durgesupremacy

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Baldurs Gate 3 is so wild when you realise how vastly different the game is depending on if you choose Tav or Dark Urge

Dark Urge Playthrough: you’re the child of Bhaal, but unlike the Bhaalspawn, you are created solely by Bhaal himself. The first true child of Bhaal. The daughter of one of your father’s previous Bhaalspawn turns on you, attacks you and tries to kill you. In your dying state, she infects you with a parasite so that you’ll die an incredibly humiliating death, and become her slave.

By some miracle you end up on the same nautiloud ship as a Sharron Cleric who happens to to be carrying a gith artefact that contains Baldur himself. Baldur, who was made a mind flayer and is now calling himself the Emperor, realises there’s an incredibly powerful Bhaalspawn on the ship, and that he can use them to his advantage. The power you have will help him destroy Gortash. Of course he picks you, it makes so much sense.

On your way to Baldurs Gate you find out through an unsent letter that you used to be into Gortash. When you get to Baldurs Gate, the man you used to fuck turns out to be an absolute loser and with horror you realise he is still into you. It’s okay though, he’s very easy to kill.

You end up facing off against Orin, your niece, and kill her. Your father appears to you and offers you the chance to become his Slayer. On the high chance you turn him down, he murders you in front of your loved ones, and leaves you to rot.

Then Jergal, the actual Lord of the End of Everything, the original God of Death, who was the very being that turned you father into a God all that time ago, who’s been in your camp for weeks pretending to be this undead scribe called Withers, appears next to your corpse and brings you back to life, basically adopts you, states that he will protect you from Bhaal, and announces that as long as he lives, you will never die. You’re essentially immortal.

Tav Playthrough: you’re a random nobody that was unlucky enough to get kidnapped by Mind Flayers. The Emperor must pick one of the many idiots on the ship to be his pawn. He sees Tav and thinks “ugh, yeah this one will do”.

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don't know how to blog and never will but I got Astarion's mirror scene when he had one (1) HP, and let me tell you. deeply hilarious and compelling character moment. our boy gets beaten within an inch of his life and his first instinct is to go fix his hair. face riddled with bruises and he asks for shallow praise

[durgesupremacy]

Others have said something about this before but for me, my favourite drivers for Gortash being into The Dark Urge are so linked to him thinking he wants one thing, and finding he desires something else.

Gortash wanting to tame the wild beast of Bhaal, and finding instead that he desires to submit to it. That he finds safety in the killer who says they will kill him last.

Gortash wanting to own the pretty bauble, the perfect creature designed for death, and instead liking the feeling of being desired himself.

Wanting to manipulate them, and then finding instead he craves an equal.

Wanting to prove his genius, and finding that the supposed instrument of murder is actually smart and capable themselves.

Wanting to play with the zealot and make them blasphemous, but instead finding a strange beauty in their devotion.

I love when it starts from his usual playbook of manipulation and dominance of the tyrant and then finds something much more dangerous, intimate, and damning for both parties.

[durgesupremacy]

(x)

[durgesupremacy]

#it's them

couldn’t even focus on the rest of the dialogue because this sent me into hysterics

[durgesupremacy]

they dream [fic update]

CONTENT WARNING: fairly graphic violence with a lot of emotions behind it. AKA the episode where Solace relives killing their adoptive parents and it's as traumatic as one would expect

read also on ao3

Solace’s urge flooded their body with maddening hunger. They wanted nothing more than to rest at Gortash’s side, but they knew what must be done. Their urge only burned like this for a certain kind of kill. A reminder. As if they could ever forget. Once Gortash fell asleep, they crept out into the darkness in search of the dwindling nightlife.

It didn’t take long for Solace to find what they were looking for. Their urge practically sang as they found and followed their soon-to-be victims. The couple was a man and a woman this time, a human and an elf as always. The man put his arm around the woman’s shoulder. Even in the darkness, Solace could make out his smile.

They were taking a secluded path, away from the taverns and deeper into the quiet darkness of the city. They’d made Solace’s work too easy. Their urge seemed to sing as Solace stalked them, and as the couple’s scent wafted towards them on the breeze, memories surged into the back of Solace’s mind. They were practiced at ignoring them, but they felt a pang all the same. Bhaal didn’t want them to forget.

Little one. Solace still remembered the sound of his voice.

Born to no one, Solace was one of many children at the gate who survived through the care of various orphanages and temples. They knew not who they were or where they came from, but hoped as all children did that they might be taken in. And they were. Three times Solace was adopted, and three times returned.

The urges came differently in childhood—curiosity about the body and blood, a willingness to use violence, the occasional killing of animals. Solace learned to hide as best they could. But they were young. Eventually someone, parent or child, would encounter something. Solace would linger one time too many over a dead rat, sneak out to watch a public execution, make a threat so bloody that adult and child alike would fear them. And Solace would return to the streets, and vow again to change, to hide. They had nothing and no one. If only they mastered themselves, made secret the parts of them that frightened others, they could be accepted.

Three times adopted, three times returned. Solace thought no one would ever take them in again. And then they were adopted a fourth time.

An elven man and a human woman. They had trouble conceiving. They were so happy to take Solace in, happier by far than any before. Solace didn’t, couldn’t, think it would last. But it did. The woman worked as a butcher—she taught Solace how to skin a boar, how to cook. The man was a scholar and would bring Solace books on every subject. They were supportive, and kind. They liked having a child. Solace relaxed. They loved Solace. And Solace loved them.

And then came the urges.

First it was vivid, horrible nightmares. Solace’s adoptive parents would wake to screams in the night and rush to comfort their child. During the day, Solace would feel strange, overwhelming pangs of hunger. Certain places and certain people made it worse. They were crippled with increasing nausea, headaches. The dreams became longer and more frequent as time went on. Solace’s adoptive mother labored over homemade meals and herbal remedies. Solace’s adoptive father poured over every medical text.

But the worst part wasn’t the illness, or the dreams, but the waking. Solace had never felt so good in their entire life as they did upon waking from dreams of murder. In the liminal moment between sleep and consciousness they felt the blood on their hands, the flesh in their teeth, and they felt euphoria. And then reality would come to them, and they felt shame.

They resisted as long as they could. Try as they might, their adoptive parents found no diagnosis and no cure.

The night before it happened, Solace’s adoptive father was putting them to bed. They were a little too old for such things, but it had been a trying day. Solace confessed their fears. What if something’s wrong with me? What if I’m like this forever? Smiling, Solace’s adoptive father smoothed their hair and eased their mind. Life is long and full of surprises. Do not be discouraged, little one. We will find a way. Full from a mother’s meal and a father’s comfort, Solace fell asleep unburdened.

They’d never dreamt of killing their parents before.

Solace was small, and young, but with their wood-elven blood they could move as silently as any predator. In the dream they tied up and gagged their still-sleeping parents first. Their body moved as though puppeted by an unseen force. Solace was terrified, but in their dreaming they’d started to feel more aware, more conscious. They knew they would wake eventually. So they endured.

