What Makes a Compelling cRPG Companion — An Analysis of Dak’kon’s Arc in Planescape: Torment
(Warning: Contains spoilers for Planescape: Torment.)
Morte. Annah. Dak’kon. Fall-From-Grace. Nordom. Ignus. Vhailor. Unique, bizarre companions remain among the most memorable elements of Planescape: Torment’s design. Each one is an embodiment of Planescape’s strangeness, usually a rebel or misfit in their society and, most importantly, someone who is mentally trapped in a sort of paradox and whose inner conflict ties them to the protagonist. Of all seven of them, I’ve always thought that Dak’kon works best in so many ways — as a certain archetype, a setting-specific character, a companion and an individual. What makes his arc especially complex and powerful, though, is that these four aspects are not only fully developed but also completely subverted.
We encounter our companion very early on in the game, so he is likely to follow us for the major part of our journey. There’s a strong reason for him to join our party — and, arguably, an equally strong one for us to accept his companionship. We can eventually discover that we had met him even earlier and he had accompanied us throughout many lifetimes. Through our conversations with him, we get quite an elaborate first-hand insight into the githzerai culture, including their belief system and language. Both Dak’kon’s arc and his relationship with the Nameless One prove to be thematically relevant, dynamic and often surprising.
Transcending the Archetype
Dak’kon is introduced to us as this potential mentor figure — an aged warrior of an ancient culture, eager to join us to teach us new skills, provide good advice and throw cryptic one-liners back and forth. This archetype rings familiar and it could have been easily reduced to a very static and distant cliché portrayal or even downplayed for comedy. Luckily, one of Planescape: Torment’s main assumptions is to challenge fantasy cRPG stereotypes. The game’s focus is self-discovery instead of saving the world; black-and-white fight between good and evil is greatly replaced by various shades of neutrality; and many character types often radically differ from their classic portrayal. In Dak’kon’s case, we may get early hints of his subversive arc even in the very first dialogue if we steer the conversation in the right way (or rather the not-so-right way, considering how unwilling he is to speak of it). The veil of secrecy is lifted as we realise that someone who would stoically lecture us on the importance of knowing oneself is torn by inner conflict.
The mentor archetype is mostly played with through the interactions with the Unbroken Circle of Zerthimon. Dak’kon can also teach us the weapon craft or the Art (i.e. help us switch between Fighter and Mage character classes), but it is studying the Way, Circle by Circle, that slowly builds up to the twist. Initially, Dak’kon is reluctant to let us tinker with an item of such high cultural significance, and so we take on the role of a humble and unenlightened student. The proper understanding of each Circle’s teachings is linked to our Wisdom, and if we keep raising it, we finally stumble upon the Seventh and Eighth Circles, ones that Dak’kon is not even aware of. The roles are reversed now as the Nameless One becomes his teacher and possibly helps him overcome his doubt. The Unbroken Circle itself, a story within a story, gives us an unusual glimpse into the githzerai culture and mentality.
The changing blade that Dak’kon carries is symbolic of his nuanced and dynamic character arc. Despite being one of the few conventional weapons in the game, the karach blade does have its share of unconventionality; it’s permanently connected to its wielder and responds to his thoughts and emotions. Three different versions of the blade may form in the course of the game — not depending on the character’s level, but his morale (although each version levels up with him, as well). As an example, the blade does the most damage when Dak’kon’s morale is lowest, which goes hand in hand with the anger and resentment he feels towards his condition. Although, mechanically-wise, doesn’t it make him more useful?
