Arrabonn

Oh, good morning all.

Here is a piece of my attempts at writing.

I only hope the spacing came out all right.
This spans several years, a glimpse of
Arrabonn Morrowyn, Paladin of Torm.

Enjoy,


Arrabon rubbed the small piece of charcoal across the blank sheet of paper slowly. She knew what she wanted to draw, as the lines melded together. Her efforts became painstakingly clear as a rough portrait of a young man stared back at her with dark eyes.
The piece of charcoal she was using was rough, not allowing her to make the fine distinction a practiced artist would. She had to be careful, not to smear the picture with her hand, a draw back of using such rough implements.

Biting on her lower lip, she furrowed her brow. It was so close but not quite what he looked like in her dreams, but oh so close.
Arrabon sat back studying the drawing, the muscles in her back and arms irritability tense from laying on the hard stone floor of her bedroom for so long.
Stiff muscles were a small price to pay to keep the dark stains from her clothes. At least she could wipe her fingers off.
?It would be easier in the library,? she mused, stretching slowly. ?Yeah if I want every one to laugh at me,? she frowned, wrapping the piece tightly, before placing the latest drawing with so many others in her secret place, a small hollow behind a loose stone in the hearth.

She brushed her hair out of her face, ?really should put it up,? she thought as she pulled out a fresh piece of parchment spreading it out on the flagstones flat.
She chewed on the end of her thumb, a usual habit when she was deep in thought.
Trying to glean out of her memory, what this man looked like.
She knew in her mind?s eye, his most striking feature was his blue eyes, dark like the ocean that crashed on the rocks behind the keep.

Arrabon knew she could not have met him, living in Candlekeep sheltered as she was. ?Yet.? she added with a wry grin, lightly sketching his eyes. She didn?t know if she ever would. Only Torm knew for sure.

Her inspiration was a dream; she had had several times already. It was almost always the same: the young man turned toward her, hand outstretched to aid her, staring into her eyes with a haunted expression and just a he was about to speak she woke up with a start.

That was all she could remember of the dream. Still, she felt there was more, something just beyond her reach, something that Torm was trying to tell her. Thus far, she wasn?t able to decipher the meaning of her vision. Arrabon shrugged as she continued losing herself in the work.
Arrabon found that if she started sketching as soon as she woke, when the memory was fresh, his face was easier to replicate, along with all the practice she was getting.
So, she began keeping a candle by her bedside just for such an occasion.

?Arrabon? a knock at her chamber door drew her out of her reverie,

?No! Not Imoen,? she shuddered. Her foster sister would find out and never let her have a moment?s peace.
?Arrabon! Winthrop wants us down stairs,? Imoen called opening the door.
?Give me a moment,? Arrabon seethed her fingers on her left hand stained black. ?Damn, I don?t want her to see,? she stuffed papers and charcoal in to the cubby franticly, hurrying to get the stone back in place.
Imoen padded quietly up behind her ?what are you doing?? her voice was accusingly high.
?Nothing,? Arrabon clipped angrily ?give me a moment,? pushing her self up off the floor dusting off her breeches, ?lets go? she breathlessly curling her fingers at her side to hide the black stains on the tips, stepping on the stone seating it firmly into place. Hoping beyond all hope that Imoen hadn?t seen her hiding her things.

Arrabon liked Imoen, she was just like the little sister that Arrabon never had.
?Well, could live without,? Arrabon scanned the room one last time. The girl was a pest, borrowing things that didn?t be long to her like my clothes.
Arrabon scowled at Imoen, ?That?s my shirt!?
?Fits me better? Imoen giggled as she danced out the door.

?Patience,? Arrabon could hear her foster fathers voice chiding her. ?Imoen truly craves your attention? she could only sigh ?father is right, I should wait to Winthrop let whip her.?

Her foster-sister knew how to grate arrabon?s nerves, getting into things she had no place being and following her around like a lost little puppy. Her mind conjured up images of Imoen as a small lap hound begging for attention, gazing forlornly at her with those brown eyes of hers.
?That?s why I like cats,? she laughed with a wicked grin, bounding out of her bedroom after Imoen, the heavy door swinging closed, her drawings forgotten.



In the shadows, Imoen watched Arrabon swing the heavy training sword at the wooden practice dummy. She swallowed past the hard lump in her throat. ?That could be me if she finds out I went through her stuff again.?
?But, she shouldn?t have tried to hide it from me,? Imoen reasoned, ?She knows my curiosity is insatiable.?
?I can?t be held responsible for my actions when I just have to know.? ?And she made it so easy, by not placing a ward on it,? Imoen sighed, though she knew that Arrabon had no skill at magic.
?It?s just a bunch of silly drawings any way.? She tried to smile half-heartedly, a sinking feeling building in the pit of her stomach. ?Who am I kidding, she is going to kill me and Gorion won?t be able to stop her.?
Her thoughts raced along that fateful path. ?Arrabon is going to beat me to a pulp and dance on my face.?
If she finds out I saw her drawings and read her notes. Imoen shivered again, Arrabon?s anger was not something she wanted to be on the receiving end of.
Imoen had witnessed first-hand her older siblings temper.

Arrabon had snapped, after she had seen a stable hand beating a horse, belonging to lady Phlydia. Lunging at the groom, pounding him with nothing more than her fists, because the lout had hit a horse.

?The poor animal,? Imoen cringed as the memory surfaced.

