Loss

I'm not sure why, but there's something about this fic that doesn't seem to work for me. I like the initial theme it's based on, but I can't help but feel this fic loses its way a little. Any advice would be greatly appreciated.


Loss

If it's bigger than you, always go for the legs. Like all the other little sayings Hull had a habit of reciting over and over until threatened with violence, this one held true. Ogres may be big and scary, but if you dodge the inevitable downward blow with the morningstar and hack away at their legs, they'd go down. Eonor heard another one of Hull's sayings go flash his mind: Take their mobility and they're as good as dead. Perhaps Hull's annoying lectures weren't so useless after all.

So it was that Eonor stood over his first kill. An ogre, no less. No pathetic kobold or gibberling for him, he was hitting the big times fast. Of course, his foster father had helped...a little. He was a bit busy at the moment casting spells at the huge bastard with the freaky eyes. The little slip of a Kozakuran girl was being an annoyance with her bow, but as long as he kept his shield up and Gorion's eerie glowing magic...thing...kept deflecting them, neither of them were in any immediate danger.

Except for the other ogre and the big guy, that is. Eonor sighed. It seemed he was going to have to do everything. And then Gorion would huff and tell him to be more careful next time. He loved his father to death, but the man had to realise he could actually look after himself. The sword and armour weren't just for show, after all. Being a Candlekeep Watcher may not be the most adventurous living, but it did give him some rudimentary skill with a blade.

So, one ogre down. Time to go for the other one. This one was a little different. It favoured a horizontal swing. Well, just a matter of hanging back and striking as it follows through. Quick blows, no time for body swing, just slash the tendons and backpedal. When he's down, strike for the neck, heart or groin. Wounding any of these locations ensures they can't get back up to fight again. Two ogres down. This was almost becoming blasé.

Now for the big guy. Sure, he's huge, has more armour than the entire Candlekeep Watch combined, and is probably as strong as an ox, but that means he has to be slow. Eonor tried to block out the voice of memory, but Hull's little words of wisdom just didn't want to quit: Large warriors sacrifice speed for strength. Block, parry or dodge their swing and you can counter before they bring their weapon back for the parry. Well, Hull's been two for two so far tonight. Why not go for a third?

Eonor sensed a moment too late that this particular strategy was not going to work against his enemy. A man who can wield a greatsword one handed probably doesn't fit the usual profile. He tensed his shield arm as he saw the big man swing his sword in a movement so natural to him that it almost appeared lazy in its execution. For a moment, Eonor was struck with a mental image of a farmer scything his crops.

He felt the sword slicing through his shoulder before he even heard the shield splinter. Damn you, Hull. He couldn't even hope to bite down on the pain and try to counter. Mr Big had stepped back out of his range. He was a lot faster than Eonor had expected.

Eonor took a deep breath. Don't look at the wound. Don't look at the wound. Don't...Oh crap. No wonder he couldn't feel his arm and his shoulder hurt so damn much. You're not supposed to be able to see those bones.

Eonor retreated a few paces, trying to gather his wits and find some way out of this. Gorion was shouting something about fleeing. Flee?! But he'd almost beaten the guy! Sure, so he'd gotten a flesh wound and Gorion seemed to be running low on spells. But they just needed to get a little creative. It wasn't like they could actually lose, could they?

Gorion's shouting seemed to change pitch at about the same time he saw the big man smile, white teeth contrasting against black skin made even darker by the night's gloom. Was he forgetting something? Two ogres dead, Tall dark and deadly over there and...wasn't there an archer behind him a second ago?

A flash of moonlight reflecting on metal was all the incentive Eonor needed to hit the dirt. An arrow whisked safely overhead. "By the gods!" Eonor thought. "If he couldn't feel his arm anymore, why could he feel so much bloody pain?" The arm, and what was left of his shield, dangled uselessly by his side as he came up on one knee and tried to locate the archer and the big guy. He barely had enough time to dive to the left as another arrow hit the turf where he had just been situated. A fresh wave of pain rolled over him as he rolled on the wounded shoulder, tearing at a wound that was already too deep for comfort. White spots danced over his vision and he feared he was about to pass out. Absentmindedly, he noticed Gorion was casting another spell.

Eonor rolled onto his stomach and used his good arm to steady himself as he sluggishly tried to get to his feet, his sword forgotten on the ground at his side. There was no way he could get out of the way of the next arrow in time. That chick with the bow was a little too accurate for comfort. He didn't like accurate enemies. So imagine Eonor's surprise when the next arrow lands neatly in the soil barely half a metre away. Exactly where he had been before he rolled over.

