought.

Not all of her kin possessed the ability to guide the memories that surfaced during reverie, but she had undergone extensive training that granted her greater control. Even so, the mind did not always obey. Sometimes reverie betrayed her, dragging old memories into the light without warning.

For that she envied those with rounded ears. Humans could wake from nightmares knowing they were only dreams.

Elves were not so fortunate.

Wintery blue eyes lowered to the gem resting lightly between her fingers as firelight refracted through its depths. Others moved quietly about the hall. Boots crossed the stone floor and low voices drifted from nearby tables. Yet it was the voice of the silver dragon she heard most clearly. The quiet presence of Sunathar, the fragment of a soul now bound gently to her own. His familiar presence brushed against her thoughts, warm and steady within her soul. It had become a steady certainty within her mind, as familiar now as her own thoughts. Without meaning to, she felt her mind drift inward.

And the reverie took her.

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The warmth of the dining hall faded. Stone walls, smoke, and old memory settled around her.

Cold, hard eyes of icy blue stared into the fire before her. The pop of small pockets of steam trapped within the burning wood was the only sound. For a moment she envied the brief escape of that trapped air as it burst free from the wood that had imprisoned it, though the thought passed quickly before it could take root.

Emotions were dangerous. They consumed, they blinded, and they led to fatal mistakes. Mistakes she refused to make.

Let the others crumble.

She would live.

Rage was among the most dangerous of emotions. It made one act too soon, robbed a person of patience, and hid the dangers waiting for the smallest opening. Still, she would kill him one day. That promise she had already made to herself. When that day came, she would kill him slowly and savor every moment of it.

But that day was not yet.

There were still things to learn from her master, lessons she would one day twist and shape for her own purpose. She would strike when he least expected it. The long game allowed quiet movements on the board to pass unnoticed. She possessed the years of her kin.

Time was no enemy of hers.

She stepped away from the fire and approached the standing mirror. A fair face gazed back at her. Pale, flawless skin framed wintery blue eyes and a delicate nose. Lowering her chin slightly, she looked upward through her lashes and allowed her lips to twitch into a hesitant expression that almost resembled a smile. Silvery white hair fell in loose curls around her face, completing the illusion. The look of someone timid. Someone likely to bolt at the first sudden movement.

In an elven village there would be many others more beautiful than she, yet here in this human city pointed ears alone made her something rare. The difference lent her an exotic allure she had already learned to cultivate.

She studied the reflection carefully, looking past the beauty and searching instead for its purpose.

A weapon. A truth revealed. Survival required a mask.

The mirror showed only innocence.

It did not show the girl learning how to kill.

She practiced the expression again, feeling each muscle shift into place. The tilt of her chin. The widening of her eyes. The hesitant curve of her lips. Each movement was memorized until the feeling of it settled into her mind. For now, this was the only weapon she possessed.

She reached up and brushed her hair over one shoulder. Then she turned slightly, glancing back toward the mirror.

The mirror did not lie.

Pale skin was broken by cruel lines where his blade had carved. The wounds had been left untended, allowed to fester. A reminder of his power. A lesson carved into flesh.

She was his until the task was complete. The geas she had agreed to bound that truth into her very soul. The invisible chains that held her were just as real as the iron ones he sometimes locked around her wrists when discipline was required.

Survival was everything. Any price could be paid. Because when this was finished, he would be as dead as the many he had ordered her to kill.

Wintery blue eyes studied every foul mark upon her body. Bruises dark against pale skin and scars that would never fully fade.

The bruises would fade from her skin.

The memory of them would not.

Those were forever etched in her mind.

One day she would have her revenge.

He would not see the blade coming.

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The memory dissolved slowly.

Warmth returned first.

Firelight flickered against her closed eyes, different from the harsh flames of the past. The warmth here anchored her back to the present.

Then came sound.

A quiet snore vibrated faintly through the stone walls of the dining hall, drifting easily to her pointed ears. Most would have missed it. She did not.

His voice followed. The memory still troubles you. Sunathar’s voice rumbled like distant mountains, deep and steady as it settled gently over her thoughts. But you survived it.

Vanira’s fingers closed slowly around the gem. The cool surface of the blue diamond rested in her palm, a stark contrast to the warmth of the fire before her. Much like her past and the life she lived now.

That girl had done what was necessary to survive. Vanira did not despise her for it. She was who she had become because of her.

For a long moment she sat quietly, the gem held loosely between her fingers as the fire crackled softly nearby.

The girl in the mirror had lived.

That had been enough.

