#banite: ...your chosen? lord enver gortash

[maegalkarven]

I love how in the Empty Prayers AU banites just straight up pack things and leave.

I'd thought of giving Gortash a Big Confrontation with his cult and his god, but I've decided it's actually worse if he's just simply left behind. Left on Read. Given the Ultimate Silent Treatment.

He has failed Bane, so he isn't even worth the god's single thought now. Of course he will be punished upon death, but in life the worst punishment he can get is being treated like nothing. Like he isn't even here, like he never existed in the first place.

I'm sure I'd drive him mad to be completely ignored by the god he followed and the cult he lead. Lord Gortash who? Idk him

[thedorkurge]

A prompt for you: Gortash forced Durge to attend some ball/masquerade/fancy event as his plus one with him.

Here you go! I got a bit carried away with it, as I tend to do... I hope you enjoy<3

You can read it under the cut or on ao3

Life of the party (2k)

Going to a party with the Gate’s nobility was the last thing Durge wanted to do. But unfortunately, he owed the banite a favor.

Gortash had insisted that it would be a good look to show up with a plus one. He wasn’t just a young politician charming his way up the ranks anymore, after all. He was on the cusp of becoming a lord. Bringing his own date projected an image of stability befitting his status. Of course he had also listed several other reasons that Durge hadn’t bothered to pay attention to. When he manipulated people, it happened from the outside. Observing until he knew who to kill and how to do it. 

The art of conversation wasn’t one he practiced very often.

The dragonborn pulled at the robes uncomfortably. They weren’t completely awful, they were dark enough to conceal any blood spatter, and made from expensive fabrics, but he already missed his own robes. It was almost impressive how robes with such little fabric could still get in the way.

“These clothes are ridiculous.”

“They’re not meant to be practical, my dear, they’re meant to be pleasing to the eye.” Enver had already spent a full minute adding golden touches to his outfit. Durge had refused any for himself- he wasn’t keen on the idea of adding more uncomfortable touches to the clothes he had been forced to wear.

“Is being unable to move considered attractive these days?”

“Don’t be dramatic, you’re perfectly capable of movement. The robes were made with dancing in mind, after all.” The dragonborn sneered at Enver’s satisfied grin. He was enjoying this a bit too much.

“If you expect me to dance, then you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

“And here I was so looking forward to seeing the great Dark Urge struggle for once.”

“I know how to dance. I simply prefer not to.”

Enver’s eyebrow shot up at that, as his movements stilled briefly. When they resumed, it was with a forced casualness that betrayed his interest. “Is that so? I didn’t think being Bhaal’s chosen left time for such frivolous activities.”

“I am my father’s blood, but I was raised by mortals. Do not think me ignorant in the ways of the world.”

He could practically feel the gears turning in Enver’s head as he filed away that piece of information.

“I would never, darling. I have the utmost faith that we will make a wonderful impression tonight.” He ignored the sneer on Durge’s face as he reached out to fix his collar. “But you will need a name, of course.”

“I have a name.”

“The Dark Urge isn’t exactly a name that flows well in conversation, my dear.” He said it like Durge was supposed to care about that sort of thing.

“Excellent, I shall enjoy watching the pampered nobles choke on their tongues.” A petty response, certainly, but worth it to see the exasperated look on the banite’s face.

“You said you were raised by mortals. Surely you had a different name then?” Of course Enver wouldn’t let that go. He could never resist pulling a thread once he got hold of it.

“A name that no longer matters. I am the Dark Urge. If you refer to me by any other name, I will fashion your leg bones into blades with which I can carve your voice from your throat.” Enver got away with more than most, but when it came to Durge’s god-given name and status, even he was on thin ice.

Enver rolled his eyes. “If nothing else, it certainly matches your flair for dramatics.”

“If you think this is dramatic, then please, do keep pushing me. We’ll see what words you will have left to describe a ballroom full of corpses.”

Recognizing the threat for the warning it was, Enver lifted his hands slightly in surrender. He was already pushing his luck by making Durge attend this party, he was willing to be a bit more diplomatic in turn.

When he finally turned to leave, he was stopped by the bhaalspawn.

Durge held a dagger out to him, hilt first.

“And what exactly do you expect me to do with this?”

“Hide it. These robes have entirely too few places to stash daggers, so if you insist on me wearing them, I will have to insist that you carry these for me.”

The dragonborn knelt down as he spoke, reaching under the long coat Enver had donned. In spite of himself the human was almost flustered by the brazen move, until he felt a holster tighten around his thigh, as another, smaller, dagger was strapped to his leg.

“Is this really necessary? You have never needed a weapon to kill someone.”

“I prefer to have the option.”

With a sigh Enver decided to entertain him for now, as he tucked the first dagger into the back of his belt. Durge did have a point, after all. The robes Enver had picked out for him had cutouts that left precious little to the imagination. He was frankly impressed that the dragonborn had managed to conceal any daggers under the soft fabric.

It wasn’t just for his own benefit, though he certainly appreciated the view. Bringing Durge along served a very specific purpose, and these robes were part of that.

The Dark Urge was attractive, that much was hard to deny. Tall, angular, piercing eyes and a strong build. He typically did his damndest to hide it under layers of blood, but now there was no denying it. The robes fit like a glove, his scales shone without their usual coating of viscera, and despite being far out of his comfort zone, he still radiated a steadfast confidence. Likely because he wasn’t above killing everyone in the room if he had to.

In short, he possessed a quiet magnetism that he never put to use. 

Luckily, Enver wasn’t above putting it to use for him. 

Together they drew plenty of eyes to them upon their arrival. Enver had become a common sight at these functions, rarely considered novel enough to be a topic of conversation. He had set out to change that, and it seemed to work.

The abnormally tall bhaalspawn towered over most of the guests at the party, the sunlight shining through stained glass windows to color the white scales that were visible on his arms, sides and back. He stood tall and proud, with a look on his face that bordered on complete disinterest.

In short, he, and by extension Gortash, presented a fascinating new enigma for the nobles to gossip about. 

Only Enver recognized the barely-concealed murderous urges boiling under his skin. Likely because they were on the cusp of being aimed at Enver himself, as he placed a hand on Durge’s back to steer them towards various conversations.

Introducing the bhaalspawn as a business partner who had aided him in building the steel watch immediately endeared the patriars, setting Durge up for a night of conversation.

His plan worked perfectly, opening the door to many conversations as nobles made their way over to make introductions to his “friend”.

In fact, his plan worked a little too well. He found himself getting distracted by his partner, unable to maintain the flawless focus he usually possessed in these settings. The Dark Urge had proven himself to be a true social chameleon, effortlessly joining conversations and keeping up with the gossip- or at the very least doing a very good job of making it seem that way.

He was a hit among the nobles. It wasn’t uncommon for someone to bring a new date, but they were usually from the same circles. True fresh meat was rare. 

And Enver didn’t like it.

It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly. After all, he knew no one else here would have any hope of surviving even a moment alone with the dragonborn. It was more like indignation. The way they looked at him, only caring for his appearance, as if he was a prize they could win. They didn’t know how brilliant he was. How brilliant they both were. 

Enver was used to being underestimated, he had used it to his advantage many times, but it felt wrong for the two of them, together, to be seen as anything less than the rightful rulers of the city. 

The Dark Urge was something special. A secret lurking beneath the polished appearance of the Gate, only known by a select few.

He was quickly regretting sharing him with the world. A world of people who couldn’t appreciate more than his looks and half-hearted imitation of polite behavior. A world of lesser people who felt entitled to his time, his company. Nobles who disregarded the bond that had developed between the two chosen, thinking they had a right to even try to separate them. People who believed themselves above the bhaalspawn, entitled to his attention, never knowing that it was the other way around.

Like the man who was currently running his fingers down Durge’s bicep. Honestly, flirting so blatantly with another man’s date, it was just gauche. The man was so caught up in questioning the bhaalspawn about his relationship status that he didn’t notice Durge’s hand moving closer and closer to a concealed dagger.

Enver noticed. But then again, Enver had noticed every part of the conversation. His own little group had been tuned out in favor of tracking the flirtatious movements of Irchan Pulver. 

Lady Menzel was the first to notice his split focus, as she leaned in conspiratorially. “It seems that Irchan has taken a shine to your date.”

“Indeed.” Enver’s smile was as fake as the jewels around Menzel’s neck. “If you’ll excuse me.” 

Usually he wouldn’t rise to such obvious bait, but this time was different. Enver should probably step in. Just to make sure Durge didn’t kill anyone in broad daylight, that’s all.

“There you are, darling!” He pointedly wrapped his hand around the arm that was inching towards the dagger, before he turned to greet the man. “Irchan, always a pleasure, I’m sure you won’t mind if I borrow my date for a moment? The dancing is about to begin, and I would so hate to miss out.”

Irchan, who had clearly been angling for a dance himself, looked slightly irked by the interruption. Fortunately there was nothing he could say or do without being terribly impolite. After all, the dragonborn was Enver’s date.

“Of course, Enver. I was simply introducing myself to your friend. It’s always nice to see fresh faces.”

Their smiles were equally forced. 

When Enver finally pulled him onto the dance floor, Durge was too busy being upset about his interrupted murder plans to complain about being forced to dance.

“Why did you stop me?” Durge’s hands were painfully tight around his hand and waist, but Enver held firm.

“Because you were about to kill him.”

“And he would have deserved it.”

Enver didn’t technically disagree. “Discretion, dear. I thought you assassins were supposed to value that sort of thing.”

Durge’s voice was practically a growl in his ear. “I could have killed him right there, and made sure no one knew for hours.” Enver’s grip tightened as the dragonborn tipped him backwards, one large hand moving to support the human’s thigh.

It rested directly on the concealed dagger he had strapped there earlier.

Enver felt his breath hitch slightly. “I don’t doubt it. But I’d much prefer you didn’t.”

When he was finally standing up once more, he could practically feel the urges roiling under Durge’s skin. They didn’t like being told no.

Oh, what the hell. Irchan wasn’t that important anyway.

“Not in public at least. I’m never one to turn down a private demonstration.”

For the first time that night, a genuine smile appeared on Durge’s face. It was wonderfully cruel, rows of needle-like teeth gleaming in the light. 

As the dragonborn pulled him close once more, Enver wondered just how many people Durge would convince him to let him kill before the night was done.

[dandelion-bride]

Headcanon chat: so, pursuant to a previous post regarding how difficult it would be to redeem Gortash from Bane, I wanted to explore what that might look like. What does a Banite Crisis of Faith look like? What does Bane give Gortash?

Security. Bane has Rules and Gortash can Follow Them. Similar to Raphael, there is a strict hierarchy to follow. There is Hierarchy, Consistency, Order. The world is drawn in a simple black and white, and as long as he is ruthless enough to ink those black lines, he is safe.

The Ability to Support his Partner. The Dark Urge has no choice in their path - they kill by their own will, or they become a mindless feral creature, killing and spawning. Bane gives the power for Gortash to enable the Dark Urge to succeed in their 'sacrifice the world' quest.

The Only Choice. No one has saved this boy, no one has cracked the shell and been able to hold a hand out to save the man. All he knows is power. His one equal connection is just as damned as he is. He is the Chosen of Bane, the Lord of Tyranny, the God of Darkness. He can see no other path.

If the Dark Urge is dead, we don't have to deal with #2, but we also lose the one equal connection Gortash has ever forged, and now we need to recast one, possibly while dealing with repressed grief. On the other hand, if the Dark Urge rejects Bhaal, #2 is no longer an issue.

