Firstly, for anyone who was reading my other story Hidden Dangers I know I've still got the last chapter to write and I have every intention of doing so eventually, but I've basically reached a stage when I hate the whole story and never want to think about it again. I suspect this is just something most writers experience from time to time though, so I'll hopefully get over it soon.
In the meantime this is the first part of a shortish novella about Garrick, because he's always been one of my favourite BG1 NPCs and he doesn't seem to get many stories written about him. Any level of comments/crits welcomed
.Chapter 1: Picking Up The Pieces
He feels as though he's been sleeping, as though he's just woken up from some strange dream. But the memories of the dream are quickly fading, slipping away even as he tries to grasp at them until he is left with only a few unconnected images - drinking in a run down tavern...a tall building...a man's voice, mocking him... - little enough to show for over two months of living.
For according to the innkeep he arrived here two months ago, and demanded the finest room in the inn for as long as his gold would pay for it. There was a lot of gold to start with, apparently, but inns do not come cheap in Athkatla and the empty bottles of evermead under his bed suggest that it is not just accommodation that he has been buying. It doesn't really matter how the gold was spent though, the reality is that he is now penniless and will shortly be homeless into the bargain. Garrick flings himself down on the bed and gives a despondent sigh. "Truly," he tells the ceiling, "life is glorious."
It is not so long ago that he really believed that, since he set out into the world with a song on his lips in search of adventure, secure in the knowledge that somehow everything would work out. That he was meant for great things. That he was meant to be a hero. That a great destiny awaited him, and all he had to do was wander blindly along until it found him. He spits in disgust as he realises what a fool he was, back before his dreams fell apart.
It's the first time he's ever really had the chance to think about it - he wasn't in the mood to think rationally about anything for a while. His memories of that time are vague and clouded by alcohol - he got drunk and tried to forget, he got drunk again and prayed for forgiveness, he stayed drunk and stood on the top of a hill raging at the gods for destroying his life. He woke up with the worst headache he'd ever had, and didn't really feel in the mood for thinking logically about things. He got even drunker than before and tried to slit his wrists, but passed out midway through and succeeded only in leaving a nasty scar on his left arm. He got drunk again and...and then he doesn't remember. Then the madness took him.
Temporary amnesia, he supposes, brought on by his inability to come to terms with what had happened, with what he had done. The innkeep has told him he has been thought to be half-witted and has become something of a local laughing stock. The other patrons of the tavern have taken great glee in telling him every humiliating little detail of how he tried and failed to woo a lady paladin, mocking him until he could stand their laughter no longer and escaped back upstairs to his room.
Truth be told though, what happened during his madness doesn't really seem to matter now. Not since this morning, when the sight of Yavana's face brought all his memories flooding back, overwhelming him so that he collapsed in a dead faint in the middle of the street. She didn't notice him and by the time he'd recovered she was long gone, but he knew it had been her. What else could have brought him out of his insanity but the sight of the woman he had loved?
Yavana, daughter of the god of murder. The woman he once loved. And still does love, he supposes, although after everything that has happened he has no more illusions that she will ever love him. The woman he travelled with for over a year, argued with, wrote songs about, kissed once and then, ultimately, failed. Until this morning he has thought her dead, because of his failure. Knowing that she is alive lessens his guilt a little, so that at least it no longer drives him to the point of insanity, but it is still something he knows he will have to live with for the rest of his life.
He rises from the bed and sighs. "Too many depressing things to think about right now," he says to the mirror. He looks at his reflection - the last two months don't seem to have done a lot for it. His tan has faded somewhat, and there are dark circles under his eyes. His brown hair, which he normally wears in a state of artistic disarrangement, is longer than it used to be and the ragged ends suggest that he cut it himself, from the looks of it with a very blunt knife. He has also gained a straggly beard, which itches horribly and to make matters worse is decidedly gingery in colour.
He takes a few minutes to try to improve his looks, hoping that perhaps this will make him feel a bit better, but a search of the room fails to uncover a comb and the only knife he finds is so blunt that he doesn't dare to risk shaving with it. Contemplating his reflection he decides that he can hardly blame the lady paladin for rejecting him - he resembles a serial killer rather more than he does a bard.
Depressed still further by this conclusion he decides to cheer himself up by counting his blessings, but the only one he can think of is that he's still alive. And frankly that doesn't seem like much of a blessing at the moment, either.
He feels like going to bed, pulling the covers over his head and hoping that when he wakes up things will be better, but however much he concentrates on not thinking about his problems a small part of his mind keeps telling him that there's no one to help him here, that his worries won't just go away. Unhappily he looks round the room again, hoping against hope to find something that will magically sort out his life for him.
