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infiniteanalemma · 2 years ago

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Nobility in Baldur's Gate

Edited to add: I never expected my silly, niche post to get as much attention as it has! I'm giving you all forehead smooches! 😚💋 I've gone through to clean up some things up as I've found new information. I also added a list of nobility that I've found in game and other sources to the end of the post. Thanks, y'all! I'm glad I'm not the only one to wonder about this stuff. Good stuff in the reblogs, too!

Baldur's Gate has dug itself deep in my brain, so I apologize to my poor mutuals who didn't follow me for BG3 content getting this onslaught of posts. Please bear with me until my hyperfixation wears off. 🙏

Now, I'll admit up front that I'm no expert in DnD lore*, so if I get things wrong, please feel free to correct me or just add in stuff I may have missed. I'm going off of what I've found in-game and my Google Fu skills.

That said, I do know enough about DnD to remember that Baldur's Gate nobility are called patriars, and that there are only a relative handful of actual patriar families. I was thinking about my "canon" Tav, Velassa, and her background in BG3. She's a modified OC that I plunked in-game during Early Access, so I made her a noble. It was just part of her existing character that I didn't think too deeply about. It was only after I starting playing that it occurred to me to wonder what exactly "a noble" is to a native Baldurian.

That got me digging a little more into the current state of the Baldurian nobility as of BG3. I don't know who--if anyone--needs or wants this, but I put this together for myself and decided to share it for anyone else who might be interested. I realize that this is probably pretty niche and it's rambly and long af, so I'll put it under a cut.

So, for starters, here's a list of all the patriar families, including "fallen" houses that are barely hanging on: Belt, Bormul, Caldwell, Dlusker, Durinbold, Eltan, Eomane, Exeltis, Gist, Guthmere, Hhune, Hlath, Hullhollyn, Irlentree, Jannath, Jhasso, Linnacker, Miyar, Nurthammas, Oathoon, Oberon, Portyr, Provoss, Ravenshade, Rillyn, Sashenstar, Shattershield, Silvershield, Tillerturn, Vammas, Vannath, Vanthampur, and Whitburn

From what I've gathered, Exeltis, Provoss and Ravenshade are all more-or-less destitute. Also, the Szarr family (Cazador's family) were patriars, but were believed to be entirely wiped out. No living descendants makes them a dead house, rather literally. 😏 (No, I'm not sorry.)

Now, we learn that Wyll's father is Ulder Ravengard, the Grand Duke. This brings us to the first point: There are four Dukes, known as the Council of Four, and the Grand Duke's job is to be the tie-breaker.

Traditionally, one of the Dukes is also the highest ranked officer of the Flaming Fist--that's Ravengard, who was a Fist promoted up through the ranks. Wyll tells us that his father was born lower class, and quite a few of the patriars seem to scorn him for that. The other Dukes are Belynne Stelmane, Dillard Portyr (more on him later) and Thalamra Vanthampur (more on her later, too). Of the four, two are patriars: Portyr and Vanthampur. We don't know much about Stelmane's past, except that she was a brilliant businesswoman, politician and--as we find out later--member of the Knights of the Shield. Apparently, you can't buy your way into the patriars, but maybe you can buy your way into being a Duke.

Skipping ahead a bit, when the player shows up to Gortash's coronation, there are a group of mostly patriars sitting in the boxes leading up to the front of the room. I'm listing them by seating arrangement, with box 1 and 2 being the left and right closest to Gortash, and 3 and 4 being farthest. (I don't know what, if anything, the seating arrangements imply. The second box has eight people, compared to four for all the rest.)

Lady Ailis Belt, Baron Callem Bormul, Lord Rugger Shattershield**, and Lady Alia Durinbold**

Lady Ruth Linnacker, Lord Sarken Eomane, Lady Freida Oberon, Lord Raylen Jannath, Lord Myer Ravenshade**, Lady Madeline Whitburn, Lady Beatrice Provoss, and Duke Dillard Portyr

Lady Winstra Hullhollyn, Admiral Peil Hullhollyn, Lord Randolph Vammas, and Lady Eshvelt Guthmere

Lord Milon Tillerturn, Lady Silifrey Sashenstar, Lord Petric Amber**, and Lady Haeril Birch**

Here's some pictures of the nobles sitting together. (Sorry for the terrible quality! I slapped it together for my own reference. 🙈)

The characters marked by ** aren't human, which is interesting because the information I found said all the patriar familes are human except the Shattershields. Myer Ravenshade is listed as human if you examine him, but he has a dwarf model. That might be a mistake, but I'm including him anyway. Alia Durinbold, from a presumably human patriar family, is a wood elf. Again, this could be a mistake, but unless Larian winds up changing it, it could mean that interracial marriages that once may have been looked down on are now becoming more acceptable. Petric Amber is also a wood elf, and Haeril Birch is a high elf.

Those last two are interesting because they are the only ones in the boxes who aren't patriars. If not for them, I'd have assumed the coronation was simply a demonstration for the patriars alone. Their inclusion means this is something else.

Digging around, my conclusion is that all the listed people are members of the Parliament of Peers--a 50 person advisory party to the Council of Four. However, what I found says that it's pretty rare for all 50 to attend meetings, and the usual group is between 20-30. There are exactly 20 named individuals listed, plus a group of unnamed "patriars" standing at the front.

Here they are, for what it's worth:

One thing I noticed here is that most of those listed here are Lord/Lady, but there are three other titles: Duke, Baron and Admiral. I've already talked about the Dukes. Looking into the patriars, the Hullhollyn family are notable for having a fleet of ships, so it makes sense that one of them would be an Admiral. That leaves the Baron.

I couldn't find anything about what it means to be a baron in Baldur's Gate. Going on real-world peerages, a baron/ess is generally the lowest "rank" of nobility. Basically, it's someone who was an official landowner (usually of an "important" bit of land) under the feudal system. Well and good, I suppose, but presumably all the Lords and Ladies of the patriars own land within the city. This particular Baron is also a patriar, but given that one doesn't need to be a patriar to become a Duke (normally a higher peer than a baron), that may not mean anything.

(Apparently, the term "Duke" was originally meant somewhat jokingly. That said, it still carries the weight of a title even if not the conventional one.) We don't see any other titles between Duke and Baron, so what does that mean?

This isn't canon, but my assumption is that it means the Baron owns important land outside of the city. This would make sense for Baron Bormul, given that the Bormul family apparently have investments in silver mines and vineyards. Assuming they own the mines/vineyards, that may make those lands "important" enough to the city for their owner to earn a title. Alternately, the Bormul family also has counterparts in Amn, so maybe baron is an Amnian title that got passed along. That's getting a bit far afield for me, though. 🤷‍♀️

Anyway, among the group at the coronation, pretty much everyone supports Gortash becoming Archduke, with the exception of Lady Sashenstar (an old woman who really isn't too impressed with this commoner) and Duke Portyr, who expresses some hesitation at the whole thing.

Duke Portyr is interesting here. Except for Ravengard (who is thralled and conducting the ceremony), Portyr is the only Duke present. Now, Stelmane is already dead, so that explains her absence. Vanthampur is also missing, which is interesting. Portyr first, though: he was Grand Duke before Ravengard. He's the one who re-instituted (Edited: and originally created!) the Parliament of Peers to make the day-to-day decisions of running the city, and ceded the title of Grand Duke to Ravengard. He's described as being conflict-averse, so it makes sense that he'd go along with Gortash's coronation, even though he's clearly unhappy about it. Also, the current leader of the Fists is also a Portyr, likely still Liara Portyr, the Duke's niece and Ravengard's second-in-command.

Thalamra Vanthampur is an interesting character, too. She's the head of the Vanthampur family, and part of the Descent into Avernus story. Apparently, she's the one who got Ravengard to go to Elturel before it sank to the Hells, intending to take his place as Grand Duke. From what I read, she also conspired with the Dead Three's cults to murder people in a bid to discredit the Flaming Fist. (The murdery bits were undoubtedly left to Bhaal's cult.) We never do find out anything about Thalamra Vanthampur in this game (I assume that's probably cut content). (Edited: She is mentioned in one of the in-game texts as having been killed, which was one of the possible outcomes of Descent into Avernus. Larian chose that as their canon, just like the fate of Elturel and Zariel.)

The only Vanthampur we do meet is Carnelia Vanthampur, who is in the Guildhall and describes herself as "a peer of the Parliament". She's willing to work with either the Guild or the Zhentarim. Nervously of course. Also interesting is that, on the Bloodstained Parchment hit list, is a Varri Vanthampur, whose gravestone you can find in Candulhallow's Tombstones shop, reading: "Varri Vanthampur. Unwanted in life, welcomed in death."

