Disappointment

Prologue

Greetings all! I am a huge BG fan and have really enjoyed reading all the fan fiction over the years. In fact I enjoyed some of them some much that I wanted to give it a try. In all the times I have played BG I have enjoyed playing bards and thieves most of all. So when it came to write a tale it came down to picking one of those options for the protagonist. The more I thought of it the more writing about a bard made more sense. Raised by one of the greatest wizards in the realm it felt natural that Jeral, despite his true parentage, could only fail to measure up to his father. Raised in a library fortress the paths of ranger and druid made no sense. And as a child of Baahl service as a cleric or paladin seemed impossible.

So this is my tale of Jeral the bard. I hope you like it.

And like all other fan fiction, Jeral is mine. Everything else belongs to the fine folks at BioWare.

Chapter 1: Tournament Time

"Have you lost your senses child?"

"No."

"This is the tournament for entry into the Order of the Watchers; the sacred guard force of the Candlekeep Library."

"I know that father; I do live here as well you know. In fact this has been my home since you brought me here as an infant."

"Well do you know that all of your opponents have been tested in battle? You have never fought a man in anger. And to make matters worse you are entering into a tournament today against seven heavily armed men wearing that. The thought process is not clear to me."

Jeral looked his attire up and down. Shrugging his shoulders he stared up at the great mage Gorion and smiled.

"What do you mean father? I have my armor, my shield and my weapon. All I lack is a helmet and you have said many times that vision is as much of a weapon as any blade."

Smiling Gorion looked down fondly on his adoptive son, "You remember what you want to remember. You always do. It is true that vision is one weapon, and it can be a powerful one. However, your shield and armor are also very important weapons, particularly in a test of close combat. I hardly think that a set of ill fitting studded leathers and a bucker qualifies as armor and a shield. Your opponents all are clad in metal armor of one sort or another, most have real shields unlike that pot lid you carry, and lastly they all have helms."

Jeral stared back determinedly at his father, "I wear more armor than you father; besides armor is expensive, this is all I could afford unless you want to spring for a nice set of chain mail."

Chuckling Gorion shook his head. "I will not spend my gold to encourage your poor decision. As for my need of armor I have none for I am a wizard, and modestly I can say I am a very good one at that, my boy. The arcane arts are the only weapon I need."

With a snap of his fingers a blue haze of energy surrounded Gorion. Jeral had no doubt that it made him impervious to harm.

"And you my son, despite my best efforts, only have a limited affinity for magic. Therefore, you need to master the skills of the warrior. The world is a dangerous place and you will need to protect yourself someday. I wish it was otherwise but you will need to be able to defend yourself. I cannot keep you hidden from those who search for you forever."

"You keep telling me that the world is a dangerous place. In all the years I have lived here in Candlekeep you have always worked to prepare me. All the studies, the physical exercise, the weapons training, it all must have some purpose, some meaning."

"It does child, the world is indeed a dangerous place and I fear that you will play a significant role in the near future."

"Role, what role?" Gorion signed deeply, and hesitated before answering.

"Well you could not have picked a worse time for this conversation but I suppose you are of an age where I can no longer delay responding. You are a man fully grown after all. Do you remember when a seer came to Candlekeep years ago when you were a small child?"

"Miss Muriella? Of course I remember her. She was really nice to me; she gave me sweets and played ball with me."

"Yes well, I had too much to drink with Winthrop one night while she was here visiting. Purely on a lark I decided to ask her for a reading. She saw that a great warrior would play a major role in my life."

"So? That could be anyone. "

"She said a warrior who was orphaned as a baby. That must be you."

"So is that why you pressured me to be a warrior?"

"I did no such thing!" Gorion's tone was heavy with indignation.

"Sure you did. Remember three summers ago when I wanted to be a Priest of Oghma? You stopped that from happening."

"Child, you must trust me when I say that you, of all people, should have as little to do with the Gods as possible even the God of knowledge."

"Well there are other options for a path father."

"Dare I ask what those options are?"

"I don't know, maybe I can be a thief."

"That is an evil, unscrupulous profession."

"So? I will be the first honest thief, I will break the mold."