Gorion's voice boomed over Eonor's shock, "I've cast an invisibility spell on you, boy! Now Ru-gkk!". Eonor whipped around to see a scenario he had until that moment thought impossible. Gorion, his father, eyes open so wide Eonor could see their whites in the darkness even from 30 metres away. His father's feet weren't even touching the floor. His right hand seemed to twitch with some sort of nervous spasm as he slowly looked down at the blade that emerged a good metre from his chest. And over a shoulder, upon which rested a large, armoured hand, Eonor could see malevolent golden eyes flashing.

Gorion's mouth twitched. He was trying to say something, but all that came out was a stream of blood. And then, his body gave one final spasm and he became limp. His father was dead, still impaled upon the sword that killed him. His head lolled forward, a grim pantomime of the life he once had, as the big man lowered his sword and pushed Gorion's body off it until it hit the ground.

Eonor's world came crashing down around him. His father, the great wizard, was dead. What's more, his final spell, which could have been used to spirit himself away to safety, was instead wasted on making Eonor invisible. Gorion gave his life so that he might live. The big man had just killed the most powerful person Eonor had ever known.

Fear warred with rage. He wished with all his being that he could kill the man with the evil eyes. But if Gorion couldn't beat him, what chance did Eonor have? No, what would Gorion do? Gorion would...Gorion would want him to flee. Find a place to regroup and learn about his opponent. He needed to face the dark one from a position of strength. Hurt as he was, he had to flee.

Shame burned him as he scooped up his sword and charged into the nearest treeline. He had just witnessed his foster father's murder, and instead of avenging the man he loved as a father, he was fleeing like a coward. Eonor fought to keep tears at bay as he crashed his way through the bush.



Sarevok cursed as he watched the old man slide off his blade. This wasn't what was supposed to happen. He was supposed to find the Bhaalspawn, kill him and then go home. Instead, he had just killed an old man and the real quarry had escaped.

Why did things have to become so complicated? Ever since the first one had come after him, he'd learnt of his heritage and the others who would try to kill him in the name of a dead fool who had been too busy humping mortals to actually try to alter his fate. Sarevok had learnt of others from that one. And the best course of action was obvious. If someone is out to kill you, you kill them first. So when he'd seen the young Candlekeep Watchman at his post on his last visit, he'd immediately sensed that here was another Child of Bhaal. It didn't take much to discover the Watchman's identity.

And yet this old fool had thrown himself in the way. Sarevok didn't like killing innocents. He didn't pretend to cry noble, but his conflict was with others of his kind. He had no interest in killing anyone who just let him be, an attitude Winski had lamented when Sarevok refused to agree to his insane scheme for starting a war.

Something caught Sarevok's attention out of the corner of his eye. The sword the Bhaalspawn had abandoned during his pathetic attempts at acrobatics, it was gone. Sarevok's eyes swept the treeline and sure enough, he saw branches swaying where there was no breeze.

Tamoko saw it, too. She always had loved to track foes. And what could be more dangerous to track than a Bhaalspawn? She moved forward, but Sarevok blocked her path. She looked up into eyes that had lost the golden glow of the Bhaalrage. All she saw was worry etched all over his dark eyes. She smiled reassuringly at him.

Before she could move around him, he whispered, "Be careful."

She placed a hand on his armoured chest. "I always am." It never ceased to amaze her that a man who was so fearsome to others could be so gentle with her. It was something special and all the reason she needed to help him hunt down these people who wished him ill.

With a final look, she darted off after Eonor. The trail would grow cold if left too long. The sooner she could deal with this Bhaalspawn, the sooner they could go home and go back to arguing about a wedding date.



Imoen felt numb. When she was a child, there were times Gorion would cast a small cantrip to keep her room lit when she had been afraid of the dark. He had always been there, ready to listen. No matter how busy he was, he would make time to listen, whether it was about Eonor being a pain or Winthrop being mean aftering catching her sneaking out with the cookie jar. While Winthrop had adopted her, Gorion had always seemed like a doting grandfather. And now he was gone.

She was so lost in her train of thought that she almost didn't notice the sound of heavy footsteps and the trail of branches jerking around without any apparent cause. But something like that is a little hard to miss, even in her distracted state. She had followed Gorion and Eonor at a distance and arrived in time to see Eonor vanish into thin air just before Gorion died. If that was Eonor, she needed to get to him before the bad guys did. They took Gorion away, she'd be damned if she'd let them take Eonor, too.

"Hey, Eonor, wait up!"