Interesting, hm?

Also on that hit list is Fridrik Hhune. The Hhunes apparently have links to the Knights of the Shield, from what I looked up--the same group the Emperor led with Stelmane. The only Hhunes we meet in-game are Blaise and Gheris Hhune, two of the werewolves in Cazador's ballroom who are brothers according to the dev notes. With them is another werewolf of a different patriar family, Duver Rillyn. This suggests Cazador has been going after members of patriar families, which sort of fits with what we know about his plans. We really don't find anything else out about them except that they consider Cazador to be their master and Astarion says they're new.

We also can talk to a Flaming Fist who mentions that Hurlbut Hhune is the father of Henrietta Hhune, who used to be secretly engaged to the Fist in question, only for her father to decide to arrange her to marry fellow patriar Derque Rillyn, who the Fist describes as "a major arsehole."

That conversation is interesting for a few reasons. For one, it tells you that arranged marriages within the patriar are a thing. Also, this Fist is a Manip (essentially a Sergeant) who can't ask the other Fists for help because "the Fists don't mess with wealthy patriars, they've got the Watch to back them up." That's aligned with what Devella can also tell you: "There are patriars on the murder target list. I'm oathbound to secure them first, so I'll be heading to the Upper City next." If you say that the Fist should protect everyone: "Not from around here, are you? We're in Baldur's Gate - this is just how things work."

This brings me back to my original issue: what is a Baldurian noble? The patriars are canonically nobles, of course, and they're undoubtedly seen as the "most important" of the nobility. From there, it's not much of a stretch to say that anyone who has earned the title of Duke is now a noble, even if they aren't patriars. I'd go so far as to say anyone on the Parliament of Peers (and their family by association) is a noble^, given that non-patriars Petric Amber and Haeril Birch are considered Lord and Lady. The information I found about that is that there are approximately twelve non-patriar members. If Amber and Birch are two of them, that leaves another unnamed 10.

^Edited: Looking at the dates, I realized that the Parliament of Peers is a very recent change to Baldurian governance. Duke Portyr originally created it after the three other Dukes on the Council of Four were assassinated. It was clearly meant as a temporary measure, but my guess is that the patriars liked having more official say. Not to mention the non-patriars who managed to get a seat. This has all happened within even the youngest of Tav/Urges' lifetimes.

Personally, I'd also assume that branch families of the patriars probably also count as nobility. By branch family, I mean those that marry out of the main line but whose ancestry stems from a patriar family. From what I've seen by naming conventions, Baldur's Gate seems to use patronmyic lineage--ancestry is generally passed to the sons, and wives take their husband's surname. So, if a daughter marries out of the family, she'd no longer be a part of her father's family lineage, but still would be considered nobility. These branch families likely still maintain powerful influence and connections from marrying into wealth, which would make them a good political/financial choice of marriage alliance, despite no longer having the main branch patriar family name. These families are also probably the ones most likely to find a place on the Parliament, too, but likely have to jockey for position if their "representative" dies (or otherwise leaves) and a new opening in the Parliament is created.

If you've read this far, as a treat you can have some crappy close-up portraits of the nobles at Gortash's coronation, grouped together in their respective boxes. 😚

* For what it's worth, I'd count myself as a casual DnD player. I have some knowledge of DnD--I've played BG1 and 2, Planescape: Torment, along with some general cultural osmosis. I've had friends who played the tabletop version, but for one reason or another, I've never played it myself.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 spoilers #bg3 meta #fandom stuff #patriars #baldur's gate nobility #bg3 noble background #do I know what I'm talking about? no ❤#but I tried

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strawberrypinky · 5 months ago

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fire and ice. [gortash x tav] - part four [obsidian kingdom] 18+

Enver carried something far more insidious – a ravenous hunger for her submission, carrying a desire to strip away each and every layer of resistance until she stood before him bare in body and spirit. He craved her submission like a man starved. Perhaps if she willingly gave him that, he would feel satisfied.

A/N: Oh, Lord. Here we go. So this chapter right here is a milestone for a couple of reasons, really. For one, we have finally reached the first smut chapter! I technically avoid writing smut at all costs, so if you want to comment, please be kind. I'm sensitive, lol. With that said, please read the content warnings below and proceed at your own discretion. This chapter features incredibly dubiously consensual sexual acts, as well as dark themes surrounding the Church of Bane, such as religious extremism and human sacrifice. The Banite practices and rituals highlighted in this chapter are based on canon information - I tweak them to fit the narrative. According to the Forgotten Realms Wiki, "Rituals of Bane were to be performed whenever ordered by senior clergy members and held no correlation to any seasonal shifts, marks on the calendar or specific holy days [...] Services included rhythmic chanting, the rolling beating of drums and the sacrifice of an intelligent creature's life.". While not written about in detail, there are mentions of human sacrifice in this chapter. If you are uncomfortable with the warnings provided, please do yourself a favour and don't proceed.

As always, this story is also available on Archive of Our Own.

Word Count: 11.3k - no beta because that would give me too much time to think about this monstrosity ! CW: age gap, forced marriage, proselytisation, religious fanaticism/religious extremism, borderline fascism, mild blood, mentions of human sacrifice, alcohol consumption, extremely dubious consent (seriously, it's borderline non con), coercion, P in V sex, unprotected sex, loss of virginity, virginity Kink, power imbalance, mild breeding kink

The wedding flowed into the reception party smoothly — proof of Selise's flawless planning.

The atmosphere was electric, a tangible buzz in the air which only heightened as the Patriars continued to mingle, more inebriated with each glass of Plum Prosecco they were downing. The decorations appeared to glitter in the light of the sparkling chandeliers above, and the flower arrangements only added to the splendour of High Hall that evening. The air was fragrant with sciolism and revelry as the nobles made merry and celebrated with an impending war on the horizon. It was the very essence of Baldur's Gate – momentary rebellion against almost certain doom, and for once, Enver found himself feeling just as jubilant. His arm was wrapped around his wife's waist, the warmth of her skin seeping through to his hand, a goblet of fine wine in his hand as he laughed at a raucous story Lord Shattershield was telling him. He was entirely and utterly content.

All his claiming of superiority and imputing the dregs of society he once belonged to with an inferiority that could have been his had ceased to exist as he stood in that ballroom, Archduke of Baldur's Gate and a wife at his side. Elodie had scarcely looked at him all night, her face frozen with a perfectly manicured smile and an impeccable veneer of politeness whenever someone congratulated them, though Enver could see it slipping in moments where she thought none would see. A gentle quiver of her lip, a solemn tear escaping from her eye – it was a foolish display of weakness. He would reprimand her for it, and Bane tutted impatiently in his mind for allowing the impudence, but Enver supposed the privacy of their bedroom would serve as a more suitable location, specifically since their actual wedding in the eyes of his Lord would still need to take place priorly, and he'd much rather have her cooperating.

The wife of Bane's Chosen wouldn't show defiance - not in the eyes of the congregation and their Lord.

She would kneel and submit - to Bane, to Enver, their protection, their will.

Enver knew in spite of her defiance, she was astute and would come to understand he acted in her best interest and he was not unnecessarily cruel but, in fact, benevolent. Enver was not Nubaldin, who had delighted in being heuristic about his newest methods of abuse. Raphael had bid his time until Nubaldin had at least beat him to sufficient submission, though he was no less vituperative when he finally did acknowledge him. And though the cambion had preferred to use his chthonian tongue, at times, he was incensed enough to take a swing himself. Enver was unlike either of those two – he did not love Elodie, and he never would, but he had no desire to hurt her or violate her the way he had been.

"We should take our leave soon," he bent down, whispering in her ear, before returning his attention to Lord Shattershield and the wine goblet in his hand. He felt her tensing up beneath his hand, but he paid her little mind as his gaze swept over the crowds one final time.

The Liardon family, it seems, had invited what seemed like every proud patriar and affluent merchant of the Gate, the crowd an amalgamation of bohemian intellectuals, eclectic artisans, tenacious militants and gaudy devisees. He could see his own parents gabbing with Counsellor Florrick, Selise Liardon scarcely hanging on in her poor health, yet the woman smiled brightly at Lady Jannath and her substitute husband – an artist Enver had never heard of before. Her companions stood off to the side, their eyes betraying the fury they felt, and yet they stood quietly as they chatted amongst themselves before finally, Enver espied Duke Liardon, whose eyes were hardened, the man a light shade of pink as he drowned his sorrows in a goblet of Elverquisst and half-heartedly listened to Duke Porytr's monologue. Enver's victorious smirk only widened, the defeat in the Duke's eyes only adding to his ecstasy as he tightened his grip on Elodie in a mocking display, dismissing her squeak of protest as he relished in his victory.