"Stop this nonsense. Listen to your words, 'honest thief'? You are better than that. The way of the warrior is the right path for you. It has been foretold."

"Visions mean nothing, besides Imoen is developing the skills of a thief."

"Imoen should be a mage; she has far more magical talent than you. She just needs to focus and pay attention."

"So she can be a great mage and I can be a great thief."

"Child, not again with that thief nonsense, a child of mine will never stoop so low."

"But I am quick and agile and good with my hands."

"You are also quite strong, and skilled with the long bow, and numerous blades. You have the size and the constitution of the warrior. In fact you are already an accomplished archer; you may be the best in Candlekeep. Your skills with a sword continue to improve, however today you may find your limits tested."

"That may be true but I think I have the gift for something else. I could be a good warrior, but in my heart I know my path lies elsewhere."

"Then where does your true path lie child?"

"Well since thief is not an option and we have taken warrior and cleric off the table there is only one possible option."

"Pray go on Jeral."

Jeral clapped his hands together and smiled up on his father. "Well then we are in agreement, with no other option available I am left as I am. I will be Jeral the bard, ward of Gorion, resident of Candlekeep."

Gorion realized that Jeral had outsmarted him. The desire to be a thief was merely a distraction to get Gorion to focus all his energies on opposing that option. Gorion scowled and tossed his hands in the air.

"Bah! Bards are a waste of mankind. They are nothing but second rate fighters, third rate wizards, and nothing else. They are good for little more than entertaining drunks in taverns." Breaking into a smile Gorion softened his tone and lowered his voice.

"Besides, child, you have a terrible singing voice and cannot play any instrument."

"But I can dance father."

Laughing, Gorion had to agree. "True enough. You did learn that skill admirably well. You are amazingly coordinated and agile and the ladies will swoon to dance with you."

Gorion's voice hardened again as he shook his head.

"Jeral, you must understand, I have worked for nearly two score years to prepare you for the challenges ahead. You need to become powerful to survive. You have limited magical ability so you need to be a warrior. There was, and is, no other option."

"On that we will have to agree to disagree. Since you taught me how to read I have immersed myself in the tomes of this great library. I have read almost everything that Candlekeep has to offer. My knowledge of the library rivals that of Lore Master Ulrant himself. Over time I came to realize that many of the greatest tomes in this library were written by bards. Not only do I want to experience what the world has to offer, I want to chronicle it as well."

"Those books were no doubt written through an alcohol fueled haze of exaggeration and lies!"

"Bards live life and experience adventure. I have spent my life in a library! What else do you expect of me? I am strong and have trained in a wide variety of weapons. Thanks to you I am also intelligent, very well read, learned and trained in some level of magic. It seems a shame to not use all of my gifts." Jeral was red faced and talking through clenched teeth at an equally red faced wizard.

"Not again with this madness, you must have power to survive child. I fear that the list of powerful bards in the history of the realms in short indeed."

"Well it is my life and my decision father. And who knows? I may become the most powerful bard in the history of the realms." Jeral smiled suddenly and hugged his father. Gorion fiercely returned the hug.

In the background trumpets sounded and the pair reluctantly broke the embrace.

"I must go. The tournament is about to begin. Wish me luck."

"Be well child. Know that you must fight with your head as well as your sword. Watch your opponents carefully to determine their strengths and weaknesses. And no using cantrips in the duels, any use of magic is forbidden."

Jeral nodded and left the chamber excited that he was finally of age to enter the tournament.

The eight Watcher candidates stood in a circle on the practice field of Candlekeep. Hull, the gruff Sergeant of the guard, stood in the middle of the circle stroking his long handlebar mustache as he eyed each of the contestants in turn.

"Welcome to the tournament of the Watchers. As you know each spring after the last snows have melted we hold a tournament for all the warriors who desire entry into the Watchers. This year we have only one opening in the Watchers and that position will go to the warrior who wins the tournament."

A murmur spread through the ranks and the gathering crowd. In normal years there were two or three openings. This year would be a hard fought tournament as many of the young men were desperate to become a Watcher and enter into a profession that would allow for them to provide for their families. Jeral had no desire to join the Watchers; he just wanted the fighting experience so the news did not matter to him in the least. When Jeral won he planned to turn down the position and allow the second place fighter to take the position.