The Practical Versus the Idealistic
When gathering our party before venturing forth, we generally hope to get to know compelling characters who are involved in the overall plot in a meaningful way — and who can fulfil a certain gameplay-specific role. This is just a regular initial mindset when playing a video game, isn’t it? Yet the latter is also what the Nameless One’s Practical Incarnation wanted — he wanted Dak’kon to be useful. Or, more precisely, he wanted Dak’kon’s weapon to be useful. Later in the game, we finally encounter Ravel Puzzlewell, who at some point asks us how we genuinely feel about our companions. In some strangely fourth wall-breaking way, we are given the opportunity to reconsider this practical mindset. And we may do so willingly, especially as we gradually discover how much suffering it has caused. Dak’kon himself can briefly (and grudgingly) tell us how he remembers the Practical Incarnation, as well. This discrepancy between cold, calculated reasoning and emotional connection is also evident in Deionarra’s arc, although in her case the player’s actions cannot change much anymore. But we can still have an influence on Dak’kon, and he will follow us whether this influence is constructive or destructive.
This unwavering loyalty towards us strikes as odd. Fall-From-Grace, another of our companions, is particularly surprised to see him so compliant for a githzerai, suggesting that something is really wrong here. According to basic D&D/Planescape lore, Dak’kon is culturally supposed to detest any kind of servitude, which he himself openly acknowledges. So why does he insist that he should serve us, no matter what? There are no chains that bind him. The most common explanation is that Dak’kon’s personal sense of honor won’t allow him to break his oath to the Nameless One. Paradoxically, though, this oath can force him to do things that are (at the very least) dishonorable — both to himself and to his own people. Dak’kon can be also found to lie to us so that we won’t find out about his debt. He follows the Nameless One “only so [he] may die” and yet he metaphorically admits that in serving, he has already died many deaths. Still, can we assume that this is some kind of fantasy variation on the samurai figure, portrayed as such to give the character’s value system a more “exotic” feel?
Perhaps. But we’re not supposed to interpret a fantasy character by the rules of our world. After all, we’re in Planescape.
Dwelling in Chaos
The majority of Planescape: Torment’s plot takes place in the Outer Planes. In the game’s universe, the Outer Planes are divided according to alignment — the various combinations of good, evil, law, chaos and neutrality. The ambience of each plane is not without influence on its inhabitants — or even the travellers who cross it. It may be hostile to them, manipulate their behaviour or, at best, force them to resist it. In turn, Sigil’s neutral ground is a site of a never-ending strife between a dozen factions striving to approach the truth about the Multiverse in their own ways. Finally — the Outer Planes are the domain of the Powers. Faith and ideas are more essential to live than anywhere else here. And in Limbo itself, where the githzerai come from, they are even critical to physical survival.
Dak’kon is a character who struggles with a crisis of faith — this is really all his arc encompasses. We don’t get to know much about him outside of this conflict. In the context of the game’s universe, it is hard to ask for a more tragic story. Interestingly, though, it isn’t handled in a conventionally tragic way. Dak’kon’s crisis of faith wasn’t triggered by a single traumatic event or a loss of a loved one (although I tend to interpret is as a result of a growing loathing of the never-ending war going on between the githzerai and the githyanki). Even the githyanki raid that follows the weakening of Shra’kt’lor’s defenses has somehow less significance than Dak’kon’s mental disconnect from his community and his loss of cultural identity. The very conflict is portrayed as a result of a purely intellectual process — it is the studying of the Unbroken Circle that leads Dak’kon to doubt. He fears that the division of the gith race was actually an illithid conspiracy fulfilled by Zerthimon’s hands; something that could undermine an entire spiritual tradition. As a side note, this idea is rather meaningful in itself, for it implies that Dak’kon could be inclined towards the reunification of the two peoples. We already know that Chris Avellone (as interviewed by RPGWatch back in 2007) also toyed with this idea, and initially planned it as the main plot of a potential Torment spin-off, Planescape: Pariah.
“The Word That Chains Me Is Mine”
Strength lies in knowing oneself, says the First Circle. Once someone does not know themselves, they are lost. They become tool for others. This is another possible answer to the question “why”; a more psychological approach, and one that links Dak’kon’s arc to the broader story contained within the Unbroken Circle. And yet the Practical Incarnation doesn’t live forever — the new Nameless One has an opportunity to propose Dak’kon to release him of his debt. Dak’kon’s following reaction is rather disturbing (and quite unlikely for a video game companion) — he doesn’t welcome our words with enthusiasm or gratitude, because it is not in our power to set him free. But how can that be? Isn’t that just another order to carry out? Dak’kon insists that it is his own word that chains him. In his most critical moment, there was nothing else to surrender — nothing else to hold onto in the midst of chaos.
