#Gortash: ...lets steal from him first

[maegalkarven]

Hello!

About Empty Prayers AU, firstly - thank you for it! Now I have something to look forward to my evenings.

Secondly... this question really torments me: will there be confrontation with Raphael? Because with Gortash in party this meeting promises to be a hell of... revelations.

Aww thank you!

Oh, hell yes! There will be two confrontations with Raphael actually: one where he offers a deal to get the hammer and free Orpheus (the team refuses) and the final one when he catches them in the HoH. It requires a lot of mental energy to write because this shit will be UGLY. Gortash is not the kind of a man to react well to his wounds being forcibly open like that.

Also there will be confrontation with Korilla bc there's a headcanon she is the warlock Enver was sold to and I'm adopting it.

The team will be Enlightened. We'll also get to see a lot of Gortash at his lowest, the "spiteful ungrateful thing" he is.

[tragedy-peanut-gallery]

Baldursgateposting is on a slight delay because I reached a point in the game where I’m paralyzed by indecision and idk what to do anymore COME BACK MOON LESBIANS PLEASE TAKE ME WITH YOU I CANT TAKE THIS ANYMORE!!!!!

[sserpente]

The Devil's Prized Possession

Synopsis: You are Raphael's warlock and tasked with the most difficult mission: Retrieve the Crown of Karsus from the clutches of Enver Gortash. Remember, Raphael does not take kindly to failure. But do him proud and he will reward you for your troubles. As it turns out, he's been particularly eager to introduce you to a certain Incubus for a while now...

A/N: During my 5th run doing the House of Hope I had the most devilish and filthiest idea for a Raphael fic…so here we go! ;)

Words: 3637 Warnings: smut, smut, smut, blood, injuries, violence, voyeurism/exhibitionism, mentions of suicide and rape (past events), and um… incubus?

“My, my…look at how diligent my little warlock has become.”

You breathed out, the grip around your dagger loosening. You were covered in sweat, your damp training clothes sticking to you like a second skin. There was a mirror in the corner a few feet away from where you’d put the training dummy—a straw sack dressed in leather armour. Your cheeks were flushed, your hair greasy. In short, you were in no way presentable to receive your devilish patron.

You flipped around, facing Raphael with his hands clasped behind his back and a sly smile on his lips.

“Do you ever use doors? And knock? Like a normal person?”

“Oh but I am far from a normal person, am I not?”

You sighed. “I remember. That’s how I ended up in this situation in the first place. Why are you here?”

“Why am I here? Can a devil not check in on his little…protégée?”

You scoffed. “Come now, Raphael. I know you better than that. What do you want?”

“Very well. Let us cut to the chase. I have a mission for you.”

“A mission?” You frowned, removing the gloves you had been wearing to protect your knuckles. “For me? Does Korilla have annual leave?” you joked.

“I did not ask Korilla, I am asking you.”

You crossed your arms before your chest when he stalked closer, his eyes fixed on your form, observing every little movement you made. “Running errands for you was not part of our deal, Raphael.”

“Then perhaps you will be interested if I tell you what’s in it for you?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“Why, power, of course, my dear. What do you know of the crown of Karsus?”

Power? To hunt down the remaining thugs who’d stolen your life? “I’m listening.”

He followed you over to your small kitchen area. You kept some good wine hidden away in a cupboard for the sole purpose of his visits. Your life in Baldur’s Gate wasn’t exactly a luxurious one. When Raphael stepped into your life and you became a Warlock to take revenge on your family’s murderers and your rapist, he’d saved you from a dark pit you feared you’d never be able to get out of. You’d been close to suicide when he found you and offered you a way out. You didn’t regret it, didn’t regret the power his devilish abilities trickled into your very blood to give you abilities beyond your comprehension. Raphael was the reason you were still alive. All he had asked for in return was your soul—forever a guest in his House of Hope.

Raphael sat down at your mangled table. If he was disgusted by the leftovers of your breakfast and the dirty dishes, he hid it well.

You poured him a glass and set it before him on the wooden surface before sitting down opposite him.

“I assume you know the story of Karsus?”

You nodded. “Who doesn’t?”

“Then you’ll know what a powerful artefact the crown is. And I want it.”

“Well, where is it right now?” you asked, seemingly unaffected by his words. You knew better than to question him. You didn’t give a shit about this world anymore. If he decided to take over, at least you knew he’d make the sinners suffer, simply by seducing them into agreeing to a deal with him that they could not refuse.

“It was stolen, my dear. Stolen by someone you know all too well. It was our self-proclaimed saviour of Baldur’s Gate, Lord Enver Gortash. I hear he is up for archduke now.”

You frowned. “Why would Gortash steal the crown of Karsus?”

“Why would anyone? The crown in the hands of this Banite tyrant will bring ruin to the city, to the whole of Faerûn. I intend to save it. I want the crown,” he repeated.

“Wait. Did you say Banite? Enver Gortash is a Banite? Really?”

“The crown, dear. We were talking about the crown.”

“Alright, alright. So what do you want me to do?”

“Oh, it’s quite simple, actually.” He leaned back and smirked. “I want you to retrieve it for me.”

“And steal from the future archduke?”

“You are skilled in stealth. You will find a way.”

“Why me? Why not Korilla?”

“Korilla has been tasked with…some other business of mine.”

You blinked, considering his offer. “I still fail to see what’s in it for me.”

“The crown of Karsus will allow me to become the archdevil supreme. The most powerful devil in existence. Legions will bow to me and follow my command and the hells…will be mine. And you shall become the most powerful warlock any devil has ever taken under their wing.”

“Those were a lot of ‘most powerfuls’ in one sentence. But fine. I bite.”

“Excellent.” He waved his hand and out of a mist of smoke and sparks, a roll of parchment appeared. “Here is all you need to know to infiltrate Wyrm’s Rock. I expect results within a fortnight. Do not disappoint me, little mouse.”

He was gone before you could respond, his glass of wine left untouched.

Stupid, handsome devil. Stupid, stupid Banites! You should never have agreed to this. How could you have known that they would start a bloody cult directly at Wyrm’s Rock? Who could have known that they would, instead of questioning you, send you to the prisons to have you executed the next day? Raphael. Raphael could have known. You scoffed. That damn devil. He’d never elaborated on the consequences if you failed but knowing him, it couldn’t be good.

But then again…you’d already promised him your soul in return for your powers, so what else could he possibly take from you now? You were of little use as a lemur, after all.

If you ever made it out of here, at least you wouldn’t return completely empty-handed, you thought, as you played with the loose straws of hey on the dirty ground. You’d found out a great deal about Gortash’s plans. And he wasn’t operating alone, either. He had both the Chosen of Bhaal and the Chosen of Myrkul by his side.

You’d always known Gortash to be a bit shady but this form of evil was on another level entirely, even for him. An Elder Brain? Frozen ceromorphosis? An Illithid empire with him on top? You shook your head.

It was just then that sparks of hellfire danced through the cell. Smoke erupted in the corner, the smell of sulphur filling the stale air; and yet, despite the discomfort this very circumstance should have brought you, you felt relief flooding your body.

“My, my, what a predicament you have gotten yourself into here.”

“Raphael! Thank the gods… get me out of here, please!”

He truly was a sight to behold—hope, ironically, given your current predicament.

“Come. We have much to discuss.”

You stood, patting the dirt and the dust from your clothes. A sliver of hesitation wrapped its icy claw around your heart as you took the hand he offered and teleported you to safety. But wherever he took you…it was not your home.

“Where are we?” You peeked around, taking in your lavish surroundings. Imposing statues of devils—of Raphael himself—towered up into the air, marble pillars holding a high ceiling. Everything in here had been placed in the right spot with the utmost care, carefully chosen by Raphael himself, even the bottle of finely aged wine and the silver chalice next to it on the small table in front of a luxurious armchair by the fireplace.

The chimney was lit and spreading warmth. This…this was…

“The House of Hope,” Raphael finished your thought.

“I’m in the hells?”

“Indeed you are, my dear. Now. Have a seat. And tell me what happened.”

You did as you were told—there was little to no reason for you to resist or fall to your knees to beg him for his forgiveness. Not yet, anyway.

Raphael sat down in the armchair opposite you.

“You are…surprisingly calm,” you said.

“Should I not be?”

“Well…I failed you. Your mission. Aren’t you going to roast me over eternal hellfire?”

“You did fail. Except you did not.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“I knew that retrieving that crown was going to be no easy feat. I knew Gortash was a force not to be underestimated. You merely needed the motivation to try. So tell me. What were you able to find out?”

You blinked. You were…forgiven? By Raphael himself? Confused and still a little hesitant, you told him everything you had learned—including where his precious Crown of Karsus was right now.

“Hmm…hmm…”

He looked away and said nothing else for a while but who were you to interrupt his devilish thoughts?

“That indeed changes the game…I will need time to accommodate to these…circumstances, shall we say.”

“So…am I dismissed?”

Finally, Raphael’s gaze found yours again. His smirk burned hot in your veins, setting the power he fed you with ablaze. Damn that warlock connection.

“You are. You provided me with everything I needed to know about the crown’s whereabouts. About Gortash’s plan, the dead three, and the Elder Brain. You did well.”

You tilted your head. “No punishment? No ‘your soul will burn in eternal hellfire for failing me’?”

A pause. And then, his smirk grew even wider. “No.”

“Okay…um…thank you. So…how do I get back home?”

“You don’t.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“As of right now, you are a wanted criminal and a traitor to Baldur’s Gate. The Banites will long have infiltrated your home. It would be suicide to return just yet.”

Shit. He had a point. “But…where am I supposed to go then?”

“Why, you will stay here, of course, in my House of Hope.”

“You…you want me to stay here…in the hells…with you?”

“Now, now, I will be very busy. Do not expect me to entertain you, little mouse.”

You bit your lower lip. You despised his nickname for you…except you didn’t—and neither did, apparently, your nether regions.

“But for now…” he continued, looking you up and down as if deep in thought all of a sudden. “Let me show you around. I believe you deserve a reward for all your hard work. You can freshen up in my boudoir, wash the dirt from your skin. You will most certainly enjoy what awaits you there.”

You didn’t like his tone when he said that. Not at all. Expect you loved it. There was something sensual about Raphael’s voice—the devil loved to listen to himself talk but of course, that was nothing new. You’d grown to like his ways, his attitude, even his arrogance. After all, he was the very reason for your powers.

Raphael led you through a long and empty corridor, safe for the souls who had been unfortunate enough to strike a deal with him. If this was his way of showing you what awaited you once you perished…you swallowed thickly, your stomach churning.

“Oh…oh…oh…you will be so much fun to watch!” The soul who spoke to you had wide eyes and she was visibly…aroused. Perhaps at this point, your alarm bells should have been ringing. Whatever Raphael’s plans were…whatever awaited you in the boudoir…

“I gave them exactly what they asked for, little mouse,” Raphael said, his hand finding the small of your back. “Don’t worry. The fate you promised me will be much less hopeless and sufferable.”