For #1, there are plenty of Lawful deities. I saw someone (feel free to chime in!) who talked an AU about little Enver being sent off to the House of Wonders as an apprentice for the Gondians. He would have thrived there. After his fuckery at the Foundry and Iron Throne? Ehhh not so much.

But you need to find a lawful deity who would accept him now. Someone who could look past the past, who could agree to take in the former Banite, protect and support him, as he turns his face from a dark past towards the dawn of a bright future. Someone whose statues show him stepping on a skull, to show he can conquer Death.

Look, all I'm saying is that "I shall let all who dwell in dark feel your holy dawn, Morninglord. Hear my prayer." sounds like it could be rewritten into a very appropriate Paladin oath. Especially if the Dead Three are on their last legs at the end of the game and potentially killable by mortals.

[crossdressingdeath]

Lord Enver Gortash: You seek Gortash? His soul is already suffering at my hands. That is the fate of all those who fail me. Kyvir: If you're not Gortash, then who are you? Lord Enver Gortash: I am Bane, The Black Lord. I am the Ultimate Tyrant. I am Fear, I am Hate. And you - you are the dagger that bled Myrkul's favoured. You are the thorns that prick at my sides. Yet you are proof that still I will rise, and Bhaal and Myrkul will yield. One question asked. Four still remain. Kyvir: Why did you ally with Myrkul and Bhaal? Lord Enver Gortash: Why do red dragons ally with the githyanki? Why did the Broken God befriend Tyr? [Ah, but you already know the answer. By making one ally, you deny them to another.] And by turning mortals illithid, you deny their souls to their keepers. You do not stoke fear by reaping your own fields, but by burning your foe's. Kyvir: You said I am proof you will rise. What did you mean? Lord Enver Gortash: You live for power. You have proven it with every fallen foe, every chest opened, every skill claimed. As long as mortals and immortals vie for sharper blades and louder voices, I am strengthened. So it is for Bhaal and Myrkul - and so it is for you. You make me eternal. Kyvir: I am no agent of yours. I seek power for proper ends, not for its own sake. Lord Enver Gortash: *Chuckle.* Narrator: *The corpse says nothing more. You did not ask a question.* Kyvir: What can I do to earn your blessing, Lord Bane? Lord Enver Gortash: You have already laid the foundation. You gained my favour when you slayed Gortash. Your need for power exceeds even his. Use the Netherstones to commandeer the brain and unleash your infected army, and I will count you among my chosen. Or do not. Your lust for victory still brings you one step closer to me.

Okay, I think this dialogue glitched somewhat. First off I didn't kill Gortash myself, and also I'm pretty sure Bane is supposed to have unique dialogue with Durge? I know I've heard something about him being awfully impressed with them, I think I somehow got the generic dialogue instead. Also there was no audio for the dialogue, which... boo. Let me hear Bane talk through Gortash's corpse.

It is fascinating how Bane kind of just... claims you as his? Unlike Bhaal with Durge there's no big "serve me or die" and unlike Myrkul there's no attempted punishment for killing his Chosen, he basically just says that no matter what you do you'll be getting closer to him, just because you want to win. Even if you don't take over the world, your lust for victory is something that brings you nearer to Bane; he wins no matter what. It doesn't matter if you insist that you don't want power for its own sake, the fact that you want power serves him. I also love how you can straight up ask him how you can win his favour. You don't have to worship him or anything, you can just. ask that.

Also of course: poor Gortash. He really did do his best to serve his master! It's not his fault that things got so wildly out of hand! Losing Durge really did mess everything up, and he tried his best to handle it from there. Is Bane punishing him just for his failure? Because he was willing to share power once it became clear that was necessary? Hell, maybe even because losing his friend did do so much damage; I feel like Banites aren't supposed to be that reliant on another person. But whatever the reason, he just... gets to be tortured forever even though the plan going tits up wasn't his fault, I guess. Lucky guy. The Dead Three are not particularly understanding masters.

[strawberrypinky]

fire and ice. [gortash x tav] - ch. 2/8

Enver was no stranger to playing the long game, so long as he knew he would win with absolute certainty and any risk could be mitigated or forfeited altogether. Elodie Liardon was one such prize, and while he had yet to win her, he knew it was only a matter of time until she would be entirely, unequivocally his. If only because it had been decreed by powers beyond their comprehension.

A/N: Chapter two here we go baby!

Sorry for this taking a while. I was in Paris for the Olympic Games and then unfortunately got really sick when I came back, lol. Anywho.

We are absolutely getting deeper into headcanon territory, so let me just say that there are no specifications for Banite marriages (to my knowledge), but there is a lot of material on Bane, his church, clergy and dogma. The wonderful lore compendium made by @y-rhywbeth2 was an absolute godsend for this (alongside the Forgotten Realms Wiki), so shoutout and thank you for the incredible work you've done compiling so much information over all the DnD editions etc.! 

Additionally, I found some Bane dogma online which is also referenced at certain points in this. Just giving credit where it's due. Lord knows I couldn't come up with all of this on my own if I tried, lol. I'm just playing around with the canon information and uh... potentially making Enver as psychotically Banite as I can.

Thank you to everyone who is supporting this story! Your support, however big or small, means the absolute world to me ❤️

On we go with uhm... general Enver, Bane and Elodie shenanigans, I guess. 

Aka this is yet another reminder that Enver is, in fact, a piece of shit in this and no - Elodie nor I can fix him.

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

Word Count: 7.2k

CW: Mentions of prostitution.

Shoutout to my personal cheerleaders @legacygirlingreen and @gufu-vire. Ily gals ❤️

Enver had rarely made the mistake of underestimating people, for in his line of work, that was as treacherous as it was deadly.

Each step was one of measured precision and calculated contingency, allowing none, least of all himself, to falter on the path to greatness. He could not, would not, fail to fulfil his destiny. At times, people were displeased with his enthusiasm - alarmed even at the lengths he would willingly tread to reach his goals. To Enver, it was simply another marker of his god-given preeminence. There was morbid satisfaction in being victorious, no matter the price, and he was hardly capable of feeling guilt. His effrontery was congruous with his rancour, and Enver revelled in landing on top. He had worked tirelessly for years upon years, ruthlessly and ambitiously disposed of those who stood in his way and reeducated and availed of those who yet served as a means to his end. His sense for people had aided him more times than he possibly cared to admit, and while Enver firmly believed none measured up to his genius and vision, he wasn't fool enough to disregard the few who did present with the potential to be equal to himself. To him, it was far more preferable to have a formidable ally than it was to have a formidable adversary, even if his Lord often helmed his hand in affairs such as this. Bane had not steered Enver wrong a single time, strengthening him as his own malevolence fuelled his Lord and, in turn, fuelled him.

His alliance with the Bhaalspawn was one such alliance, though he nearly came to appreciate the Child of Murder on his own terms, even without the tentative and strained relationship between his Lord and the Lord of Murder looming above their Chosen's own. Enver would never fall to the folly of believing the sorcerer to be his friend (not that he believed in friendship anyway), for the scion of Bhaal was not born but created for nothing but annihilation, but their Masters once had a near consanguineous relationship, and if Bane saw value in his now sworn foes spawn, Enver would not undermine him. If anything, the Bhaalspawn, for all their uninhibited murderous urges, was a masterful weapon if cards were played right, and if Enver appreciated anything, it was usefulness. He was still, but a servant to his dread Lord, and in his divine quest for ultimate tyranny, winning was everything as natural as oppression. And while Enver would ultimately need to shatter and thwart all those beneath him, he would utilise the aid of those he and his Lord deemed worthy in the meantime.

One such worthy person, it seemed, was a certain half-elven maiden who had not only intrigued him but Bane himself, too. When Elodie had first graced the gentility of Baldur's Gate upon her debut in society, Enver had made the grave mistake of underestimating her as she parleyed with Duke Portyr, ostensibly oblivious to the gazes of volubly obtuse spinsters and the prurient ogling of men and yet she had intrigued him, if only because she was bewitchingly alluring. When Enver danced with her, he expeditiously realised she wasn't quite as clueless as she had perhaps pretended to be. In truth, the young woman was not clueless at all. She had surprised him with a curious amount of inquisitiveness and acuity, and by the end, he had not only decided she would look delightful, embraced by his Lord, but that he wanted more.

By their second meeting in High Hall and the rather convenient reveal of her parentage, she had also intrigued his Lord. While Enver was far above frivolities such as love and desire, he almost felt giddy when Bane spoke to him a mere day after their brief meeting near the ducal offices.

"I am tyranny. I am hate. I am fear. And you, my Chosen, carry out my divine will on earth. For how it is in the Barrens of Doom and Despair, it shall be in your world. You shall rise above and crush my enemies beneath your boots and conquer the weak as is your place. Marry the Liardon girl. Make her submit as a husband should, for you are the head of her, and I am the Tyrant of you. Carry out my unholy will, and you will be partners in this life and the next. She will carry beacons of your tyranny, and in your matrimony, my might shall guide you and your brood."

Enver had always known that if he were to marry, it would be of a person of Bane's choosing. It was the way matrimony has been handled in his Lord's church ever since it first established itself. Marriage was holy, but love held no place in them when all they served as were means to strengthen Bane and his divine will. And while Enver had known a select few of his Brothers and Sisters in faith to marry of their own choosing, he held no such interest himself as love was a frivolity he would not indulge in, lest of all it rendered him weak and assailable - things he had promised himself to never be. And yet he was entirely pleased when Bane had decreed he should marry Elodie Liardon, for the young woman was not only beautiful, but her wit was undeniably useful.

He liked her. Enjoyed her presence, even.

It was far more than he could ask for, really, as his Lord could have chosen any bride for him, and yet he chose the one Enver might have picked himself if he were capable of love. A rare display of generosity, yet he would never dare question it and instead reverently thanked his Lord for allowing a woman such as her to be his.

He spent a few days weighing his options. Enver knew her father was no votary of his (as Elodie had also aptly realised), and it was unlikely he would voluntarily agree to a marriage between himself and the girl, which left him with three options: ruin the girl for any suitor but himself (he quickly disregarded this; her social status was far too valuable), dispose of Duke Liardon (a feasible option, though not very prudent given the state of affairs) or finally, ensure the girl would not want to marry anyone but him. It was a speculative game at best, but it would buy him time to gather more information on the Liardon family and if he could make the girl believe in some sort of illusion of love in the meantime, all the better.

He spent a near tenday vigilantly preparing for the most opportune moment to arise to get her alone. Or at the very least, without her father around. Enver had met Lady Liardon once a long time ago, but he remembered she was far more agreeable than her husband, and if he was adept at anything, it was swooning wealthy women. His inferiors had been tasked with observing the family. One of the Iron Consuls (Enver did not care which) had gathered that Elodie savoured the gardenia bushes of the private grounds of her residence, which obviously meant Enver held a large bouquet of the white eyesores when he knocked on the door of the Liardon estate the day Duke Liardon was conveniently 'held up' in the Ducal Offices.

A butler had shown him inside, the lavishly grand estate remarkably tasteful, if reeking of age-old affluence. High ceilings with elaborate crown mouldings and endless shades of pastel and white - an expansive and open space stretched before him as he strode along the entry hall, adorned with a myriad of elaborate artwork and invaluable objet-d'arts. It was precisely what Enver had expected: A grandiose setting, much unlike the meagre abode he grew up in until his parents pawned him off to a devil, where he spent the better part of his life feeling as if there was a constricting and stifling noose around his neck as he drowned in the echos of chaos.

