Luke, Halfling Fighter: Part 5 – The Grand Tournament
Sneaking back into Baldur’s Gate, Luke kept his head down and his belt pouch close. First order of business: clear his name. Second order: win the Grand Tournament. And this time—no more alcohol until both were done. This time he
meant it.
The gold from that shady mage’s gear was still jingling in his pouch, so Luke greased a few palms belonging to even shadier characters. The story they told him made his stomach turn. An organization called the Iron Throne had taken notice of him—specifically their leader, a man named Sarevok.
Apparently Sarevok wanted to win the Grand Tournament himself, not just for the bragging rights but for the political influence it would bring. Word on the street was that he was angling for a duke’s seat, and for reasons only city folk could understand, winning a darts competition was apparently a shortcut to power. Weird priorities, but Luke wasn’t one to judge—after all, he was risking his life over a game of darts.
Sarevok, fearing Luke’s talent, had him framed for murder. The clincher? One of Luke’s own signature darts had been found at the scene—a dart he’d “misplaced” during one of his legendary drinking nights.
Say one thing for Luke—say that if you take away his darts and his good name, he’ll chase you to the ends of Faerûn to get them back.
Tracking down one of Sarevok’s contacts, Luke prepped himself the usual way: scroll of magic immunity, shield amulet, potion of heroism, oil of speed. Then, without so much as a “good evening,” he let fly a flurry of Darts of Stunning, followed by Darts of Acid. The man—Slythe—hit the floor before he even knew what was happening. His girlfriend managed to strip Luke of his magical protections with a Remove Magic, but by then the halfling already had what he came for: key items, a map, and a clear trail to Sarevok:
(Side note: I only had 1 screenshot from Slythe and palace fight, but the fights went easily. I’d been dreading Slythe more than any other fight in the game. With my vow not to switch from darts except for Sarevok/dispel, a couple of backstabs could have ended the run. Thankfully, it took only about eight Darts of Stunning before one connected, and he never got to get invisible.)
The Meeting
The air in the old temple was thick with dust and tension. Luke stepped into the torchlight, boots crunching over broken stone. Across the hall stood Sarevok, a mountain of muscle in blackened plate, his eyes burning like coals.
“So,” Sarevok’s voice echoed off the walls, “you’re the little rat who thinks he can steal my glory.”
Luke tilted his head, sizing up the man who had tried to ruin him. “Glory? You framed me for murder over a
dart tournament, big guy. You realize how ridiculous that sounds?”
“It’s about power.”
Luke smirked. “And here I thought it was about being able to hit the triple twenty.”
Sarevok took a step forward, drawing his massive sword. “I will crush you.”
“Yeah,” Luke said, flicking a dart between his fingers, “and I’ll just keep poking you until you stop moving. Let’s see which one of us gets tired first.”
The fight began with Luke making an exception to his own “only darts” rule, pulling out Arrows of Dispel to make life easier—because honestly, running around forever while dodging hasted enemies did
not sound like a good time:
One of Sarevok’s allies hit him with Remove Magic, stripping most of his buffs, but his Protection from Magic scroll stayed put. He reached for his backup plan: potions of firebreath. The smell of scorched armor filled the air as Sarevok’s lackeys began to take serious damage:
It was close—closer than Luke liked. Switching to a defensive stance, he healed up, chugged another Oil of Speed, and washed it down with another tasty beverage - Potion of Heroism.
Tazok, Sarevok’s last minion, shrugged off every Dart of Stunning like they were love taps. “Save vs. Spell: 1 and still walking?” Luke muttered. “I don’t know what you’re eating buddy, but I’ll take a plate of it.” The acid arrows from nearby skeleton archers hurt Luke, but at least none of their dispel arrows landed.
Finally, Sarevok stood alone, backed only by a Greater Earth Elemental and four skeletons. Luke’s arm ached from throwing, his belt was nearly empty of darts, but his grin never faltered.
“Forty darts,” Luke said as the last one sank home. “That’s how many it takes to kill a man too stupid to dodge.”
The Iron Throne’s leader hit the ground with a crash. Luke stood over him, chest heaving. Somewhere in the city, the Grand Tournament waited—and now nothing stood in his way.
Epilogue
With Sarevok dead and his name cleared, Luke walked out of the temple lighter—not just from the weight lifted off his shoulders, but also because he was down by few hundred darts which were used in that fight. Still, nothing stood between him and the Grand Tournament now.
When the day came, the crowds packed the Elfsong Tavern and spilled into the streets. Nobles, merchants, sellswords, even a few shady figures from Luke’s past—all there to see if the halfling who toppled the Iron Throne could throw as well as the stories claimed.
He could. Oh,
he could. Every throw was a bullseye, every cheer louder than the last. He played with flair—underhand, over-the-shoulder, even blindfolded for a round just to show he could. By the final match, his opponent was sweating, and Luke was sipping an ale mid-throw.
When the last dart hit dead center, the room exploded in applause. From that day on, across taverns and tourney halls from Amn to Neverwinter, people spoke the same name with a grin:
Luke the Nuke—the halfling prodigy who turned darts from a pastime into a legend.
It wasn’t long before the whispers began to spread.
"You hear about that halfling dart thrower? Luke the Nuke, they’re calling him. Won the Grand Tournament so hard the dartboard had to be replaced twice."
"Aye, they say he took down Sarevok himself before the finals. Iron Throne, assassins, conspiracy—the whole lot. Did it with nothing but darts and a grin. Well, and a few potions."
"I heard in near Cloakwood he cleared a whole bandit camp in the rain—said the lightning was just him throwin’ faster."
"Word is, he’s still lookin’ for his old mentor, Gorion. Fella vanished a while back. Luke reckons now that his name’s in every tavern from here to Calimport, Gorion’ll hear it and come find him."
The whole run was done using darts. As far as I remember, only exception being 2 arrows of dispel on Sarevok and switching to Flail outside of Durlag's Tower for those two Battle Horrors. With good APR, THACO and unlimited amount of Darts of Stunning/Wounding and Elemental darts, almost everyone went down pretty fast. I except things to get much worse in BG2, because Luke basically reached his peak by now.
Beside two minor mistakes (where I should have used Greenstone Amulet instead of potions to counter Spook/Fear), there was never any danger of dying as far as I know.