You stepped through what resembled a portal—an arcane lock, you realised—keeping unwanted visitors out. Cool magic grazed your skin, and then you faced a vast pool with two running faucets on either end. Cushions, wine, delicacies, and even books formed a wreath around the pool, along the wall there were several wardrobes you assumed contained fresh clothes and towels. There was another area behind the pool, one that was barely visible from where you were standing. Still, you could make out the wooden posts and the luxurious fabric of a king-size bed.

“Please… step inside. Help yourself to some fruit and some wine.”

You hesitated—again. But this time it was because of a strange stab of excitement in your stomach.

Eventually, you stepped forward and took off your boots. Raphael, however, made no move to leave. Instead, he stalked over to a lush sofa in front of a high window and sat down with his legs spread wide as if he owned the place. Well. He did.

What was his plan? Was he going to watch you? You knew better than to object. You had no problem with nudity, although it was a little strange Raphael would want to watch you bathe.

With a sigh—if anything to shake off the nervousness eating away at your insides—you began to undress until not a single layer of fabric remained.

Your patron’s eyes followed your every move as you stepped into the pool, taking in every single inch of your exposed skin. It was…pleasant. The water was just right and as it wrapped around your limbs to clean it, it felt…soft.

You moved to the middle of the pool, submerging yourself until the water reached your collarbones. The bruises and cuts you had taken with you from this mission all but shrunk and disappeared, leaving behind healthy and unmarred skin. Restoration faucets…no wonder Raphael always looked so impeccable and untouched.

The relief was like a balm for your body. Your aches disappeared, the exhaustion draining from your core. You were about to close your eyes when all of a sudden, a tall figure appeared above you. A gust of wind tore through your hair. You looked up, discovering bat-like wings keeping a red-skinned figure in the air with its arms crossed, a sly smirk on its—his lips.

The demon, an Incubus, you recognised quickly, was the spitting image of Raphael.

“Hello, little mouse.” Fuck. He sounded like him too. “Is that your little warlock?” he asked. You were very well aware he wasn’t talking to you, yet all you could do was stare at him with wide eyes and your jaw dropped.

“Isn’t she a fine specimen?” Raphael bragged.

“She is indeed.” The incubus lowered himself down until his bare feet touched the carpeted floor, his eyes, identical to Raphael’s, never leaving your form. You were frozen in place. Meeting an incubus in the flesh was quite a remarkable experience—but also potentially dangerous. What did your patron have in mind? To show you off? You gasped for air. He’d promised you a ‘reward’. He couldn’t have been referring to…

“My name is Harleep,” the incubus purred as he flew closer. The faint smell of sulphur hit your nostrils. Every instinct inside of you screamed for you to get out, to save yourself…yet a very depraved and filthy part of you was begging you to stay to see what would happen. What could happen.

You told him your own name and he gave a toothless grin. “Such a pretty little mouse…what do you say? Should we make you feel good? I take it Raphael has brought you here because you’ve been a very, very good girl.”

You lower regions clenched. Fuck. Why did this excite you so much? It shouldn’t. And yet, you found yourself nodding. “I…I think so?”

Raphael chuckled. “I was hoping you’d say yes. Harleep is a very…thorough lover. And I do admit, after all of our time spent together, I am rather curious as to what it would be like to claim you.”

Oh. Oh. He…oh gods. If there was one thing you knew about Raphael it was that he was quite possibly the most narcissistic and self-absorbed devil in the nine hells. It was beneath him to mingle with anyone who didn’t live up to his standards—and the only one who did, apparently, was himself.

You actually had to bite back a laugh when you realised. Raphael had made Harleep take his form because he wouldn’t fuck anyone but himself. And now…he wanted to watch Harleep fuck you. You would be lying if you said you didn’t find the thought intriguing. It had been ages since you’d last had sex, besides, receiving pleasure from an incubus? There was nothing else like it. Should you give in?

“My…such a shy little mouse…” Harleep’s hand came up to stroke your cheek as you stood there in the water, naked and dumbfounded. It slid down the side of your face, over your neck, your shoulders, and your arm until he was able to intertwine his fingers with yours and gently pull you with him.

And just like that…all of your remaining resistance, any doubts and fears…faded away. Harleep snapped his fingers to dry your skin and had you sprawl out on the huge king-size bed. The bed sheets were soft, silk, or satin as you sank into the mattress and rested your head on the pillow. The Incubus crawled over you in an almost predatory manner, Raphael following suit behind him. He pulled up a chair and poured himself a glass of wine, his mischievous eyes glistening with curiosity and desire.

Oh gods…he really was going to do this, wasn’t he? This was going to happen. He was going to watch Harleep fuck you right before his eyes.

You breathed out when Harleep grabbed your knees and spread your legs for him to position himself between them. You glanced down, eyes widening a little at his size. He was as hard as a rock, his red skin almost glowing in the orange light of the hells. Feeling him inside you…all of a sudden, there was nothing else you wanted in this world any more than this, any more than him.

He already was fucking with your mind then…Incubi had an uncanny ability to charm their victims before they devoured them entirely. But surely, Raphael wouldn’t let him go this far…would he?

Harleep’s tip pressed against your entrance and you realised in shock that you were dripping wet. Your pussy was throbbing, eager to take a cock and ease the growing arousal he was making you feel.

“Now…let us see how you taste, little mouse.” Harleep buried himself inside you to the hilt without any forewarning, meeting no resistance from your wanton body. A gasp escaped your lips as he claimed you, causing Raphael to chuckle as he twirled the red wine in his chalice before taking a sip.

“Hmm…like a lush and ripe fruit, juicy and ready to be plucked…” the incubus raved.

Was that really how you tasted to a sex demon? You couldn’t talk, couldn’t think… You bit your lower lip, digging your nails into the sheets as Harleep began to move inside you, withdrawing almost entirely only to plunge himself back in and fuck you slowly and intimately as if to savour your body.

Your breathing grew heavier, your arousal climbing even higher. Every single thrust was an ode to an impending orgasm. It was pleasure like you had never experienced it before. Nothing else mattered anymore. Whatever Harleep was doing, whatever his superpower was…it was working. Penetrative sex alone never did the trick for you—but with him, you’d been on the brink of climax from the very moment he’d sheathed himself inside of you.

Raphael chuckled and your head fell to the side. His gaze lingered on your joined bodies, taking in your bouncing breasts and Harleep’s powerful strokes, his cock disappearing into your wet warmth over and over again. He looked…fascinated—and you couldn’t help but let it fuel your carnal desire to drown in a whirlwind of lust.

Harleep joined in on the devil’s chuckle. “Keep going, little mouse. I can feel you tightening around me. You want to come so badly, don’t you?”

You bit your lower lip harder, almost drawing blood. Forcing your eyes back on Harleep, you nodded eagerly.

“Then come, little mouse. Show us how much you are enjoying this.”

It was all you wanted to hear, all you needed to hear. You fell apart beneath him on the bed, the delicious knot in your stomach unbound. Your walls contracted around Harleep’s cock who did not relent, fucking you through your orgasm until you turned into a whimpering mess.

The pleasure cursed through you like pure electricity, your mind shutting off. You were his…his for the taking, his to feed on, his to do with you as he pleased, forever…

“Now, now, Harleep. Don’t forget your manners.”

The incubus chuckled and with a start, as the last remaining weaves of bliss ebbed away, you woke up. Harleep dug his nails into your hips, lifting them off the bed to bury himself even deeper. He fucked you hard and fast now, ready to take his own relief.

“Do not come inside of her,” you heard Raphael say. His tone allowed no contraction.

You threw your head back, enjoying every single luscious thrust until Harleep stilled and pulled out, one of his hands wrapping around his length to finish himself off.

Ropes of his seed landed on the clean bed sheets between your legs, staining the pretty fabric. You were panting, fighting for your sanity when part of you didn’t even want it back.

“My, my…what a show.”

You half-expected Raphael to clap. Instead, he only chuckled again and got up from his seat. You couldn’t help it—you glanced down, noticing the considerable bulge in his trousers.

“Join me for dinner once you’ve recovered. You must be famished, my dear.”

With that, he left, leaving you behind with a seemingly out-of-breath Incubus who was still drinking in your essence, your arousal. He seemed…satiated. Amused, even.

Fuck. You’d need that restoration faucet again before you could even consider having supper with the very devil you had promised your soul to.

[animentality]

I’ve always headcanoned that Gortash was the first to reach out to Durge and Durge was hella suspicious of him at first, but he’s enough of a smooth talker he convinces them to go along with his plans for a while. And they think sure, better to have this lordling where I can keep an eye on him and kill him if need be. But on one of their jobs, maybe stealing the crown, Durge doesn’t see an enemy coming and Gortash steps in and protects them. Maybe even gets injured for them.

And that’s the moment the switch flips in Durge. If this Banite wanted them dead all they had to do was let that enemy do the work for him, but he didn’t. He can be trusted. He can be their equal, something they’ve yearned for. And that’s when Durge comes from wary to “I would kill for you. Please ask me to kill for you.” almost at the drop of a hat.

You know what?

I definitely think that they might've fought together at the Hall of Wonders, but it was only a test run for the Dark Urge. Killing unsuspecting guards would be easy for them. Maybe sexy, but only lightly, in a professional way, where maybe their eyes linger a little too long on Enver's fingers as he draws back his crossbow and shoots a guy right in the throat.

The Mephistopheles Raid would be far more dangerous. that would be the mission where they HAVE to learn to trust each other. To watch each other's backs.

I can totally see them saving one another a few times. Maybe a lot.

And that would be when they snap into place, and start to fit like puzzle pieces.

And Durge would start obeying his orders without questioning them as much, or start trusting Gortash's instincts...and he'd do the same for them. He'd stop seeing them as a mad dog he must tame, and more of a person, an intelligent, worthy ally.

Ugh.

I'm unwell, thinking about those two...gradually lowering their walls, until there was nothing separating them anymore. Slowly coming together, and working as a single unit...

[dark-and-kawaii]

love knowing that you’re into bg3 like so many of us Kiwi! Did you love all the romance options or do you wish we could’ve had others because have you seen Dammon and Raphael! Glad to have you back with us btw!

AWHHHHH STOP!!!! You’re going to make me cry! It’s so good to be back on here, honestly!!! Now to answer your lovely question!!!

I was honestly happy at first but the more I played the game the more I saw the potential in adding other characters as romance options…

𝓩𝓮𝓿𝓵𝓸𝓻:

Like, I fell in love with Zevlor the moment I met him and I honestly would’ve picked him over Astarion for my first playthrough if he was an option -yeah yeah I know unpopular opinion.

But as I continued I was so confused as to why he wasn’t available for us because if you don’t go Minthara’s route then he would’ve been the perfect substitute because HELLOOOOO PALADIN!!!!

Not to mention during act two that would’ve been a perfect redemption ark for him, like there was SO MUCH POTENTIAL!!! Like he literally needed a hug after all the shit he’s been through and we weren’t able to grant him that…

He’s been with us since Act one… Up until the end he was with me. So I ask Larian, why wasn’t I allowed to travel and bed with this man!?

Grinds my gears man!!! I’m trying not to spoil too much in case someone hasn’t played yet.

