Introduction: Leaning against a wall, shaded by one of Sigil'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 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 mercenary 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.
From his in-game biography: "A tall, broad-shouldered human male with long, jet-black hair, and eyes that change from blue to green. On a face set in a permanent scowl, a black dagger, pointed outward, is tattooed below his left eye.
His armour lacks markings, and he wears a long, faded black cloak whose tattered edges whip in the wind. He clutches in his right hand a longsword, while the other arm hefts a heavy shield. Throwing axes are strapped down the length of his right thigh."
Basic Information Name: Aggribael Blakfyre Aliases: Bael Gender: Male Race: Human Age: 29 Profession: Mercenary Languages: Common, possibly others Accent: Faerunian
Physical Information Height: 6'2" Weight: 210lbs Body build: Broad-shouldered, muscled Skin: Fair with slight tan Hair: Long, jet-black, always loose Eyes: Sometimes blue, sometimes green Scars: Typical battle-scars, none predominate Tattoos: Black dagger, pointed outward, below left eye
Mental Information Alignment: ? Philosophy: ? Deity/Beliefs: ? Personality:
[u]Discreet[/u] [i]Tells as little of his intentions and himself as possible.[/i] [u]Observant[/u] [i]Pays close attention to the actions and words of those around him.[/i] [u]Professional[/u] [i]Meticulous in the execution of the 'job' he's hired for.[/i] [/li]
Additional Information Gear: Heavy armour, heavy shield, longsword, throwing axes. While the others are replaced or upgraded from time to time, he always wears the same old, tattered black cloak. Jewelry: A couple enchanted rings, chain. Nothing too gaudy. Habbits/hobbies: Smoking, drinking, spitting, swearing General Health: Robust Favorite Drink: Ale Weaknesses: ?
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.
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.
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 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 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 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 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 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 Aggribael, 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 lies and deceit would be my tools as well as my sword. During that time I would master my god's ways, the very skills I would need to survive.
...
Aggribael Blakfyre would live at least several more years, long enough stumble upon a portal to the inter-planar junction known as Sigil. There, he assumed the name Bael and sought out work as a mercenary.
His past, however, would catch up with him before long...
//there you have it, Bael's secret past. feel free to PM me with comments.