They watched their body as they skinned and butchered their adoptive mother, just as they’d been taught. Making cuts in a human body was different, but no harder than preparing a boar. The skinning was easier. Their mother had taught them so well, had given them so much. Solace tried to stay calm as their adoptive father was roused from his trance by her muffled screams. He thrashed and fought, but he was bound tightly. He could only watch. Solace left their mother dismembered and flayed and moved on, hands shaking.

How should he die? Solace saw how their elven father struggled in vain and knew they could take their time. They did not want to rush. Even now, seeing his wife slaughtered with her own cleaver, he looked at Solace with sincere and pleading eyes. He’d lived long and seen much. He wanted to live longer and see more, and he wanted to do so with Solace by his side, his only child, alive and well despite their afflictions.

But he couldn’t. The hope died in his eyes when Solace drew the first cut and plunged their small hand deep into his belly, pulling out a fistful of his guts. His gaze grew hard. Solace watched as their body continued to take their elven father’s viscera in their hands, loving it as they loved him, he who nurtured their mind and spirit. He died feeling hate and regret.

Solace waited to wake. The dreams usually ended by then. But they re-entered their body with a lurch. They were not in their bed.

They wept, then, for the first and last time. Adrenaline and euphoria coursed through Solace’s body, in equal measure to shame and despair. The only people who had ever loved them were dead at their hands. And they knew, somehow, that love was what killed them. Even in that moment, Solace couldn’t help looking at the bodies with a kind of adoration. Whatever hungered in Solace’s heart, their love only deepened it.

Do not cry, young master.

A voice in the darkness, familiar somehow. Solace was frozen, wet to their knees in the gore of their father, but by instinct they looked up. Before them stood a strange, goblin-like creature who was slowly approaching them with a gentle hesitation. It bowed with the air of a servant.

This was simply magnificent for your first time, young master. There’s no need for tears. I promise, you will soon accomplish even greater feats.

Solace didn’t understand. Couldn’t. Who are you?

I am your butler, Sceleritas Fel. I have been waiting to meet you for so long, young master. And your time has finally come. Your blood has awakened. You are destined for great things. You will make your father proud.

Solace looked down again at the bodies, at their elven father’s vacant eyes.

Not him, the fool. As if someone like that could sire one as noble as you. No, you are special. Beloved by your real father. He has been waiting for you. Sceleritas took Solace by the hand, then. Let us leave this place, young master. You are wanted.

He led Solace out of the house, down through the Lower City, into the sewers. He told them who they were. And though it would be some time before they heard their true father’s voice, at last they understood.

With the glorious context of their divine heritage and the tutelage of Sceleritas Fel, Solace flourished, but they never forgot the lessons of their youth. Their true nature could not be resisted. They wanted to be loved, accepted. Only Bhaal can do that. They wanted to love others. Only through violence can their love be expressed.

Why seek acceptance, if it only brings love? Why love, if it only hastens death?

The young couple Solace was stalking turned a corner and embraced, suddenly; a joyful and intimate moment alone. Or so they thought. Solace was on them before they could blink.

They thrust their daggers into the embrace, slicing two throats and two hearts as one. It was too fast for the couple to cry out. Blood spurted out from both necks as they crumpled to the ground together, eyes wide with shock. Solace watched them bleed out. The elven woman died feeling longing and grief. The human man wasted a precious moment glancing at Solace, wanting to know the face of his killer, before giving the last of his attention to the one who deserved it. He died in mourning. Solace felt a rush of bliss and closed their eyes to let the pleasure wash over them. They didn’t have to look at the couple any longer. This kill only—the murder of an elf-human mating pair—blessed them with the deepest form of euphoria allotted to Bhaal’s followers.

Love means nothing. All attachments crumble in the face of death. As a Child of Bhaal, Solace could belong only to their father, could find purpose and acceptance only through slaughter. Their urge remembered, reenacted, and worshiped this truth. A generous gift prompted by their Lord Father. Solace left the bodies where they fell, entwined together.

They made their way back to Gortash’s office. They hadn’t been gone very long. Solace found Gortash asleep with a light snore, still on the couch, head slumped at a preposterous angle. With delicate fingers, they gently adjusted his head so that it rested comfortably. How they wished to kill him, then.

But not yet. Solace took their place on the floor and went into their trance, carefully reclining their head against Gortash’s leg.

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they touch. [fic update part 6]

A scream pierced the air, shocking Gortash awake.

It was the night before meeting with Helsik and Solace came to sleep in his office again. He'd felt oddly as though he’d attracted a stray cat. They never asked his permission to stay and there was no apparent pattern to when they’d do so. But if nothing else, it was added security.

Until now. It was their voice—who in all the realms had the power to catch them off-guard, in their trance? Gortash grabbed his crossbow and burst through the door.

No one. Solace was alone and writhing on the floor, bedding strewn around them. Their forehead glistened with sweat. A nightmare? Having heard about the nightmares they inflicted on others, Gortash had no idea what Solace could possibly fear. But there they were, thrashing about before him like a child. Gortash knelt and shook them awake.

“No!” Solace’s voice rang out as Gortash dodged their elbow. They looked about in panic as though disbelieving their surroundings. Gortash grabbed them by the shoulders.

“You’re okay, Solace. You’re in my office. We’re alone.”

“Gortash?” Solace breathed heavily. Their hands shook. “Fuck. What did I do?”

“You screamed bloody murder, pardon the expression.” Gortash watched as Solace scanned the room—not with the vigilance of spotting a potential threat, but with investigative analysis. They searched for evidence of what they’d done. Or didn’t do. Gortash knew he could let them go but found he didn’t want to. Solace would surely be dangerous if they succumbed to panic. He kept his grip on them. “You were dreaming.”

Solace looked at him, eyes wide. The shaking spread to their whole body. Gortash thought he saw something like hunger flash in their expression before they turned away from him, breathing deeply. They relaxed into his hands. A moment of vulnerability. “What did you dream?” Gortash asked. He was used to feigning curiosity when talking with the other elite of Baldur’s Gate, so he was surprised to hear himself speak with earnest concern. Solace seemed surprised too, and wary.

Gortash held his attention and eventually, Solace spoke. “Bhaal sends his children dreams sometimes, to prompt the urge. Bloody compulsions meant to stir my hunger. But the more I kill, the less I dream. It’s part of why I keep myself sated.”

A fine answer. But something was off. Gortash pushed further. “You’re used to seeing such things. Why would these dreams make you cry out in your sleep?”

“I… I shouldn’t say.”

“You can trust me.”

“But you can’t trust me.” Solace’s shoulders sagged as they put their head in their hands, their body trembling still. “I don’t know what I was thinking, staying here.”

“I won’t stand for self-pity.” Gortash spoke with a firm tone to balance his next gamble. He released their shoulders and pushed past their wrists, gently taking Solace’s face in one hand and bringing their attention back to him. They looked anxious, but they didn’t fight his touch. Good.

