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

Artist: Lincoln Renall

Campaign in Fields of the Dead

Over the course of the last two tendays, the Flaming Fist battalions have managed to secure their positions in the Fields of the Dead, surrounding the infamous Vault and containing the spread of hateful, restless dead. Several camps have been made, some of which have been designated to host any additional volunteers or adventurers seeking fame, glory or gold.

Notably, a group of worshippers of the Triadic gods and one Jergalite, who tends to disturb some low-ranking soldiers with his looks and dispassionate disposition, have settled themselves in the camp commanded by Lieutenant Uria Delwer of the 7'th Company.

While the Flaming Fist are currently holding their position without much of any issue, there remains the fact that the undead, simply, keep coming back in larger numbers at all times.

Fortunately, however, no spectral undead seem to be appearing.

((This thread can be used by players to post their responses, rp coordination or update what their characters are doing in regards to the plot. I'd like to remind everyone that actively participating in this event chain disallows joining other overreaching plots with the same character.

As any squire would do, as they head off to establish the field hospital, Declan takes shovel in hand and digs a latrine some ways back from the camp in an area with no graves.

Once finished, he cares for the Triad’s horses, Taking the saddles off and removing barding. He would fill and attach feed bags, mostly oats, an apple to each before the bag goes on.

Once the horses are squared away, he sits and cleans saddles. Making sure all road dust and debris are washed away before applying a generous layer of beeswax. Using a brush, the bit and fittings are cleaned before being stored away.

At some point in the day, he breaks away from his duties to help with meals and the clean up after that. Going right back to his duties once finished. If able to catch a few hours of sleep, he’d be on guard duty for the remainder of any time he had left.

The rain crashed down relentlessly in sheets as the night fell over the camp like a thick ominous blanket bent to consume the men stationed there. It was well into the evening, dinner had been served with little fanfare as the staple of beans and chunks of beef were served with a side of stale bread. The only saving grace was the ration of wine given to the men who’s duties were done for the evening.

Declan had no such luck. His meal was washed down with a waterskin. He shared the fire with Gaven and Mae, Alexander, Simon and Mizzrym. Captain Dunn stopped by their tents for a short time, but had slinked off to do only the Gods know what. After conversations over who was doing what, when... Declan took spear in hand and left the warmth and security of the fire for the outer reaches of the camp. There he would set up sentry as he took his shift, watching out over the Fields for any slight movement.

His attention distracted for a moment as his hand covered in heavy leather gauntlet find the piece of cloth that River had tied to his scabbard. A smile find him as his thought are taken to her for a brief moment before snapping back to the job at hand. His shift had just begun and the rain continued to fall. Shuffling could be heard from time to time, just beyond the glow of the torches. Nothing seen, yet known to be there, close, waiting for one of the men to slip.

The candlemarks came and went as Declan recited in his mind everything from passage and prayer to stories he remembered from childhood, keeping his mind busy and sharp. Focused on the inky black beyond the flickering amber of the fires. Towards the end of his shift he heard footsteps approach from within the camp and a hand finds his shoulder, offering a few stout pats.

“Get some sleep, Declan. I’ll take the watch from here.”

A smile washes over his face as Gaven’s voice pierces the silence that had been his reality for the evening. Nodding his head, the young squire gathers his things and shambles back to the camp. Into his tent where unbuckles and removes his armor, piece by piece, before collapsing onto his bedroll where sleep claims him quickly.

Art by John William Beatty

Set in a loose formation around one large, central tent - Alexander walked the grounds of the Triadic encampment - which was arranged as a support echelon for the 7th Company of the Flaming Fist to which they assisted. It was tireless work between the faithful to ensure the field hospital was well stocked and supported; a rotation of staff with skills ranging from divinely gifted to holistically trained offering to tend to the injuries of anyone within the camp - while martial forces assisted with guard and patrol details.

Alexander split his time between guard and medical duties - counting supplies and maintaining a daily log of usage, supplies on hand, and supplies needed - which would be provided for those headed back to the Gate with periodic convoy. To those whom sought treatment; would find a calm, kind voice and warmth of expression tending to their various woes with practiced hands, and quiet assurance that their suffering would be lessened soon. Instructions for continued care, and a bar of soap is handed to each departing soldier after treatment; to prevent infection and ensure proper healing in such austere conditions.

Long hours often led the Paladin to take rest in an unoccupied corner of the medical tent. Back pressed against supporting beam, head knelt against greatsword held between his legs; prepared to be roused at any moment should need of him arise.