Jeral was in the second match. His opponent was Borpheus, a large man in his early 20s from a local village. Borpheus wore a worn suit of split mail and a winged closed face helm. He had gained a level of notoriety for his success helping to protect his village from a small band of marauders the prior summer. Rumors told how he singlehandedly slew a half dozen bandits and saved his village. Jeral remembered watching Borpheus fight in the prior year's tournament. In that tournament he lost in the first round. He was extremely strong and fought with a great two handed sword. But he was slow and left himself vulnerable to a quick counterattack in one was agile enough to take advantage.

Both men were introduced and led into the ring. Their weapons were tightly bound in stripes of leather and cloth to reduce the deadly threat to the combatants. Two priests of Oghma stood nearby, prepared to heal or raise the combatants as needed.

Hull stood between the two combatants. They saluted Hull and then one another. He quickly stepped aside and bellowed, "Begin!"

Borpheus bellowed and charged, holding his sword over his head. Jeral calmly sidestepped the headlong charge and swung horizontally striking the large man in his midsection. Borpheus grunted in pain as the padded sword struck against his splint mail. He finished his charge and whirled around to face Jeral.

"Point Jeral!" Hull shouted. The crowd roared in approval.

Borpheus swung wildly back and forth as he advanced on Jeral. Jeral slowly backpedaled and waited for his next opening. Borpheus took another great overhead swing and Jeral easily twisted out of the way. He waited until the sword bit into the soft soil of the pit. He then planted his left leg on the blade, leaned forward and launched a backhand horizontal swing at Borpheus. Jeral's sword connected with the man's upper chest and he let out a grunt of pain. Not letting up Jeral reversed his swing and smacked the long sword into the man's helm. His helm dented in and blood started to flow from the big man's helmet. Hull's shouts of point once and then again were quickly followed by a declaration of Jeral as the winner. Jeral quickly shook hands with Borpheus and retired to the shade. The clerics stepped in and tended to Borpheus as he made his plans to return to his village and prepare for the following year's tournament.

In round two Jeral was faced off against the oldest man in the tournament. Saman looked to be of late middle age and claimed to be a soldier who had served numerous campaigns with the Amnian army in the south. He was now the assistant blacksmith in Candlekeep. He was wearing well made plate mail and was armed with a bastard sword and medium sized shield. A closed face helm rested atop his head. As this was Saman's first tournament Jeral had never seen the man fight before. Saman's first round opponent was no challenge so Jeral had little information on his fighting style.

The two entered the ring and squared off against one another. After the requisite salutes the two combatants advanced on one another. Jeral attacked with an overhead swing that was easily defended. Saman made a few sword feints and Jeral countered with a few of his own. Jeral stabbed out with his sword and closed with Saman. Surprising Jeral, Saman turned sideways, pushed aside the strike with his shield and then shield punched Jeral. Jeral backpedaled as he saw stars and felt blood trickling down his face from his split lip and bloody nose.

"Point Saman."

"I bet a helm would be handy now child."

Through the pain Jeral could clearly hear Gorion's sarcastic voice carrying above the crowd.

Jeral was on the defensive as he recovered his vision and cleared his head. Jeral parried a few blows from the older man as he waited for an opening. Seeing an opening Jeral attacked high, yet his attack was quickly parried and Jeral was soon on the defensive as Saman rained blow after blow on his buckler.

"Point Saman!"

Jeral's arm screamed in pain as the buckler was shattered from repeated blows of Saman's bastard sword. In desperation Jeral feigned an overhead attack. As Saman raised his shield to respond, Jeral dropped to his knees and swung. Now under Saman's guard, Jeral connected with the warrior's armored left knee. Saman grunted in pain. Jeral quickly swung twice more at the knee before Saman recovered. Jeral quickly scrambled to his feet and backed up as Saman limped after him.

"Point Jeral!"