Truth is, there’s a lot to hold onto. We could have gotten a completely different character — one with a tragic backstory which he had somehow come to terms with, a mere tale of the past to be told by the fire at the Smoldering Corpse Bar. Any Sigil citizen can hold a dark secret and live with it. In such a city, opportunities for a new life are endless. But that would be cynical. It would require from Dak’kon to completely abandon what remains of his identity. As we already know, not much has been left — the fateful oath is the only constant, the only ideal. Although a minor detail, one of Dak’kon’s responses to our commands is literally “your will be done,” as if he was addressing a godlike entity; a twisted echo of his lost faith, now just a reminder of his enslavement.
Come to think of it, there is something uplifting about Dak’kon’s stubornness. Even on the verge of losing his mind, he remains aware that only he can save himself — or bring his own doom.
Two Deaths As One
Upon learning the last lessons of the Unbroken Circle, Dak’kon’s story comes to its closure. He seems much more powerful now, cleared of doubt and perfectly serene, ready to accompany us to the end of our quest. If he does — if he follows us to the Fortress of Regrets — his quest will come to its end as well, as he will sacrifice his life for our cause. Even if for some reason he were able to defeat the Transcendent One, as he was going to do, he would be tied to us until his death anyway. Is his sacrifice a gesture of friendship or slavish devotion? It doesn’t matter now. Dak’kon is gone. In what is considered the “good ending” of the game, we can eventually bring him back to life, but it can hardly make up for everything that had happened in the past.
But there’s still one more twist. After our party becomes separated in the Fortress, we encounter the Practical Incarnation, the one that gave Dak’kon the Unbroken Circle. An unexpected messenger of dramatic irony, he casually admits to making its entire story up so that he could have his grip on his future servant. While it is unlikely that he wrote every single word by himself (Dak’kon was familiar with the teachings back in Shra’kt’lor), there is a possibility that the last two Circles are non-canonical. That would mean that the positive resolution of Dak’kon’s conflict was based on false assumptions, built on an intricately fabricated lie. And this is how his arc comes to its ambiguous and rather bittersweet conclusion. Eventually, it’s up to us to decide whether Dak’kon’s spiritual recovery was orchestrated by the Practical Incarnation, just as he himself feared that Zerthimon’s actions had been orchestrated by the illithids, or if he truly came to know himself again.
Coming Full Circle
With all its twists and turns, Dak’kon’s arc is also a reflection of the game’s main plotline — the Nameless One’s story. Where Dak’kon searches for the truth within the labyrinth of his people’s mythos, the Nameless One wanders literal mazes to find himself. Where Dak’kon’s doubt destroys a fortress, the Nameless One’s regret creates one. Both are haunted by the shadows of their past. Both have their share of suffering, spiritual (un)deaths and struggle with self-identity, ultimately concluded with self-discovery. Basically, their different stories revolve around precisely the same themes — their two paths really are one. This is what makes Dak’kon relevant in the first place. Had he been just another colorful character we meet on our way, his arc wouldn’t have resonated so strongly.
In the end, Dak’kon is a mentor who surpasses his static archetype, a Planescape dweller both trapped within and dubious about his worldview, a githzerai who challenges the stereotypical portrayal of his race (to the point of becoming its new stereotype, ironically enough), a companion whose story mirrors ours, and a dynamic character complex enough to empathize with. He simultaneously fulfils and defies the various roles that are imposed on him by the game’s plot and design. Finally, the narrative creates a sense of the character’s agency and autonomy, and suggests a bigger role he may play within the setting. All of this threaded with an underlying meta-question to the player — is this relationship simply about a companion being helpful or useful? Or is it actually immersive enough to be meaningful not in terms of mechanics but in terms of story?