At last she opened her eyes. The dining hall had fallen silent while she drifted in reverie. Those not on watch had long since retired to their bunks. Somewhere down the corridor a quiet snore still echoed faintly against the stone walls.

Vanira lifted the gem slightly, watching the firelight fracture into small shards of blue within its depths. For an instant her reflection shimmered there. The mirror had once shown innocence.

The gem showed truth.

Not the girl she had once been, but the woman she had become.

She slipped the gem carefully back into her pocket. Rising from the sofa, she crossed the quiet dining hall and stepped into the dim corridor beyond. Most of the keep slept now, leaving the night watch and a handful of lanterns to guard the silence.

Her desk waited where she had left it earlier, a small stack of reports resting neatly upon its surface. Rumors to sift. Movements to track. Names to remember.

The shadows of Baldur’s Gate rarely slept.

Neither did she.

She could feel and smell it all again, the same as that day. The memory always began with the wind. In reverie she did not simply remember it. She stood within it again.

There was a breeze moving through the crowd gathered in the town square. It slipped between bodies and tugged at cloaks and hair. The wind was both gift and curse. It offered brief relief from the heat, yet carried with it the stench of chamber pots freshly dumped and the sour press of too many bodies gathered on a humid morning.

The crowd buzzed with restless energy. Anger mixed with excitement as their voices rose together, growing louder when movement stirred near the gate of their lord. Shouts rang out condemning those who would soon be brought before them.

A silvery strand slipped free from beneath the hood of the robe she wore to hide herself. Careful fingers tucked it away again. She dared not draw the knight’s attention. If he saw her, he would take her back to the house. He did not wish her eyes to witness this.

To see. To witness. She knew that she must.

The gates opened.

The noise faltered for a moment as the crowd fell into uneasy silence. All eyes fixed upon those emerging from the gate. A shout from her right made the small robed figure flinch.

Five prisoners were led forward toward the waiting platform. Their steps were uneven and uncertain, all but two.

The man walked as though he owned the place. His chin was lifted, his stride steady. Rotten food struck his shoulders and chest as the crowd hurled their disgust, yet he paid it no mind. His rich brown eyes moved calmly over the gathering. When those eyes met hers, she looked away at once. The chill slid down her spine, sudden and unwelcome.

Behind him walked the elven woman. Her clothing was torn and filthy from the cell where she had been kept. Dirt smudged her face, yet even so she remained beautiful. Pride lingered in the set of her shoulders, grace in the way she walked. Sunlight caught her silver hair and pale skin, and murmurs rippled through the crowd as some voices softened to remark upon her beauty instead of her crimes. Surely she could not be guilty.

The hooded figure took a single step forward, fighting the sudden urge to run to her.

That step was enough. The elven woman noticed.

Recognition flashed across her face, swift and unmistakable. Her expression hardened quickly into a deliberate mocking sneer. Beauty warped into something colder, harsher. Those violet eyes fixed upon the hooded child and cast their invisible daggers.

Any in the crowd who had begun to pity the condemned woman quickly turned against her. Her beauty vanished behind the sneer, and with it the crowd’s sympathy.

The roar of voices returned. Louder now. Deafening. The girl wanted to cover her ears but did not dare. The people sounded much the same as they had two tendays ago, the cheers eager to be entertained, when they gathered to watch the troupe perform. They were here for a spectacle, and a spectacle they would get.

However, this would be the final performance.

For most, it would be forgotten soon enough. For the hooded figure, she knew it would be a memory that would never fade. Reliving it now proved that truth.

Men upon the platform spoke, though their words were lost to her. Even after centuries she could not recall them. Her gaze remained fixed upon the man and the elven woman.

The man's eyes found her again. His stare held her fast, freezing her in place. A predator even at the gallows. She felt caught in it, as though those eyes might drag her with him toward death, or perhaps claim her life in his place.

A burlap hood dropped over his head.

The spell broke.

Air rushed back into her lungs, a breath that she did not know she held, in a sharp gasp as the noose was drawn around his neck.

She turned her head.

The elven woman was watching her.

Something had changed. There was something in those violet eyes that the girl she was then could not understand. It was a look she would spend centuries trying to understand.

The jeers faded once more into distant noise. Time seemed to stretch thin between them.

Would she miss her?

Yes. The familiar is always felt when it disappears.

That did not make her weak.

She was not weak.

The sharp crack of wood split the air as the platform dropped away beneath their feet. Bodies fell until the ropes snapped them to a violent halt. This was the moment the memory never rushed. Even now the sound echoes through her reverie.