He had won – well and truly won, and there were no two ways about it. Elodie Liardon – Gortash, he corrected himself – was eternally his. They would build the kingdom he had been promised, ascending to the rightful station of Bane's most worthy – his most faithful. In mere moments, she would submit herself to Bane with utterances and body, and Enver shivered in delight as he thought of her kneeling at his feet before they would lose each other in ecstasy. He was certain Bane would reward them well, for each malevolent punishment his Dark Lord bestowed benevolent largesse if he was particularly pleased with his followers.

As they finally took their leave, his exquisite bride flung herself into the arms of her companions, the rambunctious bunch coddling her in the face of all their guests. It was an embarrassing sight, though Enver supposed most of their guests were far too drunk to fully notice the strange display of camaraderie. Her parents eyed the bunch warily before Selise gently pulled Eloise aside as Enver stood and waited while he allowed the mother and daughter to share a final moment of attachment. He impatiently tapped his foot; the longer they tarried, the more crabby he got. Who could blame him though? After all, he had waited five years for her. When the women eventually separated, Elodie tearfully hugged her companions one final time before Enver pulled her towards her with a resolved tug of her arm, his patience wavering with each second they wasted with foolish displays of frivolity.

"You'll see them again in just a few days," he grumbled before the two of them were led outside to his carriage, accompanied by a pair of Steel Watchers, which would swiftly bring them to his estate.

He stepped inside first, holding out his hand for Elodie to take, but she only stared at him with her burning gaze, hauling herself in with great effort before she sat across from him. He tutted disapprovingly, shutting the carriage door as he clicked his tongue. The carriage began moving, the soft shaking accompanying the silence between the newly married couple. Enver eyed Elodie intently, admiring her shimmering gown and glowing skin through the moonlight that filtered through the carriage. She paid him no mind, staring blankly outside as the cobbled streets of the Upper City passed them by. It was tiresome, Enver decided.

"You do realise you can't avoid speaking to me forever."

"Fuck you, Gortash," she replied with a hiss, not meeting his eyes.

Enver clenched his jaw, irritated. "Is that all you'll say to me for the rest of time?"

"It would be more than you deserve," she spat out, still refusing to meet his gaze.

"More than I deserve?" He chuckled, the sound threatening to even his own ears. "My sweet little wife, I deserve everything because I worked tirelessly for it."

She finally whipped her head around, furiously wild green meeting his eerie brown. He could glimpse her fingertips crackling with wisps of magic, though she seemed to scarcely hold it in. "Worked for it?" she repeated. "You are condemning this world to a fate worse than death, and yet you decide to waste your time by forcing my hand and for what? You did not work for anything, Gortash. What little you have, you got because you sucked up to your sick god."

He snapped before he could truly control it, his hand whacking out and grabbing her face between his gauntleted hand, the golden metal digging into Elodie's cheeks as she glared at him intently. Abounding fury burned through his veins, eating at his soul as scaldingly hot as the fires of the Hells had been. Perhaps they had left a greater mark on him after all, for all of it came easy to him - he was born of hatred, forged and moulded in it.

"I am the Chosen of Bane," he pressed out. "You have no idea how hard I've had to work to get to my station."

"Get the fuck off me, Gortash," she only hissed in response. "Or I'll make you regret it."

He laughed in response, the sound dark and threatening as it echoed in the carriage, but he let her go. Perhaps a small part of him was frightened of her after all, for she was small but mighty beyond what he had expected or anticipated. He would not risk injury when success was so certain. She would be unable to turn her magic against him the second they were bound in the eyes of his Lord, forever allied. Forever his. His Lord's dread tingled in him, delightfully spreading to each part, and Enver fought to rein it in. Each second he had to wait for the grand finale of his destiny was torture, the anticipation palpable in the air. He could espy the spires of his estate coming into view, the lights brightly illuminating the path up the cobbled drive to his home as they always had. And yet, it felt different and paradoxically the same as the carriage entered the Gates and the horses trotted up to his home. The air felt different, laden with eldritch enmity and anticipatory tension as the newlyweds disembarked the carriage and stood outside their matrimonial home. Enver observed Elodie as she stood in front of the door, taking in the walls in the dim lighting of the lanterns, bare of any agrestal botany like she was used to from her childhood home.

She kept silent, though she turned up her nose in slight distaste, shivering as the cool winds of the night kissed her skin. Enver gently pushed her towards the entryway, the doors opening to reveal the grand foyer to Elodie's eyes for the first time. He watched as she glanced around, the wrought iron chandelier and flickering candles casting intricate shadows from the high ceiling they hung upon. Her blush gown was a strange contrast against the polished black marble floors, veins of green reflecting in the dim glow, the cool air carrying the faint scent of incense and old stone. Not a single soul had greeted them, the sweeping staircases with bannisters of ebony and emerald-carpeted steps void of Enver's usual staff. He supposed they had all gathered in the chapel below, awaiting them for the crescendo of a five-year pursuit and thus the single company they had was each other, and the statues of Bane and his gauntleted hand standing in alcoves, the towering stained-glass window on the far wall depicting a vivid scene of his Lord's glorious return; the vibrant greens fractured into the air.

Elodie's eyes did not betray any of what she might have been feeling, no matter how intently Enver regarded her. She remained the picture of perfect stoicism, breathing calmly and evenly, simply observing. Enver placed his hand on her lower back, gently yet assertively guiding her towards the staircase leading them below the manor, deciding she would have more than enough time to observe their home come morning. In spite of the chilly atmosphere, Elodie radiated warmth and a certain kind of spiritedness which penetrated even the depths of Enver's rancours, and he found himself unintentionally pressing himself closer.

Elodie raised her eyebrow, finally looking at him with more wariness than hatred. "Planning to keep me in the dungeons, are you?"

"No," Enver chuckled earnestly, nearly giddy with excitement as they descended. "You're my bride, not a prisoner."

She snorted in response. "There's a difference?"

Enver laughed, the sound booming along the labyrinth of shadowy corridors, oil lamps with emerald-glass shades casting a soft, haunting glow as they walked towards the heavy door at the end of the corridor while the faint sound of rhythmic chanting echoed. Elodie suddenly stopped in her tracks, wide eyes looking over into Envers with both fright and a million questions reflected in them.

"Gortash, what is -"

"Shhh," he shushed her gently. "Come. They're expecting us."

"Expecting us? What are you -"

Enver did not let her finish, the question dying on her tongue as he pushed her forward, knocking once and entering as members of the clergy opened the heavy doors for them. He could feel her freezing up in his hold, though he scarcely noticed in his elation. The private chapel opened into a vast space in front of them, and at once, Enver was embraced by a particular serenity – at the seat of his power, his rightful place.

Vaulted ceilings loomed overhead, shadowy arches disappearing into the dim light of flickering emerald candles as the rhythmic beating of drums and the low chants of the clergy professing their unwavering fealty to Bane reverberated off the walls. The air was heavy with anticipation, intertwining with the echoes of pledged devotion and sacred dread. Enver shivered in delight, his blood rushing in anticipatory pleasure as they approached the altar and High Imperceptor. He held his head high, the very picture of his station of the edict of Bane, as they passed through the circular pews, meticulously crafted from ebony. Devotees had filled the pews to the very last seat, their heads bowed and faces obscured by black hoods in rightful terror of their Lord and him. His bride was shivering in his arms, only taking the smallest and stumbling steps towards the altar hewn from black marble and veined with blood-red streaks as though it pulsed with a life of its own. The Hand of Bane towered above, casting a shadow over the congregation in a silent yet commanding gesture of domination, their Lord ever present and ever vigilant.

The chanting ceased as they finally reached the altar, merely the low vibrations of drums accompanying them as they stood in the glow of the Hand of Bane, awaiting the commencement of their ceremony. Elodie was shivering, her entire body trembling in Enver's arms, and he smirked wryly at her exemplary piety – She was submitting to Bane, devoting fear and subservience before she had become a Banite and a sense of pride surged through Enver, his skin prickling and a coiling warmth deep in his stomach threatened to tighten his bespoke trousers as he relished in having been correct about her all those years ago in the ballroom of the Ducal Palace.