“No Child of Bhaal has ever mastered themselves as you have. There is no need to keep secrets from me.”

Solace looked pained, but Gortash felt them acquiesce. He watched his companion ponder carefully over their words.

“I dreamt of killing you.” Gortash raised his eyebrow as Solace continued. “It… it shouldn’t have bothered me. I’ve thought about it before. It’s only natural.”

“Natural?”

“I consider killing everyone I meet. But you… it’s not time.” Solace looked distraught. “Our alliance is working. It’s good for the temple, for Lord Father. I… I shouldn’t kill you. Not yet. And not like that.”

Gortash let them sit in silence for a moment. Of course he’d considered that Solace might have the impulse to kill him. He expected them to resist it. But he didn’t expect them to think anything of it. There was something almost tender in their voice. “Like what?”

Solace’s shaking started to fade. “I just… I don’t like the idea of you dying in the streets, like some common patriar. You’ve honored Bhaal. If you are to be slaughtered, it should be in a place of glory. In Bhaal’s temple, even. On his altar.” Solace breathed in as though they would continue speaking, but said nothing else.

“At last I could see the temple, then.”

Solace laughed. Had he seen them laugh before? It relaxed them briefly. But they stiffened again as their eyes went to Gortash’s crossbow, forgotten at his side. “I’d understand, you know. If our arrangement needed to change. Or if you need me to leave. I’m dangerous.”

“Nonsense. I’m dangerous, too. It’s what makes us a good team.”

“I just dreamed that I killed you.”

“And yet, you didn’t. What would be the use in sending you away? It’s not as though I can keep you out of my office. You designed the security system.” Gortash felt a strange mixture of appreciation and annoyance. “Offering to leave is a worse offense. We’re accomplishing quite a lot together. There’s no backing out now.”

It was only partly true. Though Solace’s work simplified things and sped up his plans, Gortash could’ve managed without them. But then he would have no company. Solace witnessed and admired his work, and even improved it. Gortash had grown fond of them. He didn’t control them. But the way things were going, he didn’t need to.

For a moment, Gortash felt a strange kind of peace. It was the middle of the night and nothing grand was at stake. He was awake, not with work or plans, but with Solace. Gortash tried to ignore how uncomfortable the simplicity made him.

“I can stay?” Solace asked. Even now?”

Gortash smiled. “Of course. What would I do without my favorite assassin?”

It was too fast to counter, too fast for choice. Solace threw their arms around him.

Gortash was startled by the sheer novelty of the experience. He’d been this close to Solace for sparring, but those moments lacked the vulnerability they expressed now. Simultaneously, Gortash perceived the warmth of their contact while feeling leagues away from his own body. He returned the embrace and was struck by how small Solace seemed. They collapsed into his chest.

“Thank you,” they said. Solace’s voice was heavy with exhaustion. They broke away, but Gortash’s arms lingered.

“Will you rest?”

“Eventually,” said Solace. “And you?”

“Eventually.” Gortash rose and gathered the scattered bedding as Solace sank deeper into the floor.

Fool, Gortash thought. It was bold of Solace to even consider a change in their arrangement, as if they could simply walk away after all they’d seen, all they’d agreed to. As if Gortash would let them go.

He’d never had a partner before. Gortash had never expected anyone who could rival him to fight at his side. But his strange, slender ally defied all expectations. Solace could kill anyone and they killed for him. They honor only Bhaal but labor for Bane’s cause. Their urge hungers for his death and still he lives.

Perhaps it was the late hour, but it thrilled him. Gortash thought himself well-acquainted with power. Yet the power he felt with Solace was like nothing else. The power of an equal, freely offered, readily given. One who could wage war on his cause would spend the night in his office instead.

Solace remained on the floor but leaned against the side of Gortash’s plush furniture, curled up, head slumping onto the cushions. How mortal they could be despite their divine blood. Their weary black eyes shone in the darkness. Instead of returning to his quarters, Gortash found himself drawing near them again, reclining on the couch.

“Gortash?”

“Solace?”

“Why are you on the couch?”

“It’s comfortable.”

Gortash awoke there in the morning. Solace had shifted in their trance, their face resting against Gortash’s leg. He didn’t wake them.

read on ao3, next chapter coming shortly

[durgesupremacy]

I don't know about y'all but *I* think Durge loves gnolls because they too are a manifestation of slaughter, are driven by hunger, and are meant to dedicate their entire existence to their god-creator

[durgesupremacy]

celebrating Baldur's Sweep by being fully updated on ao3!

All previous writing + incredibly minor edits, AND a new chapter.

In this chapter, among other things:

“I dreamt of killing you.” Gortash raised his eyebrow as Solace continued. “It… it shouldn’t have bothered me. I’ve thought about it before. It’s only natural.”

“Natural?”

“I consider killing everyone I meet. But you… it’s not time.” Solace looked distraught. “Our alliance is working. It’s good for the temple, for Lord Father. I… I shouldn’t kill you. Not yet. And not like that.”

[durgesupremacy]

durge fic writing process thoughts: guilt versus shame

Write whatever you want! Headcanon your best life! And, I noticed a pattern in how I think about durge's character arc, especially because I'm currently writing an evil-to-the-end durge. No one asked for this (though asks are open!) but here it is, some rambling on how my durge(s) feeling guilt vs shame for their urges impacts whether they choose violence / stay evil.

(apparently the brand for this blog is Long Post Only)

I have a *lot* of oc durges. I'm writing Solace (they/them wood elf rogue / fighter) because they're the only one who fully pursues Gortash pre- and post-tadpole and I want to write durgetash rn. But in my weird personal multiverse of durges, the ones who were self-satisfied and confident pre-tadpole are the ones who become more "good" post-tadpole. The durges who were the most troubled pre-tadpole are more likely to do evil things, or at least be morally flexible.

Why? For me, a durge who experienced some kind of self-confidence, fulfillment, and/or pleasure during their time as a Bhaalist murder baby enters tadpole life with a seed of self-acceptance. Though they can't remember why, their amnesiac self has some preexisting inclination to like themselves for who they are and have more trust in their own judgment. They experience their urges for a second first time with enough security in themselves to reject them. They feel guilty, but they don't think this is who they are. (The internal conflict at this point is accepting their villainous past, which will be differently fun to write if I ever do it).

But a durge who moved through their Chosen of Bhaal phase with fear, insecurity, and/or low self-worth enters tadpole life with vestiges of self-loathing. Their broken brain leaned into traumatic rewiring, and when they re-encounter their urges they're predisposed towards self-hate and identify with the urges instead of challenging or rejecting them. Being Bad makes more intuitive sense to them than being, idk, Good with a Serious Problem. Something is wrong with them. They feel shame.

But without their memories, they don't really know why. Depending on party composition they can get praised and rewarded for the things they feel ashamed of. And in time, they realize they don't have to feel shame - after all, it's their reaction. They can react differently. If they stop fighting their "true nature" they can finally enjoy themselves. They'll even get rewarded for it and more or less have what they need to survive. (There's a whole other point of analysis here on companion interactions and community vs isolation, I can write that at some point if we're into it).

