Disclaimer: I don't own any of the names, characters, setting contained within. Bioware/Black Isle/Interplay does.
He was strong. Vastly strong. And quick. Most definitely quick. Light on his feet, too. Light as a petal in the Flamerule breeze, as delicate as a falling Cloakwood leaf, but built like the Cloudpeaks themselves. Banded muscles roped his arms, his chiselled frame adorned by a rough tunic, golden locks falling from a head that set him head and shoulders above the Gatewarden. Handsome features were marred by a slight squint as the sun caught him, but nevertheless, he snatched the arrow from the air; he had sensed it coming.
For many a year, he had trained with the Watchers; the staff was as fluid in his hands as the steel he preferred; steel the length of a man. But he was a scholar of books as well, and Candlekeep was filled with tomes. When his eyes could gaze no more upon those vellum pages, he struck out into the nearby woodlands of Cloakwood forest, and there, he ran through the trees, elflike, yet without a drop of elfin blood in his immediate ancestry. There, between the great trees, he shot the bow; volley after volley, and much game he took, skinned, and strode back up to the gate, a deer over his shoulder for Ulraunt and the Gatewarden's table. Whatever was left found its way to the barrack's table, and he was much loved by the Watchers, and by the monks alike, for many of the latter supped with the cheerful Ulraunt, and many commented between the shelves what a transformation the Keeper of the Tomes had gone through since fresh venison and hare, songbirds and fish found themselves upon his plate.
In the inn, he sang, putting the tales old 'Puffguts', the innkeep, told to song to the delight of all present. As a bard, he was unrivalled, for his quick pluck, which was, to him, no different than 'strumming his bow', held a pace none present could match but with their pounding of tankards and boots, to keep time. And so, the fair Imoen, the adoptive daughter of Puffguts, soon swooned, falling into his arms in song, dance, and all things shadowy, for as a child, she stole around the keep trying to prank him, but like the slinking cat, he evaded her schemes and turned the tables on her, catching her out every time. As she blossomed into a young woman and he a young man, their affections seemed obvious; nary a flower could compare, he knew, but also knew courting her would win the maiden fair, but not this lass, for a maiden she was, most fair indeed, but fair was a game she did not play; instead, he let her come to him. Rebuffing her at every turn, until one moonlight night, beneath the shadows of stars and cloud, above the rippling sea, her lips stole the kiss that made her his forever.
It was not longer after that that news most grave was hurriedly given him; Gorion, his mentor and adoptive father, warned they must leave, so leave they did. In the depths of that foul and moonless night, Gorion was laid low, struck down by armoured figures unknown, and so, away, to avenge this untimely death, he strode.
Joined by Imoen, who had crept out of Candlekeep to shadow her beloved, they waited until morn, huddled in brush and cloaked by mist, and along the path, they trod.
Then, out of nowhere, sprang a trope of gibberlings; with blade and bow, they saw the vile beasts off, and onwards they strode.
From behind some trees, a goblin†spear impaled his midriff, and that, as they say, was that.
Baldur's Gate, without the save feature. How most adventures might go. Where would we be without it?
†Creative licence. Goblins appear in Baldur's Gate II.