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obeliskobsessions · 4 months ago

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A Bloody Reunion

I've been thinking a lot about Tav and Durge's backstories and wrote an early 1900's AU in which Tav and Durge were friends before Durge gave into their urges. After some years they found each other once more -- though under much less friendly circumstances.

Part 2 coming soon :)

Tavleen

The light of the nearby kerosene lamp grew dim as Tavleen hunched over her desk, twirling her quill between near-shaking fingers. Her eyes darted over the pile of papers thrown upon the desk, her mind whirring to the point that she felt like she may pass out. I’m so close, she thought, standing to review the chalkboard on the wall, searching for connections and patterns and that one missing piece.

The killing began five years ago. Skilled, ruthless murders. Tavleen had just started her career at that point, and though she was discouraged from her superiors to look into the matter, she simply couldn’t help herself. She began looking into the murders in secret, and with each passing moment she became more and more obsessed. She didn’t sleep, hardly ate, and stared at the ceiling wondering what she was missing.

The killer was immaculate. Impossible to trace and highly skilled; it was impossible to find useful information when there were never any survivors. However, Tavleen’s bureau knew that the killer was a member of the Bhaalist assassin league, a sick group of professional murderers who received payment for their bloody devotion. A twisted way to live in excess while catering to their god’s will.

Through meticulous record keeping, luck, and following a few known cult members on much too little sleep, Tavleen was able to track down the famed leader of the cult. She predicted which jobs he would like the most – based on a reputation of only taking those with the highest possibility of a grand and grotesquely bloody outcome – and waited outside the home of the victims. She went alone, like some idiot.

Tavleen found him. She watched as he crept up the steps of the house, his hulking figure shadowed underneath tight clothing of red and black. He reached towards the door with clawed, gray-blue fingers, and before he could begin to pick the lock, Tavleen jumped from the bushes she had hidden in.

She couldn't say what made her do such a reckless thing, or expect any other alternative beyond a brutal and bloody end. But there was something strange about the beast in front of her; a prickling thought in the back of her mind that she couldn’t understand but that troubled her all the same.

The cult leader whirled when she jumped and was upon her in an instant. With a kick that broke more than a couple of ribs, the man hunched over her prone form with cat-like grace. He snarled at her, a sound more animal than human, and Tavleen stared into the masked face of her obsession. His eyes were visible, though. A deep red – and eerily familiar.

Those murderous eyes widened in confusion and an emotion that Tavleen couldn’t place in the terrified whirlwind of her thoughts. The leader’s body tensed, and with a shaking hand, placed a claw on Tavleen’s cheek and drew blood. Then he was gone.

Afterwards, Tavleen went to her superiors and informed them of what had happened. The cult leader became known as the Red Maw, and the bureau doubled their search for a large man with a blue-gray complexion. Tavleen was suspended, of course, and one of her best friends from her academy days transferred to her location. Harkon, an elite fighter on the special forces unit, who internalized her stunt as some suicidal attempt at fame.

It took her years to ascend to a detective position, and she now sat at the table, gnawing at her fingers and desperately looking for any piece of new information. The bureau found the Red Maw’s next target – a meeting of Baldur’s Gate’s black-market leaders. Harkon and his crew were on their way to the warehouse, and Tavleen was sure that she was close to the final missing piece. Something desperately whispered in the back of her mind.

She reviewed what they knew of the assassin leader – how he killed, what he looked like, the fear in which he ruled – and thought back to the day she met him. What was that emotion in his eyes? What was she missing?

She closed her eyes and thought. His eyes were familiar. Red, though not shaped like what she would expect from a tiefling. He was too big for a drow, though she had been friends with a large drow in the past –

With a sound somewhere between a gasp and a cry, she swiped the pile of papers on her desk to the floor and ripped a photograph from its taped place on her desk. Her mouth went dry as she beheld the photo. A tiefling woman with a large smile, an exasperated human man, and a large drow.

