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

Morgan watched the snow trickle downwards over the Gate, in paths both predictable and random. Sitting in his rooms within the Vale estate, his glacier gaze tracked the flakes as they went this way, and that way, and all ended on the cobbled streets below. People journeyed along the pathways despite the chilled weather and the wind that nibbled bites from any exposed skin, for any multitude of reasons. Children played in the fallen snow, building frosted figures dressed in bits of discarded clothing or trash.

A ceramic mug of scalding tea sat in his hands, steaming upwards and unnoticed by the magus. Morgan breathed onto the window, the heat of his breath fogging the glass for a moment before evaporating. Books littered his otherwise usually ordered quarters, open to random pages and hanging off shelves like desperate men hanging on for dear life on a cliffside.

He took a sip.

"Well. Look who's come home. Only took the world going mad, little mageling." A disheveled man looked up at the polished butler, his hair and eyes equally wild, his clothing torn asunder and his feet bare and covered in frost.

The flavor of mint invaded his nose and throat, cleansing it like a winter frost.

"A contract is a contract, Morgan. You just happen to be a footnote in a trade agreement. No use whining about it, now is there?" Shadows danced around the demon, concealing its features except for its eyes. Its eyes, green and bright, look amused.

Corvin, her feathers black as ink and reminiscent of it running down the page in the way they gleamed in the firelight, ruffled in her sleep, her head tucked within her wings. She let out a sigh.

"Tell me a story, little mage." Icehauptannarthanyx smiled a nightmare grin, filled with blades.

Flakes danced, and Morgan watched.

A boy peered into his father's den. Bookshelves lined the walls, surrounding a desk made of a black wood. The flames from the fireplace situated in the corner danced in captivity, casting shadows around the walls that similarly writhed amongst the leather-bound tomes gracing the walls. At the desk, a dark haired man with silver streaks along the sides was hard at work, writing in one of the aforementioned volumes with a pearl inlaid pen. His hand moved with certainty and precision, the sound of the tip scratching with a pleasant tempo as he did so.

The boy's glacial colored gaze drew towards the tome that he was writing in, a leather bound volume like much of the rest. Black leather, and thin. Except, it's pages, they seemed off. It was too thin, wasn't it? Or was it thick? The air around it shimmered like --

"Morgan." A soft voice sliced through his thoughts. The boy's eyes snapped upwards to the dark haired man, who was now looking at him with a practically identical set of eyes with amusement. More lines, obviously. Something soul wearying in them, perhaps.

"Yes, Father." Morgan dipped his head in acknowledgement. "I was wondering, perhaps, ah, maybe if you could deem. Uh, er, if you could find it acceptable to--."

"You'll want a story before bed, then." The older man's lips curled in a soft smile. "Come here, boy." He beckoned with a hand to the desk.

A grin that lit up the room better than any magelight shone from Morgan's face as he bounded over to his father and practically jumped onto his knee. "Can you use the magic, when you tell it?" He asked, his voice excited and losing any sense of formality. "Please?" Morgan's father's smile slipped slightly. "The Art isn't to be used carelessly, Morgan. It is a holy thing, given to us by the Goddess Herself." The excitement in the boy's eyes began to fade.

"But." The older man's smile returned. "She also teaches us to create beauty with it when we are able. So ..." Long fingers, delicate but strong, flickered in somatic shapes as he began to speak. Morgan's eyes widened as shapes appeared in the air, crackling to life. His father's voice, a deep timbre that resonated in the room, filled the air.

"Once, long ago, there was a beautiful girl who lived by a river. Her only companion was a sparrow, and she sang to her sparrow every day as she did her chores. One day, as she was washing her clothing in the river, a devil in the form of a man happened by ..." As he spoke, shapes appeared in the air above them; a house, the faint figure of a girl, a river that ran across the room. He continued speaking, his voice carrying softly into the hallway, where a dark haired woman listened quietly with a smile on her face.

Morgan's eyes drifted shut as he sat in his father's embrace, listening to the story wind its way, like a path through the wood.

-------------------------------------------

Morgan's eyes snapped open, the howling winds blistering his face with their icy claws. The ragged beard covering his face barely made a difference in the cold as the sight of the snow covered peaks stretched beyond the horizon.

His food, gone.

His magic, gone.

The scarecrow of a man that remained dragged himself from his ensconced makeshift shelter within the snowdrift. Pulling the tattered remnants of his coat around him, he trudged onward. He blinked his frost covered eyelids, and took a step. Then another. And another. Onward, to the place he least wanted to return. To his home.