The High Imperceptor stood tall in front of them, his hands raised in proclamation. "Hail to thee, our Lord Bane, as thy dread shines upon us."

"Hail Bane!" the congregation echoed.

"Hail to thee, our Lord Bane, as thy might emboldens us."

"Hail Bane!" They echoed once more, a pleasurable shiver running down Enver's spine.

"Hail to thee, our Lord Bane, as we cleanse the earth of the feeble," The High Imperceptor continued, his voice even beneath his mask of gold.

"Hail Bane!" They chanted again, Elodie suddenly and dutifully pressing herself closer to Enver.

"In saecula saeculorum! Hail Bane!"

At last, his devotees echoed "Hail Bane" before the chapel quieted, the sound of the drums ceasing and nothing but silence and reverence echoing within the walls. Asudden, the Hand of Bane glowed, an eerie silence choking the space before emerald strands wrapped themselves around the Hand and the eerie dissipated. Their Lord was watching, present in his unholy spirit – the greatest honour bestowed upon a Devout's marriage. Enver's smirk spread wide, abundant joy cursing through his veins as he relished in his Lord's blessings, his grip tightening around Elodie's shivering body. He stole a single glance; her face now pallid, and eyes wide in reverent fear.

"Good girl," he hushed before the Imperceptor resumed, hands still raised above.

"Faithful!" The voice echoed among the chapel. "Thee has't cometh to beareth witness to a most unholy union. Our Lord hath commanded his Chosen to wed. Glory be his shall. Glory be Bane as his Chosen spreads his tyranny."

"In his name," the congregation echoed lugubriously.

"A new follower shalt be born tonight. Our Chosen's bride," the Imperceptor boomingly proclaimed, "shalt becometh a vessel in his schemes. Their union shall carrieth the shall of our Lord in this existence and the next, a testament to our Lord's force."

"Hail Bane!"

The Imperceptor turned towards the altar; an intricate cloak of pristine stygian hue, embellished and adorned with pristine needlework of Banite symbolism – patterns of sharp edges and intertwining lines that seemed to writhe with latent power – was placed upon it, with a smaller replica right next to it. Enver had lost count of the times he had donned the cloak, the ceremonial garb indispensable for any gathering or festivities, its weight a familiar mantle of authority and tradition, and he could hardly await placing the replica upon Elodie's shoulders. It would mark her forever, binding her as a companion in faith and his partner in legacy – a shared symbol of devotion to the Black Hand and the future they would forge together. The Imperceptor placed the cloak upon Enver's shoulders, fastening its golden Gordian knot before bowing deeply with utterances of devoted allegiance.

"A heretic she entered," the Imperceptor proceeded, "but as devout shalt be reborn."

"Enver, what is – "

He interrupted her before she could speak. "My beautiful bride," he said calmly. "Tonight, you will be reborn and forged anew."

His hands reached behind her, fingers brushing against her delicate updo as she only stared at him with wide eyes, pupils blown in fear as he gently pulled the Lathanderian veil from her hair. Her breath hitched as Enver lifted the veil from her head, the silk slipping coolly between his warm fingers and pieces of her hair came loose and brushed against his callouses. The embroidered symbols of Lathander glittered in the dim lighting of the chapel, a final radiant defiance against the darkness of his Lord – a battle the Morninglord was destined to lose in the stronghold of Bane. The Imperceptor stepped up again, reverberating and murmured chants of the congregation swelling once more as he extended his arms, holding aloft a golden bowl etched with runes that seemed to pulse with a sinister rhythm. Enver's lips curled in satisfaction, a chilling thrill going up his spine as the air thickened with palpable energy of his Lord as flames within the bowl surged to life in an unnatural green fire, licking hungrily at the edges of their confinement.

"Beareth witness, o Bane, as we banish heresy from thy Church," the Imperceptor chanted out. "Grant us thy dread, inspireth us with thy wrath, as we welcometh this mistress into thy gloom."

"Hear me, my Lord," the flames flickered as if grasping for the veil as Enver lifted it towards the bowl. "For I bring this woman before you. Guide us, o Bane, as I bring her into your Church and cleanse her of whichever came before."

The flames erupted in a crescendo of kaleidoscopic greens; the veil dropped into them and swallowed like a snake would devour its prey until it melted, and the mere ghost of its existence lingered in the acrid smoke. Jubilant cheers of "Hail Bane" filled the air once more, the Imperceptor raising the bowl with an exultant cry as a shiver of ecstasy pulsed through Enver and tendrils of green wrapped around his gauntleted arm. Bane's raw and primal energy surged from the altar and flooded his veins, choking and consuming him as his Lord's favour pressed against every cell of his being. An air of righteousness and immeasurable pride surrounded Enver as his devoted followers aided him in an act of consecration.

The bowl that had carried the remnants of her life before him was reverently placed upon the altar, continuing to consume the little light Lathander had left before the Imperceptor handed Enver the replica of his cloak. At last, he would warp Elodie in Bane's embrace - just as he had dreamed. Unexpectedly, however, the Impereceptor stopped, the cloak remaining in his hands, and Enver felt, rather than saw, an expecting glance upon him, and while the Church continued to chant with vigorous fervour, silence had invited itself at the altar.

"My Lord," the Imperceptor spoke in a hushed tone. "You must rid your bride of all that which ties her to the life she had before."

A choked sob escaped Elodie before Enver had grasped what the Imperceptor had asked of him, the request so utterly absurd to even him. "Are you asking me to undress my wife?" Enver spat out, anger thrumming through his veins.

The Imperceptor only nodded. "It would be most improper if –"

"Ah ah ah," Enver interrupted him, a menacing lilt to his voice. "If you value your post, I suggest you think about your next words very carefully."

The Imperceptor faltered, his lips likely pressing into a thin line beneath the mask as he weighed Enver’s warning. "I do not wish to question your methods, my Lord", he carefully spoke. "The Black Hand does not tolerate impious behaviour."

"Impious," Enver scoffed lowly.

"I only wish to guide you," the Imperceptor continued, though his voice wavered, and Enver could glean uncertainty beneath the carefully spoken words.

"Then guide, do not dictate," a smirk placed itself on his face. "Unless you wish to join our... guest of honour tonight."

The Imperceptor wavered once more, the weight of Enver's words slicing through the doctrine he so devoutly upheld with ruthless precision, the threat very much genuine. Still, he clutched the cloak, his knuckles pale with the effort. "The symbolism, my Lord," he pressed with final recalcitrance. "Her former life must be stripped away wholly for the Dark Lord to – "

"Enough," Enver cut him off, his voice a low and commanding growl as the sheer insubordination pushed him to the brink of mad wrath. His palm found the back of Elodie, his bride trembling beneath the weight of the moment as she stared at him with wide and tear-brimmed eyes – equally fearful as she was hopeful. "My bride will not be presented unclothed to this congregation. Our Lord demands strength and obedience, which she has given, and she stands before us all – bound to me and shaped by me. That is my offering, and it will suffice."

The Imperceptor, visibly cowed, lowered his gaze and stepped back. "As you will, my Lord," he murmured before handing Enver the cloak, his gaze never leaving as he turned to Elodie, draping the dark and heavy fabric over her shoulders like a shroud. She nearly drowned in the robes, covered in obsidian, as she only looked at him from beneath her thick lashes, searching his eyes, desperate for perhaps a trace of mercy or a crack in his resolve.

"Beautiful," Enver whispered, as he felt a strange sensation well up inside him at the transcendental sight in front of him. He could see the war within her – fury, dread and a desperate desire to cling to the last scraps of her autonomy. And Enver relished it. As a child, he had cried over breaking his favourite toy, yet now he found satisfaction in breaking her, if only because it marked her entirely and utterly as his.

The Imperceptor returned, the golden bowl in his hands as he knelt and placed it between Enver and Elodie before he unsheathed a dagger from beneath his own ceremonial garb. The blade, long and slender, almost gleamed with an otherworldly sheen as ancient runes etched within the surface almost whispered of Bane's promises. Enver's hands grasped the hilt of the sacred blade, the metal pulsing beneath his fingers as if alive with the power of Bane. It was intoxicating, unadulterated hatred and strife thrumming into his veins as the blade bit into his flesh with a sharp, fleeting pain as he watched his blood well and drip into the bowl, carrying his devotion to the Dark Lord.

"Blesseth thy Chosen O Bane, as that gent sheds his blood for thee to devote himself eternally to thy shall," the Imperceptor chanted loudly as the flames erupted into an inferno of viridescent, greedily swallowing

Enver's crimson liquid as it swirled within the fire.

