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

While walking the path in search of my brother Takeda,
a man revealed himself like light upon moving water,
present, yet difficult to grasp.

He named himself Krow-Ser.
A place called Darkhold is where he lingers.
There, he said, he would seek my brother’s trace.

Hope took root not in his promise, but in his words.
When he learned my blood hails from Wa,
his eyes sharpened, and he spoke of the Samurai
as one speaks of a blade both feared and revered.

Strange it was to hear him confess
that his dream as a swordsman
is to one day cross steel with a Bushi.

He believes himself strong enough to survive such meeting,
yet he does not understand
the Samurai’s blade does not test strength
but it decides fate.

Still, my thoughts linger on his name.
Krow-Ser.
It bends close to the sound of the black-winged one,
a bird long known as a divine messenger.
Perhaps this is no coincidence.

If so, then perhaps at last
the Heavenly Deities have turned their gaze toward my path,
and found it worthy of guidance.

The path to Soubar bent in uneasy ways
Even beneath the shelter of the caravan
the andeddo were avoided like stagnant water.

This village gathers would should not gather.
Gajin of many winds and layers,
many born where they should not walk.

My Hannya mask would not be an ornament.
But if so many shapes exist in one place,
strong human emotion had hardened
and danger lingers.

People kept behind iron, cages without voices,
and then an Oni named Gu-ro crossed my path.
Offering aid in my search for my brother,
but not as charity.

He demanded proof I could help him first.
Nothing was asked about my blood or Wa,
only what my hands could accomplish.

Strange to watch him practice yūdō since
in Wa the bow often rests in female hands.
Whilst kendo was mostly walked by men.
Perhaps here customs turn like leaves in the wind.

When my task was done,
I sensed Gu-ro’s taste for gold.
Yet within hair-rising eyes,
honor had not departed.

In Soubar, Krow-ser stood before me again.
Surprise, if only briefly broke his facade.
Walking at his arm came a woman of few words.

They guided me to a Vale that echoed faintly of home.
Farms resting between patient hills,
watchful guards standing like rooted pines.

As Krow-ser aided me at a messageboard,
light around me dimmed.
A shadow fell not from cloud,
but from presence.

A massive Oni more nearby then I have ever known.
My breath was silenced with the curved horns,
and skin the color of stone.
Yet it were the crimson eyes that stirred
the fear that my search for Takeda had ended.

Krow-ser however knew him,
and introduced him as Ze-roz.
Much was then spoken beyond my understanding,
but one word pierced through.
To Krow-ser Ze-roz was Shogun.

Sceptic I tried to comprehend their words.
In Wa, the Shogun is the axis of power,
yet here stood such man without escort or bushi.
Before a commoner’s inn.

This land distorts the shape of certainty.

I was not commanded nor threatened however.
Instead, invited to a circle which claimed knowledge.
Only if I bind myself to their cause,
until steel finds rest and blood grows cold.

I sit with unanswered thoughts.
A promise glimmering as polished steel
might reflect lies nevertheless.

Is the only path truly a road
that leads further away from home?

In Soubar, Krow-ser and the Woman of Few Words
stood in quiet exchange with a dark-skinned Erufu.
I sensed power was gathering like soundless storm.
In her presence and in the vast shape sitting near her.

Never in my life have I beheld a yoru-gumo such as this.
Names were spoken, but I will not carry nor write them
as some sounds and symbols invite endings.
The spider of night is an ill sign, to meet its gaze
is to shorten one’s lifespan.

Takeda deserves more.

Words moved faster than my understanding.
Yet intent never requires translation.
Steel was readied as Krow-ser spoke bushi.

Then the world loosened its grip.
Weight vanished, sight fractured,
thoughts scattered like leaves in floodwater.

When ground returned under my feet
the land wore a different face.
Here flames ruled the surface, air heavy,
mountains were steep with heat.

Battle became labor against many,
mostly Onibi and fire-born yōkai.
The Dāku Erufu shed her form,
and stood as winged Oni.

Fight turned from contest into harvest.