When Gorion had arrived to separate the groom and Arrabon. She was still raging mad, blood oozing from her lip and nose.
Imoen had never seen the old mage as disappointed, as he was that day in Arrabon's behavior. Even if Arrabon had taken the brunt of the fight and thought she was right.

?Not to worry though,? she fingered the parcel under her cloak ?this will win her forgiveness.?

The weapons-master Alaric nodded as he paced around, chastising her older sister when Arrabon stepped to far forward leaving herself wide open to a counter attack, the heavy blade unbalancing her in the process.
?If?n you want to fight with a two ?anded sword, don? leve? urself open to an attack?
Alaric walked around the young warrior, hands clasped behind his back.
?Now lass go through it again? he charged her gruffly ?until ?ou git it right?. The old man turned on his heel and strode away. ?Be glad it tis only practice?
?Damn!? Arrabon huffed readying the heavy blade for the attempt again. She was hot, sweaty and tired. This was all she needed now was to go through it several more times.
The thought never crossed her mind to lay down her sword and walk away.
Torm would not accept her, as a paladin if she gave up. And the desire to become a paladin burned brightly within her.
No, she would stay until nightfall if that is what it took to get one simple swing right.

?By Torm!?
She swore as she saw her foster sister jogging out to the practice field, headed her way. ?Just one day Torm,? she cast her eyes skyward. ?One day without that little rat tagging along behind me,? She prayed under her breath.

?Arrabon? Imoen waved, trotting up to the fighter. Her face was flushed and she looked extremely guilty. Gods above only knew what she had been up to.
Arrabon bit back a sharp retort as Imoen pulled out a parcel from under her cloak. ?I have something for you,? the younger girl smiled, passing a small packet to Arrabon.
?What is it Imoen?? she sighed wearily; trying to hide the sudden irritation, of her foster-sister?s interruption. Imoen probably lifted it from one of the monks, and just wants me to get her out of trouble again. Before she gets caught and Winthrop wants to have her flogged. It wouldn?t be any less than she deserves.

Imoen shrugged, trying hard to quell the grin threatening to break out.

Arrabon shook her head unable to think of an appropriate response. What she had done to deserve a present from her little sister? Cautiously she replied, ?Thanks.?
Imoen was as strange as a loon sometimes. She lay the parcel down with her cloak, ?I?ll look at it later.?
Arrabon watched awestruck, as Imoen danced away singing a rowdy little ballad. She chuckled at her sister?s silliness then went back to attacking the wooden soldier with more enthusiasm.



The sun was setting, as Gorion ambled outside to the practice field. The last place, Sir Alaric had relayed at dinner, he had seen her. The old sage limped slightly, joints aching from the damp chill as he walked, searching for his ward. Lately his young charge was found on the drilling field, practicing with the long sword.
?Was she aware of her destiny?? the old mage unconsciously questioned, tucking his hands inside his heavy robe against the evening chill.
?Dear Mystra, let her remain a child a little longer,? he prayed, seeing her swinging that practice sword.
?Arrabon,? the sage called. She turned a large grin on her face, waving at him. ?I did it!? she whooped racing up to the old mage. ?Father? she laughed breathlessly ?did you see?? He smiled down at her; as she skidded to a stop, ?see??
Arrabon laughed excitedly. ?Yes, I took off its head.? She gestured to the now headless practice dummy, alone on the field.
She laughed unable to stand still dancing in front of him, ?Sir Alaric said I could do it.?
A sudden rush of anxiety washed over the old sage as he peered at the decapitated wood.

Old prophecies of the wise Alaundo echoed in his thoughts, rising to the surface. Requiring the sage to question his own wisdom on the fate of one young orphan. The mage suddenly felt very old.

Masking his concern with a grim smile, Gorion nodded, ?well done.? With a knarled hand he clapped her lightly on the back, noting she was drenched, clad in a light shirt and breeches. ?Gather your things,? the old mage smiled warmly at his charge, ?it?s late and you haven?t had dinner.?
?Yes sir,? Arrabon saluted, turning on her heel, racing back to her things on the ground. With a fateful sigh, Gorion looked after her, realizing that his ward was not a little girl any longer, but fast becoming a young woman.



A hot bath had been just what she had needed, to wash the grim of the day away without dampening her spirits. Arrabon toweled her pale hair dry, as she padded quietly back to her room; it was late and half the keep was already in bed.
It wouldn?t do to have Winthrop wake up her father, if she disturbed anyone; he needed to rest.
She knew that the sage wasn?t all that old, yet something was troubling him, to the point of affecting his slumber.
?Should I discuss my dreams with father?? she paused offhandedly, looking over her shoulder, towards her father?s room.
?No,? she sighed, ?maybe later,? she combed through her hair with one hand, opening the door to her chamber with the other. As she moved in to her room, pushing the door shut; her gaze fell on the parcel that Imoen had given to her earlier in the day.

Curiosity nipped at her as she sat down on the edge of the bed, to examine the contents. Arrabon ripped the wrapping away, in it?s wake lay graphite sticks, for drawing. ?Oh my,? lightly she touched the small pieces counting, there had to be at least five here.
A small treasure for certain, one she could not afford.

A traveler, from a Spelljammer ship, had traded the graphite for supplies with Winthrop the innkeeper. The captain of the ship was making it a point to bring more on his next trip.
The monks in the library coveted the graphite, for it?s ability to produce fine lines, without smearing like charcoal.