Ultimately, my post-tadpole self-loathing villain-arc durge is tempted not just by the urges, but by not feeling bad about themselves. Without their memories of who they were and why they should feel ashamed of that, they have the freedom to indulge in their worst traits. It might look like self-acceptance, but it's not. They just stopped caring about anything and followed the dopamine. And the more they give in to their "true self," the more inevitable it seems to them that their only path towards meaning and worth is through Bhaal. (At least it makes Solace go perfectly with Gortash. Misery doesn't love company so much as it hates being alone).

I guess this feels worth saying because I've seen nuanced discussion about durge's capacity for redemption, but the evil arc for durge seems mostly like them leaning into misc Bhaalist insanity and/or being very comfortable in their evil. I'm curious about (and enjoying) writing an evil durge that's less unhinged and is experiencing more relatable emotional arcs, even when we can't relate to their stabbing. Hopefully.

Stay tuned for more rambling

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Rolled a D20+D10 three times for random choice. Like a weirdo I have a full multiverse of durges, but we're answering for Solace (they/them wood elf rogue / fighter).

20. Is your Dark Urge open about their Urge or do they try to hide it? Why?

It depends, and it changes over time. A big character moment for Solace is hacking off Gale's hand, which Astarion and Shadowheart witness, so Solace can only hide so much. General companion enabling (from Astarion, Minthara, and Lae'zel, and technically Sceleritas) is a big factor in Solace becoming more open about their urges and more explicitly committed to a villainous arc. But their companions aren't ever really ride-or-die for Solace's devotion to Bhaal, so Solace varies in what they share. They're most honest with Minthara and Gortash.

8. How does your Dark Urge feel about the wilderness?

Neutral. Solace was never attached to material comforts and is generally a pragmatic person, willing to deal with whatever they have to in order to achieve their goals. The peace of the wilderness unsettles them occasionally, but it gets disrupted enough by violence.

18. How does your Dark Urge feel about love?

Oof. Solace thought their capacity for love died with their murder of their adoptive family, whom they loved; they learned that love from a Bhaalspawn endangers the recipient, and decided to shut down that part of themselves. This life event also leads them to feel unlovable and unworthy - after all, their family's reward for loving them was death. Solace fell in love with Gortash (and couldn't say the words), but it was a Big Fucking Deal. In Solace's fic, eventually, the Absolute plot is *the* reason why Solace is willing to admit to and commit to their feelings for Gortash. A formal alliance between their gods ensures his safety. Post-tadpole, Solace still feels unworthy of love but lacks the context to repress feeling love for someone else. Of course, Gortash's love is the only love they can accept.

30 Questions for your Dark Urge

These questions can be used as an Ask Game or just answering them all for fun character development!

(Tav edition here)

What circumstances led to your Dark Urge becoming their Class/Subclass?

Did your Dark Urge have any romantic and/or sexual relationships prior to their illithid adventure? If yes, who was it with and what was it like? If no, how did they feel about being single?

What would your Dark Urge consider to be their greatest skill? Is this accurate?

What would your Dark Urge consider to be their greatest flaw? Is this accurate?

What opinion does your Dark Urge have about the Gods?

How does your Dark Urge react to waking up with memory loss?

Did your Dark Urge recall any childhood memories? If yes, how do they feel about the revelations? If no, was it by choice or lack of options?

How does your Dark Urge feel about the wilderness?

How does your Dark Urge feel about the city?

What motivates your Dark Urge to either embrace or resist the tadpole?

What motivates your Dark Urge to either embrace or resist the Urge?

How does your Dark Urge feel about being a bhaalspawn?

How does your Dark Urge feel about killing?

How good of a liar is your Dark Urge? How do they feel about lying?

What is your Dark Urge’s greatest fear?

What is your Dark Urge’s greatest desire?

What is your Dark Urge’s greatest regret?

How does your Dark Urge feel about love?

Has your Dark Urge become particularly close to anyone romantically and/or platonically in their journey? If so, who, and what is the relationship like? If no, why not?

Is your Dark Urge open about their Urge or do they try to hide it? Why?

What are 2-3 songs that your Dark Urge would relate to?

What first impression does your Dark Urge give off to strangers?

How does your Dark Urge feel about what others think of them?

Does your Dark Urge have a treasured item with them? If yes, what is it and why is it special? If no, how do they feel about item sentimentality in general?

How does your Dark Urge feel about Sceleritas Fel?

How does your Dark Urge feel about Bhaal?

How does your Dark Urge feel about giving and receiving orders?

How well does your Dark Urge function under pressure?

What advice would you give to your Dark Urge?

What are your Dark Urge’s intentions/goals after the end of the game?

[durgesupremacy]

[fic update] they Rest

Enver Gortash x Durge (Solace), part 5.

*

Solace wanted to tell him everythng then and there, all their favorite kills, their best work, their bloodiest deeds. The bright-eyed detective who delved too deep into the sewers. The captain all those years ago who they hung from the mast of his ship, face twisted and frozen into a perfect scream. The tiefling child.

They didn’t. They felt the rushed intensity of the feeling and though they weren’t quite sure what it was or how it worked, they recognized it as impulse, and Solace knew to be wary of their impulses. Still, they felt the want. The only ones who’d known about Solace’s deeds outside of the temple had been at the other end of their blades. Even the assassins regarded what little they heard of Solace’s kills with fearful respect. Nothing like admiration. The butler admired them, sure, but Sceleritas was a sick and twisted thing who shared Solace’s gruesome disposition. Gortash had no reason to appreciate the murder and yet he did. If Solace wasn’t so disciplined, they could’ve drowned themselves in the feeling.

Instead they ate, content to rest in Gortash’s office, or perhaps to wander back to the temple at daybreak. Their elven body needed little rest. But the night carried on and they watched Gortash continue to pour through his work, eyes bleary, head heavy.

“You need to sleep.” Solace broke the silence.

“I told you not to interrupt me.”

“You’re falling over in your seat. You’ve been muttering the same few phrases for the past ten minutes.”

“Leave, then, if it bothers you.” Gortash spared a moment to glare at them, but his annoyance was weak through his fatigue.

Something occurred to Solace. “This is why you get stuck during the day. You’re not rested enough to focus. Are you always pushing yourself like this?”

“This is nothing.” Gortash stood then, annoyance giving way to anger. “I am perfectly well and I will sleep when I am tired. Leave me in peace.”

Solace bristled. Stubborn, arrogant man. He was tired already. “Fine.” They stood and looked towards the door, considering their options. They’d thought their partner reliable, and he had been. But now they knew. He could be better, if he only looked after his stupid mortal needs.

Instead of walking out, Solace walked over to Gortash and drove their boot into his chest. He crashed to the floor along with his chair.