She was in an academy for older “problem” children growing up. They only took those who were shunned by adults, or had such traumatic experiences that they had nowhere else to go. She learned a lot of skills then, and had made friends with Harkon while attending. They learned that they wanted to join the police force together. They met a friend while there. A huge drow with eyes the color of gore. A troubled creature, one who never spoke of their past, and who ran from the academy after killing four people. Despite what they had done, Tavleen still cared for them.

She stared at the grimacing face of her friend. Looked into their eyes. Remembered how expertly they killed those teachers and students. And knew within her heart that the look she had seen come across the assassin’s face was recognition.

Ash was the Red Maw. And Harkon was on his way to kill them, or die trying.

She picked up the sending stone on her desk and called to him, scrambling around the room for her coat and weapons. After one ring, the call was immediately cut off. Tavleen tried once more, and as silence spread across the room she cried out in desperation and dismay and rushed out the door.

Harkon

Harkon beheld the warehouse from his group’s position and gulped. Though he was grateful for the darkvision that had been cast upon him, he was still surprised at the eerie way the warehouse stared down at him. Inviting. Waiting.

Ever since Tavleen was attacked, Harkon had made it his personal vendetta to murder the Red Maw himself. That monster needed to be put down.

They would wait until the assassin would be in the midst of his killing – no love would be lost over the deaths of black market leaders – before quietly entering the building, finding the cult leader, and cutting his head off with Harkon's sword. Harkon wanted to make him bleed, first; to know the pain he had dealt others, but the assassin was legendary. There would be no time for a slow death. No one knew what he was truly capable of, but the rumors still spread. And not to mention, the cult members that Harkon and his team had questioned had more fear and respect for the Red Maw than they did for anything else.

Harkon hated the cultists. They talked a big game, going on about their love for gore and murder and the ecstasy of Bhaal’s embrace. But they cried out when they bled and shit while they died like everyone else.

Harkon was itching to move in. He beheld his crew and waited, though his veins felt as if they were filled with electricity. They were betting their top members against one assassin: two fighters, a sorcerer, and a rogue. For any other mission, they would be overprepared.

And yet.

He looked to Lyra, the other fighter and leader of the crew. She gave him a nod, clasped him on his armored shoulder, and without a word motioned for them to move.

Finally. Harkon slinked towards the warehouse, shield and sword at the ready. He and Lyra walked towards a half-open cart door, moving to cover their sorcerer, Sadra. Aspen trailed them, his footsteps silent in the snow.

They crouched through the small opening into the main body of the warehouse. Aisles of shelves and boxes reached towards the ceiling. The room was shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from the moon bouncing off the snow just outside. Harkon scanned the gleaming steel rafters above, half expecting to see a red-eyed monster staring down at him.

Harkon, Lyra, and Sadra continued onwards. Aspen was hidden somewhere behind them, certainly following them quietly with his bow at the ready. They moved towards the hallway at the end of the large room, anticipating the cult leader to be in the offices further into the building. As Harkon took another step forward, Lyra held out a hand and signaled the group to stop. Sadra’s voice echoed through Harkon’s mind. Listen. Do you hear that? Harkon strained his ears, struggling to make out any noise beyond his metal helmet. He held his breath and almost jumped as a scream echoed through the building, followed by sounds of battle. The group moved forward, as quickly and silently as possible. The sounds of struggle continued, and Lyra and Harkon used the noise to cover the sounds of their clunky, heavy armor. A guttural cry of ecstasy cut through the air, followed by maniacal laughter. Harkon’s blood ran cold at the sheer joy in the laugh, and he was so struck with hatred and horror at such a reaction to murder that he didn’t notice the pricking of recognition in his mind, telling him he had heard that laugh before.

They came to a sudden stop as the noise died. Harkon steeled himself. It’s almost time. Bhaalists tended to revel in their kills. It would be slow going, but they could sneak their way down the hallway and into the room without the cultist –

There was a noise from just behind him, and Harkon remembered his sending stone. The one he had given to Tavleen for emergencies, the one so seldom used that he had forgotten its existence in his bag, the one that was ringing and ringing through the silent, still air.

