The man known as Bael

[lootall]

Leaning against the wall just inside the Eastern gate, a figure spits. Wrapped in an old faded black cloak, the glint of steel beneath the folds catches your eye as his body shifts. A heavy shield leans against the wall next to him like an accomplice. Smoking a foul weed in a twisted cigarette, his eyes meet your's.

This is the man known as Bael, or so you believe. After asking around the local taverns, those in the know have told you that there are many mercenaries about. But for the type of job you have in mind, he's the one to seek.



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//like i told a friend IG, most of my main characters usually have a theme to them. for Bael, it is that you can never escape your past.

click here to listen to Bael's theme-song: theswordcoast.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=offtopic&action=display&thread=1006&page=6

Feel free to PM me with comments!

[lootall]

Burning. My home was burning, and all I could do was watch. A fire most unnatural, its sickening green flames consumed the lower levels of the tower and licked at those higher with its long tendrils. My home was burning.

In truth though, it hadn't been my home for many years, though my father still lived and studied in its upper confines. The lesser tower had been burning for some time, well over a day according to some witnesses. The larger stones near the base cracked, and many crumbled to black dust under the weight of stones above.

Word of the fire had reached my company the night before as we were being billeted in an old farmhouse many miles away from the keep. The latest campaign was over for us, and we were on our way home to garrison the keep while fresh troops were being sent back out. The sentries, both men I'd fought alongside for years, let me pass without a word. If they knew I wouldn't return, it would have surely come to steel, and I wasn't sure if I could have won. We had all been pressed into service together, despite our varying backgrounds, and we all knew the same moves, the same dirty tricks.

Failure. Disgrace. That's what the men were saying of my father. He'd failed his masters, and so they'd stripped him of his rank, his honour, and his life.

The next two days I spent hiding in alleyways, checking on the fire from time to time. My commander knew by now that I had deserted, and the men I called friends were now combing the city looking for me, ready to kill me on sight. On the fourth day, with nothing left to burn, the tower had collapsed to rubble, and slaves were summoned to clear the debris. Shedding my possessions, I donned some rags and joined them.

The lash bit me, my hands bled, and I toiled many hours moving large chucks of stone, many still hot from the flames. Ashes mixed with my blood, and it burned the many cuts on my hands. It would be worth it though, if only I could find.. there it was!. A small chest, warded against flames, buried under rubble and consumed timbers, barely visible in the moonlight. I quietly made my way to it, knelt over it, and squeezed my fist tight. Blood welled through the many cuts, and began dripping onto its lid, where it sept into its intricate engravings. The lid popped open.

There it was.. my father's cloak, and symbol of office. I snatched it and fled back into the alleys. I thought I was free, until I heard a familiar voice:

"Aggribael! That's far enough!"

I swung around. Lesp and Criid, the sentries from a few nights before, were standing in the alleyway with me. Their eyes were filled with anger and pain; they'd clearly been punished for my desertion. "Forgetting something?" Lesp asked, as he pointed to his face. In the light of his torch, I could see him pointing to the black dagger tattooed below his left eye. I instinctively reached up and touched my own; we were marked the same, he, I, Criid, and every other soldier pressed into service within our regiment.

"I'm leaving," I told him, "and I'm not coming back."

At that, they drew weapons; Lesp a longsword, and the larger Criid a bastard sword. The fight that followed was brief but desperate, and I'd rather not have to relive the memory of the time I killed two fellow soldiers who had already saved my life too many times to count.

Suffice it to say that I won, just barely. Shoving Lesp's torch into Criid's face, I burned his features until they were no more, and stuck both men with eachother's blades. Lesp and Aggribael, it would seem at first glance, had died fighting eachother.

Donning my father's black cloak, I left the keep and the surrounding city. I headed West, toward the Sword Coast, where the keep had fewer agents. The coming years would be as hard as any battle i had already faced, though from now on lies and deceit would be my tools as well as my sword. During that time I would come to serve a new god, one who preached the skills I would need to survive.

...

Aggribael would live at least several more years, long enough reach the Sword Coast. There, he assumed the name Bael Greysheyme and sought out work as a mercenary.

His past, however, would catch up with him before long...