Adrian: Baldur's Gate

Nashkel made Beregost look like a monument to civilization by comparison. A grim, small, low series of buildings, save for the Temple of Helm, and even that was short and stubby. It was a pissant garrison town, Adrian reminded himself. An edge-of-the-empire backwater frontier town. A peasant village with a military barracks attached, and little more.

And, of course, the mines. Xzar and Montaron, and briefly Khalid and Jaheira, had impressed upon him that the mines were the livelihood of this town. Now they were poisoned, and dying, and the town with it.

The local soldiery were angry, and wanted vengeance. They wanted war.

Once such worthy came marching up to them, wearing that bizarre flared-back helmet style, and baring clenched teeth at them. Adrian's mood soured. They seemed almost as bad as the Flaming Fist.

"Halt! What business have you in Amn?"

"We are a troupe of adventurers. My name is Adrian. We have come to help investigate the mines."

The guard's hostility faded, but he did not become friendly. "You won't be the first. Nor, I suspect, the last. In any case, the inn is just there," he made a sharp pointing gesture behind him. Then he turned around and marched away.

"Charming," muttered Imoen.

"He's not paid enough to be charming," said Kagain.

"And by 'is lights, there may be a war soon, against folk like us," added Montaron.

"They really think Baldur's Gate is responsible?" Adrian asked him. This war talk had suddenly become more serious than he had thought.

Montaron shrugged. "Either that, or they think the Gate knows who's doin it and lettin' em get away with it."

"The Zhentarim have been blamed," put in Xzar suddenly, "But...it's not like them to shoot themselves in the foot like this."

Adrian raised an eyebrow at Xzar's unusually lucid comment. Montaron glared outright at his partner.

"Be keepin yer crazy thoughts to yerself, wizard!" he snarled.

Kagain and Adrian shared a look.

"Didn't you say we were supposed to meet someone?" Imoen prompted.

"Yeh. The mayor. Berrun....Berrun somethin or other." Montaron scratched his chin. "E's probably holdin' court on the main road here, either by the Temple of Helm or the Guard's Barracks."

They tromped through the cold misting rain down the street. To Adrian's eyes, it was the only road. Or at least the only one worth using. Nashkel was truly a miserable mudpit.

"For the glory of Amn!" said a grim, hale voice as they reached the temple. It belonged to a thin, balding man in studded leather armor.

"Greetings, I am Berrun Ghastkill, mayor of Nashkel. I recognize Xzar, so I presume you are the adventurers I was expecting. I want no trouble from you while you're in town."

"We only seek to give trouble to whoever's plaguing the mines," said Adrian. "The reward will be substantial, I'm sure."

"It will be," Berrun said, "If you survive. Three adventuring parties have already died down there."

"We shall do our best," Xzar said in a fruity voice.

"Pardon me if I don't hold my breath," said Berrun. He turned and went back into the temple.

"Okay, we're here. And the powers-that-be know we're going to go into the mines," said Imoen. "Can we please rest?"

"Aye," said Adrian. "It's been a long day."

They had marched back into the inn, and slipped inside. It wasn't anything much, but it was warm and dry. Before they could order rooms, however, they were interrupted.

"It may be a touch unladylike, but I'm gonna slit your throat I am!"

At the tone of that voice, the patrons dived under tables.

"Not another one," Adrian hissed in frustration.

"Aye, another," the enemy agreed. She was an attractive cleric, but fully kitted out, and there was nothing sexy about the mace she wielded. "And the last you will ever see. May the Lord of Shadows guide you quickly to your death!"

She began to cast a spell, but Viconia's own mace spanked off her armor, startling her. Adrian and Imoen began firing their weapons, and the others crowded in on the foe, save Xzar, who simply magic-missiled her so she couldn't cast.

It took a couple minutes, and twice she almost got spells off, but in the end she went down.

"Seven hundred and fifty gold," said Montaron, reading the notice on her body. "Ye gods."

"If they ever actually start coming in groups, we'll be in trouble," said Adrian. "Having second thoughts now Kagain? Viconia?"

"Take more than a jumped-up priest to scare me off," snorted the Dwarf.

"I'd be running regardless," said the Drow. "At least now I have strength in numbers."

Adrian nodded, gratified, and headed over to the innkeeper. "She started it."

"I know," that fat fellow replied, staring at Adrian with wide eyes. "Ye be welcome to my best rooms, sir."

Adrian did not dream often, but that night the visions were vivid indeed. Long had he walked, but now he found himself back before the walls of Candlekeep. Over the barricades, he could see his old room, and wondered if it was really as small as it appeared now.

As he stood there, a shade of Gorion came marching out of the front gates, and gestured for him to follow. This time, Adrian held back, knowing what was to come.

Clad in armor assuredly magical, his nemesis came out of the darkness, golden eyes glowing. Adrian felt a bitter envy, a deep greed. He wanted that armor. And that natural, fluid grace in battle.

The battle replayed itself before his eyes, as the armored figure and his minions did battle with Gorion, and finally cut him down. Then the scene began again, and again, and again....

Watching Gorion fall repeatedly did nothing for Adrian's peace of mind, but it did change what sadness and regret that remained to him into a bitter, hard fury. There was nothing he could do for Gorion now, but there was much he could do for himself. He would gather the power he needed to equal, and then overmaster, this foe, and destroy him.

As he thought this, he turned and saw a wide path in the woods, and wondered how he could have missed it. He turned and began to walk along it; it felt right. He knew it would lead him where he wanted to go.

The image of Gorion's death played itself over and over in his mind through the night.

He got used to it.