𝓓𝓪𝓶𝓶𝓸𝓷:

Okay okay okay, as for Dammon…. Yeah no, I fucked up bad with him my first play through… uhhhhh he kinda died when the tieflings and I attacked the Druids 🥲 Oops. But during my second run I realized my mistake and he’s very much alive right now 😂!!!

With Dammon I don’t necessarily want him for myself, but rather for Karlach. I ship those two so damn hard it’s unreal!!! He loves her so much, you can just tell 🥹

And when he tells her she’s very touchable, I always kick my feet and giggle!!! Adorable to the max!

𝓡𝓪𝓹𝓱𝓪𝓮𝓵:

-Gods, just look at him… I love him so much UGHHH!!!-

Now as for our beautiful, smug, elegant cambion, Raphael… OOOOOF don’t get me started because the mouse would’ve pounced on the cat. I LOVE, and I do mean LOVE Raphael. Everything about him I just adore, and again SO MUCH POTENTIAL.

If you go his route there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be able to romance him. Like if you let Haarlep use you and you leave house of hope it indicates that Raphael is doing the nasty with Haarlep in your form once you leave. There’s clearly something there!!! So why can’t we!? I feel they left it during his ending that there might be a dlc for him, I hope, maybe… Also can we all agree that Raphael would’ve been another great villain ending with Tav???

The relationship between Tav and Raphael in game is already so interesting, and if you break into the house of hope to steal from him he looks extremely hurt that you betrayed him. Not to mention he’s like the only one who’s actually upfront with you, I don’t feel like he really hid anything unless you’re dense -no offense-.

Another thing, just because Haarlep says Raphael is bad in bed doesn’t mean he actually is. I feel a lot of individuals forget what Haarlep is 😂 sex is basically their thing.

Not to mention his little helper is basically always saying “he can’t stop talking about you.”

Plus, hold on, we can romance Mizora but not him… Nah!!!

𝓖𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓪𝓼𝓱:

A lot of people have said Gortash, which at first I didn’t really understand but that’s because I was a huge simp for Karlach and if you’ve played you know…

However the more I play and the more I read into I do understand. He could’ve used a nice redemption after everything he’s been through. He was a pawn, someone to be used, and honestly that was his whole life. So it would’ve been nice if Tav was an option for him.

I feel they could’ve had two endings for him and Tav, a good and a bad. Good being his redemption where Tav opens his eyes like what Tav did for Astarion and then the Bad obviously they rule together.

I feel Larian made a lot of great choices but I also feel they missed a lot of potential, which hopefully they continue to listen to their audience and add more routes in the future. So far they have been so one can hope. I also feel like all of these characters were left to where they could be potentially added later down the road. Fingers crossed!!!

- 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓚𝓲𝔀𝓲

[scuttlingcrab]

Can you pls do a Durge x Raphael after their first kill at the camp? Would LOVE to see what you do with him in that situation. ;)

Thank you for this, Anon! I’ve gotten a few Durge prompts that I hope to fulfil this month, as I’m finally making my way through playing The Dark Urge for the first time! (This run is Durge resisting the Urge, haha) Hopefully by the time they release the new endings in September, I’ll go fully evil. One thing though.. I am OBSESSING over Minthara… so I’m hoping to start writing some fics focused on her real soon because MAMA MIA!

Summary: After Raphael witnesses Tav committing a gruesome murder, he begins plotting how he could use their vulnerability, and lack of memory, to his advantage.

Notes: Warnings for violence.

Link to my other work in the Devil's Archive.

In the Dark of the Night

(Image via red-dead-sakharine)

Raphael spent another night at Tav's camp, lurking from the comfort of the treeline as he watched them eagerly, playing with his fingers in anticipation for what he hoped would be a bloody spectacle. He failed to keep count of how many nights he stood there, spying on them since their first encounter at the Druid Grove. 

Far too many at this point, embarrassing even for a Devil’s standards. 

He obviously had other imperative things to be getting on with, he would never be able to succeed in uniting the Hells by simply dawdling about and waiting for things to fall in his lap. Though much to his chagrin, being present at that wretched mortal camp slid to the top of his priority list. Even more than his infernal duties and all the discarded contracts that piled up the longer Raphael bid his time. He could practically feel the mounting pressures digging into his shoulders, his knees buckling from the weight of it all. 

Then there was the Crown of Karsus, always that damned Crown with Raphael. Since the fall of Netheril, he had been swept away by the promises of glory, of dethroning Asmodeus and occupying his seat of power in Nessus.

The wounds of that fiasco, of letting his father get the best of him, never fully healed. The mistakes played repeatedly in his memory. Over and over. As a lesson and as a punishment.

Raphael cursed all three of the Chosen for wasting the relic’s true potential on an Elder Brain, thinking that alone would aid their plights for total domination. The crime of the millennia. Those damned imbeciles! By the Gods, Raphael laughed, cried, and raged at the notion when he first heard Gortash had succeeded in breaking into Mephistopheles' vault, stealing the one and only artefact he had ever desired. 

It would all spectacularly blow up in their faces soon enough. The Crown’s earth shattering waves, its raw power, could be felt even in his House of Hope as the strength intensified, the doomsday clock proceeding with its countdown. Raphael would be there, watching their work crumble at their fingertips, witnessing firsthand the Chosen's faces warping in horror at their doomed fates. 

Despite everything, unseen forces still managed to push Raphael in the direction of those foolish mortals again and again, and towards one individual in particular. The Devil had watched each companion closely, but his obsession grew with Tav. No magic or potion could dislodge them from his waking thoughts in the days after the Nautiloid crash, or rid them from invading his dreams.

In truth, the other companions were dull, uninspiring, and Raphael quickly discarded them like a worthless piece of garbage. Of course, he could use their souls, he would never say no to that, but he had no interest in going out of his way to secure a deal when Tav offered him so much more.

At their first meeting, Raphael instantly recognised the rotting strength of Bhaal oozing from Tav, his nose twisting in repulsion from the memories the smell elicited. Yet something was different about them, unlike the other Bhaalspawn he had come in contact with. He couldn’t quite place it at first until he focused on their visage. Their skin was pale and their eyes bloodshot, flashing nervously around the room, as if they heard voices scratching against their skull. 

When was the last time Tav killed, truly? Made a glorious sacrifice in the name of Bhaal? He had never seen someone suffer such a withdrawal or resist Bhaal’s murderous temptations. They could only go on for so long until something snapped, satisfying their urge, and quieting their God.

Something big was brewing and Raphael wasn’t going to miss a moment. 

Raphael peeked his head through some bushes as he gave the camp another once over, his eyes darting to Tav near the campfire. They still remained lying on their bedroll, sleeping soundlessly. 

Without notice, Raphael’s skin prickled and he stiffened, holding on to the nearest tree trunk as his chest spasmed. His upper body continued to be yanked forwards in an abrupt, and rather rude, summons. 

“Korrilla…” Raphael hissed.

He clenched his jaw in anticipation, loud drumming filling his ears as he flickered in between the forest at the campsite and his House of Hope. The two locations could not have been more different, the contrast assaulting his senses. Images of Korrilla filled his vision as he was pulled further from the mortal plane. She stood in his central chamber, arms crossed and impatiently tapping her feet.

“You are late for a meeting, Master.” Korrilla warned, her voice rattling through his head. 

“I am busy.” Raphael growled, practically tearing the final syllable apart in his mouth.

“I can keep them waiting for only so long before they will start asking questions… I do not want to hear your complaints when they retreat back into their Iron Tower.” Korrilla raised an eyebrow as a final plea.

Raphael paused as the pair engaged in a staring contest.

“Very well. Tell Dispater I will be with him shortly. I am willing to forfeit a few more souls to appease him, that should be an effective enough apology for the Archdevil. I will join you once I am finished with this prospective client.”

With that, Raphael viciously snapped his fingers, cutting off any further communication with the Warlock. 

Raphael groaned, removing his hand from the tree. The wood was scorched, leaving a deep charred imprint where he had grasped it. His fingertips still sizzled and he blew on them, hoping to cool himself down. Let the Lord of Dis wait. This was far more pressing. He rubbed his temples, blinking away the rest of the discomfort from the summons, the world around him finally stilling. 

He peeked through the bushes again and gasped, his heart dropping to his stomach. Tav was no longer sleeping, but stood tall. They were speaking to a bright-eyed Tiefling named Alfira, who had only just joined the camp. The other companions around the campfire, Shadowheart, Astarion, and Karlach, remained lost in their dreams, undisturbed by whatever conversation the pair were having. 

Raphael’s scalp tingled as goosebumps ran down his spine and across his arms. And he had nearly missed it! He held his breath, remaining frozen in place, on the off chance Tav might hear his quickening heartbeat. 

Alfira smiled at Tav, looking at them with adoration and warmth, seeming to have an overall pleasant exchange. As she talked, Tav reached for the dagger at their belt, slowly unsheathing it. They aimed it at the Tiefling’s throat, unmoving as their knuckles grew whiter from squeezing the hilt. Alfira jumped back, arms out wide in shock. She laughed nervously, eyes dancing between the dagger and Tav. 

The poor thing... 

Raphael barely saw it, the movement was smooth, swift, and clean; faster than lightning, but the damage was done before Alfira could even register what happened. Within seconds, her eyes grew in terror, nearly bulging from her head as a cut appeared across her throat. She held onto the wound as blood began to gush through her fingers, quickly soaking her dress. She opened her mouth, attempting to call out for help, for anyone, but she never had a chance to utter another word. Alfira collapsed, falling onto her back. Tav lunged at her, as if caught in a trance. Their stabs were deep and personal, and seemingly never-ending. They somehow found a new spot to dig their dagger in again and again long after Alfira expired.

Blood rushed to Raphael’s head, his ears pounding like war drums as Tav began gutting the Tiefling. They proceeded to use the gore spilling from Alfira to paint the markings of Bhaal around the corpse. 

So the deed was done. It all happened in a matter of minutes, but to Raphael it felt like hours had passed as he observed from the shadows. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from the scene, they sparkled with curiosity and acclaim for the sheer skill of the murder. And for the possibilities that awaited him. 

With the dagger back in its sheath, Tav stood as still as a statue, their arms outstretched, basking in the kill.

Raphael took a deep breath, running his hands through his hair. The second act was about to begin. 

He would need to compose himself before making a grand entrance, otherwise it would scare Tav away. His usual flair for theatrics might not suit their tastes on this occasion; he needed to ease their nerves, guide them back from the spell they were under and use that to his advantage. 

Snap! 

Raphael teleported behind Tav, sitting casually on one of the massive boulders next to the campfire. 

“You are quite the artist.” Raphael began, crossing his arms in front of him. “I should applaud you, but I’d risk waking the others.” 

Tav twirled around, drawing their dagger at his sudden appearance. Recognition flickered in Tav’s eyes and the weapon staggered for a split second as they nearly lowered it, but they quickly changed their mind. They took a step towards Raphael, the dagger aimed at his heart.

Raphael raised his hands as an act of surrender, he wouldn't dare trigger another murderous episode so soon. Though, he let that thought remain… wondering if they would go so far as to massacre their entire camp?

“I must admit, I was rather taken by your commitment and overall execution. The nature of your work always piqued my interests. Although I don’t think I could ever stomach something such as…” Raphael tilted his head towards the corpse. “Truly, it was an honour getting to see a master perform such barbarity in the flesh.”