They had been caught.

Ash

Ash tore their blade from its place in a man’s neck and waited for the wet death rattle with trepidation. Their body felt alight with pleasure, and their excitement grew as they imagined the sort of fun they could have with the pile of bodies at their feet. Ash’s client didn’t care what was done with the bodies, as long as these men and women were dead – though anyone who paid Ash for their services knew better than to ask what had happened to the bodies. Or how they had disappeared. Or what kind of meat they were eating at a celebratory dinner.

Ash raised the blade to slashslashslashslashslash. They wanted to coat themselves with the man’s insides, to crawl into the gaping body and revel in their gift for their horrid father, to feel the pop of organs under their back and pleasure themselves within the warmth of the blood, the blood, the blood the blood the –

There was ringing in the warehouse. A sending stone.

Ash felt a smile creep along their face, fangs poking against their leather mask. More. They turned and looked at the broken bodies on the floor. There will never be enough.

Something caught their eye. A woman with a gaping wound in her belly. She clutched at her insides, chest still heaving. Alive.

Ash took two steps forward, leaned down, and picked up the woman by the hair. She cried out, legs flailing to find purchase beneath her on the slick floor. Ash pushed her forward, ensuring that she stayed in front of them as they walked down the hallway, dagger pressed upon her throat. How many were waiting for Ash? How would they fight? It would be highly unlikely for some random traveller to find this warehouse, nevermind move as far in as they did with the sounds of screaming. Besides, Ash had known that they were being tracked. It was only a matter of time before they were found.

Something slithered within them. Excitement, pulsing against their insides. And something else. Hungrier. Desperate for release. Desperate for the prospect of a hunt.

Ash stepped out from the shadowed hallway, and faced the future corpses in front of them.

Harkon

Harkon watched as the Red Maw stood before them. A figure much too large to be a drow, the assassin stared at them with his famous red eyes. He was completely clothed in black cloth, loose yet form-fitting, with a red cape billowing from his shoulders. He was absolutely bathed in blood and gore. His face was masked, though his eyes were bright. Harkon felt that prickling in the back of head and ignored it once again.

The assassin held a woman in front of him, a red dagger pressed at her throat. He tilted his head to the side as he regarded the group, and in a quick slash sliced the dagger along the woman’s throat.

And then disappeared.

Aspen’s arrow shot down from the rafters and shot harmlessly down the hallway. Lyra and Harkon slashed at the air in front of them with their swords, though found no purchase of the assassin’s form. Sadra reached out a hand, beginning to weave a spell.

Harkon turned as a red dagger pierced through Sadra’s throat. The assassin appeared as he was sprayed with the elf’s blood, eyes wide and crazed as he tore the dagger from Sadra and lunged for Lyra, who parried the dagger with her sword. The cult leader lept backwards from any potential retaliation, glanced down at the sorcerer’s body at his feet, and changed.

Bile climbed up Harkon’s throat as a beast erupted from the assassin, his clothes and skin tearing into black and gray-blue ribbons to make way for the body of the horrid monster. It towered over them, upper body hunched, and opened its jaw to show rows and rows of sharpened teeth. It screamed, and Harkon had to fight not to drop his sword and shield to cover his ears.

Those eyes were the same. Red and desperate for death.

Another one of Aspen’s arrows pierced the air and burrowed into the monster’s flesh. With a cry of pain, the monster scanned the rafters, bent its hind legs, and leapt towards the ceiling. Lyra reached for her crossbow and shot at the creature, though the arrow went wide as the monster crashed into the rafters above. Harkon heard a shout of terror, a growl, and the sound of tearing. He waited, legs tense and ready to spring forward once the monster jumped.

Another cry. Blood dripped from above. And Aspen fell.

He landed on his feet and rolled, though something snapped horribly. He tried to get to his feet and failed, crawling backwards and staring at the ceiling in fear. Harkon watched as the beast soared from the air above the group, taking a crossbow to the chest from Lyra. It landed on top of Aspen, claws digging into his ankles, and it lifted its four arms and tore Aspen’s limbs from his body.