There was only one reason that Imoen would have given her this. Arrabon reasoned as anger flared, the little rat knew! ?Torm,? Arrabon closed her eyes praying, ?grant me peace.? Inwardly she thought, ?not to kill her in the morning.?




?Arrabon what are you doing?? Imoen whined impatiently falling on to her stomach on arrabon?s bed. ?Nothing? came the clipped reply from the prostrate figure balled up on the floor attempting to cover her latest work from her nosy little sister, with no great success.
?Are you drawing again?? Imoen groused brushing her bangs out of her eyes and behind her ears, she leaned forward to get a closer look.
?Oh come on let me see this one? she leered over arrabon?s shoulder.
?Blast Imoen? Arrabon growled lightly, reining in her temper.
Always bugging me she added silently, ignoring her.
Arrabon slowly colored on the paper, turning the parchment several times, before leaning back to allow Imoen full access to the finished portrait.
?Him again!? Imoen stifled a yawn, thoroughly bored with Arrabon, and rolled leisurely onto her back.
?Gods! You?d think you would learn to draw something else by now,? She chuckled lightly only to receive an irritated glare in response.

Arrabon frowned at the younger girl ?again?? it was becoming quite common lately. ?I saw his face again last night.? She quietly whispered staring at the picture losing her self in the vision.

?Torm? Arrabon prayed silently, tracing her finger gently over the paper, ?what am I to do??
The depiction was the same as all the others lining the cubby, piercing dark gaze, straight nose, full lips surrounded by a neatly trimmed beard, all crowned by a shock of dark unruly hair.

Arrabon had told her little sister several times that his eyes were a dark blue, as a stormy ocean at high tide, and just as easy to read.

Imoen whistled, ?this is really good? she turned looking at Arrabon ?you should show Gorion?
Arrabon inclined her head to the side, a slight smile touched her face softening her features, and once again she declined.

Imoen smiled she knew her sister would.

?No, no I don?t think father would understand?, Arrabon replied off-handedly continuing to roll the parchment up tightly.
How could she expect to tell anyone; that she knew that some day she would meet this knight, that Torm needed her to do something, Arrabon just didn?t know what.
Why she felt the need to excel, that her life depended on it.

She placed it in the cubby along with her small drawing pencils and colored chalk. Things procured for her by her foster sister, from only Imoen knew where.
Arrabon placed the bricks in back place securing her secret once again with one last longing glance. The memory of the face fleeting like a ghost, as she turned to face the younger girl ?Now what did Gorion want me for??





Four years later?


Imoen returned to Candlekeep alone. It wasn?t quite like she remembered it. The old fortress was still a library with many dusty old tomes.
Few guards walked the ramparts, not half as many as before the attack by the doppelgangers.
Her foster father was still among those living in the keep, tending the inn as he did before the events of the Iron Throne, so many years ago.

Few of the original inhabitants survived those troubled years. ?Massacred within the very walls that were supposed to protect them,? Imoen thought, as she grimly walked the courtyard in front of the library en route through the gardens, where she spent so much of her child hood playing with her older sister Arrabon.
?Oh Mystra,? Imoen sighed she missed her. Leaving Arrabon in Athkatla was one of the hardest things she had ever had to do.
The loss of her sister by her side left an empty feeling in her heart.


The day before Imoen left Athkatla, Arrabon had taken her aside.
Assuring Imoen that she would be arriving soon with the others.
?I need a little time, okay?? Arrabon had hugged Imoen tightly.
?I will miss you,? the young mage sniffed.
The paladin had held her at arms length, her own tears falling unchecked down her face.
?I will be home soon,? she had whispered hoarsely. ?Just not yet, dear Torm, I can?t go home yet.?
The watcher had stepped in closer to the paladin of Torm, a strong steadying hand on her shoulder.

Imoen shook her head, ?I think I understand.?


But the mage still couldn?t help but miss her sister. Miss all of their companions, even the stuffy priest of Helm.

Winthrop welcomed Imoen back with open arms, Imoen knew in her heart he would, she was his daughter after all. Imoen was tired from the long journey, and only wanted to rest, retiring to the second floor of the keep, where she had lived long ago.
As she ascended the stairs, trudged past her old room to Arrabon?s.
It was clean and tidy, almost like she remembered it.
She sighed as she sat down on Arrabon?s old bed. Gods! How she missed her older sister.
She sighed again looking around the small cell not much had changed. Her gaze fell on the dust-covered bricks.
No, couldn?t be?
She slid off the bed, onto her knees to the stone floor. Removing her knife from her belt began prying at the loose stones.
?By Mystra!? She shouted, pulling the stones from their nesting place. Revealing the cubby, stuffed full of scrolls, yellowed with age.
Her hands were shaking, as she removed a one of the rolls, carefully unrolling the old draft. ?Oh dear Mystral!? she swore again, as she gawked at the face of one Sir Anomen Delryn?

Ok here is a another piece of Lady Arrabonn's life

I do apologize for not posting it sooner, but Kelsey and Alrien have been begging me to write about them....
(they can be so demanding )

Oh by the way, Please excuse any errors, i'm not good at proofing my own work...


Relativety

The heart has reasons, for which reason does not know.



A cacophony of voices shouted battle cries, echoing around her and shattering the quiet of the late afternoon.