Raphael rose from the boulder, giving his deepest bow as a sign of respect. 

Tav turned around, only just realising the body behind them. They backed away from it, dropping the dagger as their hands trembled. 

“I… huh? No. No! W-what is going on? What is the meaning of this? Is this one of your cruel jokes, Devil?”

“A joke? Hah!” Raphael promptly covered his mouth as the laughter escaped his lips. He looked around the camp cautiously, waiting for at least one of the companions to stir, but they all remained asleep. 

He resumed, in a quieter, hushed tone.

“No, no, my murderous friend, there is no blood on my hands. See?” Raphael twirled his digits, taking a moment to admire his nails amid the glowing campfire. “Look carefully, the evidence is all around you.”

Tav’s head dropped to their hands, their eyes deepening with dread as they took in all the blood. They desperately tried to wipe away the evidence on their trousers, their nightshirt… but it remained stuck to their skin. They fell to their knees, grabbing their head and pulling at their hair.

“Oh Gods… NO! I-I don’t know… no…I… it makes no sense, I was only…”

Shadowheart stirred in the sleeping bag next to Tav. Warily, Raphael raised his index finger to his lips. 

“Hush now, else you’ll rouse the entire camp. I don’t imagine you’d find that very helpful.”  

“This is all a nightmare. Yes. A nightmare. This whole thing, it’s not real. No. Nothing is real. You’re not real. I’ll wake up and everything will be back to normal. That’s it. You’re OK. You’re OK…”

Tav folded into a ball, holding on to their knees as they rocked back and forth, muttering nonsense. Raphael titled his head, his face a mask of serenity but his eyes burned, radiating with excitement. 

“Do you have no memory of… ?” Raphael pointed towards the corpse. 

Tav shook their head, staring coldly at Alfira’s body.

“I… I don’t remember anything. Nothing. Not from tonight or before that fucking crash. I barely know who I am. It’s like I never existed.”

Tav’s face curled with distaste at the situation, their eyes glazing over in resignation. Countless opportunities flooded towards Raphael like a dam bursting, nearly knocking him over. Oh, the things he could do with this newfound knowledge, how he could shape and mould Tav as he saw fit. How utterly delicious.

All he had to do was snap his fingers and their memory would be restored… It was that easy. But the truth would destroy them. They weren’t ready to learn what they were, what they were capable of. They’d self-destruct, surely. Dooming all his future plans, the thousands of years he spent planning, scheming. No, it was not a gamble he was willing to take. Not yet.

“Perhaps I can be of service then?”

Tav slowly looked up at Raphael, their eyes concentrating on him.

“You’re unfortunately too late.” 

“My, we give up easily. The body. Allow me to dispose of it for you.”

Tav opened their mouth, their forehead scrunching. 

“I don–”

Raphael raised his hand dramatically above him, cutting their words short as he prepared his thumb and middle finger.

Snap! 

Alfira’s body disappeared in a flurry of sparks. Tav jumped back, suppressing a scream at the sudden fiery display.  

“I’ll give you this one for free. And mind you, this is entirely an altruistic act. I don’t ever want to hear you or any other mortal say a Devil can’t be sympathetic again.”

“Why…?”

Tav’s eyes filled with tears as they looked away from Raphael, shaking their head in confusion. In denial. The Devil kneeled down, placing a comforting hand on their shoulder, squeezing it lightly. He allowed his fingers to soak up the warmth from Tav, leaving his hand to rest on their body for perhaps a second too long.

“Merely a taste of what’s to come, of what I can offer you in the days ahead. The next one will come at a price however, which we can negotiate in due time.”

“And my memory…?” Tav sniffed, their eyes locking with Raphael’s.

"It will return. You might not want to know who you really are, in the end. But when you’re ready, I will find you. I’ll be watching.”

Raphael stood up, patting away the dirt from his knees.

“Oh, I’d wash the blood off your hands if I were you. And maybe get rid of that little shrine to Bhaal while you’re at it. Your companions will be asking questions in the morning and you don’t want to cause any more suspicion.” 

Snap! 

A flaming portal appeared behind Raphael, leading straight to his Chamber of Egress.

He made one final flourishing bow to Tav, before turning away from them and walking through the gateway.

"Oh, the fun we’ll have." Raphael whispered, humming a tune as he disappeared. "Together, we’ll paint the town red."

[marshmallow-bg3]

One day Roux claims Gortash’s bedroom for himself. It’s not as romantic as it may sound, it’s early on, they've barely started working together. Gortash has this huge gaudy and heavily trapped mansion in the Upper City which he barely uses. The man works, eats, sleeps, fucks and otherwise lives in his workshop while the rest of the house gathers dust and ghosts. The master bedroom is big and richly furnished, it has a nice big bed with soft pillows and silky sheets, and most importantly big floor to ceiling windows that let the setting sun in. Roux wants it. Sceleritas would never let him own a place like that, away from the Temple, but the butler can't stop him from stealing one. What harm? Gortash never uses it anyway!

Until he suddenly does and finds the room quite lived in and a naked Bhaalspawn in his bed looking at him in genuine surprise. "What do you mean the fuck am I doing here?" It’s awkward, it’s outrageous, it’s... strategically complicated. Gortash just goes back to his workshop, dumbfoundedly. The next few weeks it’s an unspoken war involving complex enchanted locks, all sorts of hi-tech traps and ambushes resulting in minor to medium property damage, staff layoffs, some sort of Banite anathema and two dead sex workers. Both Chosen secretly find it immensely entertaining.

When it becomes clear that Roux is winning Gortash turns to diplomacy and offers him the guest bedroom for permanent rent-free use. Only to find the Bhaalspawn peacefully snoring in his bed again a few days later. It feels somewhat rude to wake him up only to make a scene so Gortash just stays there reluctantly admitting to himself that he quite enjoys the company. It continues for weeks, both pretend that never happened, the one who wakes up first just leaves. Until one morning he doesn’t but that’s a story for another day.

Anyway, it’s like “there is only one bed” except there are plenty of beds. And that’s how they become domestic before they become romantic/sexual.

[victorgrwrites]

Gortash is an Artificer

Some people doubt this, and those people do not see the light. One angle I've seen is that he just steals other's schematics, but let's be real. If you're not stealing or finessing into other artificer houses' schematics, you're not an artificer.

Two, there's documents that clearly comment about additions to those schematics in Gortash's writing. It takes knowledge to alter those schematics, let alone comprehend them.

AND ANOTHER THING, there's no reason for a warlock (and by extension a devil patron) to be interested in a dirt poor kid with shitty parents. Unless that kid happens to be good at something, and there's multiple times where his mom talks about how he was a smart kid that was too smart for his own good.

If I had to hazard a guess, parents that talk like that probably didn't like that he was more interested in artifice than shoe making, didn't like that he was smarter than them in anything, and didn't like the 'mess' or 'time wasted' on pulling apart and putting together little machines.

Now, with my rant done, here's some bonus HC broth I've been making specifically about Gortash.

He absolutely snuck into the Hall of Wonders all the time as a kid, just to look at everything. There might have even been a worker there who let him sneak in cause Enver just looked so damn excited every time.

Man doesn't have a crossbow, fuck that. He has a gun/enhanced arcane focus, Larian just didn't have time for artificer stuff yet we're just not ready for it.

In case anyone hasn't noticed yet, he likes artifice because they're machines and can't turn on him. He literally builds them; they can't lie and choose to hurt him, they can't leave for something better, they are the ultimate barrier between him and anyone else.

The majority of his knowledge came from his time in the House of Hope, or maybe elsewhere in the Hells. It's why the Steel Watch have infernal engines.

Durge Bonus:

I've got a little bit in mind for the first fic where Jack (Durge) and Gortash meet, and Jack asks to use his knife. He throws it back at Gortash to give it back, but instead of stabbing his leg, it just comes back to Gortash's hand. Returning Weapon, not RAW, but rule of cool, baby. Because again, Enver's machines never hurt him.

Jack often wonders if he'll find metal in Gortash if he digs around in his body enough. Even though he knows it's probably not true, his instincts tell him it'll be in his chest, near the spine, under the sternum. One of the many and various kinds of looks he'll give Gortash is the 'searching for your metal' look every now and again.

And Gortash finds it weirdly flattering.

[mightymizora]

Even if Love

Let's have a Gortash.

Read on Ao3

He still takes the time, because he can. He takes the time because it is important to get these things right, and it is his great gift. Ever since he was a child he has understood instinctively how things piece together.

A shoe is simple enough in its construction, especially when it is being made by such simple-minded people again and again and again. Sole, tongue, toe, vamp, collar, counter, heavy stitch and buckle and lace, sole, tongue, toe and so on so on. He worked hard for his parents but they were always so limited in their thinking, and any suggestion of innovation to streamline, to innovate, to increase productivity or longevity or quality was met with stone faces and closed-fist swipes. He had not understood it back then. Part of him had believed what they had said about him being wicked. Now he knew the great pestilence in the world was that of the mediocre man and their insipid combination of fear and disrespect. If you have money, or power, or a seating above them, you can control them. If you show any weakness they will swarm upon you like maggots on rotting flesh to take what they can. 

A shoe is simple in its construction, but there were many more things to see in the hells of more intricate make. There was no day or night in Avernus, so he took every moment that he could steal away to read, to study, to pass through what the master left out carelessly. When he ran out of things to steal away, he made plans to access more. While the others fell to their despairs, he made sure that no moment was wasted until he could find his escape.

Perhaps it was fitting that his first kiss was an Incubus. Poetic, for this child of wickedness. An early lesson that he had something other than his mind to trade. He sometimes thinks of it, tries to evoke it. Part of him is vexed that he cannot remember it; too young to truly appreciate what a unique situation he found himself in, too frightened perhaps to understand the great power in the transaction. Sometimes he still feels a familiar creep across his body; a strange experience, to be bought back to what pleasure felt like to him as a youth. 

Life back in the Gate was full of banality at first. When one finds themselves in the gutters, one cannot be too picky about ones friends. The Heapside Reavers were uninspiring vagabonds, but it was easy to find a place at the top of their pile. With that came money, and with money came the possibility for more enterprising connections. New clothes, new accommodation away from the lower city. A new name for a new man, new plans, new threads, plays, mechanisms. New runners. He swore he would be a fairer master than those he had in the hells.

Weaponry had always been his great love. The intricacies of the infliction of violence. The first bomb he had seen appeared such a small, insignificant and unassuming thing; he had then seen it tear through eight men, leaving the one closest to in barely more than a red mist. He had taken one apart, examined it, rebuilt it, taken it apart, examined and improved it. The simple joy of the understanding of something capable of such things.

He still takes the time, because he can.

Compared to complex weapons, the petty rivalries of the Thieves Guild and the Zhentarim were simple. No need to take apart and examine; all that was needed was a little disruption. An undercut price, a better product, more loyal men, better suppliers. That, in turn, would need influence. He does not remember who first invited him to a meeting, but as soon as he arrived he knew he had found something truly special, something of fine intricacies and new thought, progressive thought. Rooms full of weapons dealers who wanted his product, ever expanding landlords who wanted good investment, those on the cutting edge of the new technologies of Toril, of the labour crisis, of fiscal reform. In the smoking rooms of those meetings he found his first true home, and the calling to bring these men to a much higher purpose.