Artist: Unknown

A Grim Harvest

A detachment of the Flaming Fist, which was ordered to evacuate a village situated in a too close for comfort distance from the Vault of the Dead's area, had found a scene horrible enough to even make the few veteran soldiers in the group bothered and unable to eat anything for the following days.

Though scant in details, it appears the village's inhabitants have been harvested and what remained of them was put into one, bloody mess. One which was promptly reanimated into unlife as the soldiers investigated the gruesome remains. While the soldiers were able to destroy the monstrosity, questions remain as to why exactly the undead, instead of the usual act of killing the living and transforming them into more of their own, have ripped people apart and then carted some of their parts off.

It appears that some undead yet remain in control of their lesser servants.

The village was burned to the ground.

A woman in purple could be seen fluttering through the camp during the day, taking supplies and essentials to those on guard duty.
During the nights she would be heard playing uplifting songs on her flute or violin to help raise morale. No matter the instance, the woman would be seen talking cheerfully and smiling brightly towards any and all who met her dusky gaze.

Simon stood under the canopy of the medical tent while the rain splashed into the muddy ground around him. The light from the torches of the patrolling soldiers on guard duty gave him insight into the current time. New figures emerging from the darkness with fire of their own and sending other which had been stationary signaled the approach of dawn with the shift change. It would not be long now until he's relieved and he can move onto the next task. The monk's mind dwelled on the soldier's reports from within the massacred village.

Since his arrival, Simon's guard and field hospital duties have been primarily in the evening due to him being able to see in the dark, a useful trait thanks to his celestial heritage. Shift changes were the time he could speak with others in the camp before they retired. It was the ideal opportunity to try and provide comfort and ease the minds of those who are troubled or scared. It was a duty not assigned to him by anyone but one he took to be the most important. When Simon was instructed to guide the faithful left behind and prepare the next generation there were doubts for him to contest with.

He was a priest whose deity had perished. Torm's presence and the blessings which were once given had vanished. Before he could be expected to lead others, Simon had to find his faith once more. In the early days of his clerical training when he was becoming accustomed to having a link to a divine being he learned how to surround his hands in divine flames. For quite some time he was concerned with what may happen if he attempted it without that link being present. It was not until he was in the heat of battle with the comrades present at the camp with him did he feel the need to attempt it regardless of the outcome. It had worked. Torm was gone but the technique Simon learned because of him still remained. That is when Simon understood, though Torm is gone his word and teachings are still present. As long as they are remembered then what Torm stood for can live on. Simon's faith in the path was renewed and strengthened.

When Simon was relieved of his post he went to join some of the soldiers who were shaken up by what they saw. Their distress was understandable. He tried to comfort them with words of duty and justice. "To be disturbed by what you saw means you are a good person. You do not want to see these horrific cruelties occur. We will find who did it and bring justice to these people." With offers of private counsel for those who request it. Torm's position in the triad was of the mediator, the glue that held them together. It was with determination that Simon sought to support the soldiers and his comrades.

After a gathering of 7th Company and adventurers witnessed a strange occurrence within the Fields of the Dead; and barrier appearing around the Vault; Alexander Marshall returned to the Forward Camp with haste; handing out soap to filthy, blood-caked soldiers and lecturing anyone he could find about taking a bath immediately to avoid sicknesses associated with contact with blood.

As the wind swept over the rolling hills of the Fields of the Dead it brought with it the smell for rot, death and decay. Rain had poured from the heavens for what seemed to be days, creating a soupy muck beneath leather and plate covered boots. The men of the 7th company stood resilient to the onslaught of calamity that seemed to befall them at every turn. Those of the Triadic church stood with them. Shoulder to shoulder in this battle between life and death itself. Days turn to night, then back again as the troop moved among the Flaming Fist detachment. Helping where they could, lending sword and shield where wanted and a steady healing hand where needed. Each in turn having their part to play in thwarting the machinations of evil.

~ ~ ~

While the rains pour and the rumors spread of the Paladin's complete hair loss the same man can be seen walking amongst the Tents with the amiable lopsided smile, when he is not on his guard shift, checking over all from the Flaming Fist, to the Triadic Church to any others who have come to aid.

Storm colored gaze would look over everyone's equipment and arms making sure they were taken care of and if there was issue Gaven would offer assistance and speak on how keeping them maintained allowed them to do their Duty to those they protect. He would also be seen asking how they all were, gauging peoples morale and offering comfort.

