Tarnesh: The False Dignity Of Evil

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I have had a go (and am continuing) with comedy. Now i turn to seriousness, with just a hint of darkness and evil. Well alright quite a bit of evil actually.

If you read this, wether u love it or loath it then please just reply, it is an agravating thing when you know so many people have read your stories but none tell you what they think.

If you don't like it and you tell me what is wrong with it, maybe even some suggestions or tips, it will help me improve.

If you like it and compliment me, i will be encouraged to write more and will therefore, also, improve.
Anyway for fans of the BG1 you may just like this...
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Prolouge

No one is quite sure what goes through a man’s mind as he dies, they usually don’t survive to tell the tale.
What thoughts linger in the darkness of the brain as the dying shell draws it’s last breath, utters it’s final sound, closes it’s eyes for the last time and then, gently drifts away from the mortal plane?
Could it be that we all go to a better place? Are we judged by some greater entity and then sent on our way to whichever eternity we have earned? Do we reincarnate and continue the complex cycle of life? Is all that waits for us an endless sea of dark where our soul will drift forever in silence, forgotten in the mists of time? I don’t know, no living soul does.
Tarnesh, however, was not very far away from finding out.

A lone grey figure stood upon the battlements, it was early morning and the mist was still heavy, clinging to the Friendly Arm Inn like creeper on a trellis, almost as if the weather itself felt safer behind the battlements. Not that Tarnesh could blame it; something powerful was lurking on the other side, concealed by the fog, writhing in the shadows and the young wizard had absolutely no intention of facing the threat unprepared. Brushing aside his matted black hair, soaked through with damp, one blue eye and one green surveyed what was visible of the surrounding countryside, searching for any clue to which direction the target was coming from.

His senses were not what they used to be, restricted along with his magic powers during the ‘unfortunate accident’. But he still had enough ability to recognise the closeness of his prey. Leaning upon his gnarled oaken staff, tipped with steel and carved with far too many runes to count, Tarnesh limped down from the ramparts and towards the main building. A faint cursing mixed with sarcastic laughter indicated the stirring of the dawn guard, reluctant to perform their duty and huddled in brown woollen cloaks in vain attempt to keep dry.

The mage headed for the central building, he knew the famous adventurers, Khalid and Jaheira were staying overnight in there, surely if this young ward was looking for assistance in the grounds of the Keep he would go to them. After all their exploits were known by any true adventurer who was worth his salt. He had run into them several times himself, probably even tried to kill them a couple of times, how would he know? He had done it to too many people to start caring now.

With much heavy breathing and effort Tarnesh hobbled up the polished slate stairwell, careful not to slip, the surface dangerously lubricated by the damp. He could not afford to stumble in any manner, or to show any sign of weakness; the head of this child was worth too much, not just in coinage but also in the rebuilding of his heavily damaged reputation.

He was nervous, there was no doubt about that, he did not know why however. There was nothing too demanding in this task, what worried him so was the letter he had been given, a routine bounty notice, demanding ‘Abdel’ ward of ‘Gorion’ dead or alive, but with the mark of the Iron Throne. Why would the Iron Throne seek the death of such a seemingly harmless child? After all, it was common knowledge that just two days previous the old sage Gorion was slain. Why such a fuss about one boy?
This troubled Tarnesh. Oh well, he was sure it was nothing to demanding for him anyway, he reached with a cold shaking hand deep into his cloak pocket, pulling out a pipe, a smoke always calmed him down.

Ten minutes passed, the tension in the air almost suffocated Tarensh, he could sense the child clearly now, and he had another with him. Surely not Gorion! No, this was a woman, no, girl. Why would a girl accompany this child in the wilderness? Never mind, they would both fall, he had cut short a great deal more innocent lives before now, one more would not damn his soul any more.

They appeared, slightly stronger than the mage had expected, the boy, about 16 was dark skinned and well toned, a great deal more warrior like than Tarnesh had expected, his eyes wandered to the bastard sword attached to a belt and then unto the blackened studded leather which protected his torso. No dried pigskin could hold back his dark magic. His thoughts turned to the girl, shorter, much slighter and dressed in black silk and leather armour, she carried a short bow on her shoulder and a belt full of white and blue potions.
Something bonded the two of them Tarnesh hurriedly observed as they climbed the steps. Something he couldn’t put his finger on, a strange connection, like they were siblings, but with greater hostility. No matter they would be dead soon anyway.