Harkon screamed and charged. The monster whirled its head to face him with a snarl and screamed as Harkon slammed his sword deep into the beast’s belly. He swung for another attack, but the creature jumped nimbly away, narrowly avoiding another wound. Lyra’s crossbow once again struck the creature in the leg, and as it bounded towards she lifted her sword and swung it down, catching the beast in its shoulder.

It swept downwards and pulled itself away from the steel, black blood dripping from its wounds and sizzling on the floor. It lunged for Lyra, and though its first swipe bounced harmlessly off her armor, the second attack ripped through an opening just below her torso. She grunted and fell back, unable to go for an additional attack as the monster reached downwards and lapped her blood from the floor with a pointed, spindly tongue.

Harkon went for the creature as it was focused on the blood and wounded it twice. Lyra soon found her footing and slashed twice more with her sword. The monster roared, jumping into the air and landing on the other side of her. Harkon was able to stay on his feet, dodging the spray of limbs before him, but Lyra was knocked to the ground and pinned by a clawed hand. She struggled as the creature ripped its claws along her arms, inciting a scream as it tore through flesh and tendon. Harkon watched in disbelief as the wounds blackened and bubbled, as if sickness coursed through Lyra’s now opened veins.

Harkon attacked again, hitting once. It jumped backwards, avoiding his second attack. Lyra slowly got to her feet and charged, though her movements were sluggish from her wounds and she missed with each swipe of her weapon. She went for a healing potion, but as she lifted the bottle to her lips the monster sank its claws into her shoulders and tore.

Harkon lunged forward and plunged its sword deep into its chest while it was buried in Lyra. With a screech it withdrew, its form seeming to melt back into the large, humanoid shape of the Red Maw. Harkon stared incredulously. What the hell was that? A wild-shape? What is this guy? A rogue? Some druid from the hells?

Though he couldn’t see the assassin’s face through the mask, Harkon could tell that the drow was smiling. A seductive voice, genderless and dripping hot with fervid malice, slithered from the black leather. “Father… They will die for you.”

Something in Harkon’s mind rang in confusion at the sound of the voice. He knew that voice from somewhere, from some distant memory just out of reach. When could he have met the beast in front of him and lived? Who was the monster behind the mask?

He stared at the cult leader behind the metal of his helmet as Lyra leapt forward again. She missed once, the drow dodging easily with a laugh. He lifted up his arm with the dagger to strike, and with a cry of effort Lyra brought the blade heavily onto his wrist. The assassin gasped in pain, narrowly avoiding losing his hand to the swipe, and lost his grip on the dagger. It clattered on the ground, sliding far out of the drow’s reach. Harkon grinned. We have you now, fucker.

The Bhaalist took a quick look at his weapon on the floor and crouched into a fighting stance. He sprang into action, missing a blow from Lyra as he swept to the side, got behind her quicker than Harkon’s eyes could follow, and jabbed twice, aiming for a small opening between Lyra’s black plate and leg pieces with his fingers. He hit hard, and there was a loud snap of cracking bones. Lyra choked out a gasp and stumbled forward, retreating away from the leader and pulling out her crossbow to ready an attack. Harkon felt himself blanch in dismay. He’s a monk?

Harkon went for the leader, but he dodged each attack. The creature’s head whirled to look at Lyra just as he avoided Harkon’s blade. He took one arrow in the thigh, grunting in pain as his eyes narrowed and trained on the crossbow. Before he could move for Lyra, she aimed another and fired. The crossbow sang through the air, and Harkon knew it would hit home. It was aiming right for the killer’s neck, a wound that would surely kill him.

The assassin lifted up a hand and caught the arrow.

Harkon felt his jaw drop at the act. Lyra’s eyes widened in surprise and confusion as the Red Maw laughed, catching the weapon and using the momentum from the arrow’s travel to spin in the air. As he whirled around, he whipped out his arm and threw the arrow towards Lyra, the projectile moving as quickly as if it had been shot from a bow.