"The Lady of the House will be with you shortly," the butler announced as he took his leave and Enver was not even afforded a second of correcting him. He wasn't there for Lady Selise Liardon, but he supposed making a good impression on her wasn't a lost cause.

The aforementioned woman did join him rather promptly, strolling into the drawing room with laissez-faire as she regarded Enver with a polite smile. He regarded her intently, noticing her eyes were as calculating as Elodie's own, the colour shimmering in the sunlight. They were the only pretty thing about her, really. The woman was otherwise not a sight to behold, with a narrow chin and wide cheekbones, entirely out of balance, and ghastly pale skin, which Enver presumed was once tan given the sheer amount of wrinkles that already had been etched into her face. He knew she wasn't that old, younger than his parents, but time had not been particularly kind to her. He silently hoped his soon-to-be wife would age far more gracefully, though she seemed to have inherited her father's elven refinement instead.

Still, Enver offered a polite bow as the woman approached him.

"Sir Gortash," Selise Liardon nodded. "I wasn't expecting any visitors today. My husband will be back a bit later than usual, though you are welcome to wait for him if you'd like?"

"Thank you, Lady Liardon. But I am here to call on your daughter," Enver cleared his throat, a sickly, smarmy voice carrying his words.

"Elodie?" the woman gasped, surprise written on her face.

Unless you have another, Enver nearly rolled his eyes. "Yes. I do hope she is available? I understand if she were otherwise occupied."

"No, no," the Liardon matriarch shook her head, a broad smile on her face. "Of course she is available, just - Bertram!"

The butler from before stepped forward.

"Would you please fetch Elodie? She should be in the library."

The man nodded and left without another word, leaving Enver alone with Elodie's mother as he waited for the actual reason behind his visit. He noted with pleasant surprise that the matriarch was positively beaming, eyeing the bouquet of wretched gardenias in his hands and observing him with near childish delight.

"Forgive me for being bold, but I simply must ask," she nearly giggled. "But are you looking to court my daughter?"

Enver wasn't entirely sure if the woman was jesting or simply daft, though he hardly expected a man like Thamior Liardon to marry someone stupid - much less a human. And yet, the longer Enver stood there in his estate, the more he wondered what the man had seen in his wife. Perhaps she had other, more carnal qualities, he surmised, before deigning to answer her intrepid question. Bane offer him strength.

"I am," he confirmed with a confident smirk. "Your daughter was simply captivating the night of the Breaking, and I have been unable to forget the dance we shared."

He was aware he was laying it on disgustingly thick, yet it seemed to have the intended effect; the woman was nearly bouncing with delight.

"I had hoped she would at least dance with one gentleman," the woman swooned. "How wonderful to see my efforts were not in vain."

"Your efforts?" Enver carefully prodded. He was aware that each step around the gentility had to be far more carefully curated than any step around the proles - they often did not take kindly to snooping. Any information he pried from there were often thinly veiled beneath half-truths or mistakenly told over too many glasses of wine.

"Oh," the woman waved him off. "I needed to positively beg for Elodie to even attend the festivities, especially since I had been unable to. She hasn't been very keen to attend these things."

"I would not have been able to tell," Enver tilted his head. "She seemed to enjoy herself when I found her parlaying with Duke Portyr."

"Probably chewing his ear off about our travels," Selise shook her head. "I was happy to indulge her in her youth, but it is time she fulfils her duties here, in Baldur's Gate. Nevertheless, I am quite happy to hear she danced with at least one gentleman. I was starting to doubt my abilities to raise a proper lady when callers had all denied dancing with her."

Callers? Enver was torn between jealousy and eudemonia. It hadn't been surprising to hear she received visits from men — she was disarmingly beautiful. And yet she was also his. His girl. His. Even with the lack of a betrothal, it was a given that Elodie Liardon belonged to him, as if she had no other value and no life outside of his embrace. It had been divinely sworn and decided by powers beyond their comprehension. If that could not be considered ownership, then what could? And while Enver knew he yet had no claim on her heart — he barely knew the girl! — he didn’t relish the idea of anyone else having it either.

"She is a wonderful dancer," Enver offered, hoping to appease the woman and calm his own envy. "And an even better conversationalist."

"She's quite something, isn't she?" the woman's eyes twinkled mischievously, and Enver almost glimpsed his future's betrothed in them. "I am happy to hear it nonetheless. Most of her visitors haven't enjoyed her wits."

Of course they hadn't; Enver wanted to strangle her where she stood. No one but him could ever hope to measure up to her, much less deserve her. It was no surprise to him they were unable to appreciate her mind.

"I find her refreshing," he only cryptically said. It wasn't a lie, but it was a vast understatement.

"You must be the only one. I swear, that girl is going to chase off one suitor at a time. Too bad Ulder sent his son away; otherwise, I might have been planning a wedding by now."

Enver clenched his jaw, though Selise did not seem to take notice. He remembered the young Ravengard heir, Wilfred or William, or whatever his name was. The boy was, if Enver recalled correctly, Elodie's age and as the son of a Duke perhaps an obvious choice, but luckily for Enver, Ulder Ravengard had sent his son away just a year or two before. However, the reasons remained unknown to him. It was a good thing, really. Enver remembered the boy as an even weaker version of his father.

"I was not aware Elodie was spoken for."

"Oh, by the Morninglords' grace - she isn't. I keep wishing for it. I am not getting younger, and after suffering from Wilting, my priorities regarding her have shifted," Selise Liardon sighed almost wistfully, a faraway look in her eyes. "Truthfully, I don't know how many years I have left. The illness took a lot from me, and I hope to spend my remaining years caring for some grandchildren. May Lathander bless her with more than he did me."

Enver's mind was positively reeling. This visit was already working out splendidly for him. He hadn't been aware that Selise Liardon had suffered from wilting disease, though it would certainly explain why she looked rather hideous - the illness was rather horrid. More importantly, however, she was in a hurry to marry off her only child, which he would most assuredly use to his advantage against Thamior Liardon. It wasn't a secret that the man listened to his wife more often than he did not, and if Enver could sway Selise and Elodie into fulfilling his destiny, the two would easily help persuade the patriarch of the rest.

"I'm sure the gods will be most gracious," Enver only smiled knowingly.

The woman of the hour entered the room, exasperation written on her face. Enver mustered Elodie, dressed far more homey than when he had last seen her in the ducal offices - a pale rose dress, simple though he could venture to guess it was still of fine material - and internally sighed with disapproval and indignation. Lathander's colours; and far too rustic of a dress to be worn by a woman such as herself. Enver made a note to himself to ensure Figaro would be tasked with providing her with a new wardrobe upon their marriage. Blacks, emeralds and delicate embellishments would be far more suitable - he would not have his wife dress like a lowly slave.

She did not take note of Enver, another misstep, really - he would fix her priorities - and instead glanced at her mother with a disapproving glint.

"If you have another suitor waiting, send him away. I've no interest in playing your matchmaking games, let alone parlaying with anyone in the barouche."

Her mother only laughed, though Enver almost detected nervousness beneath the mirthful sound as her eyes flitted between Enver and Elodie, a slightly disapproving glance in her eyes.

"Now, now, Elodie. Not in front of guests," she chastised her. "Besides, I have heard you danced with this one."

The girl finally took note of Enver, and it was the first time Enver could read the surprise on her face, and he liked it. "Gortash?"

"It is good to see you, Lady Elodie," Enver announced, taking slow but measured steps before handing over the flowers with an oily smirk on his face. "Forgive me for not calling on you sooner. My businesses kept me more occupied than I had hoped for."

While Enver could glance Selise Liardon swooning at the corner of his eyes, Elodie only stared at him dumbfounded and wide-eyed, flowers held awkwardly. "I hadn't expected you at all," she finally voiced.

"Well, that makes this an even sweet surprise, doesn't it?" Selise interjected, hastening towards her daughter. "And he brought you your favourite flowers."

"Yes," Elodie dragged the word slowly, her eyes suspicious as she held Enver's gaze. The befuddlement slowly ebbed away, the characteristic sifting gaze Enver had come to know of her replacing her wide eyes. She was trying to make sense of him, he bemusedly realised. It was another reminder of her exquisiteness - a rarity among second-class citizens posing as nobility who might have been decently literate but not clever. As far as Enver was concerned, the nobility of Baldur's Gate was a shapeless mass of fortunate yet barbaric creatures that hovered on the periphery of his consciousness - there, but most assuredly beneath him. Yet, if there had ever been an exception to the rule, it was Elodie Liardon.

“Why don’t you take a stroll in the garden with Bertram? I’ll have the chef prepare some tea in the meantime,” Selise offered, and before Elodie could object (her face certainly showed displeasure), Enver took her hand and pulled her away. 

Enver took a single glance at the gardens and immediately hated them.

To any ordinary person, they might have been stunning; embroidered parterre and arabesque gardens that resembled a palatial park far more than they did a garden. The ground fell away on every side from a terrace adorned with ornamental basins, statues, bronze groups, lush flowers, and bushes, creating an almost exotic and fragrant play in front of them. They began to stroll along a broad avenue centred on the grass of a green carpet, flanked by rows of large trees as perfectly manicured lawns draped down to what Enver presumed was a small pond. The olfactory notes of peach, jasmine, citrus, and what Enver presumed to be roses assaulted his senses, and he loathed them. It was so very… titillating. There was an overwhelming sense of renewal and happiness in the air, as if Lathander himself blessed this space. Perhaps he did, Enver grimaced. No matter, his gardens were far more spartan, and he preferred them that way. 

They strolled in silence, the vexing butler no more than five steps behind them, and while Enver had expected unnecessary pomp and circumstance, it was astonishingly foreign to pretend to court a woman with little more intention than fucking her and extorting her family, and he did not appreciate how out of control he felt. Enver knew how to falsely woo a woman, yet only a few minutes into this charade, and he knew he hated it. The irritating sunshine of late spring, the nauseatingly fragrant flowers and the birds yakking nonstop - he simply loathed it, and he feared it had barely even begun. Enver could only pray to Bane that the woman was worth it.

When he glanced to his right, Elodie seemed to revel in the sun, contently absorbing the feeling of the sunny rays on her skin and breathing in the fresh air of spring. She was beautiful in the light, Enver noted. Not something that could be said about every noblewoman, most of which concealed their hideous faces beneath the dim lights of the night and face paint. And still there was a hint of something feral beneath it all, and Enver wondered if it was her nature or her calling.

“Were you really surprised I called on you?” Enver broke the silence as they strolled along.

“Yes,” she admitted. “It seems that was a mistake.”

“Care to enlighten me?”

She averted her gaze from the path in front of them, a respectable distance between them now as she looked at him. “You don’t court women, Gortash,” she eventually answered. “I would be surprised if you ever even desired marriage at all. I’d wager whichever God you worship has asked you to marry.”

Enver quickly deflected, not yet willing to engage in the conversation of worship just yet. "You don't seem to look for marriage either if your mother is to be believed."

He watched as the young woman rolled her eyes, an uncharacteristic display of defiance and indignation amidst her carefully constructed poise. "And become a broodmare to some idiotic Upper City gentleman who probably can't tell his left foot from his right? Thank you, but no."

"I'm not sure all of them are idiotic."

"Perhaps not," Elodie acknowledged. "But I have no desire to marry them just the same."

