Hello there and thank you for looking at this humble writing of mine. Basically, this story is my own interpretation of Bishop's past. The player gets to know a lot about him (compared to all the other companions), and I decided to take all the little hints and bits and pieces and weave a story around them. I planned to do this for a very long time, and now I finally found the time to really do it. Well, I guess an estimated 1,000 people did this before me (I don't know really, but with Bishop being a fangirl-favourite and all…), and of course I do nothing new here then. But maybe someone out there will enjoy the story nonetheless. I do my best to portrait Bishop neither as a poor victim, nor as some soulless monster. I simply think Bishop is a great character, and he makes me think about him, pity him and be angry at him a lot ;-). Anyways, English isn't my mother tongue, so I hope I didn't make any grammar or vocabulary mistakes. If I did – feel free to correct me :-) So, enough talking, I hope you enjoy the first little chapter.
Chapter 1
The pain was simply unbearable. Every move, no matter how slight, sent waves of pain through his whole body. And the heat. The heat was just as unbearable as the pain was, although the fire had already stopped consuming the little village. His vision was blurred, but he knew what lay all around him. The stank of burnt human flesh was enough to affirm the bitter truth. The corpses of the foolish villagers, charred by fire, burnt black. The Luskans were among the corpses, too. This whole place stank of burnt flesh, blood and fire. His hand trembled as he ripped the last remaining arrow out of his body. The Luskans had shot a lot of arrows at him while he'd tried to kill all those bastards. Some had even hit their target. He knew that he caused himself even more injury with ripping them out, but he didn't care.
The first Luskan had been really easy – a single cut along the man's filthy throat, and the blood had been spilling from the greasy-haired guy like water from a fountain. The second Luskan had still been easy, too. He had been too surprised that the newest recruit suddenly decided to fight against him, and so Bishop had pushed him into the fire, where the man's clothes had caught fire.
There had been a villager, his whole body in flames, who had thrown himself on one of the Luskans in his last remaing seconds – not on purpose, the man had simply been driven insane by the pain the fire caused him. But he took the Luskan with him to the Fugue Plane nonetheless. The Luskan had died in the fire, burning like all the villagers of the little backwater village called Redfallow's Watch. The other Luskans, who hadn't been killed by the flames or the villagers had been much more difficult for Bishop then.
The screams of the dying and the crackling of the hungry flames that devoured the village – he'd heard nothing of it in those slow passing minutes he had spent fighting against the Luskan bastards. But now, as he lay only some feet away from the charred earth, and the parts of his body the Luskans had hurt with their blades and arrows and the skin the fire had slightly burned caused him so much pain, he heard it all. Although only the blowing wind lamented loudly for this forsaken place, Bishop could hear the screams of the dead, and he felt empty.
His hand, still gripping the arrow, trembled even more now. He was growing weaker by the minute. His clothes were wet with his own blood. There was a disturbing rush in his ears that kept him from thinking clearly. But still, somehow he felt happy. A feeling he had never known before crept into his heart. Freedom. He felt free. All those chains, everything that had kept him a prisoner in this existence, slowly disappeared, as his soul began to loose itself from his body. He knew he wouldn't fight against it. His blood kept flowing, watering the ground, and each and every drop he gave to the hungry earth made him a bit more free. He didn't fear death. Not anymore.
Images appeared before his inner eye, memories from a past left behind. There was a woman, with thick dark hair and dark eyes who smiled at him. She was a lot larger than he was, and she took him into her arms and lifted him up to give him a kiss. His mother, who had stopped to be a part in his life for so long he didn't even remember her name. Then there was an old man with a white beard, smiling at him. A big, sinister man, who bore an almost striking resemblance to the old man, only much younger. He made fun of Bishop and screamed at him. He seemed to be just as huge as he had appeared to be back when Bishop himself had only been a small boy. And the blonde woman, of course….she hadn't been pretty, he hadn't been in love with her – after all, she had been at least 20 years older than him – but he had liked her. Until he'd cut her throat.