Gortash pushed himself up, fuming. “What”—

“If you’ll sleep when you’re tired, then you’ll spar until you’re tired.” Solace went in with their elbow and Gortash deflected them, but it was sloppy. “Assuming you’re doing as well as you say, you’ll put up a good fight.”

“How dare”—

Solace drove the heel of their palm into his throat and Gortash choked mid-sentence. “If you can hold me off for seven minutes, I’ll leave you to your neurosis. But if you go on like this, you’re sleeping even if I have to knock you out. I need you at your best. Do we have a deal?”

“Fuck you.”

“That wasn’t a ‘no.’” Solace’s next strike went low into Gortash’s ribs.

Seven minutes. He didn’t make it to five. Gortash was weary hours ago, but Solace was freshly fed and strengthened by the rush of their hunt. They could’ve gone all night. Solace moved fast and pressed their every advantage. Gortash seethed with silent fury but his blows were imprecise. His anger burned through what was left of his energy and he soon hit the ground again, Solace restraining him with ease.

“Sleep. You’ve lost.”

“I haven’t lost yet.”

“Yes, you have.” Solace loosened their hold and let Gortash struggle for a moment before pushing him down again, bracing his chin with their forearm and forcing him to meet their eyes. “Six hours ago, you might’ve won. But you can’t perform in these conditions. Ignore the needs of your body and someday you’ll doom us both.”

Though Gortash’s gaze remained stubborn and firm, he could no longer avoid Solace’s point and he knew it. He slackened under their frame and Solace eased up, pulling him to his unsteady feet.

“I haven’t locked up the room,” he said.

“I’ll take care of it.” Gortash had extra security measures go up when he slept, but Solace remembered. They’d helped him redesign them, after all. “Rest.”

Scowling, Gortash stalked off to his quarters while Solace started attending to the security wards. They half expected him to find some way to busy himself still, but soon enough they heard his breath shift to the steady pace of sleep. Working their way around the room, Solace briefly wondered about Gortash’s paranoid caution. He had the best defenses money could buy. He was strong. He slept alone. But remembering the deep sleep of humans, Solace could appreciate their ally’s fears. Solace had private quarters at the temple, but there was no such thing as security in a hive of assassins; if they slept as humans did, they’d likely have been killed long ago.

Solace’s mind drifted into fantasy. How pleasant it would be, to slaughter would-be assassins of Gortash in his own office.

Once they finished setting up the wards, Solace curled up on the couch. An extra security measure in return for his trouble. They went into their trance.

***

Gortash awoke. He was comfortable, sprawled on the finest sheets, the least-utilized piece of his luxuries. He was better rested than he’d been in months.

Gods, what was the time? Gortash cursed and slowly rose, mustering the will to move with urgency. His office had an alarm clock of sorts, designed to go off when the sun rose. But despite his windowless sleeping quarters, Gortash felt that the sun must have been up for several hours at least. Damned Bhaalspawn. They must’ve switched it off, in their commitment to sabotaging his daily routine.

Gortash threw on his coat and opened the door, only to find Solace at his desk. He wasn’t quite awake enough to be eloquent with his words.

“The hells?”

“Ah, you’re awake.” Solace put down some papers and looked up at him. “Good. I’m running out of the business of yours that I know how to do.”

“What in Bane’s name”— Gortash snatched up the papers on top of the desk, only to find evidence of his morning duties almost fully complete. Finalizing of supply orders and inventory, condensing of intelligence reports for future appointments, identifying the day’s most urgent tasks, suggesting amendments to his schedule—all in Solace’s handwriting, but it could’ve been Gortash’s mind. He started at them, dumbfounded.

“Why are you so surprised? I’ve seen you do this time and time again. You talked it through with me at least once.” Solace took the papers back and stacked them neatly. “Though now I know you only needed my help because you were mad from lack of sleep. Don’t waste energy torturing yourself. You have more important things to do.”

Gortash ought to end the alliance then and there. Or punish them, at the very least. They had no right to challenge him as they did, much less to take on his work themselves. But his heart wasn’t in it. Though Gortash had lost hours of his day, his mind was clear, his thoughts calm.

Solace crossed a line. But they’d helped him. And seeing Solace’s disheveled hair and the dried blood on their hands, Gortash knew they’d taken their trance here. They’d armed and disarmed the security and done work that wasn’t theirs to do, at the cost of spending the night on his couch. He swallowed his pride and allowed it to be eclipsed by appreciation. They could’ve left him exposed. If they really wanted, they could’ve killed him in his sleep. Instead they took up his duties.

“You did well,” he said. Solace gave a slight smile and shook their head, standing up.

“I should go back to the temple. I have work of my own.” They went for the door. “I expect you to try and get better sleep, going forward. Just don’t get soft.”

Despite himself, Gortash chuckled. “Don’t get lost.” He found himself wanting to say something else, to keep them there. But he couldn’t think of the words.

Solace left. The severed arm was still on the table, vile and elegant in the light of the late morning sun.

*

Guess I should start linking to the rest: part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

[durgesupremacy]

they Work

Solace didn’t have much need to mark the days, so they weren’t sure how long it had been since they’d agreed to keep the alliance with Gortash. More than a few tenday’s worth of kills, surely. Maybe months.

They didn’t really know what it would be like. Solace had made business deals on occasion, but those temporary agreements did not resemble partnership. Gortash made it easy for them. He had a list—people who needed to be killed, how urgently, and where to find them. Many of them pertained to Gortash’s plans, but he listed threats to Solace as well. Mostly investigators and reporters who were getting too close to uncovering traces of Bhaal worship. Low grade threats, but it saved Solace some investigative work of their own. Most importantly, however, Gortash gave no commands. Solace killed as they pleased from Gortash’s menu.

In return, Gortash offered resources. The Bhaal temple was stocked well enough, but always with stolen things, or tribute. But Gortash moved half the wealth of the Sword Coast. After he’d offered the murder list to Solace, he led them to a room they hadn’t been to and opened the door.

“This treasury is always open to you. Take what you like,” he said, and left to continue his work while Solace stared at a vast dragon’s hoard of armaments and supplies. Beautiful things, many of them looking brand-new, polished and shining despite their evident disuse. Solace had paid no mind to their attire before but suddenly considered their clothing, worn and faded, next to Gortash’s pristine gauntlets and coat.

They refused to act from greed. Solace took little—fresh daggers and new leather armor, dark to hide the bloodstains. They equipped them then and there and left their old things on the floor. As Solace left the office, they felt Gortash’s gaze.

The two of them carried on like that for a while, Solace killing from the list and Gortash reminding them to peruse his private treasury. Occasionally Gortash directed them to some ceremonial artifact he’d happened to acquire, always an old Bhaalist ritual object. Orin would sneer at Solace when they return bearing Gortash’s latest finds. “Foul Baneite,” Orin would say, before turning to examine the goods when she thought Solace wouldn’t notice.