To a God who finally saw, no, sees his worth. A God who comes to him in his sleep. A God who gives him hidden knowledge. A God whose hand shakes the hand of every great businessman, every rich lord, even if some dare not speak his name. He finds many, many more are more than willing to embrace the hand of Bane.

The extension of the Black Hand to shake the hand of Bhaal's chosen proved more complex. There was no sway of money, or resource, so he relied on what has always seen him through; intelligence. He encouraged the patrons of the Hall of Wonders to display artifacts from the old temple. He ensured that this was publicised in the right places. He sent a missive to the new temple, and set the bait. 

He had been strangely disappointed, he remembers, when he first saw her. Draped in plain cloth, short and strong in stature. She seemed unassuming, somehow. She pulled back her hood and looked at him with a suspicious, heavy brow. I am intrigued to see what you can do, Gortash, she had said with a chuckle. I have heard such things about you. It was only when she unleashed herself on the private view of the collection that he saw her for what she was. 

Weaponry had always been his great love. How could he not adore her as she tore through them with her hands, as she crushed their heads between her thighs, as she tore out flesh with her teeth? She with her flame red hair drenched in blood, she whose small body he now understood to be a compact, muscular explosion. She made his greatest prototypes seem like children's playthings. Still, he remembered her eyes gleaming with the reflection of the blasts from them, transformed into great pools in her arousal. He would never be able to forget how she looked at him that day.

He chases that look through the eyes of the others he fucks. He wants them to look at him with that same wonderment, that same reverence, but the moment he has them they feel cheap. Disposable. He craves only the sight of her tearing into flesh for many months, even as they continue his work. It is not until they return to the hells for the crown that he gets to see her work again, and she is magnificent. There is something that frees in him as she rips the heads from the imps who once tormented him, as she is bathed in demonic light. When they return with their quarry she is alight with laughter, with a glee, and he takes her bloody hands in his and kisses her palms without a thought. She almost crushes his head between them, her eyes taken over with that arousal born in blood. As her hands slip to grip him around his neck he takes himself into his own, spilling himself at her feet before she grants him the tenderness of a kiss.

Later, he takes her to his chambers. He has his servants run a bath to pull the blood and other fluids from her. He lays her on his bed, and takes the time to try to pull her apart.

He simply wants to understand.

[mumms-the-word]

In Fathoms Below - Ch. 4

Ch. 4 - The Stowaway

Characters: Gale, Karlach, Wyll, Lae'zel, Shadowheart, Astarion, Halsin, Minthara, Gortash + other OCs; pairing is Gale x fem!Tav Plot: The island city of Nautera disappeared over 4500 years ago, if it ever existed at all. Now not a single, legitimate record of Nautera exists, save for one. The Nauterran Account. Long thought lost, it has recently been retrieved from the depths of Candlekeep’s archives and placed into the capable hands of one Gale Dekarios. With the Nauterran Account in hand and an eclectic team of Baldurians and other allies mounting an official expedition, Gale journeys to find the ruins of Nautera…but hopes to find so much more. A/N: I promised we'd get a pale vampire didn't I? Well, we might have also bitten off more than we can chew in this chapter...but you'll have to read on to see. You might also notice I'm making a few changes to the canon for a few characters. You'll see why...eventually.

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“A stowaway?” Minthara said, her lips curling into a playful smirk. Playful in the way that a tressym who’s cornered a pigeon feels playful. “How convenient. I was just thinking we might need to gather a sacrifice or two to appease any gods on our journey.”

“H-hang on,” the elf said. “Let’s not get too hasty. I can explain—”

“Save your words, darthiir. Lest I decide to kill you where you kneel.”

“How’d he even get on the sub?” Karlach mumbled nearby. Beside her, Shadowheart simply shrugged. Gale stayed quiet, but he suspected he knew exactly how the elf managed to steal aboard. Perhaps it wasn't Tara in that large supply crate after all...

“He looks like a vampire,” Wyll said, crossing his arms. “Red eyes, sharp fangs, pale skin. All the signs are there.”

The elf opened his mouth as if to argue, and then visibly seemed to change course. He looked up at Minthara instead. “I don’t suppose that rules me out for sacrifice? After all, I am undead. Not much left to sacrifice.”

She merely continued to smirk. “It makes no difference to me whether you are undead or not. If anything, it makes you even more disposable.”

“But I could be useful! Not as a sacrifice. I—er, I could—” His eyes cast around the room as if desperately searching for inspiration. 

Another gnome pilot spoke up while he struggled to come up with something useful. “Saer, we’re approaching the first area marked on the maps.”

“Enough, Minthara. We will deal with this later,” Gortash said, leveling a significant, almost warning look at her. "We have more pressing matters to attend to."

He turned to his pilots. “Activate the searchlights and begin a slow sweep of the area. Everyone else, eyes on our surroundings. You know what to look for.”

“Aye, saer. All engines reduce to ten percent,” Redhammer said.

A chorus of pilots responded with confirmations and other reports, and the great rumbling of engines that had filled the air and thrummed through the floor decreased to a faint purr in the background. Through the view of the glass ceiling and windows, towering cliffsides and rock formations materialized into view as the submersible slowed to a crawl, drifting slowly through the deep sea valleys and trenches.

“You two, keep an eye on the vampire, will you?” Gortash said, gesturing dismissively toward the drow. 

The two dark-clad soldiers glanced briefly at Gortash before focusing on Minthara again, clearly awaiting further orders. She stared down at Astarion with obvious disdain before turning away and moving to gaze out of the glass on the port side of the submersible.

“Bind him and keep him secure here in the helm. I don’t want him underfoot. If he makes any attempts to flee…stake him in the heart.” She flashed a crimson-laced warning look over her shoulder at the vampire before facing the windows again.

Gale watched, uneasy, as the drow soldiers bound the vampire’s arms behind his back and tied his legs together at the ankles. The vampire, to his credit, only murmured a few dark words under his breath, but more or less consented to the treatment. He settled down to kneel in a corner of the helm, watching them all with wary curiosity. Gale doubted he even knew what kind of situation he had gotten himself into.

“Poor guy,” Karlach said softly, joining Gale at the desk. “Feels kinda gross to claim a prisoner on our first day…but that’s Gortash and Minthara for you.”

“Have you worked for them long?” he asked, looking up at the fiery tiefling. 

“Long enough,” she said. “Gortash more than Minthara, though. I signed on to work for him over ten years ago. Then I got dragged into the hells. Literally."

"Literally?" Surely she wasn't being serious.

"Yup. Hear that?” She banged on her chest. Beneath the sound of fist on flesh, there was a dull metal thunk. He leaned in closer despite himself. In the quiet wake of the reduced engines, he could hear the faint sounds of machinery clicking and whirring and the soft, rhythmic release of steam. 

“Is that…metal?” he asked, a little awed and a little queasy. How in the world...?

“Infernal engine for a heart,” she said, stating the grim fact with about as much weight as if she were admitting her hair was naturally black. “Courtesy of a certain archdevil in Avernus. I spent years down there, a soldier in the Blood War, before Gortash made a few deals to bring me back. Never did find out the details, but…it doesn’t matter. I owe him my life.”

Gale could scarcely believe what he was hearing, and yet, it was far from the most ludicrous or tragic true story he’d ever heard, even in his short life. “How did you end up there in the first place?”

She shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. One minute, it’s any old day. The next, I’m waking up in the hells with this thing in my chest.”

She fell silent for a second and then quietly, almost a whisper, said, “Zariel said Gortash sold me to her for a bargain, but…that can’t be true. He sacrificed so much to bring me back, he can't have been the one to sell me out. He even fixed up the engine so I wouldn’t be on fire all the time. She must have been lying.”

But even as she spoke the words, a tone of doubt crept into her voice until at last she looked uncertain. Gale didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

After a few seconds, she shook her head and glanced back at the vampire. “Anyway, as much as I hate to see it, it’s just how things are around here. I hope we can just let him go somewhere in the Underdark, though.”

Gale studied the vampire again. He was expecting feral hunger and wicked glances, but the elf simply watched his surroundings in silence. He looked, if anything, resigned. Even tired.

But perhaps it was all a ruse. 

“I’m gonna go talk to him,” Karlach decided all of a sudden. “See what he’s about.”

“Just make sure Minthara doesn’t get too annoyed with you,” Gale advised. “She seems to have plans for him.”

Karlach waved this off with “pfft!” and a smile before jogging over to the two drow soldiers and the vampire. Gale watched her chat a moment, a little smile on his face, before collecting the Nauterran Account, tucking it back into his satchel, and moving toward the windows on the starboard side.

Lae’zel and Wyll were both staring out of the glass next to Gale, watching the underwater scenery drift by. Amid cliffs and crags, there were standalone towers of stone, deep crevices, and far too many caves, some shallow, some deep. Night must have well and truly fallen by now because the water beyond the reach of the enchanted lights had grown pitch black, like a dense cloak of darkness. It didn’t make the search any easier.

The searchlight nearest the three of them swept slowly over the sea floor between cliffs and towers, at first illuminating nothing but stone and sand. There were no signs of any statues or carved structures just yet, but as for caves and crevices? There were more than he’d been expecting. It might take them hours to find anything worthwhile. 

After a moment, though, new shapes came into the light. Sometimes sharp and jagged, sometimes rounded and smooth, these shapes were noticeably different than the natural rock formations that surrounded them.

Shipwrecks.

“Uh oh,” Wyll murmured. “That’s not a good sign.” 

As more and more came into view, it was undeniable that they were anything other than the shattered remains of ships. Masts, hulls, even rare glimpses of shredded metal lay scattered around the sea floor and the cliff sides. It was as though an entire fleet of ships had been dragged down into the depths, suddenly and all at once.

Beside Gale, Lae’zel made a sharp noise. “Chk. There are enough ships here to build an armada. An old battle between two navies, perhaps?”

Gale frowned. “No, I don’t believe so. Look—there are too many different ship designs.” He pointed out several that he recognized. “Waterdhavian. Calishite. Even Luskan designs. These ships would have come from all over the Sword Coast, and perhaps even from Evermeet and beyond.”

“Some of these are quite old, perhaps even centuries old,” Wyll said. “I recognize a few ships from history books about Baldur’s Gate’s early days, the kind of ship Balduran himself would have sailed in.”

“We must be getting close,” Gale said. “Perhaps some of these people were sailing for Evermeet, but others…they must have also been looking for Nautera.”

The three of them were quiet a moment, watching as more and more shipwrecks came into view, their hulls cracked open, their masts splintered into shrapnel, their sails and flags and ropes little more than threads. At last, Wyll finally voiced the question they were doubtless all thinking.

“What dragged them down here?”

Gale dared not guess. His mind was already swimming with visions of catastrophe—everything from a great tempest or a whirlpool to the colossal figure of Umberlee herself, her blue-scaled face rising up before them with flashing eyes and a smile full of several rows of needle-sharp teeth.

None of this boded well. The sooner they found those statues, the better.

