Baldur's Gate
Tales of The Sword Coast

(Author's note): This, dear imaginary reader, is my attempt at a novilzation of the Baldur's Gate storyline for the purposes of practicing my writing in general. I chose it because of the freedom it allows me to write pretty much whoever and whatever I want, so long as I stick to the general arc. And, well, because I enjoyed the game. There will, obviously, be changes. Things I add, things I ignore, things I alter for no reason other than to poke that part of your brain that makes you make funny noises.

Okay, not so much on that last part.

Either way, Baldur's Gate is the property of Wizards of the Coast, Interplay, Bioware, Black Isle... a whole HOST of people. I am not one of them, and in no way seek to profit off of this work. No third parties may post this on their site without my permission, and you can't claim it's yours no matter HOW drunk you get me.

Enjoy.)

Prologue

Jerald Truthsend was a very special man.

He was unique, you see, for the dreams told him so, the voice that guided him. It told him things; showed him things in the deepest corners of his mind that had brought him a measure of luck in the recent past. A line of thinking that had lead to a modest fortune, brought him power and respect that, though modest could only grow, such that he wondered why he had ever feared the voice.

Jerald learned why the day he came. It was like a nightmare, the screams, the crash of heavy wood being turned and broken, the meeting of steel on steel, and the cleaving of flesh and bone. When Jerald could feel his legs again, all he could do was run; flee to the top of the high building; that he had once jokingly called his 'tower placeholder' until he could get a proper abode for one of his destined greatness.

There were nowhere near enough stairs between him and the thing that now pursued him, and inevitably he ran out, bursting through the door leading to the roof and slamming it shut behind him, locking it and making for the edge. It was fenced in; had been since some drunken lout had staggered off of it some decade ago, only, it would seem, to get Jerald killed by not allowing him to try to scale the side of the building back to the ground. He could manage it, he was certain. After all, he was special.

Special and helpless; the latter being a feeling that overwhelmed him, such as he had never imagined when his pursuer burst through the door, reducing it to splinters with a simple kick. He had to duck to get through the door.

He was a nightmare figure, a good seven feet tall at least, clad from head to toe in heavy, darkened steel armor that seemed to absorb what little light the torches cast into the night, making it look almost black as he approached, an affect shared by his sword, a massive length of steel that no normal man could possibly wield one handed as he did. The helm covered all but the area around his eyes, the surrounding steel molded to resemble a set of jagged teeth pointing inward from both top and bottom, the upper corners decorated by long curved horns.

But the worst was the eyes. Surrounding by black markings, like wide vertical scars over each eye, what first had appeared to be intense blue eyes when he had first appeared downstairs was now simply solid, dark, glowing yellow, blotting out all detail, no whites, no iris. Just the sense of his gaze.

It spoke to him, voice deep and hollow, yet somehow gleeful with the joy of the kill. "I will be the last... and you will go first."

Jerald found his mouth dry when he tried to speak, stammering, pleading with the only thing he knew to offer, the one thing he had made sure to look into since the voice's words proved sound, "Th-there are others. I-I can show you- please! PLEASE!"

The armored figure didn't respond, save but to move forward, each footfall bringing him closer with a deafening thud. Jerald panicked, turning and grabbing hold of the fencing, shaking it violently yet feeling no give as the behemoth drew ever closer. He had glanced back for only a second, long enough to see the armored man, and the massive fist hurtling towards his face.

The next thing he knew he was on the ground, vision swimming as rain washed away the blood running down his jaw. Cold steel fingers wrapped around his throat, and with a grunt the armored man had lifted him into the air and slammed him bodily through the fencing, holding him one-handed above the city streets so many levels below him.

The figure squeezed slowly, seeming to want to draw out the moment, laughing quietly to himself as his eyes grew ever fiercer in their light. Jerald heard the snap more than he felt it, a deafening crack in the air as his neck as crushed and broken. He stared down at his murderer blankly, mouth moving but making no sound, even as he was pulled back, and then thrown, effortlessly, off the edge of his tower, plummeting lifelessly down to the cold streets of Baldur's Gate.