They were surprised, to say the least.

It was well planned, and orchestrated, an ambush, just within site of the wall to the city of Athkatla, when weary travelers would let their guard down.

?To arms,? Keldorn bellowed unsheathing his sword in one swift motion, turning to face his own armed assailant.

Time moved slowly, Arrabon as pulled her own pale bladed avenger from its scabbard on her back.

?We should have expected this,? she berated her self, cursing her own folly in not being prepared.

The inquisitor had stressed the need to camp out one more night in the Windspear woods, that this was a possibility, his worst fear coming to fruition.

But no, she had wanted to return to the city just as bad as Jaheria and Nalia, now they were submersed in battle, unprepared and ill-equipped; she wasn?t even wearing plate only a surcoat of chain, her plate in her pack in need of repair.

?By Torm you will fall,? she cried ready to face the first bandit in front of her, brandishing his own deadly weapon.

Anomen, warrior priest of Helm, was to her right, chanting a familiar prayer to the Great Guard for his blessing.
She didn?t know where Minsc had got to, though, ?thank Torm,? she could hear his war cries somewhere behind.


The group was already exhausted, returning from the dungeon of the red dragon, after rescuing Garran?s son.
The fight had been brutal, a small band of adventures taking on an ancient red dragon.

What had she been thinking, charging back down the stairs to face the creature, the younger paladin had been so full of anger, at the treatment of Garran?s son, for a vendetta so old that the original recipient was dead.

That she, a paladin of Torm, child of the dead god Bhaal, rushed foolishly in to battle with a beast so fearsome, that poor Minsc still believed he needed a bigger sword.

Even after two days rest, and many healing prayers, some wounds were still fresh; armor was in need of repair. the watcher gave up trying to polish his dented breast plate after many attempts.

So fighting a back alley skirmish was the last thought to enter their minds.

The cutthroat smiled at the paladin, he had done this before, knew that he had the advantage.

Arrabon noted from the missing teeth and long scar trailing down his cheek, that she would have to be very vigilant; the adventurers would overwhelm the bandits, by sheer numbers alone, but were at a great disadvantage, with lack of rest.

His grinned evilly at her, a knowing glint shone in his beady eyes, as he leveled a heavy crossbow at her, he would get only one shot before she would be upon him.

A simple thought fleeted through her mind in that instant, almost a whisper; at this range he would not miss and her chain mail would offer no chance of protection.

The paladin yelled a battle cry, ?Better make it count you will only have one chance!?



Thwang!


She felt the bolt pierce her chain-mail entering her chest, as she took a step back, the paladin looked down, the bolt?s fletching stood out from her chainmail.
?Funny it didn?t hurt,? she thought, as crimson blossomed out like a rose opening for the first time.
She grasped with her right hand to touch the fletching, feeling her heart beating franticly through the bolt.
The paladin turned her hand up slowly, feeling the warm wetness against her fingers.

It was blood, her own blood.

?No,? she reasoned, ?it could not be,? but the darkness that cowered in the deep recesses of her mind over took her body.

?Oh crap!?

At to the sound of the thugs voice, She looked back up, in to the assailant?s face, the smile faded from his toothless grin, at what stared back at him.

Pure death and darkness the very essence of her sire, Bhaal.

The paladin became an onlooker, on the sidelines in her mind, as the evil of her sire?s blood automated her body, using the holy sword to decapitate her foe in a single swing.

?NO! Torm!?

She begged fighting against the vile darkness in her soul, driving it back with her faith in Torm.

The darkness of Bhaal retreated once again in to the recesses of her heart, sapping her strength, as her lifeblood, poured from her wound.

?Arrabon!? The watcher?s voice cut through the throng as the battle ended, with the retreat of the other robbers.

Her knees buckled, she heard Carsomyr clatter to the stones at her feet.
A veiled blackness filled her vision, obscuring Anomen's gentle face as he caught the paladin?s crumpling body.
She tried to speak only to cough, blood dribbling from the corner of her mouth down her chin.
Torm, it was becoming hard to take a breath.

?Hang on my love.? He whispered lowering her body gently to the cold stone.

She felt the need to tell him that it was all right; it would all be all right. But no sound emerged.

?No Arrabon,? he wept, ?hold on,? tears falling down his cheeks to land on her face.

Was it raining? The paladin thought as she closed her eyes feeling warm drops land on her face.

?Hang on,? the priest spoke gently to her goading her to stay awake, ?Jaheria hurry.?

The druid knelt beside the fallen warrior, chanting a healing prayer to Sylvanias.

The paladin felt the pain pulling her down with every beat of her heart, into the tide as waves crashed against rocks.

?So like home,? she thought listening to the ocean closing her eyes, ?I miss Candlekeep.?








A soft cloth was laid gently on her forehead from someone close, she felt so hot, and the cloth was cool against her skin, causing her to shiver involuntarily.
?There, there little one,? a soft feminine voiced soothed her fears, at least she was alive and safe. ?Is she going to be all right?? A shrill young voice asked worriedly.

So familiar.

Imoen?

Arrabon tried to open her eyes, ?that wasn?t right we haven?t reached Spellhold yet.?

?Anomen,? she whispered hoarsely attempting to roll on to her side. She had to find out what happened. Find out if every one was all right.

It was her fault that they got into that foolish skirmish in the first place.

IF. If she had only....