He moved the strap of his satchel from one shoulder to the other, so that it crossed his body, and made his way to the front of the helm to peer out of the windows there. He leaned against one of the metal control units, his nose nearly to the glass, trying to see further ahead despite the darkness of the water. 

Gortash joined him after a moment, frowning deeply as he stared out through the glass. “Blast this infernal darkness, I can barely see a thing.”

“Perhaps if you left the searching to those of us with advanced darkvision, your lordship,” came Minthara’s voice from across the helm, a hint of a smirk in her voice.

Gortash ignored her. “What we need is a powerful light spell,” he said instead, turning to smile at Gale. “I don’t suppose you have—”

His next words were ripped from his throat as the entire submersible lurched violently upward with a deafening bang, driving everyone to their knees or knocking them completely off their feet. The submersible tilted abruptly to one side, forcing Gale to grab onto a series of metal pipes to keep himself from sliding completely across the floor. Shouts rang out around the helm as pilots struggled to get back to their places and right the submersible again.

“What did we hit?” Gortash demanded, grabbing onto the control panel to clamber back to his feet. “Give me a damage report! Now!”

Another massive blow was his answer as something struck the back half of the submersible, sending them spinning nearly full circle. Redhammer bellowed commands as those not piloting the submersible fit themselves into nooks or secured themselves by hanging onto anything bolted to the seacraft, be it railings, controls, or pipes. A grating, repetitive alarm began to blare through the room and down the passageways of the submersible.

Suddenly the submersible lurched again with another bang, this time as if something had wrapped around the exterior and yanked it around. The pilots struggled against wheels and levers as they spun or activated on their own, but it was useless as the submersible was pulled upward and tilted sharply down. Gale tumbled over the top of the control panel he was standing near, hitting the glass of the front windows as the seacraft tipped dangerously downward, almost vertical. He caught himself on hands and knees, landing painfully, but it wasn’t the pain that froze him.

It was the sight of a massive, reptilian face and large, glowing yellow eyes that chilled the blood in his veins.

“Oak Father preserve us,” he heard Halsin say, somewhere in the back of the room behind him. “Is that—”

“A dragon turtle!” Wyll finished, his voice a mix of boyish excitement and sharp warning.

The dragon turtle tilted its giant head and then unlatched its jaws in a grin-like fashion. Its mouth was easily large enough to swallow half their submersible in one go. A serrated edge, almost like teeth, lined each jaw, the upper jaw forming a sharp beak that looked all too capable of puncturing even the thick metal exterior of their submersible. They were trapped in its claws, Gale realized, held fast in its strong grip as they tilted again under the dragon turtle’s piercing gaze.

A deep rumbling, like a laugh, issued forth from the depths of its throat, vibrating through the submersible. Then it spoke, its voice so deep and slow Gale could scarcely make sense of the words, even if there weren’t several inches of metal and glass between him and the dragon turtle. The volume and deep timbre of the voice shook the seacraft, rattling everything that wasn’t nailed down—the desk, trinkets around the room, even Gale’s bones. The sound was deafening, dampened only barely by the exterior of the submersible.

“What language is this?” Shadowheart shouted. “What is it saying?”

“I think—it must be draconic!” Gale shouted back, struggling not to collapse under the force of the impossibly deep voice. It finally trailed off, leaving a strange buzzing behind, as if everything were still reverberating from its short speech.

Gale could scarcely form a thought, the ringing in his ears was so loud. He suddenly felt tiny, staring down the maw of the gigantic creature with only a few inches of glass between himself and almost certain death. Something gripped his chest and squeezed it painfully, something that forced his breaths to turn shallow and sharp.

Terror, he realized distantly, as his body seemed to rapidly cool and grow warm in flashes.

He was terrified.

“Wizard, what did it say?” Minthara asked.

“I…” He could feel his hands shaking and the adrenaline singing in his veins. Was this to be his fate? Swallowed by a dragon turtle, or left to drown in the depths of its lair? All he could do was stare at one of the creature's large eyes, fixed beneath its glowing yellow gaze.

A familiar and loathsome ache seized his chest as panic threatened to consume him, constricting his heart and hardening his lungs. The mark on his chest began to glow bright purple in response to the pain. Almost like a reminder. He could do it now—if they couldn’t get out of this alive, would it be so bad to take the dragon turtle with them? If he—

“Wizard!”

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to focus. He mentally called back to just a moment ago, trying to retrieve the syllables and sounds the dragon turtle had said from his memory and play them again in his head, forming the words silently on his lips as he recalled each word. His eyes snapped open as understanding dawned on him.

“It said, ‘Greetings, strange metal one,’” he translated in a slightly quivering voice. “It...it wants to know what tribute we bring.”

[yeehawbvby]

Silver and Gold, Blood and Snow (Gortash x GN!Dark Urge)

Rating: Teen+ (Mentions of canon-typical violence)

Summary: Midwinter is a tenday away, and it has Gortash reminiscing about your holiday celebration just a few years prior.

Author’s Note: This was written as a Ko-fi request for the wonderful @liquid-coffeebear !! It takes place before the events of BG3, but after Durge got Orin'd. The Durge's race, height, gender, etc. are all left completely ambiguous. I had so much fun writing this, and I hope y'all enjoy it as much as I do! :D x

Check it out on ao3!

Snow was bountiful in the Lower City this winter.

Enver watched from the balcony as children played outside his fortress: trudging their way through the knee-high substance, pelting snowballs at one another, and letting even the weakest hit knock them down, just to have an excuse to lay atop the soft white sheets beneath them. He viewed passersby buying gifts for loved ones from the local booths and shops, arms full of burlap, and burlaps full of toys and jewelry and clothing galore. He gazed at the warm-blooded Dragonborn denizens walking freely in their typical daywear while the humans, halflings, and everyone else shivered beneath their copious layers.

The Lord had never been one for people-watching, more focused on his duties and plans for the future than those whom he’d spend it with. For some reason, though, he felt nostalgic this year.

He thought back to when you were around. Before Orin had… well, you know.

There was one Midwinter’s eve in particular that stuck out in his memory, as vivid as red on white. You had just finished wreaking havoc, as was your specialty; you would regularly fill the city’s citizens with dread, and leave them with a submissive and naïve hope for a better future that only their Lord could potentially grant them.

Blood had been splattered across the walls of every building you entered that day – the Upper City palace Enver had resided in at the time being the only exception – and in turn, crimson smears stained every inch of snow you stepped in. Of course, as a courtesy towards those you’d slain, you decorated their corpses with ribbons, and garland, and any other festive decor you could rip down from proximate displays. It was the least you could do, really.

In the midst of the chaos, you found time to steal a present for Enver. He’d complained at first that he had enough gold to buy himself anything he wanted. He appreciated the gesture, of course, but what need was there for such menial yearly practices when he could have all of Faerûn – perhaps all of the world – in his palm within the coming years?

You huffed, demanding in spite of your kind eyes that he take the damned gift before you slit his torso open and replace his viscera with it.

You truly were a being after his own heart.

He’d laughed, wordlessly taking the hastily wrapped box from you. After turning the lengthy object over in his hand for a moment, he peered up, only to view you staring intently at your own feet. Shyness was a rare look on you. It fueled Enver’s curiosity, prompting him to finally tear the parchment away from the wooden vessel.

Opening the small metal clasp revealed to him a set of golden gauntlets. There were two arm coverings that looked as if they could be a perfect fit for his person, and for his right hand only laid somewhat of a glove piece. Along with these came a set of rings, some of which resembled claws.

The ore had been molded into serpentine designs, yet within the right-hand adornment laid an empty crevice. It looked as though it was meant for a jewel of sorts, but the poor soul these had been lost to hadn’t had a chance to insert it yet.

Enver tilted his head, poring over every detail of the accessories. The back of his mind wondered just who these were originally for – certainly it must have been an elite, given the intricate craftsmanship – but his consideration evaporated as he realized it mattered not.

The poor soul was long gone anyway.

For the first time in ages, someone had rendered him speechless. He looked up at you, whose gaze was back on his. Your eyes glimmered with a hope you clearly hadn’t wanted to be seen. You knew he respected you as his equal; that he trusted you with his life, to rule his world alongside him… yet you seemed to search for his praise..?

It was silly, really. Of course you’d earned it. These were perfect for him. He closed the gap between the two of you, placing the box in your hands so he could try the gauntlets on. The rings fit splendidly. The arm pieces could use some adjusting, as they were a bit too snug, but it was nothing his personal smith couldn’t fix.

Using one of his newly equipped prosthetic nails, he tugged you closer, planting a kiss to your slightly chapped lips. It was all the approval you needed.

In the present day, Enver looked down at the gauntlets. He rarely removed them – they’d become an integral part to his aesthetic. The empty slot that once was now contained his beloved Netherstone. Not only did your gift have sentiment, but it served a grander purpose than you’d ever come to know.

Enver missed you. Orin was a fine accomplice, but if anyone was to be Bhaal’s chosen, it should have been you… and if anyone was to share his companionship, it needed to be you. His heart felt empty in your wake.

He headed back into his chambers, requesting a cup of mulled wine from one of his servants. The same blend you’d shared on that cold Midwinter’s eve.

This Midwinter was just a tenday away. Perhaps he’d have a lonely celebration of his own this year. He’d relax by a fire and drink in your honor, reminiscing of old times and musing what could have been.

[theannoyingurge]

WIP Wednesday Thursday

Forgive me, it's my first smut! Part of a larger fic and there's a lot of worldbuilding that hasn't made it into this scene.

NSFW below the cut. F/M, dubcon, Durge appropriate violence (+ a little softness and aftercare). 1.5k words-ish Dark Urge inspires the urge to kill in Gortash. Terrible as he is, he's shown little taste for violence. She suspects Bane will punish Gortash if he doesn't rise to the challenge and overpower her, and she's rather invested in the continued success of her only ally.

Gortash's control lapsed for only a second before the dagger was against her throat, pinning her to the wall. Yet, he found himself immobilized by an unyielding force—unable to disengage, unable to commit murder. He was deadlocked. "Murder lives within me, and none steal from my table without permission," she chided. "I can make you hunger for it, and I can deny you."

She studied his face, watching a web of hidden emotions unravel one by one, until one snagged in the cruel gears of his mind and surfaced. "You've never felt so helpless, have you? Not since..."

She smiled sympathetically, though her eyes remained cold.

He reeled from the memories that resurfaced. He channeled his hate into the dagger in his hand, but it wouldn't budge. He refused to be trapped. He tried to loosen his grip, to release himself from her magic. Icy pain shot through his fingers, resonating sickeningly through bones shattered many times before, signaling nerves up to his elbow.

"You know, you were safer in Hell. You had Hope back then. I'll bet you never even appreciated all she did for you," she taunted, her voice hardening. "You will appreciate me, Enver Flymm."

Were he able, Gortash would have killed her right then, with or without the urge's inspiration. Instead, he was trapped in his panic, caught between an immovable object and an unstoppable force. How much did she know? How long had she plotted this moment, to use Lord Bane's orders against him?

He choked on his words—blinded by hate, frozen in fear.