Chapter 1

Candlekeep was a fortress, though its contents were nothing as illustrious as gold, treasure, tapestries, or the fabled sword of a dead hero king, as children who heard about it would so often pretend. Rather it was a fortress of knowledge, a library, for lack of a better word, that stretched several levels into the sky, surrounded by high stone walls on three sides, and on the last, and endless stretch of ocean below the cliffs on the west edge of the Sword Coast.

It was a haven for scholars, sages, and those simply seeking silent refuge away from the troubles that occasionally plagued the land beyond the walls, and could muster the somewhat draconian entry rules. A book, of some value or rarity, even if just to Candlekeep's stock, would have to be presented to allow any single person or group entry, however once entry was granted, it was allowed for life. Many schools and organizations had donated such over the centuries, representing the whole of them, rendering the point mostly moot for all but the occasional hopelessly ignorant traveler who knew none of this.

Candlekeep was not heavily populated, but it had its residents; guards, making up the brunt, patrolling the halls and outer walls of the fortress, a number of tutors for those seeking to learn. Inns to house visitors, shops to keep them fed and supplied a modest farm to stock them. And one young man who spent the majority of his time running about making sure that the loose odds and ends all the others couldn't be bothered to handle wouldn't make the entire keep fall apart.

That young man's name was Darien Kreshire; a rather tall individual with short black hair and a reasonably fit build gained from certain aspects of his work; and he had the unenviable task of helping to maintain the keep; keeping things clean, books in order, getting things to people and taking them back, and, as we find him, keeping assorted items within reach as they dwindle, a task that involves a great many trips up and down the storage house's ladder, moving crates of varying levels of staggering weight from the upper storage shelf - a long, wide sturdy stretch of wood one could probably live comfortably in were it not usually cluttered - to the lower shelf, a significantly less hospitable, yet equally lengthy area about a foot above ground level.

Gorion, his father who was also a greatly respected mage and - to hear it told - past adventurer of some repute, said it built character. Discipline. Considering that he was one of the heads of Candlekeep, some figured this was mostly to keep up appearances so none would accuse him of offering favoritism to one caretaker or another, or allowing someone to live inside the stone walls without actual use, but Darien himself figured it was fair enough. He had been something of a hellion as a youngster, and caused his father no end of grief, not allowing him much reprieve even during his duties about the keep; without a mother to watch over him in the meantime, he had little choice. Still, Darien liked to think he had matured some in the passing years. This was more, perhaps, than he could say for-

"Whatcha doin'?"

Darien yelped and recoiled backwards as he moved a crate to the side and came face to face with the source of that voice; which was unfortunate considering he was on the upper part of a ladder at the time. As he fell back, he kicked one leg out towards a shelf nailed into the side of the wall, halting his descent for a moment before, with a grunt of effort, he pushed himself and the ladder back into place, gasping with exasperation as he exclaimed, "Imoen!"

The girl in question, a petite young woman of about Darien's age, short brown haired dyed a faint shade of pink which she insisted made her look exotic, grinned brightly from ear to ear. "Hey, that was pretty neat! When'd you learn ta do that?"

"You nearly killed me!" Darien seethed.

Imoen waved one hand dismissively, "Oh, posh, you coulda survived that, easy. Besides, if I hadn't shown up, you'd never know you could do that. I've given you a whole new level of self confidence, to carry with you throughout your days into the mists of legend."

Darien counted to three silently, and then heaved a sigh, "What are you doing here?"

"Nearly killing you."

Darien counted to three again, much more slowly this time, and then regarded Imoen levelly. "You're supposed to be minding the shop for Winthrop." Winthrop was a large, rather portly bald man who, as alluded, ran the primary shop in Candlekeep, a man of friendly disposition despite having Imoen for a ward and, after a fashion, adopted daughter.

Imoen sighed and crawled up to the edge of the upper shelf, planting one hand on the edge and kicking herself upward in a brief handstand before letting herself fall forward, twisting in mid air to swing herself onto the lower shelf, sitting comfortably on the edge. "Ol' Puffguts won't be back for awhile, and nuffin' happens on Wednesdays." She said, crossing her legs in front of her, habitually grabbing at her ankles as she rocked back and forth. "And I thought, well, who needs a good scare? Then I thought'a you! Figured you could use it. Ya used ta be fun, ya know? Now you're gettin' all stuffy like Gorion."

