Aggribael Blakfyre: The Man Known as Bael

[cdnspr]

Leaning against a wall, shaded by one of Sundren's many tall buildings, a figure spits. Wrapped in an old, faded black cloak, the unmistakable form of armour beneath the folds catches your eye as his body shifts. A tower 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 mercenary known as 'Bail', 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.

[cdnspr]

Burning. My home was burning, and all I could do was watch. A fire most unnatural, its sickening black 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 would soon crumble to black dust under the weight of stones above.

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. Or so they said; I knew the truth of it, though:

It was a purge.

Those within the ranks who didn't share the same - beliefs - as those of our high commanders were being removed, starting at the top.

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 to the line.

The sentries, both men I'd fought alongside for years, let me pass without a word. If they'd have known 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.

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 had 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 into me, my hands bled, and I toiled many hours moving large stones, most still hot from the flames. The slavers were under strict orders to quickly erase any evidence of my father's alleged fall from favour. Ashes mixed with my blood, and it burned the 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 fists 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:

"Aggribail! 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, pain, and betrayal; they'd been made to pay 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 shortsword, and the larger Criid a longsword. 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 and friends 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 Aggribail, it would seem at first glance, had died fighting eachother.

My hasty deception would not last long. 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 harder than any battle i had already faced, though I would make lies and deceit my weapons as well as my sword. During that time I would master my god's ways, the very skills I would need to survive.

...

Aggribail Blakfyre would live at least several more years, long enough to travel the breadth of Faerun and find his way to Sundren. There, he assumed the name Bail and sought out work as a mercenary.

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



//feel free to PM me with comments.

[cdnspr]

Night-time. A cold wind rips through the hills, causing the snow it carries to abrase the exposed skin of the soldiers on watch.

A figure penetrates the camp's perimeter. Layered snow crunches underfoot, his feet sinking deep under the extra weight he carries over his shoulder. Reaching a tent, he parts an opening and ducks inside.

In the dim light of a meagre fire, he sees his comrades huddled together, trying to stay warm. Their skin is pale, drawn; they haven't eaten in many days. The winter campaign has not been kind to them. Seeing him and what he carries, he's met only with silence.

Lesp is the first one to speak up. "Are you sure about this," he asks, "the captain says supplies will reach us soon."

"The captain's a liar, and a shit-poor one at that." Criid had always been a pessimist, but this time he was right. "We're boxed in, and that ain't gonna change until something major happens. Just tell me, Aggribail.. he ain't one of ours, is he?"

"Nope." The shrouded figure heaves the body off his shoulder and it hits the ground. Laying on its back, its frozen limbs are still raised in self-defence, its final scream still on its lips. At first, it lays there undisturbed a few moments. Then, the men begin crawling forward on hands and knees, their mouths twisted in wicked grins, a ravenous look in their eyes.