"Because I am merciful; I can free you." Despite the blade at her throat, she twisted her head to the side and licked a long, slow line up his forearm, allowing the knife to slice a shallow gash across her neck. Unnatural, dark blood trickled down her chest.

"Do it," she ordered, catching him by surprise. Her behavior was jarring, but the sincerity in her eyes held his trust. "Do it while I am weakened."

He blinked, and a vision of her body exposed and thrashing beneath him burned into his eyelids—the Black Hand, a glorious vise around her neck. The rush of Tyranny surged through him, awakening every nerve and calling it to arms. Conquer, it commanded.

We can be good for each other, he had promised.

He threw the dagger to the floor. His hand went to her neck to stop the bleeding, and he kissed her with as much hate as his mouth could convey without words. Tonight, they would craft a cipher known only to their bodies.

Gortash released her neck, letting her collapse to the floor. She extended one arm, propping herself against the wall, half-slipping in a puddle of her own making. He watched her gasp like a fish out of water. Her pulse spilled black-red down her arms and nestled sensually into the hollow of her breasts.

With the toe of his boot, he nudged her thighs apart, exposing her smallclothes as her skirts gathered around her hips. The simple, grey fabric at the apex of her thighs did more for him than the most exotic succubi's trappings.

His cock stiffened. 

Gortash knelt, unhurried, resting an elbow on his knee. With his gauntleted hand, he gripped her throat again, raking the cold metal talon on his thumb across her jaw. "How long before you bleed out?"

She sputtered, weakly, but her eyes were alight with mischief. She looked down at the bulge in his trousers, and smiled. "Why, nervous about your performance?"

He raised up and slapped her hard with the back of his free hand. 

Her yelp sent a jolt of power straight to his loins. As the shock receded, her smile opened up like a flower in bloom, and her eyes fell closed in relief. Her breasts heaved in anticipation. Violence.

He kissed her again, promising to wipe the perverse smile off her face before she passed out on him. With the back of a large finger, he traced the damp shadow between the folds of her sex. She sucked in a sharp, quiet breath; responsive to his slightest touch.

Gortash's motions were frantic, spurred by his uncharacteristic lapse of control. Teeth knocked against teeth as he worked to free his cock and tear aside the sticky fabric of her smalls, before tumbling heavily between her open thighs. 

How long had he lusted for this; taking her. He would steal the air from her lungs, the beat from her heart, the unholy spark of her wretched soul. He would take it all with impunity. No—he would take it all with Tyranny.

Lord Bane's presence had made itself undeniable. It was as real and physical in his body as a fever. It roared first with power, then with need, ever demanding more, more, more from them both.

He knew she lusted for him in return, but here and now—with the Black Lord's blessing—he did not give the slightest fuck what she wanted. The fire in him, that infernal heat that could never be vented, burned ever higher.

He plunged into her to the hilt. 

Her cry caught in her throat as he squeezed it shut. He took in the vision of her face—mouth open, brows contorted in shock, her wide glassy eyes were sweet and needy and afraid and boring into him. Gortash committed the image to memory. Then, he released her airway, and began fucking her in earnest.

The sounds that escaped her were surely insults to both of their gods.

"You don't even have the decency to pretend anymore, do you? You would love anything I did to you."

He seized a large handful of her ass and rose to his knees, pulling her pelvis off the ground to meet him, dragging the rest of her body onto the floor. He pressed down on her neck, enough to strangle her with each indignant rock of his body, relishing how the force rippled through her. He briefly let go of her neck to loosen the fabric obscuring her breasts, mesmerized by the two stiff peaks that bounced in jagged, oblong patterns to the ruthless beat of his pleasure.

He leaned forward to suck a hard, sensitive nipple into his mouth. He did not care to be gentle, pulling back with his teeth, releasing it with a loud, lascivious POP.

She keened.

"Why do I work so hard to please you?" he growled, picking up speed as he chased his release, "Why do you do this to me? To yourself? Why not beg for what you want like the whore you are?"

He loosened his grip to allow her response.

"Go to Hell, Enver." 

Her breathless obstinance was music to his ears. Her voice pitched high, betraying her every desperate desire.

"I'll take you with me," he spat, "You're mine."

Her heavy eyes closed. He had never seen her so at peace. He ran the gauntlet down her body, smearing Bhaal's precious blood all over his favorite daughter's perfect tits.

"You're mine, Bhaalspawn." He taunted, confident now that the urge was too weak to retaliate. "You're mine."

He felt her bare down on his cock, and he fucked up into her harder, punishingly. 

"Please," she whispered.

"Fuck," he choked.

He held himself deep inside her as he spilled, allowing the cascades of her pleasure to milk him, drawing the poison out. 

He hoped it ruined her one day. 

Slowly, Gortash's strength waned, and Bane's hatred dissipated with it. He was impressed by how much blood his little assassin had lost without fainting.

He sat back on his heels, pulling her into his lap. "Shhh," he cooed, "Look at me, Bhaalspawn."

With a soothing touch, healing magic emanated from his gauntlet, enough to close the bleeding wound at her throat. Still, she would need potions and rest. "Stay with me tonight."

She looked at him apprehensively.

"Please," he echoed. She winced. He hadn't said it to mock her, but that was for her pride to sort out. He only knew they couldn't part like this.

She groaned but allowed her head to rest on his shoulder, burrowing into the crook of his neck.

Gortash smiled.

She breathed him in, releasing it with a shudder that set his hairs on end. "I am in no shape to argue."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Yours," she scolded weakly. "Tyrant. You're pushing our luck."

He chuckled, low and lazy. "We don't need luck. What we do need is a few healing potions. I keep a number of impeccable quality in my apartments."

Gortash referred to her own alchemy, of course. She trusted no one else's, and poisons were a matter of security which he gladly deferred to her expertise.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. They both froze.

It felt good, proper, in the ease of the moment—if not for the inkling of Bane's displeasure in his gut. He would atone later that evening, after his ally had been bathed and tended to, when she slept soundly in the safety of his own bed. She would not return to the Temple of Bhaal in this state.

"Relax," Gortash said, carefully lifting her into his arms. "I'm taking you home."

[animentality]

I love when Durge is bigger than Gortash is (i.e. default dragonborn, or etc) because that designates Gortash as the little spoon automatically and ohhh there is SO much to that. The trust that would have be involved for Gortash not just putting his back to THEE Dark Urge, but also letting them wrap him up completely in their arms? While he’s unconscious and vulnerable? Durge’s hands (and maybe even claws) pressed to his chest or stomach with all his vital organs just underneath. Durge’s teeth by his neck. Insane position for any normal person to put oneself in willingly. But imagine being Gortash and this is the only situation in which you feel genuinely truly safe, actually. You only feel protected when you are objectively at the mercy of the giant blood-crazed Bhaalspawn you’re wearing like a backpack. (Or maybe, less like a backpack and more like armour. Because the Bhaalspawn has claimed your death already, and swore it would be the last, so what is there to fear? Your life was already in their hands long before you laid down with them like this. You trust that they’re in control, that they have you. And if any assassin or whoever wants to get to you while you’re asleep, wants to take the life that already belongs to the Dark Urge, well. Nobody can touch you unless they go through the Dark Urge first, and good luck with that. If Gortash is peacefully asleep in the arms of an actual Bhaalspawn, it’s not Gortash who’s in danger, it’s everyone else.)

oh.

well written, anon. knee trembling one shot kill.

"if any assassin wants to get to you while you're asleep, wants to take the life that belongs to the dark urge-" and "it's not Gortash who's in danger, it's everyone else."

that's beautiful.

it's not even just the idea of Gortash trusting the dark urge not to hurt him. it's the notion that Gortash is content with the idea of placing his life and his death in the dark urge's hands. he takes comfort in the danger.

"his life is mine. his death is mine also."

"no one can kill him but me. no one can hurt him but me."

"I said you'd be the last, and you will be. all else who would seek to steal you from me, will suffer and will perish at my hands long before that."

this is Hozier coded.

good god, let me give you my life.

[argetcross]

(BG3 Act III Astarion Spoilers)

Have an Astarion Stays a Spawn but Leaves your Party AU:

After Astarion breaks the staff and screams "I hope you die screaming" and refuses to set any of the spawn free, he leaves and realizes... he has nowhere to go.

Sure, Cazador's dead, but he's still just a vampire spawn and now he doesn't even any friends or allies in the city. Half his shit is still at camp (he liked those clothes, damn it), he's alone and miserable and... there is something terribly hollow inside him.

He thinks at first because he's not really free. That power would have made him free, he could have been a vampire lord, and instead he remains this wretch... a wretch who ruined the lives of thousands of people, for 200 years and then in one last masterstroke, trapping them in Cazador's dungeon.

Fuck. Maybe they were right. Maybe he really is no better than Cazador.

No, he isn't going to entertain such a thought. It reminds him too much of... of what they might have said. And he can't get away, everywhere he turns in the city, this sun-dappled city, he remembers them. Even the bloody Gazette that he had giggled over editing with them is broadcasting their name nonstop. He has to get out of here, the Absolute be damned.

And yet, the minute he tries to flee Baldur's Gate, the minute he steps too far away from the artifact, he can feel the elder brain starting to bite at his awareness. That sends him into another wave of terror - was he shackled all along in this other way? These people who he thought he could trust, that lover who he had let his guard down around, were they also just another way to bind him?

He needs to kill them. He needs to take the artifact, Emperor be damned or whatever. So long as he's got this tadpole in his brain, he won't really be free. He's just going to become a slave again, just this time to the Absolute. He has to kill his former friends.

So why does that fill him with dread?

Astarion isn't good at planning. He's not good at the details. He just zeroes in on this new goal. He stalks his former friends - it's not hard, they're tearing up half the city and leaving trails of bodies behind them. They're subdued though. Half the time, he can't stand the sight of them, the other half, well... He's picking up on things, things he's angry about knowing- the limp Shadowheart has from their fight at Moonrise, the way Karlach's grown quiet, the strain in their voice.

Sometimes, he thinks they catch sight of him. He can feel their tadpoles, but they aren't pushing to find him, for all the blasted awareness it gives them. But they don't attack, even after he leaves several drained cultists bodies on the roof of the Elfsong or he steals back his things from the camp - no one even tries to stop him. The only thing he can't take is the Artifact. The godsdamn thing burns when he even touches it and that's when Lae'zel catches him, with a knowing look of someone who had tried something similar before.

Her threats are milquetoast. She says he should come back, that the seduction of individual power should have worn off by now, that it is the collective that can stand strong. He tries to bite her and gets thrown out the window for the trouble.

Bad End:

Gortash, Orin, whoever, catches up to him. He's not fast enough, not strong enough, and the Emperor's protection has long since worn thin.

When his former allies (friends, they were his friends, his mind tries to rebel, but the Elder Brain is too strong and he's just a godsdamned spawn) show up on the battlefield, it's almost a relief that they're the ones to stake him in the end. At least he can see them crying one last time.

Neutral End:

He comes back for the final fight. It's his fate, but he speaks to no one, cold and withdrawn. There's tension and hurt feelings, but he fights with the same familiarity and fluidity of months of near death experiences together. If he ever trusted you, it's nearly gone now.

