Repost; Life is a Bittersweet Candy (1) - A BG1 Tale

(Ehem, after friendly beration that this is better placed in the Serials. Enjoy; the first of many.)

Water begins to streak down his face from the dark heavens, pouring rain down upon the tragic battlefield-to-be. “Run, child!” calls a demanding yet protective voice. Magical energy flares about him, and in a rainbow spark of Magic Missiles and Colorspray, a magely battle proceeds to take dominance. Two women out of the dark of night that he has seen through his half-Elvin infravision reel back and convulse, blood and the smell of searing skin becoming thick.

Gorion turns and lunges away from an advancing ogre, his hand sparkling threateningly as his fingers wriggle and produce a deadly white spark. Then suddenly the night sky erupts in a flash of more magic, lightening arching from Gorion’s fingers to rip through the ogre and a tree in the distance. A dark clad warrior of spike and thick blade steps forward, demanding something as well.

He does not hear it however, released from his frozen state of shock. Turning, he runs, and runs fast, kicking up dirt and rock alike as he pants for air. His legs burn with the rigors of his run, his speedy escape narrowing his perception to only the cool blue ground in front of him, and he pants. He hears a scream from behind him, a monstrous one… The other ogre? Gods he hopes so.

On through the night he runs away, making some distance before his gasps and heavy lungs overtake him. He stumbles and then falls, clutching a burning chest and eyes. His eyes, they burnt the most, tears searing away his eyelids and cheeks. What had happened? One moment the mystery and fun of an adventure comes over him, the chance to escape Candlekeep’s dull walls and enter the real world. The next, pain. All he could think about was the pain. Someone was hunting him, trying to capture him, take his bounty? There were so many things that this could mean, but what he is certain of, is that he has lost his foster-father, his mentor, and his guardian. Imoen was gone as well, back at the keep, if only she had come… He feels alone, so alone.

The crying and breathless form of Deleta Seraph cringes, falling into a fitful sleep as his body demands relief. His body laid sprawled across a road, an obvious find to anyone walking by. Dark lapses over him, and rainwater, his clothes soaking and clinging to his body as his conscious laps out in waves. Eyes roll and lids close, and his subconscious takes over. A dream of flitting darkness and wonder, a dream of question and dark forms, and a dream of dark stained crimson as the shadows of his mind duke it out. Something hints itself at him, the reason for all this, deep inside of him, but too faint to incorporate itself into his violent dream. He had wished for adventure, and now he has it, in all its blood and freedom. His mind visualizes the despair of running, and hunting, and investigating, everything that will come in a haze of black shapes and crimson. Cold pains run through him as he numbs against the rain and the draining of energy his dreams bring.

Next came orange, and the darkness subdues. His body shifts as it lies numb, groaning against the early sun. “Heya!” Cries a voice against the veritable haze of his senses. He hears footfalls next, and then someone kneeling and pushing at him. Twin orbs snap open, drowsy, yet alert, and worriedly scanning over the form of beautiful young lass. “Wh-who? Where…” Deleta questions, looking around in question before his conscious returns fully. “Oh, Imoen… Imoen! Gorion has been slain!” He says as his conscious floods back into him, reality hitting like a hard steel hammer onto his head and leaving a numb yet heavy headache. She replies hesitantly, pulling Deleta to his feet. “I, I know… I kind of, ‘accidentally’ read one of his letters… They said there were some people after you.” He responds, looking around. “We’ve, got to get to the Friendly Arm… That’s where Gorion said to go, we should hurry, before anyone else appears… Need to find Khalid and Jaheira…” The last sentence falls to a mumble as he starts the laborious chore of walking.

He looks back, and in that fatal moment comes a rush of emotion. Candlekeep’s subtle outline against where they had come faintly visible. Those large ramparts and many guards not seeming so large and many anymore. He feels now that sense of false invincibility Gorion had warned, but then, regret. What he would give now to be back, to be able to start things back how they were, and as they should have been. Before this horrid turn of events… His boyhood, what he would give to go back to his boyhood. Yet now, he cannot, his head turns back to the road, eyes welling of fresh tear then disappearing in the struggle to contain himself, concentrating on one footfall, then the next, one footfall, then the next…

In his mind, it isn’t that simple, its a hive of activity, and as they journey through the day to the east, on their way to the Friendly Arm, his mind slips back to his boyhood. He finds himself atop the roof of Winthrop’s tavern, a staff in hand and a mischievous look in eye, gazing about the grounds he had ‘conquered’. Barely a young teen, in fact, this was just a week after his birthday. Not surprisingly, his gift from Gorion had been no chores this week, at least until he found the proper real gift, so he says. And he turns and slides down the roof a ways to a window, pulling himself around and into it, always the dexterous mage apprentice. He wonders what trouble he can get mixed into today. A magic missile here to frighten the chickens around the yard, or mayhaps a chromatic orb there to screw with the mind of the serving girl. Ah, so much to play with and so little time till his chores come-a-calling.

[quote]
The crying and breathless form of Deleta Seraph cringes, falling into a fitful sleep as his body demands relief. His body laid sprawled across a road, an obvious find to anyone walking by. Dark lapses over him, and rainwater, his clothes soaking and clinging to his body as his conscious laps out in waves. Eyes roll and lids close, and his subconscious takes over. A dream of flitting darkness and wonder, a dream of question and dark forms, and a dream of dark stained crimson as the shadows of his mind duke it out. Something hints itself at him, the reason for all this, deep inside of him, but too faint to incorporate itself into his violent dream. He had wished for adventure, and now he has it, in all its blood and freedom. His mind visualizes the despair of running, and hunting, and investigating, everything that will come in a haze of black shapes and crimson. Cold pains run through him as he numbs against the rain and the draining of energy his dreams bring.
[/quote]

Real life can hit you like a hammer sometimes.

[quote]
Next came orange, and the darkness subdues. His body shifts as it lies numb, groaning against the early sun. “Heya!” Cries a voice against the veritable haze of his senses. He hears footfalls next, and then someone kneeling and pushing at him. Twin orbs snap open, drowsy, yet alert, and worriedly scanning over the form of beautiful young lass. “Wh-who? Where…” Deleta questions, looking around in question before his conscious returns fully.

His name sounds female to me.

Hunter

Awesome beginning, but it will be easier to read if you divide it into a few more paragraphs