The Legacy of Bhaal: Tales of the Sword Coast

Prologue: Memoirs of Candlekeep

Nestled atop the cliffs that rise from the Sword Coast rests the great monastery of Candlekeep, housing the finest and most comprehensive collection of writings on the face of Faerun. It is an imposing fortress, kept in strict isolation from the intrigues that occasionally plague the rest of the Forgotten Realms. It is secluded, highly regimented, and it is home. Or at least, it was. That is all over now. But I digress.

Candlekeep... Even now, the name rekindles happy memories. It was there that my foster parent Gorion decided to raise me after taking me in as a newly born infant, and where I subsequently spent the next twenty years of my life. And although Gorion could be stern, stoic, and detached from the whimsical desires of small children, he was a loving father, which was more than I could have ever hoped for considering the circumstances surrounding my birth. It was a happy childhood, and I was a very lucky child.

But Gorion was not my real father of course. And when I was growing up, I knew next to nothing about my biological parents. My mother was a Half-Elf from the courts of Ashabenford, or so I was told. Gorion was dear friends with her, but she passed away in untold circumstances. I eventually deduced (through no help from Gorion) that my mother had died giving birth to me. It seemed the most logical explanation. I was apparently only a few days old when Gorion first brought me to Candlekeep after all. Perhaps it was the trauma of seeing her die in front of him that caused him to take me with him and raise me as he would his own.

As for my father? I knew nothing.

Anyway, whatever the circumstances were, Gorion took my newly born self to Candlekeep, where he raised me as he would if I were his own flesh and blood. He named me Edward, a name which he said he chose for no particular, other than he thought it suited me (and I'm inclined to agree). As I was growing up I had no trouble fitting into life at the keep, despite the fact there were no other children.

The evidence of Elven blood was minimal in my appearance. Indeed, most people were taken aback when I informed them of my lineage. My hair was of a pale strawberry blonde colour, and neatly cut short. My stature was… well, not tall, but of a medium height, unlike the petite Elves. Admittedly, my ears were very slightly pointed at the back, but it was only a trait one would notice if he were to look for it. And so I hardly stood out at all.

The years passed like raindrops falling gently from the sky, without anything particularly noteworthy befalling the Keep. Whatever troubles were affecting the outside world where of little concern to us, and since a donation of important lore to the library was required to allow outsiders entrance, it was only through the merchants who regularly were allowed passage that we received any news from foreign lands. I found this somewhat frustrating at times, but Gorion kept me busy enough.

Very busy, in fact. For reasons unbeknown to me, Gorion seemed determined that I master the arts of magic. From the age of five, I was made to spend long hours inside the keep studying the tomes, which I did find dull at times. However, the prospect of magic seemed exciting at such a young age, and so my eagerness to learn usually outdid my disdain for the laborious texts. By the age of seven Gorion allowed me to start casting simple spells under his supervision and by the age of nine I had mastered the basics of various schools of magic. Gorion was impressed by my aptitude.

It was around my tenth birthday I think, that Imoen came to Candlekeep for the first time. She was a few months younger than me, and arrived with a foster parent like myself, in the shape of Winthrop. Winthrop was a merchant and part-time adventurer, who had come across the young Imoen wandering the streets during one of his travels. She was an orphan, like me, and the pity he took upon her, combined with the fact he had never married and had no children of his own, persuaded him to take her in. Deciding to finally settle down, he brought her to Candlekeep where he bought the local inn.

Imoen and I became fast friends, and despite the relatively short age difference between us, she took it upon herself to play the little sister role. The little time I had where I wasn't studying the magical arts under the watchful eye of Gorion, I spent with her doing errands around the inn, or just generally getting up to mischief. Imoen had a knack for getting a hold of things she wasn't meant to have, and took great delight in stealing an important scrolls from scholars when they had their backs turned. Inevitably this usually got her into a lot of trouble, but everyone knew she wasn't doing it out of spite, and there was a childish innocence about her that meant you couldn't stay angry at her for long.

Through doing errands for Winthrop and other people around the town, I managed to earn a lot of pocket-gold which (much to Gorion's disdain) I eventually used to buy a sword from the local smithy. With practise, I became well-trained in handling it, and eventually realised I could combine my swordsmanship and wizardry together, and created a unique fighting style of my own. Gorion did not particularly approve of this unconventional approach however, but he eventually came to realise that he could do little to stop me doing what I wanted, and left me be. But despite my vigorous training, I saw little or no real combat previous to my leaving Candlekeep. Sometimes Imoen and myself would go hunting for gibberlings who nested near the town gates, but they made for easy prey and posed no challenge.

To my great surprise, Gorion asked Imoen to join us for our studying sessions in the tomes. Her lack of concentration led to her not having much success however and she soon stopped turning up to classes, but Gorion was adamant that there was great potential within her. As for myself, I kept asking Gorion why it was so important I be so skilled and well-trained. He said nothing, other than 'You will soon find out, child.'

He was right.

I remember the day, and the date of the day clearly, for it was a mere two days after my twentieth birthday. The first of Mirtul, in the year 1368. It was the day I learned how little I really knew, and it was the day that were to change my life forever. It was the day it all began.

From the pen of Edward

Date unknown