Imoen had all of three seconds to curse herself for calling out like that. The blow that sent her sprawling on her back wasn't particularly painful, but when she had regained her bearings, she found a strange looking woman crouching over her with a wickedly curved dagger poised just centimetres from her throat. The woman had dropped her bow at her feet so that it lay by Imoen's own on the ground. She couldn't vouch for it's quality, but it did look expensive. The bow was a mere distraction, however. The dagger was the main concern here and now. Forcing herself to take her eyes off the blade, Imoen examined the woman a little closer. She had never seen a face like that woman's before, but she was reminded of something similar. She had overheard Hull regaling Eonor and Fuller with several bawdy tales of women with such features when visiting a port or two in KaraTur.

Any further examination was cut off by the woman's question. "Where is he?"

Before Imoen could even think of being belligerent and asking who she was referring to, the woman became more specific, asking for Gorion's ward, punctuating her question by edging the dagger even closer to Imoen's throat. Imoen could feel the sting of the blade breaking the skin.

Several seconds passed in which the woman waited and Imoen could think of nothing but the blade against her throat. Then the kozakuran woman's eyes narrowed and when she spoke, her words came out as a hiss from lips held tight from frustration, "You are a pretty girl. You can either tell me where he is or I will make you very, very ugly. Either way, I am going to find him."

Shakily, Imoen raised a hand and pointed behind the woman, stuttering "He w-went that way."

The woman saw through the flawed bluff, her eyes rolling, "That's the way I just came from, you fool!" She sighed and suddenly seemed to age a little in front of Imoen's eyes. "I did warn you," she muttered as she leant forward to drive blade home. Imoen screwed her eyes shut and winced as she heard a feminine gasp of pain.

But that gasp hadn't come from her. Expecting the pain to come any second, she slowly opened her eyes and was greeted with a rather unexpected sight. Instead of eyes narrowed with anger, she saw eyes widened in shock. And she saw a second set of eyes, with a golden glow. Eonor gritted his teeth and she heard him grunt as she saw the woman's body arch back for a second before a blade burst from her chest. The woman remained in that position for a few agonising seconds before she fell to the side.

Eonor fell to one knee beside her, his breath coming in gasps. He looked her over, the worry evident on his features. His eyes had returned to their natural blue colour so quickly she wondered if she might have imagined that golden glow.

"Are you ok?"

She didn't trust herself to speak, so she just nodded shakily. Eonor held out his good arm to her and helped her to her feet. They looked down at the woman. Her eyes never left them. Her limbs thrashed about as if she could no longer control them. After a few more seconds, Eonor tore his gaze away.

"If it were anyone else, it'd feel wrong to just leave her like this. But she helped the man who killed my father. He'll come looking for her soon. We have to go."

Again, Imoen just nodded, her eyes firmly focused on the dying woman, and Eonor tried to lead her away from the dying woman. He didn't get far before she brushed against his shoulder. A hiss of pain escaped through gritted teeth, drawing Imoen's attention. She cast a critical eye over him until she noticed his shoulder. She fought to keep her nausea at bay. The sight of his shoulder reminded her of the last time she'd seen Winthrop pulverize meat with a mallet. "Eonor!" she finally gasped. "Your shoulder! You need healing. We have to go back to Candlekeep."

Eonor's voice was laced with exhaustion as he voiced his assent. It seemed the adrenaline was finally wearing off and the pain and tension were becoming too much for him. Imoen took his arm and led him to the west as quickly as she dared. She strained her ears for any sound of the big man coming, but all she could hear was Eonor's ragged breathing as he stumbled along beside her.



Sarevok couldn't look away. He knelt before his lover's body, reaching out a hand and shaking it a little, as if hoping to wake her from her slumber. Her body was curled up in the foetal position. It would almost be cute if it wasn't for the sword that impaled her still. The sharp features he had first felt his initial attraction for had gone slack. The eyes that used to shine with a life he had come to love were now dull. His sweet Tamoko was gone.

At first he didn't notice it, blinded by his own grief, but the similarities between her murder and the old man's death infuriated him. To think that he had regretted killing that old fool! Sarevok's hands clenched into fists, testament to an impotent rage as he heard a whispering voice he had always ignored in the past. But it made so much sense now. Winski had been right. He had warned Sarevok that his course of action would make him lose everything he held dear.

Sarevok looked down at his beloved's corpse, fighting a losing battle against the tears that soon began to stream down his dark cheeks. He had lost everything he held dear. Now, he would make everyone else lose everything they held dear. Perhaps he would assist Rieltar with his little iron crisis after all.