Tendays into months. Sometimes Solace thought it was too good to be true. A steady stream of kills and rewards, the encroaching power of both their cults. The companionship. At the temple Solace was bored and underwhelmed by company and wanted only to be alone. But Gortash offered a strange change of pace. Avoiding the city proper, Solace took to passing time in Gortash’s office as they waited for nightfall, and he would idly consult them about his plans. Solace appreciated the puzzle of a different game, different goals. He nurtured their cunning. One time he challenged them to get past all his security, and when they did so with ease, he seemed such a bitter loser that Solace helped him redesign it. Solace wondered if and how Gortash explained their partnership to his guards, or if it was a mystery unquestioned, this bloodstained shadow who came and went as they pleased.

But always, they went. Night would fall and Solace would leave for the hunt. Sometimes they wanted to bring Gortash a spoil from their kill, to reward him in their own way, but always they thought better of it. Only Bhaal and his followers could appreciate that part of them.

And yet.

Another night, another kill, but tonight’s was especially pleasing. Solace’s hands dripped with gore. Their mind was clear, their urge sated. An accomplishment. The human woman had begged, had lived so long despite her wounds, had faded to an incoherent haze as Solace tore into her still. Sceleritas said it was their best this month. Solace took the victim’s right arm and walked with the lazy confidence of a well-fed predator, and without thinking about it, they’d carefully crept back not to the temple, but to Gortash’s office.

The guards were too afraid of Solace by default to pay them any mind, but they clearly made an effort not to stare at all the blood. And the arm. Gods, Solace thought. Why had they walked here? They must have been too distracted, from the pleasure of the kill. A lapse in control. Unbecoming.

But they were here now. It was late. Solace knew they should return to the temple, but it suddenly seemed arbitrary, where they slept. Gortash had furniture in his office. And bourbon. The temple wasn’t going anywhere, and it was boring, and it was late. Solace had already come all this way.

They opened the door.

***

Gortash sat bolt upright and threw a dagger with a start when he heard the door open. Solace caught it with a flourish and raised an eyebrow at him.

Fuck. Gortash heaved a sigh. He’d hired excellent assassins before, but Solace was the only one who could always catch him by surprise. “Pardon me—I’ve been awake too long.” A half-truth. He was always awake this late, but he’d been wrapped up in his work, overly focused. Slowly coming back to reality, Gortash processed the sight in front of him.

Solace was absolutely covered in blood. Red chunks of what could only be flesh clung to parts of their armor. They held a severed arm, rings still glinting on the fingers.

Remarkable. Gortash had seen them fight, but he hadn’t seen them worship. Though clearly surprised by the moment, Solace looked different to him—relaxed yet energized, and present. Their guard was down. “Everything all right? Or did you just get lost on your way back to your mysterious residence?”

Solace’s eyes briefly darted downward, as though just remembering the state of them. “I’m fine,” they said. “The blood isn’t mine. But I’m hungry. Your food is better than what’s at the temple.”

Gortash chuckled. “And the arm?”

“It was a good kill.” Solace looked over the room before setting it down on a bare table. There was a strange, wet sound as the flesh hit the wood. “I didn’t think about this mess it would cause you, though.”

“No, it’s charming.” The table was from one of the finest craftsmen in Baldur’s Gate. Against his better judgment, Gortash was deeply amused to see it get stained by a patriar’s severed arm. “Leave it, if you like. Stay as long as you want. Just don’t interrupt me.” Gortash returned to his work. Solace was still for a moment; they seemed surprised, though about what, he couldn’t tell. But eventually, they took a meal from his pantry and reclined on the couch across from him.

Gortash had gotten accustomed to working with Solace in the background, but the late hour made it new again. His ally intrigued him. They’d made some of his plans go unrealistically smoothly, the way they simply removed his opponents from the playing field. And their mind stood up against his. Solace spent enough time in his office to learn the tells of when he’d get stuck on a problem, or frustrated, and every time he consulted them they’d found the solution. It was aggravating.

“Tell me about the kill,” he said.

Solace looked up from their food. “Really?”

“Of course. I tell you about work all the time.”

“That’s not the same,” Solace snapped. Then they frowned. “Or… maybe it is. It’s how you worship your god.” Solace put a bloody finger in their mouth, working it as though there was a stray piece of something under the nail. They shivered.

“This patriar, it’s amazing that she was giving you any trouble. She was nothing. Like most nobility in this place she was a fragile, pristine thing meant for display. I suppose she did well at society functions. But she was drinking alone when I found her. Her husband was gone—at Sharess’s Caress, no doubt, bedding someone more interesting.” Solace ran their nails down their forearm, the dried blood flaking off onto Gortash’s couch. “Pity. She was finally perfect, in death. She endured so long. I restrained her, of course, such that she wouldn’t bleed out so quickly. I broke open her ribs…” Solace shivered again. Gortash thought he saw their pupils dialate.

“Often, I open the gut and remove the organs while the victim lives. The anguish pleases Lord Father. And, oh. Her frail body was resilient somehow. She lived to see so many of her insides spilled. She begged and pleaded and screamed. She lost her voice. I dug so deep, again and again, and still I watched her eyelids twitch with the barest hint of life.” Solace muttered something under their breath. Their hands seemed to shake, but they stilled as they turned their attention back to Gortash. “I’m not accustomed to speaking of this to outsiders.”

“I can imagine why.” Gortash put his work aside. “Few could appreciate it.”

Solace looked away quickly. “Appreciate it?”

“Of course,” said Gortash. He meant it, but he was pleased to see an unexpected consequence of this line of thinking. “There could be no finer assassin. You are the murder god’s blood himself. Recount to me your labors whenever you like.”

Solace’s gaze was leagues away before they warily met his eyes and nodded.

[durgesupremacy]

they Talk

“What are you doing on the floor?” Gortash’s footsteps reverberated through the room. “Come eat.”

He watched Solace open their eyes with a start, like he’d awoken them from a good dream. “Eat?”

“Surely even unholy assassins must eat. We have a big night ahead of us. We should rest.” He approached and offered them a hand up. Solace took it, though he thought he could detect a hint of disappointment in their eyes as they glanced at his healed arm.

Gortash liked to be able to go fluidly between his many properties in the city without want for comfort. Even here at the foundry, he had a full suite with bedding and provisions. He pondered the liquor cabinet for a moment before choosing a bourbon, pouring two glasses at the table laden with food.

“Now, tell me. How did you learn such remarkable self-restraint?” Gortash sat and ate, indicating to Solace that they should do the same. They assessed the table with an odd wariness and eventually decided it posed them no threat. They sat.

***

Solace told him of temple life, of the blood-driven urges that awakened in Bhaal’s children and, if they were lucky, in his most devoted followers. They wondered briefly if they shouldn’t have answered, but the more they watched Gortash take them in, unfazed and intrigued, the less they cared. How pleasant it was to have someone besides their butler witness the nature of their darkness. No one else had ever asked them, so they’d never talked about it. About themselves. Gortash listened well and asked more questions.