Two died quickly. Their necks broke with merciful finality.

The dwarf struck the ground with a heavy thud, his body torn free when the rope snapped. His head followed a moment later, rolling to rest at the feet of the crowd. Someone nearby retched violently at the sight. Another foul stench joined the thick morning air.

The hooded girl saw none of it. Her eyes were fixed upon the elven woman.

Even those who step forward bravely to their death fight to live in the end. The body struggles for breath whether pride wills it or not. Hands reached upward, grasping at the noose.

The woman’s movements slowed. Her eyes clouded, though not yet with death.

Were those tears? She had never seen the woman cry before. Not once in all the years they had traveled together.

Why now? Did she fear death's whisper at last?

No.

Something else lingered there. A realization the child would not understand for centuries.

Tears slid down the elven woman’s cheeks until at last the struggle ended. How long it took the woman to die, the hooded figure would never know. In memory it felt just as endless.

Violet eyes stared ahead, empty.

Movement drew her attention away. The man’s feet twitched slightly within the rope. He would suffer longer.
The man deserved no less.

The girl looked once more to the elven woman. She would be strong now. She must be. No one remained to teach her how to survive.

She could not stay in the knight’s house with the man and his wife who wished to claim her as a daughter.

No.

She would not.

The spectacle was over. The crowd broke into mixed reactions as people spoke and began to disperse. Her gaze searched the crowd until it found him. Sir Owen. He stood somewhere among them still, the knight who had led the raid upon their camp and ordered the performers seized.

Her lips never moved. But the vow formed all the same.

One day I will return, Sir Owen. I will kill you for taking her from me.

There had been no love between the woman and the child. Love was weakness. It was vulnerability. Something that could be used against her.

Now she had purpose. But first she must grow stronger.

She studied the platform, the ropes, the men who guarded it.

First she must learn how to kill a knight.

The girl took one last look at the elven woman hanging from the rope.

“Good-bye, Mother,” she whispered.
---------------------------------------------------

The memory always ended with the breeze and those words.

A new realization came to her as she drifted out of reverie. She had long believed her mother did not love her. All her life she had been taught that love was a weakness, something other could use against her. Never in her childhood had the woman shown her affection in any way the girl could understand.

Only now, centuries later, did she begin to understand the truth of it. Her mother had loved her enough to be hated for it, if that hatred kept her alive.

It had been a warped way of showing it. Yet in that final moment her mother had tried to protect her the only way she could. By making certain the girl would not run to her. By making certain she would live. The world preyed upon hearts that were too open, too trusting. Emotions could bring death. Her mother had been making certain Vanira would not become their prey.

Now it was her turn to let the tears fall.

AI generated art

The firelight flickered as it devoured the wood in the hearth, casting restless shadows across the walls. To one who noticed such things, there was anger in their movement.

A harshness.

A quiet, lingering pain that somehow still gave off light.

Perhaps that impression did not belong to the fire at all. The small elf seated upon the sofa remained motionless, her breathing slow as she tried to quiet the battle within her mind.

Rarely had Vanira felt so angry with herself. Not for anything she had done, but for the doubts she was allowing herself to entertain.

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The reverie began with his voice.

That easy drawl of his, still foreign to the Coast. The words came slow and stretched, each syllable lingering a moment longer than most. It was a charming sound, one that made it difficult to stay angry with him for long. Yet there was a roughness beneath it as well, a harsher edge that surfaced when the moment demanded it. Like the rest of the man, his voice carried a noticeable duality.

They were alone in a private room of an inn in Amn.

“Don't get me wrong. I am a confident man." He had leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees as the firelight flickered along the edge of that smile of his. The sort that promised mischief and trouble. The sort she had long ago decided she should never trust with her heart. She had learned not to step too close to him when he smiled like that. The Cat had an unfortunate talent for making good decisions seem less appealing.

"Let not that sway far from your mind, but a woman deserves a man who is able to humble himself to her. I mean... in chess, a king is nothing without the protection of his queen."

At first she had taken that as a veiled threat. Her mind had always been quick to see danger where others might not. At times, paranoia stepped in front of her instincts. There were times when she had been wrong.

But chess analogies carried more weight since she had returned to the Coast. The man beside her was a threat to her Knight, a follower of the Red Lady. His words spoke of the queen protecting her king… and how removing her would weaken him.

To Vanira, the meaning seemed clear enough.

Her observant wintery blue eyes, however, spotted no ill will behind those words. Perhaps she had latched onto them because she did not wish to think on the other words spoken. Then the other part of those words hit her, wounding her and shaking her confidence in what she believed to be true in her heart. Was she really okay with how the… well, it was not a relationship anymore, only… when there was need. Something never spoken of. Only… advances made when the moment allowed.