Darien gave a short hop, planting his feet on either side of the ladder, and slid down a few rungs so he could peer down at Imoen, half smirking. "I'm still fun. I'm a barrel of monkeys." He reached up, then, and dragged a rather large crate from the upper shelf, hefting it off with a grunt of effort and greater strain as he lowered it mostly to the ground before letting it down with a heavy thud. "I just don't have time to act like it."

Imoen just grinned. "Explains the smell."

Darien stared down at her with the intensity of a tiger about to strike, holding Imoen's gaze for a long, tense moment... before he started laughing so hard he almost fell off the ladder again, his voice soon joined by Imoen's.

Darien had been brought to Candlekeep by Gorion when he was too young to remember a time before being here, the only child in Candlekeep for years until Winthrop came. He was invited here by Gorion to stay, to run the hotel and shop, and settle down after years of traveling; gathering and selling his wares. And with him he brought young Imoen, a street urchin he'd caught trying to steal food from him, and soon took a liking too, eventually taking her in, and, after years on the road together, taking her with him to the Candlekeep. She was a year younger than Darien at most, and quickly became Darien's first, best, and only friend in the keep.

"Well, I'm certainly glad that whatever crippling injury you've received that is keeping you from working has apparently failed to dampen your spirits."

The two of them looked to the entrance to the storehouse to find the source of the voice, one Ulraunt, a balding man who nevertheless kept a trimmed goatee and wore the modestly ornate robes worn by most of the heads of Candlekeep. That he was the head, that is to say, the man most in charge of the keep, did not keep many from placing a great deal more weight on the words of Gorion did little to aid his already sour disposition. "I- I was just-" Darien started to explain, only to have Ulraunt silence him with an irritated wave.

"It doesn't matter. Your father has sent for you; said he wishes to see you; said it was quite urgent..." Ulraunt said in his usual methodical ramble. "I suggest you go see him immediately; and perhaps when you do you can inform Gorion that I am not a messenger. We pay people for that."

"Err, thanks." Darien said, though Ulraunt had already turned and left by the time he finished the second word. Darien furrowed his brow thoughtfully. Gorion had been distant in the past few weeks. Usually a patient and kindly man, he had recently taken to locking himself in his study, seeming stressed whenever he came out in public, and short with his responses, though, at least, had not yet taken to rudeness in these responses just yet. A quick look at Imoen betrayed a similar look, though oddly... sad, rather than concerned, a look that so rarely graced Imoen's features that, for a moment, Darien would have had difficulty recognizing her. "Imoen?" He prodded gently, seeming to startle her out of her thoughts. The old familiar smile returned to her face and she waved it off with a short flutter of her hand.

"Aw, go on big guy, better not to keep the old man waiting. The crates'll still be around ta crush ya when you get back." She said, a lopsided grin coming to her face that never failed to inspire a similar look in Darien as he nodded and slid the rest of the way down the ladder. "What'll you be doing, dare I ask?" He said.

Imoen idly kicked her feet over the edge of the lower shelf. "Ohhhh, I dunno, I'll be around."

Darien smirked, "You could always go hang out with the chanters." he suggested, referring to the number of residents who spent a great deal of their time pouring over and reciting the texts of 'The Great' Alaundo, one of Candlekeep's founders, and a self fashioned prophet.

"Oh, Helm!" Imoen exclaimed, putting one hand to her head and rocking back. "No thanks. Plague! Pestilence! Darkness in the land! The Lord of Murder- blah blah blah, call me when they find a more upbeat prophecy."

Darien just grinned, "All right, I'll see you. And have a long, layered, soul crushing lecture ready on the merits of not killing your coworkers." He said, turning on his heel with a quick salute, and pacing out the door.

"You're mutating into a mini-Gorion! It's too late to be saved! Only fire can cleanse you!" She called after him, the smile that lighted her face slowly fading as Darien receded into the distance, ending its life with a long heavy sigh. "... This bites."

---

"Father?" Darien called quietly as he opened the door to Gorion's study with a long creak. It was something of a trek from the storehouse to the tower proper, four floors above the ground. Long enough that a more irritable man would likely care little for whatever news awaited him.