Tarnesh drew himself up to his full height, suppressed the pain and walked, without limping towards the pair. The tips of his staff gleamed as the fog finally began to part, revealing the clear blue sky beyond.

‘Good day to you weary travellers!’

Abdel, eyed this fresh interference with suspicion, after the events of two nights past, he would be unwise to trust anyone. He fingered the hilt of his blade.

‘Good day’

‘I wonder if you can help me, I am looking for Candlekeep, you wouldn’t happen to be able to direct me would you?

Tarnesh knew the identity of his victim, however some playful small talk never hurts.

‘No, now please move aside, we are weary from travel and crave rest’.

‘Oh I beg to differ! I know where you hail from and insist that you tell me how to get there!’

Tarnesh began to anger; he did not like pompous enemies, especially when they were younger than he.
Abdel drew his sword, the young girl, who remained silent, had an arrow at the stranger’s chest, poised to strike. Tarnish would make easy work of diverting a primitive wooden arrow, however he noticed that some of the guards were taking an interest in this disturbance and were already making their way down the ramparts.

‘Insolent fool! I will teach you some manners!’

The mage produced his staff from behind his back and flicked it round, striking Abdel under the chin with the blunt wooden end, the fighter was thrown back, spinning in the air, surprised by such a physical attack from a wizard. The girl released the bowstring and let the arrow speed towards its target, the steel end of the staff struck it in two.
Abdel picked himself up and wiped his mouth. Warm blood trickled down his chin; the knock from the staff had made him bite his tongue, pain infuriated him, something seemed to rise up from within the fighter’s eyes, a dark flicker, giving him an aura of power on a demonic scale, writhing within his soul, an unnatural power of great magnitude. He let out a tremendous roar; it shook the very foundations of the keep and acted as a summons for the dawn guards.

It was at this point, a split second as the girl swallowed a potion and Tarnesh began to weave a spell that he realised his fate. Ferdinand Tarnesh Gastri, a once great mage of immense power was to fall to a mere child. The whole process was supposed to be simple; it was a small bounty for a weak target, yet it seemed as though fate had tricked him, in the pursuit of a little money and good standing with the Iron Throne the wizard had stumbled into the path of a growing demon. A child, yes. But inside this child lay a power so immense that it would have scared Tarnesh even at the height of his power.
His expression fell, his spell was cast and hit but the magic missile did little more than singe Abdel’s armour. There was once a time when he could cast six or seven at a time, and rain down huge clouds of death upon his enemies, but now all he could muster was a meagre ball of light, laughable, really compared to the awesome power he now faced.

Time slowed, Tarnesh felt his heart beating ‘thud’, the guards were running towards him now, swords unsheathed, spinning in their hands ‘thud’, a sharp pain shot through his shoulder ‘thud’, the girl had struck an arrow deep into his flesh but he felt nothing, only disbelief at what was to come ‘thud’, he fell to the ground clutching not his shoulder, but his heart ‘thud’, the pain of acceptance was greater than that of any arrow ‘thud’, a shadow enveloped him, blotting out the sun, never to be seen by those blue and green eyes again ‘thud’, he raised his view, there he was. The demon. The fighter. The bounty. The… child. ‘Thud’, the blade shone in the fresh morning glow like a beam from the heavens, a strike from the gods, which will send Tarnesh into the planes of uncertainty ‘thud’, the sword stopped momentarily, inches from his heart. Too much to hope for mercy Tarnesh looked up once more as Abdel uttered the last words he would ever hear:

‘Nothing will stand in my path’

‘Thud’, the last beat rung out and hung in his ears, blood splashed across his face but nothing was felt. Tarnesh realised, as he slipped away from consciousness, that no matter how much you prepare to die, it will always seem so quick. So momentary. What an undignified exit for 29 years of life.