“You’re impressive, obviously. I do not doubt your urge to kill. That’s where my curiosity lies,” Gortash said. “When you want it so badly, how do you stop?”

Solace was looking at the table. It was simple food, bread and cheese and fruit and meat, but the bite of bread they’d dared to take was delicious. They were mindful of their appetite in the temple; murder and worship were so sating, it was unbecoming to feast in other ways. But no one was watching here. No one would care if Solace ate their fill, honored the other needs of their mortal form. They relaxed a little, and ate. Gortash saw, but they couldn’t tell if he noticed.

“I do not stop. I wait.” They tried the meat next, and it was so flavorful Solace struggled not to sigh in pleasure. “But I can only wait so long. The urge sees to that. So I must be disciplined, too. Or else my next kill will be beyond my control.”

Gortash smiled, shaking his head. Had Solace seen him smile before? “Your mastery of self is impeccable. It honors my god.”

Solace cocked their head. “I honor only Bhaal.”

“Of course. Yet I too must commit murder on occasion, pleasing a god with no intention of doing so.” Gortash sipped his bourbon. “And our work has the potential to honor both Bhaal and Bane. Together.”

It might, Solace thought, but it will not matter. Bhaal cared only for death. No matter what they achieved, someone would have to kill him one day, this confident man. It might have to be Solace, now that they fought him, knew him. They wondered if he would have a preference.

They drank the bourbon. It was harsh in their mouth, in a way they liked; they didn’t appreciate the subtlety of weaker drinks. This Gortash seemed to notice, and it was strange to Solace, his moment of satisfaction at having chosen something suitable to their taste.

“Gortash.”

“Solace.”

They didn’t know what to say. Solace’s thoughts flowed with all that had gotten them to this point. A strange correspondence, the Chosen of Bane soliciting an alliance with the Chosen of Bhaal. Solace’s reconnaissance, observing this ambitious, dark-haired human as he charmed the coast and tightened his grip on the city. The prediction that he would try to charm them, too, and the knowledge that they could not be charmed because they were apart from all others he’d met. But Gortash was not charming them. He was being forthright. He admired Solace, appreciated them. They thought of his blood on their mouth, his body under theirs.

“I like the bourbon.”

***

Orin’s shrieking laughter rang out across the temple when Solace returned, followers hauling the torture racks behind them like some macabre parade.

“yesYesYES! Oh, what treasures, restored to glory in Father’s name.” Orin ran her pale fingers across the wood of the rack, shuddering in the ecstasies of fantasy. Solace ignored her. Their blood-kin tried their patience.

“Did you have fun, my Lord Priestess? So unusual, playing thief,” their sister smirked. “Why did you dirty your hands, again?”

“You know why.” Solace watched an acolyte delicately handle the reliquary containing Brother Toop’s bones. “I wanted to know how our new ally fared in combat.”

“Ugh, the Baneite.” Orin rolled her eyes and turned back to the body on the altar behind her. “Arrogant little lordling. He’s no ally of mine.”

“Fine, then. It’s not your concern.” They stood and continued to oversee the transfer of the racks while Orin played with the corpse, Solace pretending not to notice their sister pretending to focus on idle dismemberment. So tiring, always. Orin resented Solace’s place in the temple. Solace almost couldn’t blame her; the way Orin lounged like a princess in its halls, she must have gotten all the attention before Solace arrived. A pureblooded Bhaalspawn, fresh with gore and flanked by Sceleritas Fel, another mad creation of Bhaal himself. Of course Orin was usurped, and of course she was angry.

But Bhaal doesn’t care for glory. A strange irony in the competitive, cutthroat spirit of the temple, Solace always thought; there was no fight cultists could have with one another that would matter more than the lives they took in the streets. It was only a coincidence of mortal disposition that Solace’s favor in the temple matched Solace’s favor in the eyes of their god. The latter came from their deeds, and would persist despite Orin’s opinion, so long as their blades stayed sharp and wet.

Speaking of. Solace felt the urge pulse in their flesh, a low ache that would build to a blackout if left unchecked. Oddly soon after killing, but understandable. The guards at the Hall of Wonders they’d killed for duty. There was no time to kill for pleasure. For lust.

“Watch over the acolytes for me, Sceleritas,” Solace called as they walked towards the temple exit. The butler appeared in a flash of red, eager and meek, while Orin grimaced. Solace paid her no mind.

That night, Solace wandered until they came upon an abandoned house, secluded in the Lower City. A perfect refuge for the thieves and street folk that no one would miss. In the darkness they counted only one pair of eyes on watch, only five or six bodies breathing. Solace killed everyone inside.

[durgesupremacy]

durgetash fanfiction diary I guess. They Fight

The Bhaalspawn had impressed Gortash before they even met. They’d seen gaps in his plans, asked questions he hadn’t considered, found advantages he’d missed. He knew how to engage with subordinates, lackeys, and he knew they belonged there eventually. Bane would not submit to Bhaal. But for now, they were a collaborator, the likes of which he’d never had. Solace.

It was fortunate, the Bhaalist torture racks and remains in the Hall of Wonders. Gortash could probably have found another way to ensure their working together, but nothing quite so guaranteed. With most of Gortash’s marks there was information, acquired through his observation or the perspective of others, that told him how to motivate and convince even the most suspicious in Baldur’s Gate. But Solace was hidden even from him. They had no allies, no connections. They attended no gatherings. Someone fitting their description was supposedly killed, years ago. That was the extent of their public reputation. No routines, no haunts. No angle for Gortash to exploit. So he gambled on the temple leader wanting to reclaim ancestral belongings. But Gortash was an excellent gambler.

Standing here in the foundry, however, he watched his latest bet play out somewhat unexpectedly. “Are you… bored?”

Solace was fighting four Steel Watchers at once. They and Gortash had spent the day preparing, meeting early only to find themselves with more time to spare than expected. Yet with hours before sundown, he asked if he could see them fight, and here they were. They whirled around the Watchers with ease, but somehow their blood seemed dead in their veins.

“Yes, I’m bored,” they said. “I’m fighting metal. There’s no life to take.” Solace spoke without pause in their combat, ripping a helmeted head off a Watcher as another stepped in to take its place. They looked as hollow as their opponents.

Gortash blinked, considering this. A want at long last, and a logical one too. He should’ve known. But he’d seen what he wanted to see; he knew how Solace would fight, and how to work with such a combat style.

Or did he? Would they fight better, with the anticipation of blood on their slender hands?

“Fight me, then.” He waved off the Watchers and stepped down into the stone pit. Solace raised an eyebrow.

“Are you… sure?” There was something new in their voice, Gortash wasn’t sure what. Surprise? Skepticism? “You’re proposing single combat with a Child of Bhaal.”

“Don’t kill me, obviously. Or wound me to any meaningful degree. But yes, let’s spar.” He readied himself. “I want to know how you fight when you aren’t bored.”