Jeral's shield arm hung limply at his side. Saman angled to Jeral's left looking to exploit his vulnerability. Jeral realized that if he was struck again he would lose the match. Jeral growled and swung at Saman's head. As anticipated the older man raised his shield to protect his head. As Jeral's sword connected with Saman's shield he levered his left leg up and launched it at the side of Saman's right knee. Jeral's boot connected with the armored knee and he felt the thinly armored joint give as he heard the knee crack. Saman collapsed in a heap, dropping his sword and shield to hold his wounded knee.

"Point Jeral!" Hull cried.

He stepped in to examine the older man and knelt down to talk to the older warrior. After a hushed conversation he stood up.

"Saman cannot continue. Jeral wins the match."

Jeral offered his hand to Saman but the injured warrior slapped the hand away and called Jeral a man without honor for fighting dirty. The clerics stepped in to work on Saman's injured knee and Jeral departed the ring.

Shaking his head Jeral returned to the shade. I don't know why he is so upset. That is legal within the rules of the tournament. I should know. Gorion made me memorize the rules. Sore loser. He was the better fighter by far, so of course I had to try something unorthodox to win. Gorion always says 'find the advantage and use it.'

Shortly it was time for the finals. Jeral could barely move his left arm. He was allowed to replace his damaged buckler but, per tournament rules, clerical healing was only allowed after a man was eliminated from the tournament. Jeral chewed on some berrum root to help numb the pain as he walked into the circle for the final match.

Jeral's opponent was a small slight man who stood barely over five feet tall. He was the smallest man in the tournament but that clearly had not hindered him in this tournament. His name was Yoktori and he had appeared at Candlekeep over the winter. He said little and spent most of his time either in the library, or tending the gardens in front of his home. He carried himself with a quiet assurance and had quickly defeated his prior two opponents. He was very thin and was at least a decade and a half Jeral's senior. His white hair was closely cropped and covered by a small open faced helm. He was wearing gleaming finely wrought chainmail and wielded a curved katana in his right hand and a short sword in his left hand.

Jeral had read about the katana but had never seen one used. He also had never seen a man fight with two weapons before. Jeral sensed that this man was quite skilled and feared he was overmatched. Jeral forced himself to focus on the positives. Feeling was returning to his left arm and he had size and reach on his opponent. Yet despite the apparent advantages Jeral was concerned.

Hull announced the finals and Jeral was surprised to see that a large crowd had gathered. Nearly everyone at Candlekeep was watching the finals to see how Gorion's ward would fare in his first tournament. Many had neglected to attend before the final match. After the perfunctory salutes the final combat began.

Jeral warily circled to his right as he sized up his opponent. Yoktori looked almost bored and had yet to be so much as touched in previous rounds of the tournament. Jeral twirled his sword from side to side as he advanced. Jeral leapt forward and attacked with a sweeping horizontal strike. Yoktori leaned back and the sword passed harmlessly inches from his chest. Smiling slightly, Yoktori leapt forward while Jeral was on the backswing. He parried Jeral's backswing with the katana in his right hand and stabbed forward with his short sword. Jeral was unable to twist his body out of the way and he grunted in pain as the padded tip of the short sword connected with his midsection.

"Point Yoktori!"

Jeral backpedaled and tried to catch his breath. Yoktori lazily advanced on Jeral and launched two overhand blows. Jeral leapt forward, his buckler caught the katana blow and his long sword pushed the short sword aside. Launching himself forward and down Jeral's forehead violently connected with the smaller man's nose. Yoktori's nose broke with an audible "crack" and blood spurted down the smaller man's face.

"Point Jeral!"

A flicker of annoyance briefly passed across the smaller man's face before it was replaced again by his bored expression.

Before Jeral could celebrate his successful attack Yoktori pivoted and ended up standing to Jeral's side. He twirled his weapons in an ornate series of patterns and rained multiple blows on Jeral's injured shield arm. Jeral cried out in pain as his shield arm fell numbly to his side for the second time in the tournament. Yoktori pivoted away and launched blow after blow at Jeral's sword arm. Jeral parried each attack as quickly as he could but Yoktori slashed downward with his katana and connected with Jeral's sword hand. Jeral felt the bones in his hand shatter as he dropped his sword and fell to one knee clutching his shattered hand close to his chest.

