Nightmares Travel Alone
Chapter 1: His Name and Deeds
Everyone knew his name. From his deeds of great valor, saving the city of Baldur's Gate, from a genocidal madman, wishing for the deaths of hundreds, and perhaps thousands. Yes, he was the one who stopped the mastermind, the one who was scheming to ascend to the ranks of Grand Duke, and rule the great city, challenging Amn to war. The one called Sarevok. They knew the name of the villain, but they also knew the name of the hero.
The one who stopped this Sarevok, and saved their city. But in other ways they knew, frightening though it was, they may have very easily been safer with Sarevok ruling their city. For everyone knew of the other things about this "hero". Tales attached to his name. The horrific and sinister kind. Such as, wandering across the Sword Coast, an unholy plague that brutally slew any hapless travelers that crossed paths with him. It mattered not their name, age, or race. They still fell from his sword, their deaths without meaning.
The same criminal, hunted by the Flaming Fist, as a mass murderer, who had slain a good number of their own ranks, and killed innocent peasants in the Friendly Arms, Beregost, and Baldur's Gate itself, for seemingly no reason at all. And even more, he had the audacity and reckless sense of mindless violence to attack the Fist's headquarters itself. Oh yes, they knew his name.
The Walking Nightmare. He cared not for anyone; he felt nothing but the love of death, a being of cursed blood, his reign of terror holding sway over the minds and hearts of every citizen. They knew his name. Argon he was. But naturally, a title was eventually added as well, one that personified his darkness. It is unsure as to who came up with this. The Fist as his alias? The terrified people? Or perhaps even the monster himself? Whoever it may have been, he has stained a mark of crimson in history, his name chilling blood. His name. Argon the Terrible.
But his mark on the world of Fearun was only getting underway. This is where we start. Argon was a man, and a massive one at that. He was strong, a warrior of great ability. In his traveling about, foiling the plots of his half brother, he had come across many items of great power. The Helm and Cloak of Baldarian, a horrible sword of searing flame, Boots of Speed, making him nigh uncatchable. A ring of invisibility, to strike from nowhere, and a set of ancient armor, properly restored to its former glory. Midnight black. Armed and armored, a foe with little equal. But even without these little trinkets, mere toys, he was still formidable.
His height was grand, easily nine spans high, weighing well over two hundred stones, due to his massive and bulging frame. Long and grueling weeks and months of training had made his body as solid as sheer rock, toughening himself, becoming stronger, faster, and more cunning. In his travels, he faced many enemies. He had been stung by poisoned arrows of hobgoblin elite, scorched by raging infernos and hailstorms of lightning from vengeful mages. Slashed open by countless blades, beaten, bruised, and battered. And still he persevered.
He shut out the pain. Or in actuality, he fed off of it. It made him mightier. His skin had hardened, making blades and arrows bounce harmlessly away. Spells didn't peel and blister his skin, nor leave his mind momentarily shattered. He feared no enemy; not the undead, not the great and terrible power of mages, piddling fighters for hire, the crafty elves, the cantankerous dwarves, not even his own flesh and blood.
Argon had been a pretty docile child growing up, under Gorion, but when his death came at the hands of Sarevok, Argon escaped the fray, and felt helpless. Imoen and others such as Khalid and Jaheria aided him, as he went along; trying to discover the source of the iron plague, and at the same time, uncover the mystery of his stepfather's death. But something happened alone the way. Somewhere, he became tainted. His heart was full of cold and hateful loathing, feelings and emotions quite unlike the submissive boy back at Candlekeep.
Perhaps after slaying a particular enemy, being exposed to senseless carnage, whatever it may have been, something made his mind alter. Argon became wild, violent, and unpredictable. In his journey, he began to grow sensationally stronger than his counterparts, and it soon became aware that they couldn't have any hopes of stopping him. So, they escaped. They cared for the young man, but he was unstable, and immensely more powerful then they. And in leaving, they saved their own lives.
Yes, everything attached to Argon's name, including his title, Argon the Terrible, was true. He must have snapped, and another presence took hold. He was, after all, a Bhaalspawn, a half-god child born from the dead god Bhaal, the Lord of Murder. It is quite possible that the evil taint had seized control. But maybe it didn't. From the point he entered the Cloakwood mines, he did so alone. When he emerged, he was utterly soaked in blood, right down to the last strands of his trimmed silver hair.
His previous eyes of light and endearing indigo had altered as well, strange a thing though it was. Now they burned with a horrendous black light, sparkling with a blazing fire at their epicenter. The slaves of the Cloakwood never made it out. Every living thing inside mines was destroyed, ripped to shreds by this savage and fierce monster. There had been an unmistakable sense of joy, as he slit throats of innocent overworked slaves, seeing their terror, as they sagged to the floor, watching the very thing that sustained their lives spilling onto the ground.
No one was spared, wherever he went. He seemed to live only to fight and kill. But here is what was strange, and why it doesn't seem likely that he had not wholly succumbed to the tainted blood within. He was the same person, the same mind. True, he had turned into a thing of purest evil, but still the same being. His mind was no different. His memories, his goals, his feelings; all there. But others now, others that had swayed him. Filling his heart with shadows, feeling the need to fill the world with much more pain and suffering than there already was.
In truth, he had no problem with what Sarevok was orchestrating, the war between Baldur's Gate and Amn. If things had gone differently, he would have no doubt joined him in battle, and reveled in the carnage. But no, Sarevok wished himself to be the last Child of Bhaal, to ascend as the new Lord of Murder. In so doing, he would need to eradicate all others, each and every Bhaalspawn, including Argon.
And while Sarevok had been a mighty warrior himself, his ambition and drive seemed different. He wasn't as bloodthirsty or chaotic as Argon. No, he was much more precise, using technicalities to gain power, employing mercenaries and hired goons to do the majority of his dirty work. Argon, on the other hand, was cunning, very much so indeed, but in this instance, he didn't need it.