This was going to be much more complex than he had thought; Enver ground his teeth. He contemplated his options, annoyed she wouldn't simply submit in her evident unwillingness to be tamed. Finally someone he could break, someone who wouldn't submit simply because he demanded it. She was viciously feral beneath the nobility, and Enver was ever aroused by it.

"Sometimes our fates are decided by powers higher than ourselves. It would be foolish to deny the path to fulfilling one’s destiny," he commented.

She laughed - a mocking sound and nothing like the melodic tone he had heard the night of the Breaking. "I tread where I please. I don't care what fate my mother or God or being thinks is my destiny."

"So you don't want to marry at all?"

"I'm not sure," Elodie shrugged. "Perhaps someday."

The first time Enver had asked for Elodie Liardon's hand was mere weeks after their first 'official' date.

Naturally, he disregarded Elodie's irascibility and continued to 'court' her to convince both her and Selise (mostly Selise, if he were honest) of the value of a more official union. To him, it was more of a formality than anything else - utterly humdrum and entirely useless. But he complied, enduring endless promenades in that godforsaken garden, tea in the salon and eventually, ice cream dates in the Upper City. Elodie had begrudgingly partaken, her ire barely concealed beneath a pleasant smile and venomous remarks. She was unwilling to submit to the game she had become a pawn in, and with each passing hour, Enver dreamt of the day she would finally submit - a dream sweeter than the conquest of a thousand kingdoms. In another lifetime, he would have long taken her apart and fucked her senseless, but unfortunately, he had to play the long game in this one.

It was maddening at times, because while she could feign innocence all she liked, the girl was hardly unaware of her effect on men and seemed to take vindictive pleasure in pushing his buttons. She wanted him to break, to back down, just as much as he wanted her to submit. During one of their more official outings in the Upper City, she wore a dress so scandalously tight that Enver had almost entirely gleaned her body shape beneath. And while neither her chest nor her ass was particularly large, the swell of her breasts and the delicate arch of her back were alluring enough for him to nearly break. If he were a lesser, weaker man, he likely would have.

Alas, he was still a man, and until Elodie was his in a more official manner, he'd have to make do with finding release elsewhere, lest he squander his tedious work of appealing to her family. The Lower City was full of lowly whores waiting to serve men like him. Perhaps at one point in his life, he'd have pitied them - fucking for money was hardly a pleasurable affair - but alas, he knew cards could be played well enough to escape an endless cycle of transactional sex, and if the whores of Sharess' Caress were fucked brainless it wasn't his place to 'fix' them. They made their bed and would have to lie in it. The brothel reeked of vice and corruption, and the dregs of the Gate's society gathered there in all their rottenness. Charlatans and purloiners (many of which worked for him) rubbed shoulders with scarcely concealed and sleazy nobles, old roués and men like Enver; flourishing underworld types, notorious for things best not spoken of mingled with other speculators, whores and frauds and pimps.

A drow had tickled Enver's fancy - the woman small and slight, though far more voluptuous than his soon-to-be wife. She was pretty enough, even if she would have been hardly worth a second glance outside the tawdry meat market of a place he had entered. Her body, while graceful and smooth, hardly aroused any desire in him. He imagined another entity entirely beneath him, with skin more white and hair that shimmered silver and a voice as sweet as a lullaby, begging Bane to let Enver fill her up.

The whore, whose name Enver had forgotten as soon as he had paid for her services, almost looked offended when the name 'Elodie' spilt from his lips in place of hers, but a single look silenced her before she could begin to speak. Pathetic, he thought, before he left the chamber, knowing Elodie would have never submitted that easily.

He dreamt of what she would be like as he sat in Thamior Liardon's office, waiting for him to graciously appear after he had declined several meetings with Enver.

He imagined she'd be furious and untamed, unlike the wealthy Lords and Ladies he'd deceived in his earlier days who craved gentle touches and slow thrusts. He'd fuck her like a brute, over and over again, until nothing but "Enver" spilled from her lips as she fell apart. Maybe he'd lock her in his bedroom like a bird in a gilded cage and spend the rest of his days in her cunt. Would that anger Bane? Or would his Lord be pleased he conquered her?

"I must say, I wasn't sure when I could expect you, Gortash."

The deep timbre of Thamior Liardon's voice pulled Enver out of his delirium, and the elven man finally appeared in his office. He looked bored, almost a perfected mask of stoicism, though Enver could detect a hint of pique beneath.

"I would have come sooner," Enver divulged. "Your steward was less than accommodating, though."

"How... vexing," Thamior said, though his tone betrayed him. Enver knew he thought his presence far more vexing than an insolent steward would ever be.

Enver rose from his seat, turning to face Thamior Liardon fully, who refused to move far from the door. "You know what I have come here for."

"Of course," Thamior nodded. "You have only been publicly parading my daughter around and beguiling my wife while you've been at it."

"I have been nothing but proper," Enver chuckled, pleased that his efforts had caused the Duke to be irate. "After all, I want to make your daughter my wife. Not my whore."

Thamior was quiet then, his face stoic as he walked to his desk. He kept his back turned to Enver, gazing outside his office window. He didn't even look back when he spoke again.

"Na Kwast Wahir Athu Kyene Wekht Unarihe," he uttered in his native tongue. Perhaps Enver should have picked up the elven language - it seems the Liardon family clung to it still.

"As far as I am concerned, business is usually conducted in a common language," Enver clicked his tongue.

"Business," Thamior chuckled, turning back to Enver with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Is that what my daughter is to you? A transaction?"

"Of course not," Enver denied. She was more than that to him; above all, she was his divine duty. "But a marriage of this scale needs to be discussed. I can hardly do that in elvish."

"Did Raphael not teach you?" Thamior smirked teasingly. "Why he tends to appreciate languages. I almost expected more."

If Enver were a weaker man, he would have cleaved the elf in half for his mockery. The smirk on the Duke's face certainly suggested he felt as if he had won a match of chess the two men were playing, but Enver only laughed. Perhaps once, he would have felt hurt over his past, but now, he only felt burning hate. What once had been prey had turned into a predator who had little reservations about arranging someone's demise. If Thamior Liardon wasn't paramount to the Gate, Enver would have entertained decapitating him, yet while his moral compass swung madly without direction, Enver was above sowing political chaos so long as he didn't have a precise strategy to take the man's place for himself.

"Raphael taught me plenty. But thank you for your concern," Enver mocked in return. "Scared my wits aren't up to your standards?"

"I know better than to question your intelligence, Gortash," Thamior rolled his eyes. "You are a plethora of things, but you aren't stupid."

"Observant," Enver commented coolly. He knew the man didn't mean it as a compliment. "But I'm not here to discuss my genius. I'm here to discuss your daughter."

The man glared at him for a second, sitting down in his grand chair. "Go on then," he nodded. "Make your case."

"I want to marry her, plain and simple," Enver said sharply. "If you expect me to serenade you with romantic soliloquies, you'll wait forever."

"Such a flirt," Thamior chuckled darkly. "Typically, these meetings serve as a way to prove one's worth, not one's love."

"There are few in this city who match my wealth. I hardly think it's necessary to boast." Enver was slowly losing his patience. In the depths of his wretchedly vile soul, he knew what the answer was going to be, and he didn't appreciate it one bit. All his hard work of enduring dates right down the gutter.

"Oh yes. Money you have so honourably earned through your law-abiding business ventures," Thamior's voice was dripped with venomous sarcasm.

"Spare me the false righteousness, Duke Liardon," Enver spat. "For someone who practically lived in a devil's arse, you have little to show for it now."

"Is that so?" Thamior smirked triumphantly. "Unlike you, I have a seat on the Council of Four."

"An inherited seat," Enver corrected him coolly.

"Be that as it may," Thamior waved him off. "My answer is no. You may have my wife under your spell, but I'm not allowing you to marry my only child."

"And why not?" Enver countered like a petulant child. "Your wife is clearly deteriorating and wants grandchildren. I am the only one Elodie has even entertained for more than one meeting. The only one even asking to marry her.

"I would rather choke on Raphael's cock than let my daughter marry you," the Duke stood from his seat. "I don't care what you've made of yourself after your miraculous escape from the Hells, but you are, and always will be, the filthy son of a cobbler."

Five years on, Enver had lost count of his endless meetings with Thamior Liardon and the sheer amounts of "No's" he had thrown in his face.

It was a tiresome game, but he continued to play it, even if he knew the Duke would never willingly turn the "No" into a "Yes" . Enver was no stranger to playing the long game, so long as he knew he would win with absolute certainty and any risk could be mitigated or forfeited altogether. Elodie Liardon was one such prize, and while he had yet to win her, he knew it was only a matter of time until she would be entirely, unequivocally his. If only because it had been decreed by powers beyond their comprehension.

She belonged to him. Years of enduring dates and dances at grand soirées and festivals had at least ensured that the people of the Gate knew better than to try and lay claim to what he owned - because he did own her. As the years went on, the admirers dwindled in numbers until they ceased altogether, and nobody but him was left to dance with her and parade her around the Gate. Enver was well aware that her father was furious, but there was little he could do because while men enjoyed a challenge, people knew better than to challenge Enver Gortash.

The last man who tried had ended as a sacrifice in the Temple of Bhaal. At least Enver thought he did - his now former Bhaalspawn associate had only left a finger behind.

Enver's grip around his cup tightened visibly before lifting it and finishing it in one go. It wasn't exactly a show of decorum, much less at yet another soiree of Duke Portyr, but with how close he was getting to finally fulfilling his destiny and how intoxicated the patriars around him were, he doubted they even noticed his anger. The men and women of the Gate were scarcely astute without alcohol lingering in their veins, and their ceaseless inebriation rendered them even more foolish than Enver had ever thought possible. Between their haughtiness and perpetual idiocy, it was a miracle if they ever noticed anything beyond their visages and grand estates until their self-immolation came to haunt them with crises so grand a hero would have to come along to fix it all. Soon enough, the monstrous armies of The Absolute would threaten their livelihoods, and his Steel Watch would miraculously save them all. Soon enough, Enver would be the very first Archduke of Baldur's Gate, signifying the beginning of his destined draconian rule. Soon enough, Thamior Liardon would have no choice but to give Enver his blessing, whether by choice or psionic compulsion, and everything Enver had tirelessly worked for would finally be his.

Of course, there was a trifling matter of ridding himself of an invulnerable General and an incestuous half-breed Bhaalspawn, the latter of which was an unforeseen challenge he had not come to expect. It angered him far more than it should have; Orin was like a petulant child, desperately grappling for Bhaal's favour yet understanding little of what was asked of her. And while she was an efficient killer by all accounts, her sheer presence was underwhelming and not nearly as imposing as Bhaal's creation had been. To him, she was nothing more than a mad dog, much unlike her 'brother', who was lethally intelligent beyond his slaughtering legacy. Orin would be an easier kill - Enver should have been thankful. And yet his body was filled with near-manic rage as the rancorous void where his heart should be tightened in his chest. All because the Bhaalspawn had failed.

Just when success seemed certain, Enver was forced to restructure years of plans he had made. Plans which had only worked because of the Bhaalspawn. He was no fool to believe he could have stolen the damned crown from Mephistopheles himself, let alone subdued the brain, if it hadn't been for the Bhaalspawn. Where Bhaal's progeny seemed invincible, Orin was a treacherous and epicene replacement, hardly worthy of being Bhaal's Chosen or Enver's co-conspirator, often falling into a feral sort of rage. It would please Enver to see her suffer - to watch as she died painfully and screaming at his hand, even if such tasks were usually beneath his station. But the thought of yet another taking her place and putting him at a disadvantage for a third time reigned his range in. While he was endlessly furious over the Bhaalspawn's failure, he himself could not afford to fail. Unfortunately, he would need to make an alliance with Orin work. Temporarily, at least —

"You seem unusually pensive tonight," the sweet cadence of Elodie's voice pulled him from his inertia.