His gaze hung on Enver, expectant of the final step before they would be bound for all eternity. He watched as he reached for Elodie's hand, shaking within Enver's clasp, and she realised with horror what was about to happen.

"My bride," Enver spoke, his words carefully chosen as each syllable dripped with devotion to Bane and an unyielding demand for compliance. "Submit, for in it you shall find strength. Be reborn in my embrace and his, as your cruor fills these flames with life."

He turned her hand, the weight of the blade comforting in his hands. Enver could feel Elodie mustering her strength, helplessly trying to pull herself from his grasp, her lips pressed together in a tight line as her eyes flashed between desperate mutiny and consternation. His hand cut a straight line across hers, a quiet hiss escaping her before her blood dropped into the bowl beneath them as the flames exploded into vibrant sparks beneath them.

Within a second, the Imperceptor had bound their bloody hands together in obsidian silk, the sticky fluid wet between their hands as a coppery smell assaulted Enver's nostrils. The air in the room grew heavier, charged with dark energy as the congregation professed their fealty to Bane over and over again before, at last, the words Enver had longed to hear were spoken.

"Tied forever thee shalt beest, did bind in the visage of this congregation and in the eyes of our Dark Lord as thee shalt ascend beyond the trivialities of this forsaken earth. Blesseth thee, O mine own Lord, as thee enter this sacred matrimony."

The bowl erupted as the congregation cheered in jubilance, their marriage at last sanctified, and Enver felt a rush of uninhibited ecstasy rush through him, intoxicated by the sheer power flowing through him as it grew and grew. It was far grander than the simple thrill of victory, of the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless – like the Gates of the hereafter had opened themselves to him, he breathed in the exultant triumph of his marriage. Beneath the chants and ecstasy, he discerned a gasp, Elodie dropping to her knees with a pained grimace as green vapour wrapped itself around her arm and Bane laid claim to his Chosen's wife – his legacy.

A wide smirk appeared on Enver's face, his words cutting through the cheers like a whip. "Today, before our Lord, I have claimed what is mine. Let all who bear witness know, my bride kneels not in humiliation, but in the order that governs us all. Hear, my fellows, as our purposes are now entwined, and each breath we take is a testament to our union under our Dark Lord. We shall build a legacy as he decreed, and in his name, my hand will lead as hers follows."

Chants of "Hail Bane" and the booming sound of drums accompanied the three at the altar as Enver and the Imperceptor aided a shaking Elodie from her knees, the young woman pallid as though she would be sick, and Enver gently placed a kiss upon the crown of her head. "My good girl," he lowly praised her, the utterances whispered into her silken hair as he pressed her shaking body close to his own, holding her up with practised ease. Their embrace had been an arduous battle, the climax a victory. He had won – well and truly won.

"My Lord," the Imperceptor stepped to them, inclining his head in respect. "My sincerest congratulations to your union. It is my correct understanding you will not stay for the sacrifice?"

Enver shook his head in confirmation. "You are correct, Iago. I shall leave the sacrifice in your capable hands. It is a joyous day for us – but I wish to celebrate in private with my wife." He ignored her tensing beneath his arms, only watching as the Imperceptor stepped back and nodded his approval.

"Of course, my Lord. If I may offer some final words of... guidance," he warily glanced at the shaking figure in Enver's arms.

"You may."

He nodded, his eyes unblinking and unyielding. "There will be trials in the times ahead, even for those blessed by our Lord. Ensure that your will does not falter and take what is yours without hesitation or pity. Shape her as Bane has shaped you, for she is not merely your bride; she is your responsibility. Your duty. And through her, also your legacy. Our Lord's legacy."

Enver's eyes flicked briefly to the golden bowl, the mingling blood within gleaming faintly, before he looked downwards at his little Elodie. “The Dark Lord watches, ever vigilant," the Imperceptor continued with a reflective hum. "For the rite is but the beginning. Whatever is shaping comes after. And it is in that shaping that both your devotion and hers will be tested.”

Enver only nodded sharply before his grip around Elodie tightened, her body almost sagging into his as he led her outside the chapel. He could faintly perceive the pleading screams of clemency of whichever traitor was sacrificed in the name of Bane on his wedding night, but before Enver could hear the cracking of the whip which would make him suffer before, the doors closed again, and they were left in the dark hallways of the cellars beneath his home. The way back up was slow, his pace measured and firm, Elodie's breathing heavy as she shook in his arms, eyes almost dazed. It was a disconcerting sight, Enver used to defiance and nearly expecting hatred and trying to murder him with her bare hands, but all he received was a wife on the brink of unconsciousness. He supposed any first encounter with his Lord would be... profound, but it only served to strengthen them. The faint scent of blood and incense lingered in the air as he tightened his grip around her waist as they reached the base of the stairs, deciding to lift her into his arms, a pitiful groan of dissent escaping her throat before she only sagged and allowed him to carry her.

Enver chuckled fondly, the woman in his arms frail as he ascended the stairs, the moonlight filtering through the stained glass windows and illuminating her face in colours of green and gold. Her face was still pallid, but her breathing evened out as shallow gasps gave way to a more even rhythm, and she looked less sick with each second that trickled by before Enver eventually reached the doors of their chambers, which he opened with ease.

Warmth greeted him, a crackling fire flickering in the furnace illuminating the room, minimal moonlight filtering through the iron-wrought windows. With Elodie still in his arms, Enver stepped to the raised platform holding his canopy bed, slowly placing her on the dark silk and he watched as the cloak he had placed upon her shoulders pooled around her and its edges brushed the polished floors. Her hands were trembling as they clutched the silken fabrics, but she held herself up in spite of her visible exhaustion, her posture wavering but tenacious. A flicker of something familiar sparked in her eyes – faint shadows of the strength he admired buried beneath the fatigue, and thus Enver stepped away towards his desk, a bottle of his favourite wine and two goblets having been placed upon it. His fingers brushed the neck of the bottle as he poured the rich, dark liquid into the goblets, the faint aroma of oak and berries wafting upward. He took one goblet for himself, and he carried over the other to his wife.

"Here," he uttered, holding out the goblet. "Drink."

She shakingly took the goblet, sniffing it with ineffaceable suspicion as colour slowly returned to her cheeks.

"It's Jasmarim Shadow Wine," he only offered, sipping from the goblet as the rich liquid, enjoying its taste.

Elodie looked up at him, silent ire beginning to flicker in her eyes once more. "And how do I know it's not poisonous?"

Enver only blinked, once, twice, before a booming laugh escaped him, the notion ridiculous to even himself. "We have only just married, and you would think me vile enough to poison you on our wedding night?"

"I would think you vile enough to sacrifice me to the rats if your Lord demanded it," she spat out angrily.

"Our Lord," Enver promptly corrected her. "He is our Lord, Elodie. I have watched you become one of Bane's devout mere minutes ago."

"I would rather die," she said sharply, "than ever be devout to you or Bane."

Enver's lips curved into a sharp smile as though her words were nothing but a laughing matter, conscious of nothing except her fallacy. "Facts cannot be kept hidden, Elodie," he told her with a sharp edge. "Your life as you knew it no longer exists. Your inner meddling with a god's order will only serve to make you miserable."

"Insisting on blind obedience is little more than violating each right I am owed," she countered, crossing her arms as she stood up, defiantly throwing the ceremonial garb to the ground as the light of Lathander reflected off her in a million fractals.

Enver's gaze lingered on Elodie, staring down into her defiant eyes with little space between his body and hers, heat radiating off her. Her presence was an addicting warmth, and as he stood over her, Enver felt a tangle of emotions simmering within his chest. Pride, indeed – his bride a prize tethering him to something he had never known he had desired. Yet he carried something far more insidious – a ravenous hunger for her submission, carrying a desire to strip away each and every layer of resistance until she stood before him bare in body and spirit. He craved her submission like a man starved. Perhaps if she willingly gave him that, he would feel satisfied.

"You carry disobedience well," he eventually broke the silence.

He could see Elodie grit her teeth before she spoke again. "It is not disobedience to want a choice. It is the greatest blessing we have got as living beings."

"Choice," Enver hummed mockingly. "Is that why you are standing in my, excuse me, our bedroom? Married to a man you have not chosen but one that was chosen for you? Because you cling to the notion that a choice exists?"

"You will never be able to strip my freedoms entirely. Besides," Elodie countered, "I will not be sleeping in this room."