People say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes, your mind now free of the demands of the physical body can now, for a split second, reanimate memories and wisdom that before was locked behind the anxieties of the present. If this is true, and Tarnesh, in his last moments on the mortal plane was free to run through the memories of his life, then this is what he saw…

 

Amazingly well done, Poodle Boy. Impressive. Better than I could've done. Keep it up!

 

Yep, its good and all

 

That was some amazing stuff! Keep it up! do one for that woman in Nashkal in the tavern ... something like that .. its bad ass!

 

Nimbul would be an exciting character too.
Great work!

 

And Im posting to this Blasted Story topic also

Like this one abit better than the other one guess it just appeals to my eviler side

 

This is a very nice story. Definitely write more of these, and less of your comedy stories. These are better reads, and show off better writing. Well done!

 

Great doggie!
It is amazing.
Just like I said in the PM, you should be an author. Write a story, put it together to a book and try to see if anyone wants to publish it. I think it would work!
Ps. This story is just as good as Trickle Quest...Can't decide which one's the best, but maybe more people would read this one.
*hug*

 

Thank you all so much for the positive replies. It has been a great help and has cheered me up about my writing. Anyway here is the next part. A bit gruesome i am afriad.



Chapter 1: Dreadful Awakening

1000 miles and 20 years from the place of his most undignified death, in a small market town known as Santamadra, Ferdinand son of Ferdinath the local blacksmith, stands. He is short for his age with a pallid complexion, which was strange especially considering the local climate. The temperature was rarely low enough to warrant more than one layer of clothing and the air was often dry enough to parch even the hardiest soldier within minutes.
The scorching midday sun beat down upon the pale child, his wooden sword brandished gingerly. He certainly was reluctant to fight. Carlos Meriiz, the town’s most prominent fighter who doubled up as sword trainer in peaceful times, had occasionally suggested to Ferdinath that maybe a warrior of the sword was not the correct path for the child to follow. To no avail however, as the blacksmith was once a soldier himself, descending from a long history of great heroes, and his son was to follow the line, no matter his often sickly constitution and weak muscles, which were often blamed on the mother’s bloodline.
Boreanaz faced Ferdinand; a stern expression of utmost concentration smothered his face. He was the tailor’s son, but far too skilled in swordsmanship to waste his talent on stitching. He was quick agile and incredibly strong, he was also a year younger than his opponent, although he appeared, and fought, like a boy of at least 15.

‘Fight!’

The familiar bellow of his master was, as always, followed by an ominous ‘swish’ as, seemingly without effort, the relatively huge frame of Boreanaz began to slash his sword in perfectly toned intricate patterns with unbelievable velocity. Never faltering, accurate with every hit, already well muscled and always maintaining the same controlled expression throughout every stage of the fight. The almost crippled frame of Ferdinand the only obstacle in between his sword and victory.

The first blow came from the right, Ferdinand who had remained motionless until this moment darted his arm up and blocked. Yes he was fast enough, but this first blow had almost dislocated his shoulder. Now grabbing his wooden sword in both hands he made block after block, each time his reactions got slower and he knew that within a few seconds one hit would get through. Frustration clawed its way up his spine, anger seeped into his mind and the vision through his blue and green eyes started to turn red. Everyday the same old thing. Everyday another bruise or scar to add to an already weak body. And everyday he swore that this time he would fight back. This time he would win.
Once again his guard was beaten down, not by skill but by force. His sword arm too tired to even grip the weapon Ferdinand was struck across the back of the neck and down, to the familiar dark of yet another defeat.

Bright light shone through his eyelids turning his vision a deep blood scarlet. Distant voices could be heard as the weak child clawed on to what remained of the peaceful sanctuary which was unconsciousness.

‘Yet again you win without fault, you will make a great soldier some day!’

Without fault! Ferdinand blocks the onslaught for a good 20 seconds and no praise comes of it. Even as he was waking the terrible burning of anger scorched his head and chest.

‘Thank you master, but I cannot accept my lack of fault. This weakling still blocks my initial attacks; I am not fast enough for him even yet. I am obviously not prepared for the next stage of training if I can’t defeat him quicker than this’.