Solace stared blankly for a moment before taking a deep breath and closing their eyes. Something seemed to stir, and then settle, in their form. “Tap out when you’re done. When you’re finished, say ‘I forfeit.’ Promise.”

“I shall.” Gortash resented this, Solace demanding things of him yet again, but their tone was past confidence. It was certainty. They knew something he didn’t, and though they commanded him, it was somehow a courtesy.

“Then we begin.” Solace opened their eyes and looked upon him hungrily.

He just finished casting his spell before they were upon him, daggers clashing against his sword. If Gortash had time to think, he might’ve regretted himself. But it was act or die. Solace demanded every ounce of his attention.

His spells weakened them, shook up their steps, but it wasn’t long before Solace drew blood. Their dagger opened Gortash’s forearm and Solace peaked at the sight of it, halting to savor the wound, eyes bright. Gortash lunged at them, hoping it was a moment of weakness. Solace deflected him with ease, still staring at his blood on their dagger. He saw them wanting, again, though he couldn’t fully understand it. Is this all they craved? The promise of violence? They turned their full attention back to him, and the hunger seemed deeper than bloodthirst.

Gortash finally wounded Solace, but to his shock, it only stirred them more. Solace laughedas his blade opened up their side. He felt them refocus then, a rush of motivation in their breath, and suddenly it clicked. He’d already seen enough, of course, to know how the Bhaalspawn would fight. But he wanted to know why they fought. And he saw it. Pain was pleasure, thrill, yet Solace could steel themselves, hold back the impulse to indulge. They dominated themselves and stayed focused on the fight. The ecstatic thrill of murder, so tempting to Bhaal’s children, held off until the end in favor of efficiency. The urge to play held back by the desire to win. Such control.

“I forfeit.”

He said the words as Solace was mid-lunge. A test, of sorts, and another gamble—if he was wrong, the Bhaalspawn might seriously injure him in their fervor. But Gortash bet well this time. They adjusted their strike. Solace barreled into Gortash and together they slammed into the ground, dazed but not wounded any further. Gortash struggled to regain his breath as Solace pinned him, their faces inches apart. Solace’s gaze held his but for occasional glances at his wound. Their body burned with heat and their breath was as heavy as his. But they had mastered themselves. Gortash felt their heartbeat slow, and soon, they looked at him with the same composure they held at their first meeting.

“Good timing. It would’ve been… uncomfortable to stop, going much longer.” Solace got up and Gortash’s body marked the change, the absence of heat and weight. After a moment, Solace offered their hand.

An idea. He took their hand with his wounded arm, and he was rewarded with a momentary lapse in composure as Solace’s fingertips grazed his blood.

***

Solace thought Gortash fought well. Different, but effective. And thank goodness he did, or he might not have lived, no matter the benefits of alliance. He all but bore his throat to them.

The scent of Gortash’s blood was faint, but it was the only thing Solace could smell. The second he left the room Solace put their fingers in their mouth. A moment of divine bliss, to taste the blood of the Chosen of Bane. Asking them to fight him was the first foolish thing they’d seen him do. Bhaal cared more for death than cooperation, and the death of his enemy’s servant would have pleased him. Gortash surely knew this, and yet he asked anyway. Curious.

Solace dealt with their wounds and laid as comfortably as they could on the hard stone of the battle room. Pleasure at the wrong time was a risk, for them. They’d seen what too much indulgence could do to a Bhaalspawn. And it was better, to not have to watch Gortash mend a wound they’d inflicted. Solace would be irrationally frustrated. They were frustrated already if they thought about it too hard. Solace focused on the cold stone floor, the uneven and uncomfortable texture. It helped them let go of the memory of Gortash’s body underneath them, breath on their face, blessedly full of adrenaline and imminent gore if only he’d let them continue and they’d fed their urge. All they allowed was the taste of his blood, already fading on their lips.

[durgesupremacy]

return to fanfiction, after years of hiatus. cause: brainrot. They Meet.

Gortash did not make expectations, and despite that, they surprised him.

How should they have looked, a Child of Bhaal? It’s not as though they ought to be horribly obvious—menacing in form, imposing in stature, eyes bright and piercing with the red glow of the murder god himself. But if he had a hundred guesses, Gortash would never have gotten close to the figure he saw before him. Lithe, pale, barely meeting his height. Their short hair rippled black mixed with a deep, unnatural red, perhaps a trait of their unholy father. Sitting across from him they met his gaze with dark eyes, a black impossibly deeper than their hair that shone with a strange inner glow.

What an odd-looking elf, the street folk might say. Certainly ominous, especially in their dark garb. But Gortash didn’t feel the blood of the murder god. There was no mortal terror, no violence yet. Just an impressively calm countenance. They approached the table and sat across from him, collected and graceful, perfectly content at the heart of the Steel Watch.

“Welcome. An honor, to look at last upon the leader of the Cult of Bhaal.” At this, Gortash surprised himself. It was an honor. His acclaimed correspondent, surely known by none in the light of day. Someone who restored a church as fallen as his own. A peer.

Their head tilted, just slightly. Curiosity. “Well met, Enver Gortash.” Smooth and clear, their voice resonated through the near-empty office like a bell. “You sought me out, and here I am. Do not waste my time. Tell me of your proposal.”

He bristled at the casual command, but smiled nonetheless. For the will of Bane he would make pleasantries. Gortash knew that control over others required dominance of the self.

He would dominate them in time. But not yet. He gave in, made his offer, and let the Bhaalspawn think they were in control.

***

The Baneite was confident. It was refreshing, coming out of the zealous fervor of the temple. The unholy assassins were cunning and committed, but despite the camaraderie of their own there was a depth of insecurity to many in the temple, a desire to prove oneself. Gortash proved nothing. He simply was, despite the fact that he boldly offered alliance with the most dangerous creature he would ever meet.

“I offer my aid in reclaiming your artefacts from the Hall of Wonders. And then, in return, all I ask is that you consider further partnership. Will you join me?” he asked.

A false question. He knew what would happen, just as they would. Only he would pretend and they would not.

“Yes.” His plans were thorough and well-researched; some of the temple’s finest assassins couldn’t have done better. It was oddly satisfying, seeing the truth of Gortash in person, experiencing his shrewd mind in flesh after reading it on paper. “I will need time to prepare.”

They stood, knowing the proper time and meeting place. It seemed like they’d done enough business. But Gortash stood too, a slight scrape of the chair betraying his hurry.

“Tell me your name.” An unplanned un-question. His fingers twitched, clawed gauntlets glinting in the candlelight. Curiosity.

And a novel question, in some ways. Their name was hardly relevant in the temple—they were master, saer, Chosen, blood-kin. And no one asked their name, on the surface. Assassins hardly needed names.

“Solace.”

Gortash looked at them, expression unreadable, before nodding and gathering himself at the desk. “Well met, Solace.” He flicked his wrist and the Steel Watchers parted. Time to go.

Solace left the room, surprised to feel a bit of strength in their step. They hadn’t heard their name in months.