Enver laughed, another booming sound, though this time it carried little humour. "I'm sure we'll get little sleep tonight, my dear, but unlike many of the other miserable patriars, I have little intention of sleeping separately from my wife."

He watched as her cheeks burned, eyes blazing in fury. Beautiful, Enver only thought, jolts of pleasure rushing through him, her defiance both vexing and titillating. "I don't care what you want," Elodie adduced. "I will not be sleeping in this room."

She tried to walk past him, but he caught her wrists with ease, holding them firmly in his hand as her goblet fell to the ground, staining the hemline of her dress and the carpeted floors. Enver was getting tired of her games, her defiance grating at him as he felt irritation bubble beneath the carefully constructed polite demeanour he prided himself on. She glared at him, trying to pull her wrist from their hold, but his grip only tightened, fingers encircling her wrist like a shackle. Her eyes bore into his, and for a single moment, he felt a flicker of something – compassion, perhaps. But he crushed it immediately, shaking his head as he buried whatever he was feeling beneath the weight of his purpose and his blazing desire.

For a moment, their gazes would not stray from each other before Elodie's lip eventually curled into a sneer. "Let go of me right now, Gortash. Or this time, you will regret it."

He only smiled, cold and cruelly, as if daring her to try, and he watched with unabashed amusement as her body trembled with fury and she tried to channel her untamed sorcery, her hands crackling with something unnaturally electric before she shrieked in pain and fell to her knees. Enver remained above her, an unmistakable thrill of power cursing through him like an unconquerable instinct – just as one's lungs will always draw the next breath so long as there is air available, he would forever adore squashing defiance beneath his feet.

He crouched down, cupping her face in his hands as she let out another whimper, rubbing her wrists.

"What did you do to me?" she asked, her voice a mere whisper.

Enver chuckled, his thumb gently stroking her cheek. "I didn't do anything. Bane simply does not allow any... belligerence between spouses."

"So what?" she asked. "You'll simply be able to do whatever to me?"

"I'm not a monster, Elodie," he tutted. "You may think I am, but I would never do anything to hurt you." His smile deepened cruelly and coldly, his hand steady on her face, defiance still burning in her eyes, even if momentarily stifled.

"Oh please," she scoffed. "You forced me to marry you. You forced me into worshipping Bane. I met the whore you fucked. The one you had pretend to be me when I was scarcely nine and ten. I carry a tadpole because of you. You are despicable, Gortash."

He was momentarily disarmed, hesitating as he considered his next words carefully. He had long forgotten the whore – her existence irrelevant as soon as he had spilt his seed on her stomach. "That hardly makes me a monster," he cleared his throat. "I am offering you purpose. Authority. A place at my side no one could ever hope to claim."

"I could care less about what you offer," she challenged him, rising to her feet as she stared him down. "I wash my hands of it."

"You are insane," Enver shook his head. "Very few would reject the promise of having the world at their feet."

"I would reject the world a thousand times over if I had love and respect."

"So that's what this is about," he chuckled, feeling a cold, bitter amusement rise in him. "Love."

Enver supposed, at any rate, that he should not have been greatly surprised. The young women of the Gate had often regaled him with tales of dreaming of finding love – fantasies he had all too keenly played in his favour before he had utterly ruined them. Perhaps he would have hoped for Elodie not to be as intensely of a fool as the women he had discarded before, but it was not surprising to him that a part of her desired a mere fantasy. Love was futile, a powerful but perilous means of control, and he would never allow himself that, though he doubted it was even possible for him to love another. Love was a fantasy for fools and the unlucky, and Enver was neither. He would give her anything she could ever want if only she asked; trust, companionship, power, sex, the world - but he could not give her love.

Their story was not a tale of a naive bard but the culmination of power – an instrument of tyranny. And at any rate, what difference would it ultimately make? The object of their marriage wasn't love but to strengthen Bane – a fact which could not be altered, even if he had wanted to. The inner workings of a god were impregnable, and Enver was no fool to question Bane, though he remained thankful to have received a wife such as Elodie.

"You disappoint me, Elodie," he continued contemplatively.

"The feeling is mutual," she bitterly told him.

He laughed, low and dark, the sound resonating in the oppressive silence of their chambers. "I would've thought you were above such ludicrous frivolities."

"Frivolties?" She asked indignantly. "You think love is a frivolity?"

"Love is fleeting, fragile, at best," Enver scoffed. "Power, on the other hand, is eternal."

She only looked at him incredulously, something flickering behind her eyes Enver could not quite place. She only shook her head in response, stepping aside in perhaps the hope of escaping him, but Enver stepped before her, blocking her path from certain exit, placing his hands on her hips. If she did not believe power was eternal, perhaps he could at least fool her that he could offer far better than love.

"What are you doing?" she questioned, pushing her hands on his chest as if to get away. "Get off me."

Enver’s smile returned, sharp and predatory, as excitement bubbled inside him. "If you don't believe me, then at the very least, let me show you something more."

"More?" she asked, a wary sort of curiosity in her eyes.

His grip tightened against her hips, pressing into the fabric of her cloak and dress as her defiance simultaneously fueled his amusement and urge to crush it entirely. He moved forward, pressing his lower half against her as he whispered in her ear. "Passion. Hunger. Ecstasy."

In an instant, he could feel her hands pushing against him with renewed vigour, and Enver decided to entertain her rebellion, pulling back just enough for him to glimpse into her eyes and see genuine fear. It was a welcome reprieve following her disobedience and lunacy, he decided.

"What?" he asked, a devious smirk on his lips. "Have you such little faith in my capabilities? Why, Elodie – I am almost offended."

"You are an even greater lunatic than I had given you credit for if you would think I would willingly engage in those... activities with you," her face reddened as she fought against his hold.

His laugh was loud and echoing within the darkened room, his entire figure shaking as he failed to remain composed. "Those activities? My sweet little wife, it is just sex. One would think you were a chaste maiden the way you spoke."

He could feel her tensing up in his arms, her protests wavering as her cheeks burned beautifully red. Oh, he thought for a split second, his smirk faltering at the implications of what she had just revealed to him. He blinked, his amusement stalling for a second before his voice softened in sheer disbelief. "You are," he almost whispered.

"Let me go," she hissed, her face burning even brighter as she struggled against his grip.

"You’ve never..." Enver began, his voice trailing off as his lips curved into a bemused, almost incredulous smile. "You're telling me that you are a virgin?"

"What's it to you?" she snapped, but Enver's grip only tightened. He hadn't expected her to be untouched, leaving her for him to ruin. He might have expected it before she had been abducted by the Nautiloid; any potential suitors had been long chased off by him, and none of his clergy had ever reported seeing another man close. And while most young noblewomen remained pure, at least when they had just debuted into society, most of them had at least entertained one suitor by the time they married, no matter how scandalous if people had found out. But after she had been kidnapped, she had been out of his grasp long enough to perhaps sully herself with one of her companions, and with the way she and that pale elf looked at one another, Enver somehow came to expect it.

"What's it to me?" he asked, his tone edged with laughter, though his surprise had yet to fade. He searched her face for a lie, for some crack in her defiance that might prove otherwise, but found none. "Oh, this is unexpected," he murmured, almost to himself. "Truly unexpected."

Her glare intensified, though her flush deepened, her fury barely masking her discomfort. "If you think that changes anything –"

"Oh, but it does," he interrupted her instantaneously, his voice low and dangerous now, his grip on her tightening just enough to make her still. His mind raced, struggling to reconcile this new information with the woman before him. "Your defiance isn't mere lunacy. You are scared because you are inexperienced."

"I am not scared," she protested. "And I would sooner hand myself over to a chimaera than ever have sex with you."

"I'm sure you would," Enver admitted, pressing his crotch closer to her, already achingly hard as he imagined ruining her. "But that doesn't change reality, does it? You're here, and you're mine."

Before she could voice any protest, Enver pressed his lips against hers, urgently pushing himself against her as he held her warm cheeks between his hands, stumbling forward as she tried to force herself off him, only to land beneath him on their marital bed. He pressed himself into her, their bodies impossibly close as his cock strained against the fabric of his trousers. Enver was certain Elodie could feel his stiffness beneath the layers of her dress, her legs flailing as she fought against him with every fibre of her being. With the urgency of a man starved, his lips claimed hers, unwilling to ever let her go again.

As he parted from her to allow for a moment's respite, her eyes stared into his, wide and fearful. "P-please," she whimpered, her tone pleading. “Please don’t force me into this, Enver.”