At the trail’s end waited a thing beyond measure.
No name rose but bakadekai, too large for sense.
Time thinned and broke during that struggle.
Only effort bound us together till the thing fell.

However, victory came not from mercy.
It came from force unsoftened.

When the Woman of Few Words fell,
it took Krow-ser’s hands and my prayer
to return her to standing.

The Erufu did not intervene.

I wonder at her immense power.
Was it only used to destroy?

Even as some hands choose ruin,
they also could shape the world otherwise.

The road walked with Krow-ser,
the Woman of Few Words
and a band of warborn women
carried us through many faces
of their curious world.
Lands where iceborn yōkai breathe frost,
beaches ruled by pirates like the wokō,
dark mountains commanded by fire.

Yet it was not blade or beast
that weighed upon my thoughts.
It is the shape of this continent’s heart.
In Wa there are seasons to all things.
During times of prospect, intellect leads.
And Chaos is answered by the military.
We call such the time of the blade.

Here, no matter expires.
Races and cultures circle endlessly,
only few commit to resolution.
Yet many possess the strength.
Skill is common, purpose is rare.

Also the Woman of Few Words
bore no resemblance.
She holds the art of guiding Ki
back to its source.
Saisei, or Life Returner
as it would be called,
more than once stitched our broken flow.
Sealing wounds that could finish lines,
restoring spirit when doom pressed close.
Without spectacle, without hesitation.

If her shadow ever lengthens beyond light,
then mine cannot turn away.
Even as I am still unable to write
the debt in their tongue.

Tonight I spoke words that cannot be returned.

An oath is a bridge built from one heart to another,
and once the bridge is crossed it cannot be unbuilt.

Takeda once moved like that.

Understanding this myself is crucial.
Breaking an oath would not only mean dishonor.
It would create confusion,
if not the collapse of the self.

So if the road to Takeda passes through madness,
then it is madness that must be walked.

The agreement speaks of three years,
and thus it avoids blind servitude.
If Takeda is found during that time,
my future no longer matters.
If he isn’t, direction will abandon me.

However, tonight I thought of her.

Takeda’s wife.

Her hands were warm when she
placed mine over her belly.
She smiled at me,
yet her eyes were made of waiting.
I told her I would bring him back.
At that time I knew all too well
what such words cost.

My future is sharp and unambiguous,
as shadow follows form,
as steel follows hand.

The ink of both oaths is quiet now.
So is my heart.

But tomorrow,
I will walk.

As from this day he is the Taichou.

He spoke of the Dāku Erufu,
of their cities beneath the earth,
where chains are traded like coin,
and names are stripped from souls.

He asked about Takeda,
and whether a man of Wa
had been installed as slave,
or something less.

No answer came,
yet deeper cities remain.
Hope, like a vein of ore,
has not yet been exhausted.

When we speak to each other,
our words no longer pass through mist.
Magic bound our tongues together,
and I hear his language clear.

Yet clarity is not understanding,
some meanings not carried by sound,
but by history and by experience.
And I do not yet share his history.

He came with two gifts.
The mask was quiet,
the katana was not
when it drew near.

My body moved before my thoughts,
not in fear or in disrespect.
It was instinct the Taichou watched
when this unfamiliar weapon touched.

In a secluded room
he asked for my hand.
As the strange material cut,
pain rose like winter wind.

His eyes did not judge,
they only observed.
Truth was revealed,
my blood not entirely Wa’s.

Somehow I always have known,
though it’s never been given name.
Once there were whispers,
like insects in the walls of our home.

My family crushed those whispers.
Silence was chosen over truth.
Now truth stands before me,
without mercy.

I will not ever bring myself home.
Shame would follow my foodsteps
like smoke following fire.
It would bring ruin upon my family.

Strangely this does not break my oath.
It aligns with it.
When Takeda is found
my path ends besides the Taichou.

If he is not, it be elsewhere.
Wa is no longer a destination,
though I am aware even rivers
do not choose their sea.

Not ever will I weep for my place.

I am still myself.

I am my . . .

Akuma