It plunged into Lyra’s eye socket, sailing straight through the small opening of her helmet. She plummeted to the ground, dead. Harkon screamed and twisted towards the beast, desperate to avenge the lives just lost.

He made brief eye contact with the assassin before the Red Maw became invisible once more.

Harkon began to swipe fervently at his surroundings, though the blow still came. He felt a jab on the back of his neck. Something within Harkon snapped but didn’t break as the part of his neck that was hit felt like it was eroding away. Harkon tumbled forward, though the assassin was already in front of him. The next punch glanced off Harkon’s armor, and with a snarl the cult leader swept out with his leg and sent Harkon tumbling to the ground, straddling him in on the floor.

Harkon wrestled his sword from where it was pinned by the drow’s leg, narrowly avoiding a few punches to the face. One blow hit his helmet, denting the steel. Harkon heard sizzling from the metal as if it was being burned away.

Harkon slammed the tip of his blade into the monk’s shoulder. He screamed in pain and loosened his grip; Harkon used the opportunity to push the assassin off him, sending him flying. He crashed into a shelf with a groan. The two of them pushed off the floor and were on each other again. Harkon swung his sword once more, and the drow jumped, twisting himself in the air, wrapping his legs around Harkon’s torso to pin his arms to the side, and once again slamming Harkon to the floor.

Harkon buckled and twisted underneath the Bhaalist, though his grip held firm. Harkon took two more blows. The world around him began to spin. His body felt like it was on the breaking point. He studied the monk’s wounds and assessed that the cultist didn’t have many blows left in him either – sooner or later, one of them would fall.

With a grunt, Harkon strained his arms and felt the drow’s legs give. Harkon got his arms free, though he lost grip on his sword and shield, and lifted up to wrap them around the assassin's neck. The monk let out a strangled cry, jabbing twice at Harkon’s wrists. Harkon’s hands fell limp for a moment as he lost grip, his hands flying towards the drow’s face from the momentum of the attacks. His hands swept along the sides of the assassin’s mask and moved the leather so that his mouth was showing, though his eyes were covered and blinded.

The cult leader was drooling, lips peeled back in a snarling smile. Harkon’s stomach dropped as he stared at the mouth. I know this man. But from where?

The Red Maw lifted his hand and tore his leather mask off. Harkon’s heart froze in his chest. Harkon’s voice was small. Unbelieving. “Ash?”

Harkon watched as someone he once considered his best friend dropped their smile. With a grunt, the cult leader unclasped Harkon’s helmet and tore it off his head. Ash blinked, and the bloodlust in their eyes cleared. They beheld Harkon, eyes shining with recognition, confusion, and most of all, fear.

Ash swallowed. And before Harkon could open his mouth to say another word, Ash reached back with their fist and brought it upon Harkon’s face.

The world went black.

Tavleen

She was too late.

The warehouse was filled with nothing but corpses when she arrived. She found the bodies of the black-market leaders. Found the bodies and dismembered limbs of Harkon’s crew. She had thrown up from the fresh stench of gore, had traced the gouged claw marks upon the metal floor and wondered what could've caused this much carnage.

She knew, of course. Ash. Her friend, or someone who used to be.

But Harkon and Ash were gone. She found Harkon’s helmet, dented and corroded where it had been smashed. She backtracked to search for tracks in the snow, and found two; the steps of someone large, moving backwards as they dragged a body with them.

Tavleen’s breath caught in her throat. Ash had Harkon.

Tavleen got into her motor carriage and followed the tracks left from the wheels of Ash’s own vehicle, praying to the gods that Harkon was alive. And that Tavleen herself wasn’t willingly diving into a death trap.

Some reunion, she thought, and drove off into the snow.

#baldur's gate 3 #dark urge #bg3 #bg3 fanfic #bg3 tav #baldurs gate dark urge #I had a lot of fun with this one #thanks for reading <3

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