No such luck. His scant possessions lie scattered on the floor, but none of them look like being much help. A bundle of clothing, much of it filthy and smelling as though it's been dropped in the midden. His journal, with detailed entries of his travels up until about three months back - he hasn't dared to open it yet, for fear of bringing back bad memories. A pair of boots, somewhat battered looking but still sturdy enough. On one of the pair the lace is missing and has been replaced by a piece of frayed string. His pack, which he found shoved under the bed in a damp corner and which seems to have become home to a colony of beetles. A blunt knife, a pebble shaped vaguely like a fish that he used to believe brought him good luck, and finally a large quantity of empty drink bottles. Also his lyre, of course, which is in surprisingly good condition and is lying wrapped up in a cloth on the table, but that's another thing he's trying not to think about.
Anyway, he can't see anything that looks like it's going to be very useful. Not even anything he might be able to sell. All the valuable things he once owned - his crossbow, his short sword, his spell book, his enchanted cloak - all of them are gone, whether sold or stolen he doesn't remember.
He feels faintly ill - he can't remember when he last ate, and he is fed up of the stench of booze and vomit. Feeling a sudden desire for fresh air he makes a spur of the moment decision and starts shoving his belongings haphazardly into the beetle infested bag. If he stays he'll only be thrown out before long anyway, and sitting around in this dingy room isn't getting him anywhere.
The question, of course, is where he's going to go. The City of Coin is an unwelcoming place for those who have none, and he can think of few people who might be prepared to aid him. Thievery is not an option - he dislikes the idea on principle, and also suspects that he would be very bad at it.
In the past lack of money would have been no more than an inconvenience - he could have picked any inn in the city and offered to provide entertainment for the patrons in exchange for board and keep. Bawdy tavern songs, romantic ballads and stirring sagas of battles long ago - he has a fine repertoire of all of them. But he doesn't think he's up to doing that tonight.
Upon regaining his senses this morning he had staggered back to the inn, still half in a daze, trying to sort through his muddled thoughts and work out what had happened. The memories of the past two and a half months had been fading fast, but he had still felt a little confused, not quite with it. Then he had taken up his lyre, hoping that playing it would remind him of who he truly was, that it would bring him back to himself. But he hadn't been able to play it.
Well, not entirely - he could still remember how to get the notes; he didn't spend two years at the bards' college in Berdusk for nothing. But it was as if his fingers had forgotten the familiar patterns, and when he had placed them on the strings and waited for inspiration none had come. He had not been able to relax, to let the music take over and let instinct guide his fingers to the right strings. Instead he had had to concentrate on every note, had had to make an effort to remember how the songs went, and as a result the music had sounded strained and distant, lacking in any kind of emotion.
He is troubled by this, greatly troubled. He has never had any similar problems before - he has always thought it was his destiny to become a bard, and that music was in his blood. He has written songs, had been planning to write a heroic ballad of his travels. His ability to create music is one side of himself that he has never doubted, and now it is gone.
Common sense tells him that it's just a temporary affliction caused by all the stress he's been under of late, but he's worried that that isn't so, that he'll never be able to play properly again. If he was able to play then his other problems wouldn't seem so bad - he would have the means to make a living and it would be an opportunity for a new beginning, to set out on a new adventure - he might even be quite excited. But as it is, he isn't even sure if he can call himself a bard anymore.
For a moment he feels half inclined to smash the lyre against the wall and be done with it, but he can't quite bring himself to do it. He's had it ever since he left Berdusk, and he knows that if he were to smash it he'd regret it instantly and then he'd have yet another thing to feel bad about. Instead he straps it carefully to his pack and returns to considering his next move.
He can't think of many options though - what it boils down to is that he needs help, and the only person he knows in the whole of Athkatla who might help him is Yavana. That he doesn't know where in Athkatla to look for her presents something of a difficulty to be sure, but he knows his way around the city from previous visits there and he knows which inns are most frequented by adventurers. Actually, given his experiences of travelling with her, it wouldn't surprise him overly much to find that she's been made a Hero of Athkatla and that the whole city knows who she is and where to find her.
Whether she'll be willing to help him after he finds her is another matter - he wouldn't blame her after everything that's happened if she never wanted to speak to him ever again. But on the other hand, he can't help but hope that perhaps she'll be able to find it in herself to forgive him. Perhaps if she forgives him, he'll be able to forgive himself. Heartened by this thought, he sets out on his search. At the very least, he can probably persuade her to lend him some money.
Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it. Next part will be posted in about a week.