Defenseless Jeral looked up at Yoktori. Yoktori twirled his swords in an intricate pattern as he advanced on Jeral. Jeral was amazed to see that his opponent showed almost no emotion as he advanced on Jeral. The trickle of blood coming from the broken nose, dripping over a pale expressionless face was particularly unsettling to Jeral.

I really need to learn that fighting style someday, I particularly like that curved katana, Jeral mused to himself as he struggled to regain his footing.

Hull stepped between the combatants, "Jeral, do you yield?"

Jeral shakily came to his feet and thought about it.

Yoktori was the one to break the silence.

"There is no shame in honorable defeat. You fought valiantly and well, however, you have lost. Today is not your day. Perhaps tomorrow will be a better day for you."

Jeral locked eyes with the smaller man. His words had merit. Nodding once Jeral slowly stood and loudly announced, "I, Jeral of Candlekeep, yield the field of battle to the better warrior."

A round of applause went up as Hull declared Yoktori the winner and led him off to the celebration tent. Jeral slumped back to the ground as the pair of clerics worked to heal his shattered hand and wounded shield arm.

At least I made him bleed, that is more than anyone else did.

The thought of blood sent an excited chill up Jeral's spine.

Blood. Why does that word have special meaning to me?

Jeral sat on the field for a long time pondering the day's events and flexing his repaired hand. When he finally forced himself to return to the library to bathe and retire for the evening he found that sleep was a long time in coming.

The following morning Jeral sat down to breakfast in Winthrop's inn. Gorion and Winthrop joined him at the table. Smiling Gorion tossed a small pouch onto the table. The thunk of a heavy coin purse was clearly audible as it landed on the table. Jeral looked up from his meal and stared at the two older men with a quizzical look on his face.

"Good morning Jeral. It is a fine day. Yer dad and me made quite a bit o coin at the fights yesterday," Winthrop intoned.

"How is that possible? I lost."

"We know that boy. We were there. Gorion and me watched the warm-ups and saw that Yoktori was going to win. He was the best by far. So we bet on him to win and we made a killing. Nice job with the head strike. I did not expect that and neither did he. You were the only one to hit him at all during the entire tournament."

"Wait a minute. You two; my father and one of his oldest friends, bet against me?"

"Of course we did boy. Friends are friends but money is money. It was nothing personal, just business. You need to remember that, for that is the way of the world."

Looking to keep Jeral calm Gorion hastily added, "If it makes you feel any better once we saw the tournament draw we bet on you to reach the finals."

Grudgingly Jeral smirked and nodded, "Well that does help, a little."

"Well me boy, Gorion and I know what will help some more. There are 50 gold in that pouch. That is your share of the winnings. Also, here is a going away gift from me."

Winthrop handed over a bundle wrapped in soft green felt. Jeral unrolled the felt and saw a long slender musical instrument made out of ebony wood polished to gleam like obsidian. Jeral picked it up and smiled broadly.

"It's a zink! Thank you Winthrop! I always wanted to learn how to play one of these."

Blushing Winthrop clapped his hands in delight.

"I am glad you like it lad, any bard worth his salt needs his own musical instrument."

Noting Gorion's sour face Winthrop looked his old friend directly in the eye with his fiercest stare.

"You know as well as I do that the boy is stubborn. Like it or not your son is gonna be a bard, so deal with it."

Turning back to Jeral Winthrop continued, "Since you cannot sing at all I figured something like this would prevent you from singing any more than necessary. That will spare your audience from any unnecessary suffering."

He stared fondly at the musical instrument. "That belonged to a previous traveling companion of mine. Properly played it makes a beautiful sound. I am sure he would want you to have it."

"And where is he now Winthrop?"

"Er….. well, um, he was killed in an ambush. In fact his death was the one that encouraged me to retire from the adventuring life. So I came here to Candlekeep and purchased this inn."

"Well thank you again for the zink Winthrop, I am overwhelmed."

Jeral shook his head and started straight at Winthrop. "Wait a minute. Going away gift? Where are you going?"

Gorion reached across the table and laid a hand gently on Jeral's forearm.

"Winthrop is not going anywhere Jeral. You and I are going on a trip. The time has come. You and I are leaving Candlekeep tonight. Say goodbye to no one. Just buy the equipment you need and meet me on the library steps at dusk. Do not be late."