Enver turned around, staring into the inquisitive eyes of his destined wife. She had grown much in five years - her silvery hair was longer than it had been at nineteen, and her features had sharpened into an uncanny elegance that made her look more ethereal than Enver had ever anticipated. She had always been beautiful, but maturity suited her well. She looked drained, a little perspiration above her brow. Had she been there all night?

"Good evening, Elodie," he cleared his throat. "I wasn't aware you were attending this... soiree."

She tilted her head in question, a hint of disbelief gracing her features as her brow furrowed and she stepped closer. "Are you alright?" There was no warmth behind the question, but she did seem to be curious. "I'm sure my mother mentioned me attending after you came over for a stroll last tenday. It's unlike you to forget."

"Careful, Elodie," Enver chuckled darkly, "One might start to believe you want me to seek you out." He did, of course. Her submission was the sweetest victory, but Enver would never tell her that.

"Perhaps I do," she shrugged before pushing past him and reaching for a cup of wine herself. "I have no desire to marry you. But I do enjoy talking to you. Your mind appeals to me, Gortash. It resembles my own, except you happen to be insane."

"You think I'm insane?" Enver's voice miraculously betrayed none of his ire.

"Perhaps," she grinned mischievously, her distinctive feral glint sparkling in her eyes before her expression turned sombre again as she regarded him inquisitively. "Still. You seem distracted tonight."

Enver waved her off. It was unsettling how well she had always been able to read him. "Simply some unfortunate... setbacks in one of my promising endeavours."

"Oh?" She took a sip of her wine. "Care to tell me more?"

"What is it to you?" Enver raised his brow in suspicion. He could recount the occasions when she explicitly asked him about his endeavours on one hand. Usually, she would simply argue with him - not that he minded.

She shrugged her shoulders, a teasing lilt to her voice now. "I'm bored and my father won't leave until he's spoken to every noble attending. Entertain me."

Enver's grip on his chalice tightened once more, frustration and ire filling his being as he contemplated her demands. It was not in his nature to entertain people, much less give into the demands of anyone but his Lord. If she were his wife, he would have promptly corrected her demanding attitude - perhaps shoving his cock down her throat would have shut her up sufficiently.

"There is not much to tell," he eventually pressed out. "My partner in this endeavour failed and left me to pick up the pieces with his unreliable successor."

"Ah," Elodie let out. "Failed how?"

"He was murdered by his sister," Enver uttered nonchalantly, reaching for a new cup of wine as he heard Elodie gasp, her eyes bulging out of her skull. With how intelligent and worldly she had been, it was easy enough to forget she was likely kept far from the realities of the ecosystem that was murder in the Gate.

"That is terrible," she muttered.

"Terrible for my personal affairs, yes," Enver grumbled. "I'm sure the world isn't going to miss him." He was quite confident of that fact - nobody in their right mind would miss a Bhaalspawn.

Elodie pouted, a pensive look on her face. "Aren't you missing him?"

"No," Enver said. "He's dead. There's no point in mourning him. He was utterly mad, and I didn't care for him beyond our mutual partnership."

"Perhaps you might still... toast to him?" Elodie offered carefully. Enver was sure she meant well, but it was downright absurd to him.

"Toast? To what?"

"Hm..." she mulled it over for a second before lifting her chalice with a small smile. "O gurth, cuil."

"I don't speak elvish," Enver lamented. Five years of frolicking with a half-elven woman, and the only phrase he had picked up was "Tanar'ri", which Elodie had graciously translated after one of her maids uttered the phrase under her breath.

"From death, life," Elodie mused. "It's a common Lathanderian saying. There is a renewal in death - a certain peace. If he really was insane, he's likely found more peace in death than he ever knew when he was alive."

"Peace?” Enver scoffed. “I should hope not."

“Y-you... don’t want him to find peace?”

“No," Enver shook his head, the same manic rage he had felt bubbling beneath the surface once more. "Not for a single second. I hope the fucker is suffering eternally for failing me. May he never find peace."  

He then raised his chalice in a toast, downing the wine in a single go as if hoping it would drown his fury and mania, not even seeing the sheer disbelief and incredulity on Elodie's face. He panted as he set his chalice down, the alcohol a welcome warmth as it spread throughout his body, and his grip tightened impossibly, his entire body rigid.

“I’m sure you cared very little for him, if only enough to curse him to eternal torment for the crime of dying by his sisters' barbarity," Elodie mumbled silently before placing her hand on his. Enver could feel his hand loosen, the warmth of her own skin almost scalding on his own as he swallowed a deep breath. Had he really been that cold?

"Take care, Enver." Her hand left his again, her warmth disappearing as quickly as it had come, and he felt a strange hollowness fill his chest as he ached for that same kind and comforting warmth to return to him.

Too late did he notice she had called him by his name for the first time, and before he could question her, Elodie's body had disappeared into the sea of people, and Enver was left a little more hollow than he'd been before.

[baldursgate3gayz]

Soap pt.1 (Slightly NSFW and Dub-Con) (Gortash x M!Trans Named Durge)

Triggers again: slightly NSFW and Dub-Con

Word Count: 3906

The streets of Baldur’s Gate were not known to be safe at night. Thieves are ready to steal your coin, assassins lurk to strike, and vampires prowl for meals to ease their hunger. Maybe even the dread Bhaalspawn, creeping in the night to steal your life for their dark Father’s sacrifice.

Or they could be mindlessly stumbling down a back way with a newly blinded eye and blood pouring down their face. 

That’s what Thanatos was doing, at least.

He wasn’t even supposed to be out tonight; he should be at the Bhaal temple preparing for his morning meeting with one Lord Enver Gortash. Instead, he had run away in shame from the temple after his dear father had violently reprimanded Thanatos. He wasn’t pleased with the half drow neglecting his duties as Chosen. No matter how the man tried to protest and assure his Father that they were working on the plan, he didn’t want to hear it. Shamed burned through the Bhaalspawn at the memory, especially remembering how he had violently thrown up after. Bhaal had been so angry he even threatened to give the title of Chosen to Orin, saying he’d keep Thanatos alive just to watch his sibling ruin all of his plans with the Chosen of Bane. The half drow had dropped to his knees, begging for his Father’s forgiveness, and promised to do better. Luckily, his Father acquitted pleas but reminded the Bhaalspawn to ‘Do better.’ After their conversation, Thanatos had run away like a guilty dog, tail tucked between his legs. He also desperately wanted to avoid his fellow Bhaalists. 

He ran for the streets he usually hunted in, mind swimming in embarrassment and confusion. What could possibly be keeping him from his duties? When the Bhaalspawn worked with Gortash, he was always careful to take care of all of his responsibilities properly. He’s only ever forgotten one sacrifice because the Banite urgently needed his services. And he’d only missed one sermon he was supposed to lead when the Lordling needed his assistance scouting a robbery location. And he’d only missed a single check-in with his Father because of a very impotant meeting that had gone over time with Gortash. 

With that thought, Thanatos felt his already sick stomach worsen. His heart hammered on his chest as the realization set in. Enver Gortash had been the distraction, the reason for his failings to his dear father. And then became the distraction from the half drow’s surroundings. 

As his head was swimming with the realization, a man ran up to him and immediately slashed across his right eye. It had all happened so quickly that the Bhaalspawn hadn’t even registered the attack until the damage was already done and the culprit was gone. He stumbled around for a few seconds after, pain enveloping his face. The Urge howled angrily deep inside himself, attempting to crawl out of his skin to take control, but was stopped when the half drow tried to open his eyes. The pain in his eye was immeasurable; it was nearly impossible to force his eye open, and he had to use his hand to do so. Hot, sticky blood covered his hand as he pried his eyelid open. All Thanatos could see through the eye was a blur of the world around him in a deep red shade. Blood began to flow rapidly out of the wound and into his mouth as he tried to stop himself from vomiting against the drowning feeling of the overwhelming iron taste. He knew he was in rough shape, now possibly blinded, which left him practically defenseless in the evidently dangerous streets. He wouldn’t return to the temple; he couldn’t stand to see his Father or the other Bhaalist in his sorry state, but he had to go somewhere. Unfortunately, the only place he knew of was Lordling Enver Gortash’s office, so he stumbled through the dark streets toward the man’s home.

During the trip there, the Bhaalspawn managed to rip a strip of clothing off his armor to press against the bleeding wound, which slowed the blood flow a little. The Banite had a stringent rule of no unnecessary blood in his office, and if he was still there, the half drow didn’t want to hear his bitching. Thanatos hoped he wasn’t there as he clumsily climbed onto the roof to get to the office window. The last thing he wanted was for Gortash to see the condition he was in; he’d never hear the end of it. When he finally got to the window, he just barely managed to force it open enough for him to squeeze through. Embarrassingly, he got caught as he was halfway through and fell to the other side, yelping in pain as the cloth he held across his eye dug into his wound. The half drow whimpered as he struggled to his feet, trying to ease the fabric from his face when a voice spoke.

“You’re usually more grateful when you sneak into my office, Bhaalspawn,” 

The bloodied cloth slipped from Thanatos’ hand as an anxious shudder went through his spine. Careful to keep his damaged eye hidden, he strained his good eye to the desk on the other side of the room where Gortash was. His arms were crossed, his gauntlets and outfit still on despite the late time in the evening. There was a rather unimpressed look on his face. The half drow watched the man’s eyes slowly drop down, widening ever so slightly before looking back up at the shorter man with vague concern. Confused, the Bhaalspawn also looked down before cursing under his breath as he saw the soaked bloody rag on the floor. He carefully looked back up at the Banite and readied to be chastised. Instead, the two just stared at each other for a few silent beats. 

“Come over here, Thanatos,” Gortash said, voice commanding and leaving no room for argument. For a moment, the shorter man thought about leaving, running away from the other man to avoid whatever anger he would receive. But the reality was he had nowhere else to go. He was possibly blinded, blood was still pouring from where he was attacked, he knew no cleric that would willingly help him, and if he returned to the streets, he could just get attacked again. So instead, careful to keep his damaged eye hidden, he walked over to the Banite, trying to maintain eye contact with him. The strain on his good eye made his head ache and wince, which deepened Gortash’s frown. His clawed gauntlet reached for Thanatos’ jaw, which caused him to flinch away. Reflexively, he bared his teeth, but he fought the added urge to snap at the Lordling, at least just barely. His teeth hurt from how hard he clenched down on them. The artificer’s face morphed from somewhat worried to very unimpressed in seconds. “Thanatos,” He growled, eyes darkening. The Bhaalspawn’s stomach lurched at the deep vibrating tone, and he looked up at the man’s face tentatively. His eyes stared down at Thanatos, making him fight the desire to shrink down into himself under the dark, angry stare. 

“Heel,” Gortash commanded.

Shockingly, the fight the half drow had washed away at the words. His sneer disappeared, his body’s tension released, and he dropped his head. Somehow, in some twisted, sickening way, he felt safe with the taller man and his commands. He did feel a need to hide his eye more out of shame than anything else. However, he did not fight the Lordling when his clawed hand reached for his chin again and pulled to make the Bhaalspawn look fully at him. Gortah’s face remained stone still as he looked over the slash on Thanatos’ face. The half drow tried to catch a glimpse of the damage in the reflection of the other man’s eyes, but they were too dark to see anything, and his sight was still too blurry to distinguish anything. 

