#It's like the relationship between Bhaal and Durge where sometimes I stare at it and ask: “is this *intentional*?”

[y-rhywbeth2]

"Jergal never tells [the truth/his plans]. If you do pray to him and ask, anything he says will be a means of manipulating you to do or try something (as part of one of his plans), rather than the truth about the plan."

As ever, Withers is a lying liar who lies: 50% of what he says is ominous portents of doom and 100% of what he says is lies and manipulation. He is also apparently an expert at manipulating other deities, and none of them can match his skill at it.

I'm still suspicious about whatever he did to Arabella (which was incredibly disturbing) and possibly Durge, and the worst thing is I don't know if the writers are unaware of this side of Jergal (and thus he's just out of character and overly benevolent) or if I should be concerned in-game.

I mean the thing where he erased Arabella's grief and she's suddenly very casual about killing people did seem framed as creepy, I think? And that taunting of his three favourite pawns at the end... he could be the behind the scenes guy?

Withers makes me anxious.

[davi-doo]

Durgetash - RP snippet #1

Pairing: M/M, The Dark Urge (default Dragonborn) x Enver Gortash

Rating: Mature

Summary: At one point in their relationship, the Bhaalspawn's father given urge was revealed to Gortash.

Author's note: This writing came from a rp I shared with my friend. Consequently, it has no continuous narrative, as we took turn to write each character in our style. Durge's parts were written by me, and Gortash's by @mcfallen-god.

The Dark Urge:

As warm blood soaked his hand, and the body on his lap grows cold by the second, Durge watches as the human quakes, choking on his last breath. The Bhaalspawn hears himself whispers his father name, sowing the fear for the Lord of Murder in his victim's fading consciousness. Binding his soul to Bhaal's realm.

The kill must bring instant gratification to his dark urge, as it hums in his father's content silence. But sometimes is wrong. He heard the clang as his holy blade hit the cold ground, as he must have dropped it. And through his blurry vision, he recognized the face of the one in his arms.

Enver Gortash. His souless dark eyes was still staring at him in utter horror.

***

The dragonborn wakes up in cold sweat. His blood red eyes dash across the room in a familiar panic, as he tries to take in as much of his surrounds as quickly as possible.

This is not...his father's temple, with its high celling, ever echoing scream of the tortured souls. It's a regular bedroom, with creamy wall and embroidered curtains. The pale blue light from the large window tells him they still have a few hours before sunrise.

The ordinary only managed to calm his anxiety for so long. Turning aside and throwing away the cover, the Bhaalspawn discovered his bedmate buried beneath the heavy blanket. Enver Gortash. His warm skin radiates heat, snoring softly in his blissful slumber. Holding down an emotional choke, Durge shoots up from the bed and rushes to find his belongings. He must leave and seek penance. Lest their union, no, their grand design ends in the Banite's blood.

Enver Gortash:

He is delightful whenever he is lucky enough to fill his bed with the presence of his one and only.

To feel his sleep watched over like this, it allows the grand Lord of Baldur's Gate to abandon himself to the deepest and most restful slumber.

However, Enver Gortash remains a man with a light sleep, and the little changes of weight on the bed, of warmth under the blankets or from the slightest, unnatural sound in his surroundings, he would wake up.

Thus, as Durge sits up and starts to move around the room, may he be as silent as Death itself, Gortash just feels it. Growling, twitching, he moves to the side where the dragonborn was laying when they fell asleep. As he has the confirmation he is now alone between the expensive sheets, he sits up and looks with fully awake eyes at the pale silhouette.

The white scales glowing mystically under the gaze of the moon. If he was less concerned by the reason making the other man move so fast, so quietly, and so in the middle of the night… Gortash would have just admired him for a bit longer.

"What are you doing? Didn't we pass the 'leave before you wake up' stage?" He asks, teasy, his voice husky with sleep and his hair kind of messed up.

As he feels how serious the situation was - he never saw this expression on the Bhaalspawn's features - Goratsh stands up with a frown.

"Durge.. what is it? What happened?"

The Dark Urge:

The dragonborn only stops on his track for a second when he heard his lover's voice. Still determined to ignore him, Durge quickly went back to throwing on his coat. But as the same voice called his name, his sense of urgency rapidly turns into anger.

How could this ever cunning Banite allow himself to be so careless? How could he allow things between them escalated into this tangled mess? How could Durge let his touch be the rewards for defying his father's principles?

"Enver! Do you want to die?! Without accomplishing anything?!" The dragonborn lashed out "If you don't, we must end whatever this is. Right now!"

The Bhaalspawn visibly trembles with effort and labored breath after saying his bit. But despite his forceful words, he can't find the heart to hold the other's eyes. So he crooked his head and turned away, hoping Gortash will take offend with his notoriously terrible temper.

Enver Gortash:

Something is definitely off and this all looks bad.

With a firm, but still calm and careful move, the human stands and steps until he can put a hand and grabs on the other's arm.

"Hey. What happened." He asks again, less a question than a command now. "Is that … Your god?"

Gortash is far from being stupid. He knows their respective gods may appear in their dreams or whisper their commands through the night. He is also far from being naive enough and thinks that: one, Bhaal is unaware of his 'son's' situation, and two, the god is most certainly disapproving it.

No, what Gortash doesn't understand is that sudden anger, that needs to flee. Durge is not the type to flee. There is nothing that would make him run away…

A mission? He would have just said so.