"Father, what is going on? Why must we leave?"

"All will be explained in time when we leave. But before we do depart, I too have a gift for you."

Gorion pulled out a small blue leather bound book from his robes and slid it across the table to Jeral. He then slid across a quill and small ink pot.

"Even a bard needs a spell book Jeral, so it is time you had one of your own. This spell book is nearly impervious to harm, the ink will never run and the ink pot will never empty. Modestly I can say this is one of the finest spell books I have ever created."

Jeral was too overcome with emotion to speak so he could only nod his thanks as he stared at the spell book and fought back tears. After a few minutes of silence Winthrop and Gorion left the table leaving a very confused Jeral in their wake.

Jeral felt rich with the 50 gold, added to the 25 he had saved over the years. He was brought back to reality as he quickly ran through most of his money. Even buying at a heavy discount from Winthrop his equipment was costly and he could not afford the long bow and chain mail he dearly wanted. Jeral purchased new leather armor, a new buckler, a long sword, 10 small throwing knives in a bandolier, three daggers, basic camping gear and some rations. After that the handful of coins that remained seems inadequate for whatever the future would hold.

Jeral walked into his sparkly furnished room in the upper floor of the library and took stock of his meager possessions. He stripped to the skin and using a wet rag and bucket of water quickly washed up. "Might be a while until I can do this again," he mused. Once he was clean he dried off and took the time to admire himself in the mirror. His eyes gazed back at his reflection; they were clear and blue, ice blue with an intensity that caused some to flinch away from his gaze. He had a scar over his left eye, the result of a nasty sword blow while training with the watchers when he was younger. Oddly since he grew older every wound seems to heal without leaving a scar so he only has the one.

Jeral wore his dark hair long to hide the scar. For the millionth time he sighed when he looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was slightly taller than average at a shade less than six feet, and was taut and lean. He flexed his muscles in front of the mirror one last time and turned to his wardrobe.

He had a large number of outfits in his wardrobe. There was his outfit from his time as a trainee in the watchers, his monk trainee robes, his wizard robes and some simple breeches that he liked to wear around his room and when not studying. He put on a pair of dark grey breeches, high soft black boots, and a sky blue silk shirt. The armor went atop the clothes with the bandolier of throwing knives atop the armor. He fastened his sword belt and placed two daggers into his boots and a third onto his belt. Over his shoulders he fastened the reversible hooded cloak that was a gift from Winthrop years ago. One side was a deep black while the other was a mix of brown and green strips of fabric that was well sealed against the elements.

Throwing his rations, flint and tinder, spare clothes and bedroll into a sack Jeral was ready to go. His zink was lovingly tucked in a small carrying case slung across his back that also carried his spell book. With his few remaining coins in a small purse strung around his next and tucked into his shirt Jeral left his room wondering if he would ever return.

Jeral saw Gorion waiting on the front steps of the library. He really wanted to take one last stroll around Candlekeep but did not want to keep his father waiting. On his way to see Gorion Imoen came skipping up to say hi. Jeral smiled as he watched his only friend approach. Imoen was also human and of a similar age to Jeral. At little more than five feet tall she was short and had started to blossom into a very attractive young woman. Imoen had grown up with Jeral and was as close to him as any sibling. Over the years they had studied together, trained together and gotten in trouble together. He wanted to tell her everything that was happening but realized that he did not have the time. A quick hug that startled both Imoen and Jeral with its intensity was their wordless goodbye. Imoen watched him walk away as he headed towards the great library of Candlekeep.

She waved and said, "See you soon brother."

Sadly, Jeral doubted he would ever see Imoen again.

Gorion was waiting patiently at the library doors. He wore a heavy dark cloak over his sky blue mage robes and a gnarled staff that doubled as a walking stick. The staff was inlaid with runes of various metals and glowed softly from his touch.

"Come child, we are no longer safe here. Let us be off."

Without a second look Gorion headed straight for the gate of Candlekeep. Jeral could not resist one last look at his home, the only home he had ever known, before turning and hurrying after Gorion. For some reason his heart was heavy as he knew Candlekeep would never be his home again.