It thrilled him far more than it should have, hearing his name spilt from her lips. He leaned in, his lips ghosting over her ear as he whispered, “Just trust me, Elodie. And let go.”

He placed his lips on hers again, Enver’s hands ineffably and recalescent wandering along her curves. "You are mine," he breathed against her lips, his words a proclamation of what he considered his irrevocably, each word imbued with a lifetime of irrepressible desire - allowing no dissent to spill from her lips.

His hands found her chest, smaller than what he usually preferred, but her breast fit into the palm of his hand with ease, and he squeezed as she wiggled beneath him, the friction against his lower half maddening. He couldn’t recall a time he had desired another as intensely as he desired Elodie at that very moment. He parted from her with a gasp, eyes wide and pupils blown as they just stared at each other. She was utterly beautiful in the dim lightening of the room, lips swollen and cheeks reddened, and Enver’s heart constricted with a feeling entirely foreign.

“Please,” she whispered again. “Enver, I am begging you, please don’t do this.”

“Just submit, Elodie,” he chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from her face with a touch that was almost gentle, almost reverent. “This will be much more pleasant for you if you just let go."

He watched as she bit her lip, a million emotions reflected in her eyes – defiance, terror, fear and a certain curiosity over what he had promised. Enver tilted his head slightly, his predatory smile softening just enough to feign reassurance. Her silence was deafening, and the war waging within her was written plainly across her face. He saw it, felt it, relished it.

“Just submit, Elodie,” he whispered into her ear. “Submit, and you’ll gain something beyond your wildest fantasies.”

“I -” she stuttered, whatever words she was about to say dying on her lips.

“You’re wondering, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice low and coaxing as he traced the curve of her jaw with his thumb. “What it would feel like to simply surrender to me, Elodie."

“I’m wondering,” she began, her voice trembling, “how someone can be so utterly cruel and convince themselves it’s mercy.”

Her words struck harder than he anticipated, something within him twisting cruelly though he pushed it down, not allowing his mask of calm to falter. Instead, he chuckled, the sound dark and rich. “Cruelty is a matter of perspective, my Darling. I have no qualms about being cruel. I have taken what I wanted before. You, however, will enjoy yourself a lot more if you surrender to me."

The remains of her resistance crumbled in front of his eyes, her face twisting into a pained grimace as a solemn tear escaped her eye and her bottom lip quivered. "Just," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Just please don't hurt me."

Enver grinned, embracing her in a heated kiss before he parted from her. "Good girl."

He kissed her again fervently as he could feel the anticipation rise within him as he imagined her coming apart beneath him, gasping and begging until every measure of defiance had crumbled beneath him and nothing but adoration was left. His hands wandered along her curves, the delicate gown nothing but a vexatious stratum between her body and his. The fabric felt soft beneath his fingers, but he yearned to feel more - to finally caress her naked skin against his. Pulling away, he briefly admired her swollen lips and glossy eyes, shimmering beautifully in the dim lighting of their chambers, before he began nipping at her neck, delighting in the shivers and soft gasps that betrayed her.

His stubble scratched against her delicate skin, sure to leave a burn in its wake, as he greedily sucked against her skin, drinking in her sweet aroma of bergamot, freesia and mandarin, the very same perfume she had worn when he had first swept her across the ballroom floor many years ago - intoxicating and addicting. Enver pressed his lower body against her, each subtle shift in friction a tantalising reminder of how much separated them still. His hands wandered along the delicate fabric of her dress, bunching it between his fingers before irritation took hold at the sheer amount of cloth between them. The layers of cloth between them felt like an affront to his desires, a barrier keeping him from claiming his little wife. Enver's fingers bunched the material roughly, pulling it upward as irritation flared within him, fueled by the nonsense of her garments and his own humanity.

He panted as he stood above her, rising to his full height above her and lecherously leering downwards as he watched her chest rise and fall rhythmically. Elodie's hands were white as she gripped the silken sheets beneath her as if they were the single lifeline tethering her to the earth, eyes wide in terror and uncertainty.

"Get up," Enver rasped demandingly, freeing himself of the ceremonial cloak that still hung heavy over his shoulders, allowing it to spill onto the floor, settling right next to hers.

He watched as she raised herself, shivering and stumbling, standing before him. Enver stepped closer, caging her between the bed and himself. "Turn around," he demanded, guiding her to face the bed as he briefly placed his hands on her waist, grounding himself with a deep breath, lest he simply bend her over the bed, flip over her skirts and fuck her like a whore. He would do so, eventually, but at least for tonight, he wanted to watch her face as he broke her – eradicated her chastity, claimed her for all eternity and burned the vision of her ecstasy into his mind.

Enver began pulling at the laces of the corset of her dress, loosening the bodice that clung to his wife like a second skin. They gave way slowly, one by one, the dress loosening on her body, shoulders taut beneath the weight of his touch. He could glean her shakingly, crossing her arms in front of her, pulling the dress close as more of her porcelain skin shimmered in the dim light, a faint sheen of sweat glistening along the delicate curve of her back. He allowed his hands to brush against her bare skin, revelling in the warmth of her flesh against him. As the last of her laces came loose, his hands briefly rested against her waist, placing a ravenous kiss on her should before he turned her around again, hungrily staring into Elodie's eyes.

Her eyes, wide and brimming with unshed tears, glared up at him, a silent challenge, and he only chuckled in response, taking her hands from her chest, allowing the dress to fall down and pool at their feet. A sharp but shuddering intake of breath escaped her as his eyes raked over her bare chest and the pale, unblemished skin, and Enver had to fight the moan that threatened to escape him. What a glorious specimen, he thought. Entirely his to guide and shape into something wholly his own, refining her into something that could cater to the depths of his deepest desires as her husband – carving an indelible mark upon her life.

She wasn't a voluptuous woman by any means, her breasts much smaller than what he preferred, likely fitting in the palms of his hands in their entirety. Her corsage had truly done wonders for her, he quietly realised, for she had appeared quite a bit larger than she actually was. The delicate curve of her waist tapered down to her hips, but Enver pulled his gaze upwards again as he felt her tremble beneath his hands.

"You're trembling," he murmured quietly, gripping her hands tightly.

Elodie closed her eyes, only shaking her head in response.

"No matter then," he whispered, his hands letting go of her wrists before he stepped closer, fingers sliding down her sides as he claimed the territory of her body with ravenous finality. "You are mine."

He claimed her lips once more, claiming her with the intensity of a man determined to leave no part of her untouched by his presence, pushing her backwards as they fell onto their bed again. His leg pressed between hers, pushing them apart as he greedily let his hands move downwards, brushing along her sides and stopping just below her ribs. The softness of her flesh, the rapid beat of her heart beneath his palms – like a siren calling to him in an intoxicating symphony of vulnerability and challenge.

Elodie gasped into the kiss when Enver's hands reached her breasts, firmly encircling them between his hands as his fingers slowly swirled around her hardened peaks, the metal of his gauntlet on his hand cool against her heated skin. His lips moved to the corner of her mouth and down her neck, possessively marking and claiming her as he etched himself into her skin for the world to see. His straining cock pressed into her hip, the delicious friction driving him near insanity.

He could feel her shift beneath his hands – every shiver, every tense and yielding breath – her clumsy movements pressing against him as she stiffened beneath his body. He pushed himself against her with a persistent vigour, letting her feel the full extent of his desire, his arousal a solid and undeniable presence between them. She stiffened further, and he smirked against her skin, his teeth grazing the edge of her jaw.

"E-Enver," she breathed out quietly. "I –"

He nipped against her neck, a warning gesture, as he felt her tensing beneath him. "Shhh," he hushed her. "Just allow yourself to feel, my dear wife."

His hands travelled down, unhurriedly tracing patterns against her body, coming nearer and nearer to the very quick of her. Her breath hitched in uncertainty, a shiver running through her as she looked at him wide-eyed. Her saccharine scent filled his senses, and a twisted delight spread through him as she wholly surrendered to his embrace. It was him, and him alone, who could decide between the descent into everlasting bliss or the deathly thrust of a sword. Mercifully, he chose to let her be consumed by bliss. Enver's hands reached her smallclothes, an embroidered pair of deep crimson, the flowers almost telling a story in itself.