There was a long stretch of silence as Gortash observed the other man, making him tilt his head to get a different angle of the wound while humming interested noises. Thanatos wanted to slither away from the sensation of being poked and prodded by the taller man’s eyes, especially when he leaned in uncomfortably close that the shorter man could smell the remnants of his earthy cologne, worn away from a long day. Just as he was about to pull away, the Lordling released his tight hold on Thanatos’ chin, making him sway and nearly stumble from the powerful grip now gone. He was embarrassed by how much he had leaned into the man’s touch, especially when he swore he felt tiny new cuts on his chin where his grip was. It could’ve been from how tightly he was being held, or it was his own fault as he helped Gortash dig those claws into his skin. 

“I’ll have a bath prepped and get some clothes for you to change into,” The Banite said as he went over to his desk, shuffling some papers together. The Bhaalspawn frowned. “What?” Was all he managed to ask, his throat somewhat painfully dry and scratchy. He watched the other man give him a disapproving look. “You can’t make the trip back to the temple in your state,” He answered in a rather condescending tone like it was apparent. Maybe it was; after all, Thanatos was blinded in his eye, but still, it annoyed him intensely at the assumption. “You don’t know what I’m capable of, Banite,” He growled lowly, trying his best to come across as intimidating. The unimpressed look from Gortash meant it definitely wasn’t. “By all means then, attempt to return to your Father in such a broken state, but I will not be blamed for the inevitable loss of your other eye or a limb,” He taunted. The half drow’s face flushed, and he snapped his head away. If only the Banite knew he was to blame for this entire mess. 

There was another lengthy silence where the Bhaalspawn could feel Gortash’s eyes on him, waiting for an answer. He felt a snarl deep within him, a snapping anger yearning to crawl out and wrap its hands about the other man’s throat. It wondered if it squeezed the taller man’s throat just right, would his thick, metallic blood pool and pour out of his mouth? Would he look up at Thanatos in horror as the blood would gush from his eyes while he begged for sweet, sweet mercy? He even wondered if, instead of bright red, would Bane’s Chosen blood be gold flowing in his veins? A rush of blood thummed to the half drow’s head, blurring his already weakened vision, and he could feel blood begin to seep out of his wound again. As his head spun, he heard an annoyed scoff. After a moment of trying to focus, Thanatos looked up at Gortash, whose eyebrows were quirked up with a rather pissed-off look on his face again. It seemed he was waiting expectantly, probably an answer to what the shorter man planned to do.

The Bhaalspawn wanted to turn on his heel and march back to the temple just to prove to the smug bastard that he could. But he knew he would not be able to stumble back to the sewers. Plus, he would have to deal with the congregation and the many questions that would come his way, something he didn’t really want to deal with a bloodless zapped brain. He also definitely didn’t want to deal with Orin, for even if he could hide the damage from his Father, that Tattle-Tail would immediately let Bhaal know, which was indeed the last thing he needed to happen, especially after the talking to he received this morning. He didn’t need to give his dear Father more reasons to be upset and use it as proof he was unfit for his duties as Chosen. 

“Fine,” He said quickly. Surprisingly, the half drow thought he was the slightest quirk of Gortash’s lip but blamed it on his waning eyesight. “Finally,” The Lordling sneered. “Wait here, and I’ll get you something to change into and have the servant start the water. I’m also going to grab a clean cloth; I don’t want you getting blood all over my home,” With that, he turned on his heel, striding out of his office and slamming the door on his way out. In the meantime, Thanatos could feel sticky blood slowly moving down his cheek right on top of the drying blood, making his skin itch. He wanted to reach up to the wound, to tear it open even further as a sort of punishment to himself for letting this situation happen. Also, as retribution for crawling to the Banite for help but he kept his hands down. He didn’t need to make it worse. So he stared at the door, waiting for the Baite to return. Something deep, deep down in his chest growled, and he thought he heard the faintest whisper of ‘Dog’ whispered from the Urge.

When Gortash returned, he had his sleep robe hung around his forearm and a damp hand towel in his hand. He smirked at Thanatos. “I see you stayed,” There was that condescending voice again. He got closer to the half drow, holding out the robe. The Bhaalspawn stared down at the expensive fabric. “You don’t want me getting blood on your floors, but this is fine?” He asked suspiciously. “Would you rather walk around naked?” The taller man asked back. Thanatos frowned but plucked the robe from the Banite as he returned to his desk. The shorter man looked down at the fabric; it was familiar, something he’d seen Gortrash frequently wore when the two’s meetings would go late into the night. He had also wondered what it felt like, how it would give under his fingertips. There was a dramatic ‘Ahem’ from the other side of the room, and the Bhaalspawn looked over at the other man. His arms were crossed as his back leaned against his desk. “You’ll have to strip,” He stated bluntly.  

Thanatos wanted to snap that he indeed knew that but bit back the words. He didn’t need to try and push against the Lordling’s strange generosity. He waited for the man to turn around or leave the room to allow him some privacy. The Bainte did not move. Both men stared at each other, Gortash’s smirk unwavering while the Bhaalspawn could feel himself sway under the man’s eyes. Tentatively, he dropped the robe to the ground and reached for the top half of his armor. His movements were slow and sluggish as he struggled to tie it loose. The new wound across his right eye continued to ooze out more blood, especially as he painfully pulled his top over his head. Hissing, he threw the offending piece aside and just barely caught a glimpse of the red blood that soaked the collar. He heard a gruff laugh and turned to give an intimidating glare at Gortash. His smile did not move.

The Bhaalspawn scoffed at him, reaching for the robe when the Banite stopped him with an ‘Ah, Ah, Ah.’ The half drow paused. “All of your clothes,” The taller man said, nodding towards Thanatos’ pants, the smile on his face curling even more upwards. Embarrassment burned through the shorter man again, a very different hot, sweaty embarrassment as he looked away from the dark eyes he could see trying to undress him. This would cross a new line in their… situationship, and Thanatos wasn’t sure if he was ready to do that. 

What was once a strictly professional working relationship had morphed into something sexual a few months back, but they had strict, unspoken rules that were never broken. Or at least the Bhaalspawn had thought they did. They only did one thing, Thanatos sucked Gortash off, let him cum in the shorter man’s mouth, he’d swallow, and that was it. Both would always keep on as many clothes as possible; the half drow was always fully clothed, and he would never get off himself. They didn’t even really talk about it; just one day, Gortash had Thanatos get on his knees, and he face fucked him. Ever since then, they have always added that to their get-togethers. The shorter man was able to see it as a reward after a while, something he looked forward to however, every time afterwards, he would be slick with arousal, and his clit would throb in anger at the lack of reception. Usually, after, he would find as many victims as possible in a desperate need of some kind of release. It was never enough, no matter the number of cocks he filled his pussy with or how much blood he’s stained his hands with. 

So, being completely nude would be a new step in whatever situationship was between the two men and Thanatos was genuinely terrified about taking it. Gortash, however, seemed to have no reservations whatsoever. With a dramatic roll of his eyes, the man strutted up to the Bhaalspawn and took hold of his hips, pulling him close. Due to their height difference, the shorter man had to tilt his head up to the Bainte with them being so close. He felt dizzy trying to match the other man’s stare. The Lordling’s fingers curled down to grip the half drow’s tight pants, his thick fingers squeezed between the fabric and the shorter man’s hips. Thanatos swore as he felt what must’ve been an electric shock go through his skin that the other man was touching. “These must go,” The Banite said lowly, trying to tug down the pants. Reflexively, the Bhaalspawn’s hands spasmed up, grabbing the other man’s thick wrists with his dried, blood-covered hands. Instantly, what little playful qualities Gortash’s face had disappeared as he leaned down closer into the other man’s face. 

“Obey.” He muttered. 

There was a very still moment between the two of them. Thanatos knew he should fight back; this was getting out of hand. The other man already had some sort of control over the Bhaalspawn, which was evident from the shorter man crawling to his office like an injured mutt trying to find that one person who was kind to them. This wasn’t kindness, though; the half drow was bleeding from his possibly blinded eye, and Gortash was obviously trying to take advantage of his weak state. But what choice did he have, return to his father or let the Banite do whatever he wanted? There was only one smart choice for Thanatos to make.

So, his hands fell away, and his body became loose. He was expecting a howl of disapproval from the Urge for giving up so quickly, but all it seemed to do was huff and once again hiss ‘Dog’ into his brain. It appeared his Urge was also feeling the blood loss. The Bhaalspawn blinked to refocus on Gortash, who had a fuller smile on his lips as he began to pull down the shorter man’s pants. He did so slowly and with much care that Thanatos had not expected. Then, he dropped to his knees, his face right at the other man’s nearly bare crotch. The half drow reached out to grab the Banite’s shoulder, trying to get his working eye to glare at the taller man. “W-what are y-you doing?” He stuttered, voice shaky and weak. “Doing what you won’t. Believe it or not, but I’d rather not spend all night dealing with this mess you’ve made,” Gortash answered, eyes dropping down to focus on pulling the Bhaalspawn’s pants all the way down. Thanatos felt a sharp sting of arousal go through his body as his pants were simply yanked down to his ankles, completely exposing his lower half. He wanted so badly to snap at the Lordling, to kick and scratch at the man for even daring to be so bold with the literal child of Bhaal, but he just couldn’t. His waning energy made him submit tiredly and quickly destroyed any desire he had to fight back. So when the Banite tugged at his ankle to lift the half drow’s foot to remove the rest of his pants, he followed. Same with the other foot. Then, he was completely naked, with Gortash kneeling at his feet with a far too pleased smile. 

“Good boy,” He purred. Thanatos tried desperately to ignore the warmth that pooled in his stomach at those words, which became much more challenging when the Lordling leaned close to his left thigh, seemingly inspecting it before placing a chaste kiss on the flesh. Another much more aggressive shudder ran through the half drow, much to his annoyance. He truly hoped that slick feeling in between his legs was just his imagination.  Gortash rose to his feet, trailing his fingers like spiders along Thanatos’ exposed skin. This time, the Bhaalspawn wasn’t as caught off guard when the taller man got a tight hold of his hips. The half drow stared up at him in a sort of awe, his mind buzzing in a haze of confusion and lightheaded airiness. He hadn’t even noticed that the Lordling had picked the night robe back up until he pulled away and presented it to Thanatos. 

The Bhaalspawn found he could only blink at it dumbly, confused about what he was supposed to do with the fabric. While he could feel the annoyance from the Banite, he said nothing, just grabbing the shorter man’s arms with a not-so-gentle grip as he moved him to slip into the robe. When Gortash tied it, he pulled it so tight that the half drow stumbled closer to him, their chests touching. Thanatos swallowed uncomfortably against his dry throat. “Close your eyes,” The Banite softly commanded, and the Bhaalspawn did so. The clawed gauntlet grabbed his chin again, digging into his skin. He felt the other man pull away slightly like he was reaching for something, and then he was back. “Do not fight,” The other man said in the half drow’s ear, who nodded in response before something wet and cold slowly wiped across his wound. He tried to move away from the cold as it stung his injury, but the hold on his chin tightened. “What did I say?” Gortash growled, hot air somewhat tickling the shorter man’s ear. His voice wasn’t angry; it was more like annoyance and disapproval. “I’m sorry,” Thanatos whimpered in a pathetic tone. There was a soft hum before the grip on his chin loosened slightly. Another cold, wet swipe went across his eye; this time, the Bhaalspawn kept himself as still as possible. The wipes were not kind, very forceful as the Banite tried to clean the wound and all the caked blood Thanatos imaged he was still covered in. 