~ ~ ~

Alexander Marshall could be found rendering aid within the field hospital. His position within kept him confined to the tented structure for the majority of his time on the front; tending to injuries and illnesses as they arrived.

It is said that the Knight has been caught on more than one occasion - sleeping in the corner between instances, finding rest in down moments to continue to serve as he may. He made use of the crates of soap delivered to the camp; ensuring soldiers were supplied and lecturing those whom lingered too long within the encampment on the merits of proper battlefield hygiene.

~ ~ ~

Declan would see to any and all tasks set to him from either Gaven or Alexander. In the midst of that he would seek out Brother Simon and kneel with him in prayer. Once his duties to church are complete, he’d see to the Flaming Fist. Offering aid in patrols and guard shifts. Help in moving supplies from the rear of the camp to the front and generally trying to get to know the men and women of the 7th Company.

What precious time he finds to himself, he spends maintaining his gear. Sharpening his blade and wiping his armor down with an oily rag. The wax of bees is melted down and into the leather of the straps, that same oily rag wiping over the buckles and clasps. He finds sleep here and there, where he can. Trusting his fellow soldier to keep him safe while he finds a little rest.

~ ~ ~

As Aramon stood the younger of the Triadic Knights Order, he was often seen standing next to Alexander Marshall or Gaven Arkalis, the young squire paying closer attention to instruction and guidance from his mentors. Occasionally he would glance out to the fields, the sight of undead bringing back horrid memories of his time in Thay, though taking a breath he would steel his resolve and look back to whichever of his Knights was guiding him at the time. This darkness had to be stopped, before it got more innocents caught up in it, and more innocents killed. A hand goes briefly to the holy symbol at his neck, remembering the oath he swore when Torm sacrificed himself to stop Bane. He would hold his vigil till the end. No matter how close that end would be.

~ ~ ~

On one early morning Simon sought the support of Gaven and the two squires Aramon and Declan. They set out into the fields with a cart to gather large slabs of rock to be the foundation for multiple tarp rain shelters. When they came across a large rock outcropping Simon got to work chopping large chunks of rocks with his fists. The rocks would then further be processed into crude rectangular shapes which the two squires and Gaven set onto the cart.

During periods of rest Simon would speak to the squires....

"There are many logistics to consider in a successful mission. Morale is one of the most important. The sacrifices we make today by working our bodies in these unfavorable conditions will improve the morale of everybody. The relief found in being dry while performing ones duties is the counter that helps balance morale. We are not meant to focus on just our own duties, rather, we must also look at what eases the burdens which prevent others from doing their duty. That is what it means to be a Tormtar."

~ ~ ~

In the midst of the chaos that surrounded the camp, within it was becoming a well oiled machine. One brought to life by their shared desire to see Baldur’s Gate safe. While the Vault loomed in the distance, the forces that stood against it gathered. Tensions mounted as the days passed. Though they felt prepared, one never knows what might come to pass in the coming battle. They each leaned on the next because together, they just may see this through....

The End of the Vault

A large battle erupted in the Fields of the Dead. The Fifth, Seventh and Eighth companies of the Flaming Fist have engaged numerous undead creatures, mostly skeletons and zombies, in order to contain them from spreading South and East. The fight was as expected; neither undead nor the Flaming Fist gained any ground. That is until the undead were sent reeling as if the core of their being was disrupted. Realising the opportunity as it presented itself, the Fifth and Eighth company pressed their enemy and quickly gained land towards the Vault of the Dead.

The Seventh Company, however, fought a very bitter battle. Against a nightwalker of exceptional size, many were killed or wounded in the struggle. Before a final blow could be delivered and the commanding officer of the Company was slain, rumour has it that Jergal himself appeared, cut down the Nightwalker in a duel of titanic proportions and set onwards into the Vault of the Dead.

The reports of what happened next are unreliable, at best. Many soldiers say that it was the most nightmarish place they've ever seen- that is if they speak at all. Supposedly, hordes of undead were laid low, their leader- a dracolich- destroyed. Some speak of some being of pure darkness, made of hatred and pure evil that descended upon Jergal, but the deity had annihilated it from existence.


The Vault of the Dead is destroyed. After it remains only a crater of what was the largest stronghold of the undead in the area. The Flaming Fist still remain in the field as there are yet active undead groups which need to be brought to an end, but many already hail the entire operation as a massive success.

A piece of good news in a world nearly devoid of hope.