His impatience got the better of him, tearing the fabric away and tossing it aside. Elodie yelped in horror, her legs flailing in a pathetic attempt to close them, but Enver's strong legs impeded her. His eyes didn't stray from hers, his gaze warning her, and she only gulped nervously before her fingers twisted into the sheets. Enver gave her an approving smile, his cock twitching at her blatant show of submission. His hands slid towards her centre, brushing over the delicate plane of her stomach as her breath hitched, and she turned her head sideways, eyes clenching shut as if willing herself to retreat – withdrawing to a place Enver couldn’t reach her. He tutted in annoyance, his fingers now boldly grazing her cunt, sliding up and down with measured pressure.

"Oh," Elodie gasped, eyes opening again, eliciting a chuckle from Enver.

She only whined when his touch became bolder, his middle finger pressing down on her as his thumb searched for her clit. His other hand tightened on her hipbone, the cold metal of his gauntlet digging into her skin with a touch that became less gentle as the seconds passed, his lips slotting over Elodie's with a ferocity he hadn't come to expect himself. The heat of her body permeated through his clothes, his own desire pressing against her hip as he pressed his thumb against her clit, delighting in the soft cries that left her.

She was beginning to surrender – to him, to what he could give her – and it gave him greater pleasure than any man or woman had ever managed to give him. A wicked thrill surged through him as he trailed towards her neck, mercilessly marking her as he relished in her yielding to him. The resistance that had kept her so distant, so unreachable, was crumbling like dry stone underneath his ministrations while her cunt gradually dampened as he masterfully drew circles on her clit. Her body, once rigid, was now responding to him in the way he knew it would, eventually.

"There we go," he breathed into her neck, his thumb pressing down harder, his self-satisfied smirk widening against her neck as she keened beneath him, her body betraying her. "So much fear and resistance. And for what, my dear wife? An escape where there is none."

Elodie breathlessly looked at him, cheeks stained a beautiful pink "F-fuck you."

Enver only chuckled darkly. "I intend to, my sweet Elodie."

He pressed his fingers against her harder before she could protest, savouring her expanding cries of pleasure as the dregs of her resistance crumbled under his ministrations, watching as she fell, trembling, to a precipe as dangerous as it was beautiful. Almost carefully, he slipped a finger inside her waiting heat, dismissing her low hiss before adding a second, working her open as she tumbled towards ecstasy. Enver sucked along her clavicle, briefly and greedily immortalising himself on her skin as his fingers moved – in, out – feeling her body betray her. Wetness seeped out of her, dripping down the knuckles of his fingers, dirtying her thighs and the sheets below. The sounds he drew from her were utterly obscene and undignified – an addicting symphony of submission and ecstasy. Each movement of his finger peeled away her dignity like layers of an onion as he took wicked pleasure in claiming her.

Spluttering cries echoed off the walls of their chamber, the room positively ablaze as she arched up into him, overwhelmed by the edge of delirium coming closer to her. Enver watched as the all-encompassing inferno of ecstasy gripped her from within as it slowly spread to each and every part of her body, consuming her entirely as he carried her through her orgasm with lackadaisical movements, feeling her clench around his fingers erratically. Her moans were the sweetest melody, filling the space between them with their tantalising allure. He watched intently as she fell apart beneath him, pliant and submissive and a slave to herself as all she was permitted to was feel.

Enver impatiently removed himself from her, his slacks entirely astringent now, his gaze sweeping over her twitching and trembling body as he hurriedly undressed himself, her own gaze still unseeing as she lay limp upon the silk sheets. A work of art, a life-giving machine. The rise and fall of her chest only made Enver more aware of the beautiful shape of her breasts, and he groaned in a rejoicing kind of delight when his naked skin lay upon hers. His hands found her sides again, feeling her curves, her skin, like a map, a diagram of futility and he was the shining beacon offering her meaning. The cold metal of his gauntlet seemed to draw her from her stupor, her eyes regaining clarity as she stared at him in horror – squirming as she felt his skin upon hers, perspiration glueing them together as one.

"Enver, I -" Elodie whimpered.

He quickly hushed her, a slight grin on his face. "This might hurt for a moment, but it's over fairly quick."

Whatever words she might have said died on her tongue as Enver lined himself up at her entrance, hard and pulsating with need, easing himself inside. The arm that held him up tensed as he felt his cock enveloped by her tight heat, every inch feeling torturously stimulating. He had done this before, many times, with many women and equally as many men, each encounter a fleeting indulgence that left him sated and yet he couldn't recall feeling obnubilated when he bottomed out entirely. He found a depraved delight in knowing to have claimed her innocence – to have ruined her and mould her into something entirely his own for the rest of their lives. Not quite reverence or love coursing through him – it would never be – but something just as consuming.

Ownership. Dominion. True, unadulterated ecstasy.

Somewhere within the depths of his haze, he could discern Elodie's muted whimpers, the newfangled feeling of him inside her still largely foreign. Her fingernails pressed into his arms, the sole reminder of his corporeality as he groaned lowly, her cunt practically squeezing his cock when he hadn't yet moved. Absentmindedly, his fingers trailed over her trembling form, memorising every shiver, every stuttering breath, every unconscious reaction. He wanted to carve this moment into stone, to etch it into his memory as permanently as the vows they had spoken. Perhaps his sculptor could recreate this moment for him to last for all eternity; perhaps to stand on their graves as a memento of victory – not one won by force or cruelty, but by inevitability. She was his, and there was no turning back.

She was so tight for him, so warm, and so delicate beneath him that it took every atom of his being not to rush himself into climax. His entire world had been reduced to her - Elodie Gortash - his wife, and perhaps for the briefest of moments, he would have hedonistically renounced his god if only to worship at her feet for this feeling to last forever. Enver could feel her chest rising violently against his before he firmly took hold of her hips and angeled himself above, easing himself out before thrusting back inside.

"Fuck," he rasped, listening to Elodie's breathless gasps with each thrust as if they were a siren melody. "Fuck."

Somewhere in between, he heard a breathless "Enver".

"Fuck," he cursed lowly yet again, feeling her cunt tighten around him as he continued to thrust, his movements forceful and erratic, drawing breathless gasps from his beautiful, beautiful bride. Chants of her name – Elodie, Elodie – filled their chambers.

Something inside him gave way, his hands angling her hips differently before he precipitously, violently, thrust his into her, battering away any remaining resistance until she was sapless beneath him. He could feel her cunt tightening around him, the telltale signs of her orgasm approaching. Enver could feel his own following, each inward thrust a measured cadence, further serving to thrust them both into a sea of rising and heaving pleasure, its waves a dark mass in which depths and travelling billows he came closer and closer to plunging into the palpable unknown.

Their room likely stunk of sex and depravity, their shared groans and moans echoing off the walls as skin slapped against skin. Each thrust only served to ground Elodie further into the mattress, her hair a mess around her and Enver would have likened her to a scared piece of art – sweaty, moaning and deeply flushed. She had surrendered to him – body and spirit – and it only served to further his thrusts. Greedily, he placed his lips on hers, swallowing her moans with each thrust of his hips.

With one final, forceful thrust, Enver could feel waves of pleasure crashing through him, her cunt tightening impossibly around his cock, and he spilt himself inside her with a sound that sounded both foreign and feral to his own ears. He buried himself deep, savouring her trembles and low moans and ragged breaths. A deep, primal satisfaction settled in his chest, his release filling her, claiming her as his. Wickedly, he realised that he may have planted his seed inside her, creating a child borne of their sanctified union, and though Enver had never wanted children, the sheer possibility of claiming Elodie that way made his ecstasy all the sweeter.

She was no longer untouched, no longer something separate from him, and she never would be again.

When the aftershocks from their shared ecstasy faded, Enver pulled himself from her, his softening cock coated in their shared fluids and some blood. He stood from the bed, observing Elodie as she lay sapless and utterly spent, her breathing ragged. The scent of sex and sweat lingered heavily in the air as Enver moved himself to a nearby basin to cleanse himself. The cool water against his heated skin did little to temper the satisfaction humming through him, his mind racing.

When he returned to their bed, Elodie had curled in on herself, shivering in the aftermath of their passions. Enver chuckled briefly, pulling a throw over her and settling in next to her on the bed. The soft silk immediately enveloped him, cooling against his heated skin. His arms wrapped around Elodie's lithe body, her skin clinging to his and her scent mingling with something hedonistic. Her back pressed against his front; Enver chuckled as she flinched slightly. His grip was languid, fingers tracing lazy patterns against her bare skin, yet his touch remained possessive even at rest. She was silent, but he could feel the tension still coiled within her.

"Rest now, Elodie," Enver murmured, pressing a possessive kiss against her shoulder blade. "Our Lord is quite pleased with you. You've done well."

Enver did not wait for her to answer before he let sleep consume him.

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