?Shh Arrabon,? still another voice that was familiar, from her past, but couldn?t be.

Was it possible?

Lady Phlydia?

NO! She was dead killed by doppelgangers that were sent by the Iron Throne.

Wasn?t she?

Suddenly things didn?t make sense, not that they ever did.

?Anomen!!?? She cried hoarsely straining to sit up, he would know, how to sort this all out.

Where was he?

A strong but gentle hand restrained her. ?Relax Arrabon it?s all right,? a soft yet commanding voice.

Oh dear Torm that sounded just like Gorion!

Now she knew something was wrong very wrong,

Gorion was dead. My father is dead, right?

?Arrabon, your all right,? the woman?s soothing voice again, ?you took a hard fall off of your horse.?

Fall off of my horse?

But, that was years ago.

Wasn?t it?

?Arrabon,? The old sage sat down on the side of her bed, her cheek was badly bruised that extended down her neck, as he swept her hair from her fevered face.

?Bay Boy is fine.?

My horse, she thought afraid to open her eyes.

Afraid of what she might see.

?You?ve broken some ribs,? the old mage continued softly, ?so stay still or you might puncture a lung.?

?Father,? she whispered cracking her eyes open slowly, to see Gorion sitting on the edge of her bed, he looked aged and very worried, Imoen peeked over his shoulder.

?You will be fine,? the sage softly caressed her cheek, she winced but smiled in spite of it, ?now go back to sleep,? Gorion whispered gruffly, ?I?ll be here when you wake.?

?But father,? she weakly tried to sit up again, ?how??
Gorion raised a brow at her question ?mistral?s blessing that we found you in time? he pressed a mug of a foul smelling concoction to her lips, ?drink,? he ordered gently.
In spite of her protests, of wanting to speak to her father again, she did as she was told and fell into a healing sleep.
And when she awoke it would all be a bad fleeting dream.





~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



?We can make it to Athkatla,? Nalia whined irritatingly, fussing with her robes, grating Keldorn?s frayed nerves, ?by early evening, it?s not that far.?
The old paladin raised an eyebrow to her protests, wondering if the argument was worth the effort.

?Torm I?d travel back to town if I thought it was safe just to stop her sniveling.?

?Besides, I need a bath,? the mage began blubbering again, tears threatening to fall.

Jaheria sighed, and opted to give her two coppers worth, leaning on her staff, glaring at the mage, ?a hot bath, and soft bed would be nice.?

Keldorn?s frown deepened, as he turned next to the young squire. Anomen stood quietly, watching the exchange with a detached amusement.
The last spell that had been cast had wiped his reserves; all he wanted to do was say his prayers and rest.
The watcher looked tiredly at the mage, and just shrugged, ?sir Keldorn, I would just as soon rest here.?

The inquisitor turned to the younger paladin, whose gaze seemed to be a million leagues away, ?Arrabon??

Anomen tapped her lightly on her shoulder, drawing her back to the here and now, ?My lady.?

Arrabon didn?t answer right away which worried the watcher.

?My lady, are you all right?? the priest?s voice was laced with concern.

The paladin shook her head blinking hard, ?what??
She looked around at the group, as if seeing their faces for the first time.

?Child are you all right?? Jaheria questioned.

?What,? she asked again, smiling sheepishly for getting caught off guard, her cheeks growing hot under her embarrassment, ?I?m sorry, say again please.?

Keldorn shifted his weight with a heavy sigh, wondering if he should even bother with the discussion, ?should we rest here, or go on to athkatla??

She looked over at the older paladin; a sense of déjà vu washed over her, sending chills down her spine. She had been her before.

Hadn?t she?

Been asked these same questions, yet with a different out come.

Thank you, my lord Torm!

Without a second thought, she flashed a smile at the old inquisitor.

?I think,? she peered up through the trees, shading her eyes with her hand, to the position of the sun, ?I?d just as soon rest here for the evening.?
Her heart felt lighter, than it had since taking on that blasted Firetieg. And what was one more day? She thought, sending a quick prayer to her lord, in thanks for their good fortune.

And her second chance..

Ok, I just couldn't put this one away, and in the end may even
change it.... several times...

I have tried to proof it, and there are inconsistences and mistakes
please let me know.

But I really need the feed back...(be gentle )
I also know that it may not make a lot of sense...


This one is set prior to the beginning of BG2..


Insanity




A swirling mist circled around his legs, as he ambled through the darkness. "Help me," a hoarse whisper sounded, from somewhere a head of the young priest.

"Hello," he called searching the veiled blackness, his steps were careful he wasn't sure where he was or how he had arrived, only that a soft plea for help continued to cry for aid.

"Dear Helm," the young priest of the great guard pushed aside a hanging chain, the room was a shadowed torture chamber, his stomach churned as the smell assaulted his nostrils

"Ah," a pitiful voice rang out, "have you come to take me home?"

The priest inclined his head to the left and stared at what he could conclude to be a prisoner manacled to the wall, arms secured above his head.

The watcher was unable to make out more that a silhouette of the person suspended by shackles barely touching the stone floor.

"May I help, Helm," the priest asked softly, trying to move forward to at least let the man out of the manacles, but a was held back by a unseen force.

"Then take my confession," the gravely voice offered, amidst a ringing of chains followed by a low moan.

"I have failed my companions," the prisoner slowly spoke, "failed my lord."
The voice paused in between hoarse breaths, "lost my faith."