What could’ve been minutes or hours was finally over when the half drow heard the smack of the wet towel somewhere further off. Slowly, he opened his eyes to look at Gortash. He was a bit disappointed that his vision was still damaged. The Banite looked down at him with an expression the Bhaalspawn could not discern. The taller man stepped away, going towards the door before turning his head to glance at Thanatos. 

“Follow,” He commanded, and so the half drow did.

(I took over 1000 screenshots for this)

Pt. 2

Pt. 3

[sorryseraphim]

helene x enver: first meeting

Helene basked quietly under the sun, the gentle breeze touching her skin, although dry and hot. Her eyes were closed, a smile plastered on her face as she listened to the buzzing of the people. Sitting on one of the roofs by the Lower City, she didn’t mind the heat and noise, for, in fact, she craved it. Most of her life spent inside her father’s temple is starting to take its toll.

“My lady, should we go now to Sharess’ Caress?” Sceleritas appeared on her side. Opening her eyes to welcome the sunlight, she took a deep breath before looking at the goblin, her only companion for the past decade and a half.

“They can wait. I intend to sit around here as long as I want.” She pulled out her dagger, crimson red shining under the sun. Its blade curved; an heirloom passed after her heritage was made known to her. She produced an apple from her pack, slowly cutting pieces using her blade and taking time to eat each slice she made.

“My lady, as much as I want to tolerate you in all your glory, we must also be punctual. 

Helene stood up and brushed the dirt from her pants. She lifted the hood of her cloak, concealing her pale hair. Sheathing her dagger, she walked away from the goblin before replying. “Who are we even meeting anyway? Is he a Lord? Is he the King of Faerun that my Father even urged me to come?” 

She checked her gloves, ensuring there was no visible blood that may become a topic of discussion for this meeting. Sceleritas reminded her that whoever it may be is crucial for the cults’ rise to power. That it will be important to further her goal–when all things end, and she remains the last living soul.

“A Banite, my lady. One I heard is to be chosen by Bane himself. From what I gathered, he is an infamous arms dealer. There are already talks of him running as a politician, aiming to be a lord of the city.”

“Ugh. A Banite, out of all people.” The thought of meeting whoever they were was already appalling to her. Hiding how much it bothered her, she huffed softly. “Name?”

“One is named Enver Gortash, my lady.”

She looked at the horizon, breathing deeply as she took another slice of the apple she’d been cutting earlier. She doesn't need any help; she knows she will succeed in doing it on her own, and yet if her Father commands, she will need to follow. 

“Fine. Let’s get this over with.” 

At that exact moment, Gortash waited inside a private room in the brothel he had mentioned as their designated meeting place. He’s growing impatient; not only is it felt on the wooden floor of Sharess Caress, but it is also heard throughout the room. The men he dragged with looked at him nervously. In a soft, shaky breath, one leaned forward and whispered, “Sir, are we sure the Bhaalspawn really exists?”

“Are you telling me our intel is not correct? That you lot are not competent?”

“N-no, Sir.”

He closed his eyes, pressing his right temples. Bane, give me more patience, he thought. The Bhaalspawn may not show up, but he had his hopes. He sent them a rather tempting proposition: a partnership towards greater resurgence and, in time, take over the city from the shadows. It was not easy weeding out the Bhaalists. He had suspicions when the murders around the city increased tenfold; only one God reveled in such a gruesome act. 

He sighed; he might as well rethink the entire plot should the Bhaalspawn not show up when the door gently opened. A tall, slender, hooded figure stepped in. He noticed the curves of her body despite the cloak covering her torso. One of the girls below maybe, looking for coins, he thought.  He stared at her for a moment and let out a soft chuckle.

“Forgive me, lady, but this is a private room we have acquired. We’re waiting for valuable goods, but we do appreciate your offering to entertain us and—”

“I’m not a whore.” She said bluntly. Despite the low hem of the hood covering her face, he noticed how she was directly staring at him, with no hint of emotion as she spoke. He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, the cogs working inside his brain as it dawned upon him.

“You were looking for me. Here I am. What do you want?” Helene said as she closed the door behind her. She lowered her hood and revealed the entirety of her face. Half-elf, she looked quite young, yet the intensity of her blood-red eyes held years of secrets untold, her face framed by her pale blonde hair, making him intrigued— interested even that Bhaal had chosen such a being to be his spawn. He smiled softly, laughing at himself. 

“You are the Bhaalspawn?” Amused that despite their intensive search to gather intelligence regarding her and what she looked like, they didn’t even come near to figuring it out. Rolling her eyes, Helene finally answered with disgust. “You are wasting my time.” 

“Forgive me, I am just quite surprised. I had expected someone entirely different. From what we have gathered, someone ruthless and feared by the Bhaalist initiates. I believe you made them swear a sacred oath not to reveal who their leaders are.”

She didn’t even flinch. With a quick gesture, a glowing figure appeared next to Gortash, followed by a quick choking sound and, finally, a crack. The man on his right lay dead on the floor, his neck bent at odd angles. 

“Hmmm…you were saying?” Helene pursed her lips, staring at him still. The man on his left stood at the ready, his sword pointed at her, although it was visible that their knees were starting to tremble, their beading sweat on their temple, awakening her lust to terrify them further after her show of skill. 

She tilted her head a little. If her eyes could devour him whole, she might have done it already as she stared at him intensely. “You wish to form an alliance? Resurgence for both our parties?” 

“I do. And we have a lot to discuss, but first…”

Gortash stood up, his hands clasped together as a smirk formed on his face. “Lady, you don’t need to be so worked up. Forgive me; I forgot my manners earlier. Enver Gortash, at your service.” He bowed briefly, showing that he recognized the divine blood coursing through her veins. He reached out, offering a hand. She didn’t move for a while, only studying how his practiced smile and eyes stared back at her, dark and intriguing. 

“I’m no lady of any house. And I know better that I am not here just for our respective cults’ resurgence. You yearn for something more.” She let a hand fall on her side, feeling the hilt of her blade underneath her robes as she waited for him to speak once more. 

“You’re clever.” He hesitated momentarily, his gaze falling on the wooden floor as he gathered his thoughts, carefully choosing his next words. “Yes, I didn’t invite you for our cults to simply rise. Say, would you be interested in raiding the House of Wonders?” 

For a moment, Gortash swore; she saw her lips curl into a smile, which, in a blink, faded immediately. “Go on. I’m listening.”

“Wouldn’t it be polite if I were to know your name in return? Establish the basics of trust?”

She pondered for a moment before she quietly uttered her name– the name that would drive him crazed and close to madness for the years to come. The moment she let her name leave her lips, their lives were doomed to fall. 

“Helene.”

[anderstrevelyan]

Let's throw out a little WIP Wednesday before I start work, too! This is from the journalism project, aka Ettvard Needle becomes a Banite.

I'm having way too much fun creating journalist OCs to populate the Baldur's Mouth, and figuring out the voice (puns and cliches intentional—when you spend so much of your life brainstorming headlines that becomes automatic, you can't escape).

(Turns out writing what you know is really fun, actually.)

Ettvard knows the value of a name well-chosen. He’d seen it as a child, back when he had more than half a memory of what his family was called in the generations before they moved to Baldur’s Gate. Needle—he’s heard plenty of petty jabs over the years, are you serious? A tailor named Needle?, but everyone was talking about his father’s business then, weren’t they. Of course, it helped that he was good, that he knew what the common people want, a skill and a sharp eye that had the family resting in a level of wealth uncommon for the shops on the Lower City’s foggy streets. He’d considered picking something else as a man, when he began the business that made him, but it fits his new life of ink and investigations, too. It’s what he threads when he crafts a sentence, balancing fact with the fanciful phrasing that catches a reader’s eye and keeps them coming back to buy more. It’s what he does in an interview, wielding pointed questions to find the truth bit by bit. It’s what he is to the patriars and political powers of the city, a sharp threat that could deflate their years of carefully curated artifice. He knows, too, the power of a title boldly claimed. Editor. Publisher. Founder. The voice of the citizenry of Baldur’s Gate, with the ability to change their thought with a well-placed editorial, or cut something from the conversation entirely with his silence. He should have known, when he first met Lord Enver Gortash, that there was so much more lurking behind the name.

[asharaks]

the glory of the myth you inherit

1.6k words, gortash's pov. pre-nautiloid dark urge. depictions of gore & torture.

“this can't happen again.”

the light is thick and red. the air tastes of offal. all around him, shadows move.

he wonders which of them is her.

at the head of the temple stands an altar: at the altar stands a figure. a cascade of glory-red, bathed in holy light, the Chosen of Bhaal leans against the stone, knife held loose and relaxed in one glistening hand. gortash breathes in viscera, and steps closer. the congregation doesn't move: the shadows do.

he holds out his hands (black gloves black hands black of Bane against the red of Bhaal) and smiles to soften the blow of his words. he's here to leave bruises, not cuts. 

the whip, not the lash.

the figure at the altar moves, teeth and meat and rabidholy grace, scars filled with blood and a mouth filled with blades.

“it won't.”

“you'll forgive me if I don't believe you.”

“will I?”

a tilt of the head, a soft hiss to the words. he mirrors the movement (two can play at this game, and he is not to be outperformed) and steps forwards, another step into the redred light of hell (and he thinks Bane and he thinks god of tyranny and he thinks lord of the Three ) and he says—

—“you will.”—

—and he says:

“she needs to be brought to heel. if you can't do it”—

—and the lash of Bhaal laughs low and rich and plants bloody hands on the altar (head of the sacrifice framed between them light falling on the opened ribcage) and gortash feels anger hazy on his tongue and he says—

“I am not a forgiving man”

and the Chosen looks at him (eyes bright eyes hungry updown updown lips curled) and silence eddies around them both.

“no”

(voice like consideration)

“you're not”

(like amusement)

“but here you are.”

—it's a mockery, he's sure of it: all too amused, all too soft. again he smiles (show teeth show strength nothing but spine and fangs and blackblack hands) and pitches his voice dangersoft and he says—

—“can you manage this, or do I have to?”—

and the slayer’s eyes swallow him whole, and the slayer's voice settles over him:

“she followed her nature: perhaps you should follow yours, Banite”

“her nature is a rabid animal” he spitsnaps and that Chosen smile widens and those Chosen teeth gleam whiter-red and he says, “keep her under control or I will”

and the (priest) (missionary) (revered killer) contemplates the body draped across Bhaal's altar — legs spread, arms spread, ribs spread, a feast for an insatiable appetite — and leans down with the blade, with the god, with an artist's unbroken focus.

“you may not be a forgiving man, enver”

—and his name is a silken murmur, a hand on his throat in the dark—

“but you aren't a loved one either, are you?”