What's more, he managed to thwart his half brothers plans single-handedly, taking down all of his henchmen, disrupting all the carefully laid plans, evading slippery traps, murdering Sarevok's stepfather, and obstructing his path at every turn. At the final showdown, it had been Argon only, breaking the doors down to an ancient church of Bhaal beneath Baldur's Gate, where Sarevok waited, with his most loyal of men. The new leader of the Flaming Fist, Angelo, the half-ogre Tazok, and a crafty wizard Semaj.
There had been words between them; Sarevok was naturally fuming at having his schemes shattered, his whole plot of a horrendous war evaporating into oblivion at the meddlesomeness of his half brother. The armored man bellowed at Argon, as he approached, cursing him and his ability to thwart all these plans. Argon had been grinning, a near insane one, twirling his sword at his side, as casually as a walking stick.
"Aw, you're breaking my heart," he cooed, in his own sinister voice. It wasn't as deep and resonating as Sarevok, but dark and foreboding nonetheless. "Your little design has come unraveled, all because you wanted me dead. Well, so sorry I didn't comply with your wishes. And the funny thing is brother, if you had asked me to join, instead of merely labeling me as an enemy, I would have done so. And together, we would have ignited your war of sacrifice, and we'd both have been very happy with the bloodshed. But no, you had a rancor to settle with me, and in so doing, you have provoked the wrath of someone who is greater than you. I would have just killed you initially, but I felt that disrupting your plans would have stung you all the more deeply. Seems I was right."
Thus, they fought, four on one, two Children of Bhaal, and henchmen. The peons fell first. Angelo opened fire with his bow, but even his arrows of fire could barely penetrate Argon's armor, let alone inflict damage on his skin. He charged, blazing sword leveled, and with three quick and horribly precise slashes, Angelo basically came undone. His head fell to the floor, his hands holding the bow severed, and his legs separated at the knee. The half elf captain fell to the floor in pieces.
Tazok was next, Argon recalling how the half ogre had taunted him in the bandit encampment. As the huge creature came lumbering in, there was but a single thrust, with the strength of a typhoon behind it. The sword tore a hole straight through Tazok's guts, erupting from his back, the alight blade cauterizing the wound. As he pulled his sword free, Argon brought the sword down a second time, opening a deep and sickening cut along the half ogre's back, and left him to bleed to death.
The wizard Semaj, had time for not but a spell or two, a cloud of poisonous vapors, and a bolt of crackling lightning. There was no real noticeable effect with either, as Argon nonchalantly walked through the cloud as if it had been a light fog, and even more astounding, with not but a lash of his hand, disrupted the course of the lightning bolt, knocking it aside, and sending it crashing into a wall, the thunder and explosion rocking the temple.
Then, the wizards was dead, having been mumbling more incantations, invoking yet another magical attack, but suddenly he found himself trying to talk around sharpened steel, and searing flame, as Argon fed his sword into Semaj's mouth. As the gaunt and skinny mage fell to the ground, Argon faced his brother. Sarevok, wearing his blackened armor, with the countless spines and razors, the suit of armor being a formidable weapon in itself. He wielded a darkened blade, grasping it with both massive hands. There was silence as their eyes spoke for them, the unearthly yellow, conflicting with the menacing black.
Then…they clashed. Both were masterful warriors, having honed their skills carefully, training their bodies and minds for this sort of heated combat. The number of blows and attacks traded, parries and blocks made, only the two of them could really say. But it must have undoubtedly been a long time indeed before one of them fell. And that one, was Sarevok. Perhaps he had grown tired at the physically demanding task of defeating as worthy an opponent as he had ever faced. Or maybe, with his plans laid to ruin, his lover dead, and a wanted fugitive, he didn't wish to continue living. The idea that he knew it was not in his destiny to live was also not out of the realm of possibility.
Whatever the case, Argon found a spot within Sarevok's defense, and a smallish opening in his armor, and struck, plunging his raging sword in. Sarevok fell to one knee, sustaining an injury to his torso. That one wound ended it. He was down, and Argon was in a state of heightened bloodlust, that he kicked Sarevok's sword from his grasp, and merely kept swinging his own weapon, with furious motion. He was not wholly satisfied until he had butchered his half brother into chunks of flesh, pieces of black armor rent asunder, and some other unidentifiable material, having been fried beyond any sort of recognition by the flaming sword.
And as this happened, Argon the Terrible also became known as Argon, the Hero of Baldur's Gate, Slayer of Sarevok. Little did the people know that Sarevok had been lesser of an evil than their savior.
Once the city had been "saved", Argon the Terrible left to resume his wanderings. Still he maimed and eradicated any he encountered, but his whole manner was somewhat different now. He didn't just inflict horrible pain to their bodies, but wracked their minds with torment, guilt, and shame. All the suffering, he enjoyed every moment of it, relishing it, savoring it like a delectable morsel of food. However, he was not invincible, and at one point or another, someone stronger would come along. As it was, they came fast and hard. While he was down, phasing in and out of his periods of semi-sleep, numerous figures in black came swooping in all around, as silently as shadows.
He rose at once, smelling their approach, but some sort of blistering pain swept through his head, making him stagger. The iron grip that he normally maintained on the hilt of his sword was beginning to deteriorate into nothing more than wobbly fingers. He stood longer than a normal man would have, but at last, he collapsed upon the ground, his head was screaming, filled with dark fire, a pain that accompanies a defilement of the mind. He was strangely aware of being bound, and stripped of his equipment, but beyond that…nothing. At least, until his senses began to restore themselves. This is where Argon the Terrible's deepest stain on history truly begins.