A tool. A dummy. A punch bag. A weakling! How dare this disgusting oaf belittle him in his presence! Ferdinand felt the burning spread to his legs and arms. His heart beat like a marching drum, his vision not only red but pulsating wildly, driving him mad.

‘No I cannot subject this child to anymore abuse, his father insists, as he fails to accept his sons weakness but I swear I can do nothing for him. I would be surprised if young Ferdinand could even gather enough strength to work in a forge. Maybe he could become apprentice to your father?’

They laughed. As if they were old friends. Partners laughing over their dead enemy. Ferdinand’s eyes opened, his vision focused on his battered wooden short sword, then moving on to his tutor, Carlos and finally settling on his belt, holding his famous golden hilted rapier. The Cormava.

The laugh echoed in his ears, it boiled his blood and drove his mind into a senseless frenzy. The pain of his bruises were gone, his vision faded again as his eyes rolled up in their sockets making the child almost zombie like in appearance. A terrible vibration began in his legs, shaking him violently, sending him into an almost fit like state, working it’s way through his body like an earthquake tremor until finally reaching his throat.

‘DIE!’

The pure volume of the sound shook the eardrums of Carlos and forced Boreanaz to collapse, clutching his ears. Ferdinand, his eyes white, his entire body trembling violently leapt from a seemingly impossible position to land next to Carlos, his right hand on the teachers sword handle.
Ripping it from the sheath the pale weak child seemed to grow, confidently holding the sword with two hands, his arms raised ready to strike.

‘No! Ferdinand! What are you doing? Have you gone mad?’

The pitiful reasoning hardly managed to penetrate Ferdinand’s skull. He knew his fate, he knew his teacher’s fate and he knew Boreanaz’s fate. Everything was clear now, for this split second, his mind bent on destruction of all those who opposed him. A weakling no longer, this pale child who was the butt of everyone’s jokes would take revenge for his years of torment. Now was his time.

Carlos knew he could remove the rapier from Ferdinand’s grip, he was only a weak child anyway, he would not have even have flinched at this task before now. Maybe it was the person he faced or maybe it was the pale white of his eyes, but a dark shadow suddenly hung over his heart, as he realised that this fight may not go his way.
Rolling to his right he grabbed Boreanaz’s wooden sword and then dived forward to take hold of the other, flipping back he held both aloft, protecting his face, watching his frenzied opponent between the blades of his short swords.
Ferdinand stood stock still, as if waiting for Carlos to make the first move. Carlos spun in his direction, his wooden blades slashing the air, blurring in the desert heat. Nothing was hit. Realisation struck him as he turned around and focused on Ferdinand. Carlos was a tall man, but it seemed as if he was looking up at the 9 year old. Ferdinand made his first move, the rapier crashing down into the right short sword, severing the blade roughly and a faint smile could be seen as a deafening ‘crack’ signified the breaking of Carlos’s wrist.
It was to be a quick fight after all. The great soldier was to die by the hands of a 9-year-old boy. His old venerable eyes rotated upwards to catch the white of Ferdinand’s. The last thing he would ever see. As the blade swept down with lighting speed, striking his head in two.

Blood sprayed across Ferdinand’s cheek, the warmth excited him, made him feel powerful. Content in what he had done.
A whimper was heard behind.
But he was not finished.
Boreanaz could not speak. He sat back on his knees trembling in pure terror, his hands clasped tightly together in a desperate pleading motion. A hopeless, silent cry for mercy. Ferdinand’s vision returned, his blue and green eyes rotating back. But nothing was there, for a moment his soul disappeared, leaving an empty shell, free to do what it pleased. His soul cared no more. It was as if he had returned and exchanged his being for another, a more evil entity.

‘P-p-p-p-lease…’

Boreanaz stammered, his hands now clasped so tightly his knuckles dislocated and his palms bled.
The soul returned and the eyes shifted down, focusing on his fresh target. The sword was raised above his head.

‘Weakling’

The warm spray of fresh blood covered him once more…

 

After finding repeated grammar mistakes that made it all but unreadable, I quit. It hurts me. Right here. Where my heart should be.

 

Pillock

 

nice work! Would like a book about greywolf, he's cool...let him survive to fight ye later in bg2....