"Ah, there you are." Gorion said, gesturing him inside with one hand. "Come in, come in." he prodded, a patient smile on his face. His age was showing, lines having drawn itself into the old Sage's face many years ago and found time to settle, the black hair on his head and face having turned mostly gray save but for a few streaks of black. Darien very nearly dwarfed him in height, but never looked bigger by simple fact that Gorion practically radiated a kind of calm power, a wisdom borne of experience. Darien was, by proxy, still a boy.

"I imagine my recent self seclusion has not escaped your notice?" He said slowly, more of a statement than a question which Darien nevertheless answered with a short nod of his head, to which Gorion nodded in turn. "My apologies. Much has weighed on my mind, recently, I'm afraid. A... certain matter has been brought to my attention that required a great deal of thought." He explained quietly before allowing himself a rueful smile, "Though I fear I may have allowed myself nearly too much time to ponder."

"Is that why you called me here?" Darien asked, "You've... concluded your thoughts?"

Gorion regarded Darien quietly for a moment before smiling with a faint nod. "My child, one never concludes their thinking if they wish to achieve anything in this world. It is simply a matter of thinking on your feet, whereas I have been all too idle the past days." He shook his head slightly with a short huff, as though catching himself acting a fool, "But in answer to your question, lad, yes. I have."

He grabbed his pipe off of his desk, taking a deep drag before exhaling a long cloud of smoke, as though prolonging the moment before a task he'd prefer not to perform. "I am leaving Candlekeep tomorrow. And you are coming with me."

The following moment lasted an eternity for Darien, time seeming to freeze around him. His feelings were confused to say the least. He had always been curious, even eager to see the world outside these walls. Gorion had raised him on a thousand tales of heroes and monsters, loyalty and betrayal, lovers and infidels, and had painted a picture of a world rife with wonders and adventure such as the capture the mind of a young child as he was. And while his familiarity with Candlekeep may have been part of this, it was all he knew, and the tone in Gorion's voice carried with it a sort of finality, as though returning were an uncertain prospect. When his voice returned to him, all he could think to do was to question, "Why? Why would we need to leave, where- where do you- we- where are we going?" He would later recall sounding a great deal more alarmed than he would have liked. Though the thought would seem silly to him, given the circumstances.

"That," Gorion answered slowly, "is more difficult a question than you know, boy, and I'm not sure I've yet found the words to tell you what you nevertheless... need to hear. Perhaps when we have settled, and circumstances have changed. Suffice it to say, for now, that it is no longer safe here in Candlekeep. For you." He took another slow drag from his pipe as he let that hang in the air, seeing that his ward was hardly satisfied with that answer. And rightly so. Only a fool would let his curiosity be dampened by such words, and Gorion did not raise one. After a moment went on, "A moving target is infinitely harder to strike than a stationary one. As for where we are going, I can't say, for I have not yet truly decided. North, for now. I have sent notice to some old friends of mine to wait for us along the way. Perhaps Baldur's Gate, with its teeming masses, would offer proper sanctuary. A great deal more difficult to be found, in any case." Gorion mused aloud, giving a bit of a start, as though catching himself a rambling, a realization that may have led to him glancing at his pipe disdainfully and setting it aside on the desk.

Darien was, understandably, a bit overwhelmed. "What danger could possibly reach us in Candlekeep? This place is a fortress; the walls and guards alone..." he reasoned, but Gorion only shook his head.

"Candlekeep is indeed formidable, Darien, but by no means insurmountable... as I have had the misfortune to discover." Gorion trailed off for a moment, meeting the anxious gaze of his son for a moment before standing, "But we've dallied on the subject for long enough. For now, at least. We are wasting time, and you will need to prepare... and rest, for the journey ahead."

Darien wanted to speak, but simply couldn't find the words, his mouth moving soundlessly for a moment before simply moving shut. Gorion saw this, and actually looked apologetic; a rarity in itself. "I understand your concern, and... I'm sorry. I realize all too well I... could have handled the matter better than I have. But what's done is done. Reparations will be made, I promise, and you will not always feel so lost. But for now we simply do not have time. We leave tomorrow at noon. I suggest you pack what you'll need for the trip. And say your goodbyes."

(Reviews encouraged.)