Still, she defended him, reaching for a chess analogy of her own. Words spoken out of loyalty, and out of denial to a truth she did not wish to see in that moment.

“Plenty of kings manage well enough without a queen at their side. Visitations could be made across the board to satisfy the need for play without distracting from the game itself, if it was so desired.”

"Then I shall never be a King,” he said with certainty. “Visitations… that is not love. I aspire for love in my life, not a distraction. Sure, there come tasks, but love should never be considered a distraction from what drives a person to complete their tasks. For me, love is a driving factor. Though I am without it at the moment, I only know the day I find it, it will only make me stronger. Better." His eyes never left hers, studying her in the way he often did. Not pressing. Not demanding. Simply waiting to see what she would choose to say.

The Cat had always been strangely patient with her in moments like this. As though he understood that pushing would only make her dig her heels in deeper.

Most men never seemed to grasp that.

His words struck deeper than she cared to admit. Fresh wounds ripped open. How did the Cat see things that were never spoken? How could a man who had failed so badly in his own relationships speak with such conviction? With truth? The Cat had an irritating habit of noticing things she preferred remain hidden.

Her knight had spoken of love as a weakness that could be turned against them. Yet here the Cat sat before her, speaking of it as a strength.

He was a fool if he believed his words would change her mind about him. The Cat would never work against her. Never truly hurt her. Of that she was certain. Some instincts were simply impossible to ignore. He kept trying to convince her that he loved her. Not with grand gestures or poetry. Simply with the stubbornness of a man who refused to give up on an answer he believed would one day change. She refused to believe his declaration was real. He flirted with nearly every woman who came by. He simply felt the same pull she did, it was nothing more. Attraction is not love. Until she saw a change in his behavior, she could not believe him. Would not believe him.

Cats wandered. They roamed. That was their nature. Yet somehow she still found herself listening for his footsteps when he was near. She refused to build her heart around something so unreliable. Something that offered no loyalty to a partner. One day the Cat would tire of chasing the mouse and wander off, like all cats eventually did.

When that day came, she told herself she would not miss him at all.

How she was able to keep her poise, she was not quite sure. Love had made her stronger. Love helped keep her grounded and focused. It kept her moving forward. Love kept her from slipping back toward the darkness that still attempted to woo her back. The love of the people around her continued to save her from herself.

Most of her focus had always been on the tasks ahead. Love was not a distraction for her, but a part of her. Having spent so many centuries without it, she craved to be truly seen.

To be cherished.

To be loved.

To be reminded, now and then, that she was worthy of it when the doubts returned.

Strange, considering she had once been trained to believe emotions were weakness. Once she felt almost nothing. She had been so dead inside, a hollow shell of existence that brought only death.

Removing the light so only those who lived in the dark could thrive.

Now emotions, though still something she was learning to understand, brought life to her soul. A life she was grateful for.

Hearing her Knight say that love could be used against them as a weapon came as no surprise. Let them try. One of the reasons they worked so well together was that they did not have to worry about the other one in a fight. They both knew how to keep focused and trust in the other’s ability to stay on their feet. Together, they were stronger.

The Knight’s next words, though, pulled that strength out from under her feet. The ending had not come because of anger or betrayal.

The elf was caught off balance. All had been well, and now suddenly it was not. She did not agree with the decision that had been made for her.

She paused on that thought.

The decision had been made for her. That was the part that stung the most.

She had never been fond of people deciding what was best for her.

That hurt more than he would ever really know, but she would try to keep that from him. She must. Once the Trickster was dealt with, they could unpause this…

The elf flinched as new doubts wormed their way in. A new unseen wound. Another reason to keep the scars upon her back visible.

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The reverie slowly loosened its grip, the memory slipping away. The fire still burned before her, its light dancing along the stone walls just as it had when the reverie began. She remained motionless there upon the sofa, staring into the shifting flames.

The Cat’s words lingered in her mind, stubborn things that refused to be dismissed.

Unwelcome.

Persistent.

And far more difficult to ignore than she cared to admit.

She exhaled quietly and let her gaze fall back to the flames. Some thoughts were better left untouched for another night.

((RP is from 2021. While cleaning out some old doc. files, I stumbled across this half written piece and decided to dust it off and finally finish it. Looking back now, it makes me laugh. Vani had no idea then what was waiting for her down the road. Oh, Dunn, it has been a ride.))