Why acting like he wants to have Gortash mad?

The human mind goes full speed from one thought to another, trying to figure out.

If Bhaal had ordered to kill Gortash… Durge would have said it. He would not have run like this…

It is something bigger, scarier.

"…. Talk to me." Gortash frowns, with seriousness.

The Dark Urge:

Durge closes his eyes and grits his teeth. The voice in his head is intimidatingly silent. He can only imagine his father's watching eyes, waiting for him to define his faith.

So the Banite wants to talk. Durge let out an annoyed snicker. With the facade of pragmatism, he knows how the kind of them are always hunger for new knowledge. They will steal, bribe and kill for a piece of useful information; they must exploit all the resources to establish their control. All to gain power over their subject. Even Durge knows their alliance and partnership is no exception for The Black Hand's doctrines.

Brushing of those fingers off his arm, the dragonborn turns back and face those seeking eyes at last. Should he choose to gain the Banite knowledge of his innate condition, he must be ready to slay him to the change of the wind. But perhaps, that will be the end of his agony.

"I am my father's flesh. His bloody hand carved me from his carcass. My body is his to act on. I can't die unless it's his will." the dragonborn speaks with hushed voice but no less solemnly, looking down at the smaller human with a clear intention to intimidate.

"What do you think drives us killer's blade? Hatred? Anger? Pleasure? " He steps closer with each stabbing words, "No, it's will from the Murder Lord himself. We praise it, honor it. But we have no say over it...Not without facing His wrath anyways."

Somewhere in his grim expression, or the tension across his towering frame, Gortash can sense a faint stroke of remorse. But it passes as quickly as a breath, and the Bhaalspawn speaks again before he can protest:

"If my father wants you dead." The dragonborn put his claw over the human's beating heart, "There's no stopping me from killing you. Not my reason, nor your binding oath."

Enver Gortash:

He doesn't resist and lets go of the arm, stepping a step backward to let the dragonborn turn and look at him.

He lets him speak with the greatest and most serious interest.

Though, his expression soon shows how he starts to understand what it is all about.

His frown goes deeper and something in his body just goes steadier.

"…" He feels he has no turn to speak as Durge stressed his lineage, but it feels itchy to the human.

However, he frowns deeper, giving to his eyes - already dark in the dim light - the impression of a deep, gleaming black color.

He won't step back. He won't back off in front of Bhaal - because yes, he considers the one talking is more the god than the spawn. Though, his mind still gets ready to jump and grabs the dagger he keeps by his bedside table. Just in case.

Though, the proximity with that body he knows already way too well feels too familiar and that hand on bis chest, supposedly a thread, it feels more like a plea, an apology, and a confession.

Gortash looks with a tilted head into those eyes and beyond, then he sighs. Holding the dragonborn's hand over his chest, he speaks as much to the Bhaalspawn as to the god himself.

"I can figure out your god might feel threatened by an ally as I am, but standing under the command of another patron. However.." He stares straight through Durge now. "Your god might know I am way more useful alive than dead. As I know no one is able to do as I am. You need my influence and my power, for your goal, aren't you?" It sounds like Gortash is speaking to Bhaal, in case the god does listen.

"If a little filth and pleasure frighten Him so much.." He slides his fingers between Durge's. "He might have little faith in his own spawn and choices."

He kisses the palm.

"If he insists on having me dead, he will bring prejudice to himself first, I am just saying."

The Dark Urge:

Durges stares at his lover in disbelief. He can sense no hesitation, no fear for one's own survival. And the worst of all, no disappointment nor distrust.

And when those lips tickle his palm, he feels like there's a boulder crushing on his heart. This damned affliction that ever compels him to scratch open his chest - it only grows stronger by the days. For the longer he allows himself to gaze upon this mortal. And the more often the mortal smiles back.

"You're a cat, dancing on a too narrow fence. One day you will fall, and won't land on your feet. My blade will dive in your gut in the end, and you will curse all the days you have laid too close to death."

The dragonborn whispers, and Gortash can feel, and see his muscles relax. The hand that rejected him now seeks his face, gently caressing the scar on his chin in anticipation of a kiss.

Enver Gortash:

Gortash slides his own palm up to Durge's chest with that smile he ever only gave the dragonborn.

"I was made to dance on narrow fence, darling." He chuckles cheekily, indulging in the touch on his face.

"And even if in the end it's your blade that dives into my guts, I'll never curse the days that brought me so close to this Dark Urge." His hand move up, mirroring the Bhaalspawn's one, cupping the scaly jaw. After another moment looking into those glowing red eyes, he pulls and moves on to kiss the dragonborn. His gesture is gentle, soft, his palm caressing down Durge’s chin; yet those fingers are still holding on that jaw; demanding, possessive.

"You and I," he growls to the thin lips. "We are made to do great things." Ambition and arousal are sparkling in his eyes. Power always puts this look on his face, and they both know how Durge is the only one Gortash allows to stand beside him, rather than crushed beneath his feet.

"Now, what would you think, using that Dark Urge for something as good as killing, but far less definitive?" He whispers.

His both hands trace circles on the scaly chest, sliding up to lock the dragonborn in an embrace; he leans closer, to whisper into the other’s ear. “I could even let you be on top of me for once…” He nuzzles on the softest part of Durge’s skin; under his jaw, kissing it, biting it.

(To be continued)