"Then my lord," the priest spoke strongly, "have faith once again and remain strong."

"Loyalty duty honor." The prisoner repeated over his voice carried a strange determination.


The young squire awoke with a sharp intake of breath, throwing back the covers; he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"What are you showing me my lord?"

He scrubbed his face with his hand raking the other through his close-cropped hair.

"Where are you leading me to my lord helm?"

He rose slowly putting on a heavy a dark blue acolyte's robe to protect him from the chill hanging in the late night air.

It was the same in so many nights.

He padded over to the small washstand, gripping the pitcher tightly he poured water into the small cup, raising it quickly and draining the liquid in one long draught.

The dreams were becoming more intense, more real affecting the watcher into his waking hours. The captive taking on more human features each time the priest closed his eyes.

He knew that this was a test, a foreshadowing of the future to come. But what was his lord trying to tell him.

What was the message? It eluded him yet again. Was this a test of his faith? Helm knew that his priest agonized over his induction for knighthood, would he be found wanting.

The same dream, a prisoner begging for release, pleading for his confession.

What did it all mean?

The stress was starting to wear on the young priest, the High watcher the acolyte's mentor was beginning to notice the change in the squire.

The watcher was becoming increasingly withdrawn, angry, lashing out with bursts at most of his peers. The change was extremely troubling, for the high watcher was aware of the priest's troubles with his father.

The young watcher was faltering, treading back, to when he first arrived, a sullen, withdrawn youth, though not much had changed. "I must pray for an answer."

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The first night so many weeks ago, the watcher had been awakened from his sleep, by the tortured blood-curdling scream.

So disturbed by that vision was the watcher, that he traveled to the prison in athkatla, the very next day, to make sure there was no one being held, that was tortured or tormented as the poor knight in his dream.

The prisoner had to be a knight. His language, demeanor, his very bearing reflected that of a paladin, but from where and from what order?

Why was he a prisoner? Was he being punished for a crime, was he cast out of his order?

The watcher not being a scholarly sort, combed the library, searching the records of the order of the most radiant heart, for some idea as to the identity of the object of his dreams.

All knights presently in the order were accounted for, and those that weren't, who were still alive on station in other parts of Faerun.

Was it all in his head? The acolyte began to question his sanity, brutal torture to the scale the young squire had never seen, screams that followed him to his waking consciousness still caused him to tremble during his prayers.

"I am not afraid." He whispered in his arrogant manner.

He was not a coward, having faced death in battle before, but to dream about only this one knight, a solitary figure to plague his dreams almost nightly.

The priest shuddered involuntarily. "Helm," he prayed, "please show me what you would have me do."

______________________________________________________________




He was in robes not his usual armor as was cutom with helm's faithful, "must be another dream," he murmured searching his surroundings. His hand grasped his pendant, Helm's symbol, tightly willing away any evil that threatened.

The young priest of helm felt a gentle tug, leading him forward through the darkness. He cast a quick prayer, in toning the chant of divining almost with out a hesitation.
The priest believed it helped to know where one stood, seeking the alignment of the entiy guiding him.

"Helm what would you have me do?"

A slight glance around, shocked the warrior priest this was not the prison in Athkatla. The watchers stomach churned with unease as he continued ever forward from the insistant pull of his soul.

The other prisoners were well beyond help from him, the priest could only pray for their immortal souls, that they could find peace.

He was assaulted by atrocities and horror on a scale with which the priest had never seen, as he walked down the prison halls.

He would stop occasionally to pray for what poor wretch's body mutilated, discarded on the side. As he neared the end of the long corridor he gazed at a filthy tattered body held up by its arms suspended just above the stone floor.

The creatures head lolled to the side as pitiful moans emanated from it

The priest felt his heart lurch as he readied a healing spell from memory. "Helm, have mercy!"

"No, no, no, no," the creature murmured chanting the denial trying to will away the priest.

"No more please," the gravely voice begged fearing a reprisal of pain. The captive's body twisted in the manacles trying escape from the watcher.

"I can bear no more, I beg of thee," The pitiful being whined.

"I will not harm thee," the watcher spoke soothingly to the poor creature, not attempting to move forward.

Black ichor moved up along the prisoners body with a life of it's own, filled with tiny angry voices sounded from the foulness.

The Watcher pulled his hand away quickly, "helm! What matter of evil is this?"

The angry voice was cold emanating malevolenace, as it whispered, "priest." over and over again.

A consciousness surfaced briefly, seeking to rein in the darkness.

Yet this tortured being before the watcher, was in need of healing.


The prisoners head came up slowly, it's face was featureless yet the watcher could sense a awareness, a sane being, Surrounded by madness and evil.

"Why have you come?" the knight questioned the darkness his voice wavered slightly, "am I to be tortured again?"
The latter was said with a sneer, green eyes blinked feverently in the watchers direction, unable to see the priest.

"Torm?"

The god of fury's voice was spoken with a reverence that the watcher was taken aback, could this knight truly be repentant?

"Have you come to release me," a reverent prayer, breathed barely above a sigh.

The watcher shook his head replied, "I am a priest."

An almost hysterical chuckle sounded from the knight, chains ringing loudly.
"Do I need a priest?"

The being dropped his head again his voice low, "do not mock me jailer."

The watcher could feel the vile darkness, straining, stretching to reach him.

"It feeds upon weakness, you know".