After everything, he disappears into the darkness. You never see him again after that Sometimes you think you catch a sight of some pale hair in the corner of a dark alley. Sometimes missing posters come up of drained bodies, but they're small murderers, and criminals, and you wonder if you managed to do something for him in all that time together....

Or perhaps not and you're just hoping he doesn't paint a target on his back so large that your paths will be forced to cross.

Good End:

Even after the final battle, he comes back. He wants to talk. Well, he wants to rake you over the coals. When he finds out you're trying to save the spawn in the dungeon, to override Cazador's ancient magic, he jeers at you, at your savior complex, at how fruitless and worthless an endeavor it is.

You say, perhaps you're right. Perhaps they'll spit back in your face. Perhaps it'll all backfire on you. But it doesn't matter. You have to do it.

"Why?" he sniffs, dismissive.

"Because I couldn't do anything for you in the end. I'm sorry."

The years pass. Sometimes your paths cross, out in the city. Gale works out the enchantments and the spawn are freed out to the Underdark - rumor is that some pale-haired elf was corralling them at the beginning. You hope he got to see Sebastian once more.

Things stay prickly, but you start to see more of him. Sometimes the Hero of Baldur's Gate needs to be bailed out, just a little. Sometimes he shows up half-dead and he barely will stay put long enough to heal before disappearing again.

Once, you go out and get drunk together for old times sake. He looks a little worse for wear- not enough cultists to eat, these days. He admits he doesn't know what he's doing these days. That, strangely enough, he's come to the realization he really is free, as free as vampire spawn can be these days, in this city you protected together, but he never though of what comes after that.

You offer that tired old olive branch and he bats it aside with familiar callousness.

And yet, the next morning, you wake up lightheaded from bloodloss, a familiar soreness on your neck, still breathing.

[roro-the-sleepy-monster]

Rambling abt my Durge here because I don't want to clutter my writing blog.

For context, Aelune is my agender Drow Fighter Durge, with dual blades because I'm Edgy Like That. They're also the first playthrough I reached act 3 on, met Gortash, and went "fuck, they're still desperately in love with this asshole, hunh?"

I had romanced Astarion on the playthrough out of curiosity, and I still flip-flop on whether Aelune actually ended up romancing him or walked the path alone.

Regardless, they're my cold, reserved OC who hides a modicum of sweetness very far down in their heart. I've enjoyed playing someone who is true neutral (probably chaotic neutral before they lost their memory), and honestly truly morally grey.

Further rambling below!

Originally I built them out of curiosity. I wanted to explore durge, but was also interested in the context being a drow provides. Little did I know this seems to be a very popular combination.

Truthfully, Aelune's backstory, while determined with a set of dice rolls (blessed be Xanathar's Guide to Everything), eventually morphed into something that was meant to be complimentary/contrasting to Astarion. Our little Star is outwardly flamboyant and affectionate, while actually being cautious and reserved. Aelune is outwardly cold and vicious, while holding a tenderness that they carefully protect and rarely show.

This was all thrown out the fucking window when I reached Act 3. Gortash approaches Durge with a tenderness (that might be fake, he's a manipulator and a tyrant) that turned my entire writing brain on its head. Durge is not even REMOTELY a good person, regardless of how you play them post memory loss. They did a whole lot of fucked up shit. They're gonna have to deal with that eventually.

"But Loaf!" You cry, and I become bewildered as to how you know my online handle. "Durge doesn't remember anything, how does meeting Gortash change anything in Act 1 and 2?"

Well, your body remembers what your brain does not, and sometimes your brain remembers what you don't. Confusing? Follow me here.

Even after you've forgotten trauma and moved on, you still have a gut reaction to certain triggers. Now this isn't just a depressing thing, but sometimes you just "have a feeling" about one thing or another, and more often than not, it's proven right in the end.

I still think Aelune would have slept with Astarion. Because they're smart enough to clock what Astarion's trying to do, and doesn't care. Star might've still caught feelings, even. But Aelune would still feel something was weird, like a feeling they were committing a social faux pas, and probably would've very gently friendzoned Astarion after the Act 2 incident with our least favorite vampire-obsessed blood merchant.

Very much a "oh you need a friend, not a lover. And I don't think I've had friends before this either, so it works out in my favor."

Besides, if you've read any of my works, you'd know Aelune had a child with Gortash, not that he's aware of it. Probably pre Elder Brain capture, considering the "raid" is when it's approximated Orin got the jump on Durge. Aelune's smart enough to know it would be dangerous to let anyone in on that secret, even their lover, as Gortash's goals are focused on power and tyrant stuff. And while I think Gort and Aelune loved each other in their own weird intense ways, tenderness was still weakness.

And pregnancy and a baby is the greatest weakness of all, in that regard. Bhaal could steal and manipulate the baby, Orin would use it to manipulate Durge, Ketheric...I actually don't know, he's got a weird daughter complex. And of course Gortash, mentioned previously.

This is all to say realizing Gortash had some sort of thing for Durge and vice versa makes for a lot more context as to why Aelune is so careful and reserved. Even if they don't remember, they know there's something worth protecting, even from their first and only love.

Later on? After Gortash is taken care of and the Absolute is obliterated? Maybe Aelune could find comfort in someone else. Maybe a post-Cazador Astarion, once he's settled into himself and his freedom. Maybe Halsin, considering he's the only one close in age to Aelune (Aelune is around 200, which I guess so is Astarion, but there's a maturity difference there).

Besides, in the end, I love the idea of the silver-tongued tyrant meeting a cold and strangely skittish Bhaalspawn and coaxing them into some sort of alliance, only to fall in love. I think Gort enjoys the challenge of constantly wooing someone who's determined to keep their distance, and Aelune is very quietly pleased and amused by the strange courtship.

[arach-tinilith]

fashionably late but for as many of your ocs as you want: 1, 5, 10, 11, 17, 19, 20, 26, 30, 40, 42, 43, 56, 61, 69, 72, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 104, 105

1.What is their backstory and why did you choose it?

Noble! She's First Priestess of house Duskryn so it made sense. I really liked the idea of playing a disgraced noble and especially from the drow perspective 

5. Does your Tav have any family members and are they close?

She has her mother Prae'anelle Duskryn, (pleaseee don't ask me her birth father i am NOT SURE) she has an older brother, Arzeni and like a lot of cousins lol. Her family framed her for the death of her consort and want her DEAD they're uhm not close

10. What was your Tav like as a child?

Naadja was the model drow citizen as a child. So she was a conniving little shit. She'd spread rumours, steal from nobles who were visiting her home, she'd purposely hurt herself then blame it on her brother so he'd get punished. Mummy's little princess.

11. What goes through your Tavs head when they wake up on the Nautiloid? Are they scared?

She's honestly in so much shock she can't really do anything but move forward. Oh, a Gith? Alrighty then guess that's fine. Pod that turns people into tentacle monsters instantly? Neat. 

17. Does your Tavs starting armour reflect them? If not, what would they wear instead

NO she's coming from the Aevendrow so she'd have a wool cloak probably lined with fur and I wanna think it has arm sleeves so she's free to cast or draw her sword LIKE THIS

19. What's your Tavs personality like at the start of the game? Does it change towards the end?

She's suuuuper paranoid, also conflicted. She hides her nobility from the group because she's honestly ashamed of it. But she feels an injustice has been done to her so she wants vindication in the form of blood and she isn't really sure if these people will understand 

20. Finally, what does your Tav feel as the Nautiloid crashes? Are they scared? Are they trying to survive?

A bit of acceptance honestly. Like she almost thinks she deserves death…. And then she lives 😈

26. What does your Tav think of Raphael?

Cannot trust a WORD outta this guy's mouth. (She has a fetish for infernal beings btw noooo comment)

30. Who does your Tav think of when they go to sleep at the Tiefling party? Or do they get lucky and get to spend the night with the person they want?

She's spent like, a good couple decades punishing herself for her past. She's just trying to have a fun time. Astarion promises her FUN … it was super awkward 

40. Did your Tav agree to kill the guardian or did they go talk to them instead?

They talk! She doesn't do shit for goddesses 

42. How does your Tav react to the shadow curse? Are they scared of the dark?

It's super uncomfortable for her. She's not scared of the dark it just makes her feel ill in the cursed lands

43. What does your tav think of Jaheira and the Harpers?

She was unimpressed at first but after talking to Jaheira she lovedddd her

56. What did your Tav think of the mindflayer colony?

Yeah that was the turning point for her really. Up until then it was just about removing the tadpole but this is when she started realizing she had serious responsibilities. (Also when she saw what was done to Minthara…)

61. How does your Tav feel about Baldur's Gate? Is it their home? Is it their first time in the city?

She hates it to be honest. The people are so loud and obnoxious, the weather is horrible. Its her first time there she does NOT get the hype

69. Does your Tav run into Orin? If so, what's their first opinion?

She fell for the love test trick. She was pretty intimidated ngl immediately got paranoid and started asking around camp

72. How does your Tav enter the city?

She uhhh killed all the deep gnomes. So she had to sneak around the side hehe

87. Did your Tav side with Gortash or did they agree to kill him for Orin?

She did the alliance up until letting Karlach rip him to shreds. She was not sharing the city with that guy lol

88. Did your Tav successfully resist the netherbrain?

NOPE i got tired of savescumming

89. Did your Tav side with the Emperor or do they free Orpheus? Do they become Illithid or does one of their companions do it? Do they give the nether stones to the Emperor/Orpheus?

ALL MY HOMIES HATE THE EMPEROR she freed Orpheus (mainly because there's no WAY we got that hammer for nuthin) and Orpheus used the netherstones teehee

90. Do they betray the Emperor/Orpheus/their companion to become the Absolute?

Nope! She's got bigger plans😏

91. Does your Tav get a happily ever after?

Kinda! She's doing what she wanted. It's maybe not the “nice” ended but its my favourite ending

92. Where does your Tav end up after defeating/siding with the Netherbrain?

In the Underdark! And I have lore about this of course😭

93. What do you think happens to the party afterwards? Do they go for drinks? Part ways

I HOPE a bath tbh but drinks is nice too

94. Years after the game, what do you think your Tav is up to?

Probably waging war against the noble houses of the Underdark with Minthara, Zafyna, and Astarion (and the spawn army) :3

95. What do you think of your Tavs development throughout the game? If you compared them to the start, what would be different?

A LOT more confident, less deceptive as a defense mechanism. I think she realizes how capable she actually is, and stops needing reassurance 

104. Who did your Tav romance? How did this romance develop throughout the game? What happened at the end?

She romanced Astarion lol she really did not trust him at ALL but the more he enabled her to be like, herself the more comfortable she was. Also in my awesome mind palace (bc i didn't have poly mod) she romanced Minthara later game. Which, the Minthaadja romance goes insane to me but i could go on about that😭

105. Anything you want to say about your Tav! Give a random headcanon, answer a random question, say whatever you want!

Okay my girl suuuuucks at basic life skills 😭 she's used to being doted on ngl she can burn water and has like poor hygiene because she always had handmaidens. No fault of her own! But like eventually the team catches on bc she's….stinky…. and offers to teach her and she's like “ugh fine😒😒😒 i guess I'll do it the surface way” LIKE NICE SAVE 👍