He closed his eyes. He was on the verge of dying, his body began to pain even more and a trickle of blood oozed from his mouth. His hands trembled so much now he had to cling to the grass to control the horrible trembling that irritated him. He heard a distant whining, and a warm, wet tongue licked his face. This felt like a dream that wasn't his own. "Karnwyr." His voice was bearly audible now, just a whisper, but the wolf whimpered when he heard his master. The wolf nudged Bishop with his nose, as if the wolf wanted to tell him to stand up. After some tries, the wolf gave up, and walked around his master restlessly for a few times. Bishop wanted to tell the wolf that everything was fine, that he was about to die. That he felt happy. Happy and free.
Duncan Farlong shouldered his bundle and sighed quietly. The half-elf was exhausted from his long walk. The potions that clinked together in his rucksack remembered him of the amount of gold he had left in West Harbor. West Harbor, this sorry little village in the Mere of Dead Men usually had nothing of interest to him. But this time he had bought some potions from the village's mage. He was sure Sand would pay a good price for them…or this little viper would downplay their actual worth, just to anger him.
Duncan sighed again. Actually, he had planned to pay a visit to his half-brother, but Daeghun hadn't been there. Had been away for weeks now, maybe escorting some merchant's caravan or hunting for furs. Duncan shook his head. He didn't understand why his brother left the girl alone. True, she wasn't his own daughter, but still Daeghun had raised her all by himself. Duncan hadn't met the girl in West Harbor, but he knew she was 14 winters old now. He had seen her only once, when she had been nothing more than a little babe. He had seen her shortly after the battle, and now he couldn't imagine how she'd possibly look nowadays. Maybe a little bit like her mother.
Georg, the un-official mayor of the little village, had told him the girl lived with the Starlings whenever her father was away. It seemed like the second oldest son of the Starling widow was like a brother to the girl. Duncan could have visited her during those two days he spent as a guest in Georg Redfell's house. But he was sure Daeghun hadn't told the girl anything about her uncle's existence. And Duncan himself had visited West Harbor only twice after Shayla's untimely death. Revealing himself as the girl's uncle now would have been much too absurd, even for his tastes.
Enough thinking about his brother and his brother's foster daughter. Duncan whistled quietly to drown the annoying sounds the damned swamp drove him mad with. The swamp's climate was horrible. The whole swamp was simply horrible. He's had the feeling of seeing no real sunlight at all for days now. This dampened his usually good mood. The lack of real sunlight and the lack of good ale, which he loved to drink in the Flagon. Yes, the lack of ale irritated him a bit. But he knew that it was extremely foolish to drink during a journey through the swamp. He could be robbed by someone or something, and of course he wouldn't be able to defend himself properly while being drunk. Still – he longed for his ale, he longed for Neverwinter and he longed for his Flagon. He hoped Sal hadn't managed to bankrupt Duncan's fine establishment in the meantime.
The half-elven traveller ran one hand over his dishevelled, dull brown hair, yawned and cast a look at the sky. Judging by the thick black clouds he saw in some distance, it was sure to rain soon. He sighed again. The prospect of rain dampened his mood even more. Dark clouds in the sky, and no real sunlight for days. He wanted to concentrate on the long road ahead of him again, but then he realized he had been wrong. Something wasn't right here. These weren't rain clouds. It was smoke. Clouds of smoke, thick and black. He frowned. Was there something burning? He pondered what to do now. Should he take a look at whatever was burning? Should he investigate where the smoke was coming from? It would be dangerous, he'd have to leave the road and go deeper into the swamp. Lizardfolk could find him. But he knew how to handle a sword, so maybe they wouldn't be much of a problem after all. He knew how to fight, and he had fought against lizardfolk before. And won. For a moment more he stood in the middle of the road, pondering what to do. Then he cast a look to the right, and a look to the left. Maybe there were people who needed his help. Another sigh, and then he left the road, to go deeper and deeper into the thrice damned swamp.