The angry whispers faded in the inky blackness surrounding the prisoner.
Anger radiated towards the priest, "be gone evil one," the knight cried out.

"I shall not entertain, thy bidding!"

Levels of insanity the priest had never witnessed before warred over the frail being. Yet prevailing over the insanity before him was the consciousness of a knight, but who?

"Priest," the knight whispered, "free me from this torment," He began to weep.

The watcher knew that he spoke to the small piece of sanity the knight clung to.

"Have mercy," a final soft sigh, "kill me."

"I will heal you," The watcher spoke softly, beginning the prayer granted to him by the great Guard.

"Nay save your strength," the being slowly glowed faintly in the darkness, "for this is only a dream."



The priest could feel the saddness as clearly as any physical touch clutching his heart.
"But you are suffering," the priest answered with a flare of anger. How could this creature not want his help.

Again the hysterical chuckle of a thin thread of sanity quickly answered the watchers unspoken thoughts, "This is my own mind," a deep ragged breath, "reality is much worse.. but here I am somewhat protected.. from out there."

The creature indicated with his chin the priest looked in the direction given, a furious swirling darkness radiating malevolence.

The watcher could feel the hate as it pushed him back a step.

"No!" the prisoner ordered in a sharp commanding voice, "No you will not."

The watcher had no doubt that the pitiful creature that clung to sanity so desperatly was a knight. 'Helm, what has brought me here?'

"That is my darkness," The knight turned a featureless face to him again, "that..that vile taint wants me to destroy, murder, revel in the blood of my foes."
He sighed, "Strike down at.. anyone or anything."

The knight's head dropped down on to his chest, a agonizing exhale of breath, "forgive me."

The priest stared at the prisoner concerned the creature had finally passed on, his heartbeat, thundering in his ears, drawing out time slowly like the blade of a knife. Two shining green embers stared up at him from the captives face.

"Please forgive me?" a soft feminine voice pled with the watcher, "for this is only a dream, an escape for me from my jailer."

Shining green eyes stared at the priest intently no other feature of her face was discernable in the murky dungeon, "I do not know how you came to be here."

Anomen whispered the incantation to cast an alignment spell silently, yes it; "no", she was the same person, the same consciousness that was the prisoner.

"But, how?" The priest questioned with awe.

The prisoner shook it's head, sensing his unease and adding her own softly, "I..i do not know."

Questions assaulted the watchers thoughts as he gripped his holy symbol tighter. The one burning first and fore most in his mind, the question that had to have a answer. "Please my lady, are you?"

The watcher could almost visualize her smile as she answered his question, "nay my lord, I am not fallen."

"where are you," his voice took on an almost anxious note, "I will rescue you from."

"nay my lord," her voice was soft accepting her fate, "I could not ask that of you,"
"if I even knew where, here was."

"I promise you I will find you, my lady," he thought clenching his fists at his side, thinking of his sister trapped in her own prison with his father as warden, yet she was unwilling to leave.

Never should a lady, suffer such degradation as being held, even in a hell hold of a prison.

"I must find you," he reached out to her held just out of his reach, "I must save you my lady!" he fininshed with as much conviction as he felt.

"you already have," she replied a slight lift to her voice.

"nay," he stopped as she shook her head.

"you have given me a reason?" her voice soft echoed around him trailing off to the silence in his room as he opened his eyes a fine sheen of sweat covered his body, "helm what have you shone me?"

"What am I to do," he sat up slowly hands craddling his face, "where is she? Was this all just a dream?"

" Was she even real?"

"What am I to do?" he repeated softly unable to go back to sleep. The nightmare was still too vivid to let it go.

She was too real.

His thoughts turned to the female knight, the squire had met several in his chapter alone. Female knights were not uncommon.

The watcher let his thoughts travel to the captive again, he could only let his imgination draw her features, for all he could remember was the burning embers of green, glowing dimly in the darkness.

The squire padded silently down the corridor, towards the prayer room. As he entered he lit two candles before kneeling before the altar of the all Seeing Eye.

"Helm, I shall go where thou leads me." He intoned softly praying, "what are these visions, what is this pitiful creature that I have dreamt of in so many nights my lord?"

The old watcher hobbled quietly after the young priest, curious to know what was troubling his ward.
Certainly anomen understood that while he was a squire, liaisons were forbidden, one of the basic tenets of the order of the radiant heart.

Osig didn't think that anomen after fighting so hard to be admitted to the order would jeopardize his position.
This was one habit the old watcher was going to break. Osig peered in to the prayer room the squire knelt on the stone floor, before the altar deep in prayer.

The head watcher leaned against the wall, happy that his fears were for naught. Maybe it was time for a test of faith. If his ward was questioning his decision.


___________________________________________________________


The watcher knelt on the floor hands clasped tightly beginning his nightly ritual of prayer to the Great Guard.

Gentle warmth spread through his being as he felt the presence enter his cell.
A soft wispy voice whispered from all around him. "Only offer what you feel you can."

His room was still shrouded in semidarkness, the single candle burning sputtered yet offered no real light, the owner of the voice could not be made out.

"My Lord?" He questioned searching the vieled blackness.

"Be easy young watcher," the avatar sighed again, "and know that a path has opened up to you."

"this path will be laid with dangers," the avatar's voice dropped, "and great tragedy, it is your choice alone."

"My choice?" He opened his eyes, feeling safe in the comforting embrace.
"Helm guide me!" The watcher knew, felt it in the very marrow of his bones, that his prayers were being answered.

"You have to help mend it's spirit, strengthen it's faith control the amount of despair in yourself and the prisoner." The disembodied voice spoke.

The watcher could see the image of a battered creature in the mirror. As the glass took on a life of it's own, magically bringing the dream to life in the waking world. The prisoner leaned curled against the bars of the cell, body trembling from the latest round of abuse.

"Never give up," he whispered knowing the prayer of his faith, his eyes never leaving the scene unfolding from the looking glass as he rose.

"You? you returned," the gravely voice coughed, hoarse from over use, green embers staring intently at the priest.

"Aye," he realized as he padded closer to the mirror he was trully awake seeing those green eyes staring back at him, 'it wasn't a dream', "by helm's grace."

"By helm?" The knight seemed to question but only for a moment it's body suddenly racked by a deep wet cough,then a whimper.

"Helm grant him peace," the priest looked up into the knights featureless face seeing only green eyes burning back at him, "we must remain hale."

The watcher drew in a deep breath, "know that you are not forsaken in this trial."

the soft chuckle answered him. "You speak true I have not forgotten," it's eyes closed slowly, anomen could only guess as the green stones disappeared briefly.

" thank you," the knight whispered breathlessly. It's form Falling away from the watcher, swirling into the gray mists then to nothing but his reflection staring back at him.

Anomen rested heavily on his arms leaning on the frame of the mirror, which reflected his shadowed features, an urgent need ignited in his chest to journey out of the order's reagent house. To face this new route, his god opened up to him, to find the female knight and bring her back to the light.

"I must speak to the high watcher about my dreams."

Day had not dawned for it wasn't yet light out as the warrior priest made his way toward the temple of helm to confer with the high priest.

He felt the need to be away this day! Let helm guide his steps, his way to where his destiny lead him.

"Squire are you all right?" he cleared his throat interrupting the younger priest.
Anomen turned his face reddening in embarrassment. "I didn't mean to wake you head watcher."
The young priest bowed deeply, "high watcher I feel I must journey out from the order."

The high watcher nodded as the priest spoke relating his dream and last vision, listening intently, as the watcher boiled over with relief that his mentor understood.

"Helm has shown me a vision," he paused shaking his head, "and I feel that his hand guides my steps towards a most uncertain future."

"And your test?" The high watcher asked waiting for the priest to decry the possibility of his petition to the order of the most radiant heart.

"I will return when the time is nigh," the priest nodded a wry grin on his face smoothing away the frown lines that were ever present.
"I will become a knight," he finished with fierce determination that belaid any doubts the high watcher had of the lads intentions.
"Then young squire please go with helm and my blessing." The old man squeezed his shoulder in reassurance.

hello!!

I'm baack !

Well, long enough to see what ever one has been doing!

Once again I will post some more, only know someday, I hope to have the story in a better order. of some sort.


A Moment.

Prelate Wessalen paced his office his heart heavy. Troubled because of a certain bhaalspawn, Arrabon Morrowyn, a child of the dead god of murder.

?Tyr, how could such an abomination be allowed,? he snorted rubbing his graying temples pushing away the thoughts. He knew the truth, how AO thrust all the gods on to Faeurn for punishment. How the Lord of Murder, Bhaal, fathered a score of offspring to ensure his return to the throne of blood.

'One who seemed to have visions of grandeur, aspiring to be a paladin of Torm?'

At least she had enough wisdom not to petition The Order outright, seeking admission. He growled with disdain at the very thought.

Rumors flew, dying sparks carried on a stiff breeze. How this one warrior killed Sarevok, averting a war in Baldur?s Gate over the iron shortage. That in it?s self would have enveloped the whole sword coast.

Ajantis a squire in the order, had written a comprehensive report concerning the Bhaalspawn, yet Wessalen doubted the squires objectivity concerning such a charismatic female.

Young Ajantis was more than likely beguiled by her tainted beauty.

Now prelate was contemplating an underhanded deception, one he prayed to Tyr for forgiveness, Send one of his most trusted inquisitors to judge and if found culpable put the Bhaal-child to the sword, in the name of righteousness. Nay justice.

?Tyr forgive me,? the old man prayed silently head cradled in his hands.

Questions abounded crying out for answers, Tyr was it possible for her to truly be innocent of the taint of evil coursing through her veins?

His heart was heavy with the thought that this young woman might be different.

Did not the prophecies of the wise Alunado say that some of the children would walk a path of rightiousness? ?Tyr was such possible??

Wessalen felt ancient, for he, a prelate of the Order of the Most Radiant Heart could not look past his own prejudice.

?Nay!?
Innocent or not the fact remained she was a product of evil. Whether she aspired for goodness she was still an evil creature, leaving a trail of blood paved with bodies, whereever she tread.

?This child of Bhaal was guilty of no other crime than being born,? his conscious argued.

?Would Torm bless such as she?? He questioned out loud. Tyr certainly couldn?t allow the abomination in to his holy order.

Is good done by a hand of evil, still an act of good?!?

This was a question the prelate would have to pray over, as he sealed the letter to his inquisitor, sealing the fate of Arrabon Morrowyn.

?For good or ill my lord Tyr,? he prayed setting his signet ring in to the hot wax,
?let my actions, be just.?