—and gortash feels green twist in his guts verdant emerald bile-tasting as Bhaal's Chosen (Bhaal's darling Bhaal's perfect monster) grins and Bhaal's congregation hum at his back. he (doesn't blink) he (doesn't react) he (smiles in kind) and he says:

“what’s love next to domination?”

and he says:

“I don't need to be loved to serve”

and he says:

“unlike you. daddy's little monster ”

and he-she-they laugh–laugh–laughs , leaning low over the body teethbright smile flashing mouth wide scars split eyes blackblackblack—

—so he throws his hands widewider takes in the temple around them, all skulls and stone and stains—

and the lash of Bhaal spins the blade in bloody hands and looks him up and down hungry eyes and whitewhite fangs and metal crimsonbright, and says,

“would you like to be?”

voice full of invitation, thick and rich as velvet as wine as blood as all the fine little things he craves so dearly, all those little statements those protections charms against an old life long since shed.

what's on offer here is nothing so decadent, so indulgent: he sees the hedonism on offer sprawled shiny across the altar, hands bound, spine a beckoning curve.

he sees tendons pulled songbirdtight harpstringtaut skin flayed to make an instrument of the body thick heavy thigh muscles peeled away from the bone arms naked violin bows scraped clean and singing (the hands are left intact fingertips soft and fleshy the nails immaculate painted shiny red) and

she

breathes

and he watches the flutter of her lungs trying to inflate without muscle to carry the movement, the swell of the sob in her exposed oesophagus and Bhaal's (monster) Chosen clicks a sharpened tongue and lays a bloodied hand on her cheek and says to her (to him):

“we're almost there”

and holy light floods her body, her heart convulsing under glistening ribs and she cries out with lungs newly dying, newly alive and already collapsing

“just a little further”

and he scowls, lips thin skin hot fists clenchedclenchedclenched but he breathes out slow— don't let the blood too close to the surface you're in a den of sharks and they’re ready to feed—

and the chosenchampionslayerlash smiles wider has his scent sharkteeth white head tilted eyes black and empty and he — uneasy, in this temple of lesser gods and greater fiends — says—

—“she went too far”—

puts force behind it puts authority behind it puts Bane behind it

—“we can't afford another incident like that. not yet. not again, now that we're”—

so close but the slayerchosenbeast spreads hands wide like sanguine wings over the raw pulsing ribs and gestures, beckons, and with a sigh barely repressed—

—it doesn't do to show impatience when speaking for Bane (lord of the Three, and Bhaal the least of them)—

—when speaking to this Chosen, when addressing these blackblack eyes and that sharkwhite smile—

—he ascends the steps to the altar, breathes in the blood and incense.

“is there a purpose to this?”

as it turns out, there is. the blade spins, sunlight dyed red in the glass. a knife, offered freely, a mocking smile that says would you?

will you?

could you?

he takes it, feels it weighty with malice, with meaning. can't resist the jibe, lips curling to show his own teeth—

—“isnt this your job?”—

—broken-glass grin obsidian eyes like you could see right through them if the light hit right—

“in this case?”

—expression loving, intimate, soft and fond as stained hands stroke through her hair, and he looks down at the panting body at the moonwhite face already corpse-pallid.

he hadn't recognised her. not from the inside: hadn't known the colours of her lungs, the slow-crawling pulse of her guts, the delicate flutter of her heart. but her face—

—a bloodless diamond in the sanguine light—

—her face, he knows. remembers her tears under the fall of the whip.

he remembers the grey of her eyes, now fixed on him, now glassy with pain, now distant and empty.

“you bought her?”

both hands on her cheeks, now, and her eyes turned upwards to the blade. Bhaal's daughtersonchild looks at him a long moment.

“she came to us” comes the atlonglast reply, the didyouhearme answer. “she escaped— your clients aren't all so rigorous as you, enver.”

at the sound of his name, she squirms. makes a low keening sound. he can see the tremor of it in her lungs. her eyes— pale, glassy, enraptured— focus on him, and he wonders—

silhouetted against the sanguine light, black and gold and redresplendent with Bane's mark, Bhaal's congregation at his back—

in his hand, the knife.

“why come to you?”

hands, spread wide once more (he'd like to think in supplication). the robe, a red shroud, falls open to reveal metal beneath.

“freedom” says Bhaal's lash, blackblack eyes and lips like a wound, “vengeance”, and those hands land on her bowedtaut body, run like a lover’s down the gracestained cathedral of her ribs. up, over her bareflayed shoulders, tendons unravelling in their wake. “perhaps she just wanted to be loved.”

and gortash looks down at the knife in his hands and back at the (saint) (priest) (holy fiend) and says—

—“is she?”

that smile carves wider, beatific, sanctified, everblessed.

“how could she not be?”

there's a blade in his hand and a cult at his back, but it's the smile that feels like a threat. he watches the slow (beautiful) bloody throb in her veins, and tips the blade until it pierces the light.

“vengeance, is it?”

a slow drag of hands. gortash feels it as if it were his own nerves flayed, his own bones held (such intimacy, touching parts of the body never before known), worshipped, laid bare. the knife weighs heavy in his hands.

the mouth of Bhaal, a gaping wound.

“when is it not?”

he considers the knife. a starkly functional thing, sharpened to a delicate edge.

the hand of Bane, evergrasping.

“that almost sounds like a threat.”

—he flips the knife, the blade a glittering silver bloom in the still air, and holds it out. hilt-first. meets those (blackblack) eyes and smiles his own (whitewhite) smile—

“be careful what you say, assassin.”

somewhere in the congregation, somebody laughs. high and thin, a songbird loose in the eaves, and the child of Bhaal (looks at him) and looks at him (and looks at him)—

—and Bane might be the most of them but he is not the blood of his god and ketheric for all his undying devotion is a mortal father grasping after time long lost to him—

—and Bhaal's daughtersonchosen closes her heart in a crimson hand and says—

—“remember what happens to tyrants, little would-be”—

—and her heartstrings strain-snap-twang and her breath flies gracefully gratefully free. when she looks up her eyes are light and rapturous. angel-touched.

—she smiles as she dies. the slayer of Bhaal smooths her hair back from her forehead, hands so gentle it aches, and those blackblack eyes burn rapturebright, faithrewarded lovereturned.

behind him, the congregation sighs.

ecstasy, released.

[rinwellisathing]

You're Awful, I Love You: Part 20

Enver Gortash/Trans Male Tiefling Durge

Sentry grabbed his satchel and packed some art supplies before leaving his room to start his journey back to the lower city. Before he could reach the door, however, Gabraela grabbed him roughly by the arm, earning a reflexive lash across the face with Sentry's claws. The tall woman didn't flinch, merely gave him a look that was almost maternal, in an albeit frightening way.

“Bring. Fel. With You.” She insisted, the brief order insistently punctuated.

“Fine, I'll likely stop for more materials anyway and it's tough without help. Okay, Sceleritas, come along we've got places to be.” Sentry sighed.

“At once, young master.” The butler scurried after him and Sentry began to make his way through the ruins and up to the sewers.

“So, young master, as we are about to visit your Banite paramour, I have a few suggestions if I may....” Sceleritas spoke up as they neared the building.

“No, I am not going to eviscerate him just yet. That's if there's a wedding night.” Sentry replied immediately.

“Ah...Your father will not approve of a marriage outside of his faithful.” The butler warned, his tone.

“Really not sure why that matters when our ultimate goal is total and complete slaughter.” Sentry shot back in a mildly annoyed sing-song tone. “Now, how do I look?”

“As wicked as ever, my dear boy!” Sceleritas swept his hat from his head with a respectful bow.

“Good. Alright.” And with that, he began climbing the wall again, his butler right behind him. It occurred to Sentry that as Gortash's lover, he could very easily simply knock at the front door and wait to be announced, but where was the fun in that? He hoisted himself once more through the window and stood in thought for a moment, deciding whether to check the workshop or the bedroom now that he knew his way to both places.

“The workshop, I think. And if he isn't there, I will simply wait for him. Don't you think?” Sentry decided, looking to his butler for a response.

“And surprise him with a good old fashioned dagger in the back. Oh master, it will be truly inspired!” Sceleritas offered with a grin.

“Hmm..there's potential there, there really is. But I've never really been fond of daggers, that's more Orin's thing.” Sentry bit his lip in thought a moment before approaching the torch and opening the secret passage.

Finding the workshop uninhabited, Sentry began to look around. Diagrams, charts, all sorts of books on anatomy and the marriage of magic and machine inhabited the room. More of that odd metal too. He reached out, taking a piece in his hand. It thrummed with strange power and more than that, Sentry's paladin training allowed him to detect the aura of the hells about it. He set it down and moved over to one of the work benches.

“What could wield a weapon that large?” He thought out loud, fingers tracing a diagram for a truly massive sword with some sort of connection point at the hilt. His eyes glanced up and he looked around the workshop. “Hmm..he certainly could use more space than this for whatever it is...”

Sceleritas was looking around disdainfully. “Your craftsmanship is far better, my bloodthirsty boy. Look! Not a bone or sinew in sight and bereft entirely of blood!”

“It's a different medium, Sceleritas.” Sentry sighed, rolling his eyes. “Would anyone I slept with be good enough for you and father?”

“Of course not, you are one of a kind. Exceptional! Chosen! Created by your lord father himself. No one can ever equal you and thus, no one will ever be good enough.” The butler replied matter of factly as though it were the simplest thing in the world. “Although, for breeding purposes....”

Sentry's eyes flashed with anger and he grabbed the first sharp implement he could lay hands on from Enver's work table, jamming the tool through Sceleritas' eye and out the back of his head. “What did I say about 'breeding'!?” He snarled.

“Oh, excellent...form....master...” Sceleritas collapsed to the ground in a pool of blood that seemed to form too quickly before seeping into the floor and vanishing.

Sentry sighed and rubbed his temples. “Well, guess I'll be seeing him back at home...I did warn him.”

He looked down at the bloodied tool that had finally clattered to the floor in the absence of a skull to be buried in. He knelt down and picked it up, wiping it off on the hem of his cloak and placing the item back where he'd found it, sitting down and opening one of the books, a tome on a type of creature referred to as 'Warforged'. “Huh...interesting.”

“Well, you've made yourself comfortable.” Enver's voice startled Sentry for just a moment.

He turned to see him standing at the base of the stairs dressed in a simple linen shirt, the laces undone giving a tantalizing peek at the thick hair of his chest. His pants were simple, easy to move in work trousers like one would see at the docks. Sentry had to admit he liked him like this. There was something to be said for his Banite garb or his lordling ensemble of course, but the shop clothes were dirty, smelled of sweat, and looked easy to remove. The light color of the shirt would be so charming blossoming with blood from long gouging scratches at the sweat slicked skin underneath.

“Well, you weren't here, so...” Sentry began, rising to his feet and sauntering over to him.

“You could try the door next time, my servants know to expect you.” Gortash met him, standing nearly body to body, hands resting on Sentry's hips.

“Oh, but where's the fun in that?” Sentry teased, leaning in to nip at Gortash's lips. “What kind of assassin uses the door?”

“Ah, you're here as an assassin today, then?” Enver smirked, taking a step back. “Should I be concerned?”

“An assassin at your disposal.” Sentry replied with a grin, folding his arms across his chest. “Now that we're proper partners and all, feel free to point me at any target.”

Enver's smile widened and he looked Sentry over with approval. “I've already had a rival taken care of today. For now....why don't you relax? We can talk about the plan I've had in mind, perhaps come up with that cipher we discussed.”

“Yeah, that's fair.” Sentry shifted back and forth, trying to hide a look of disappointment. “After all, that's pretty important stuff. We can always plan a murder together another time.”

[bhaalbabebardlock]

Daisies on My Nightstand

Chapter 14- Slaughter-kin

Masterpost

AO3 Link

Summary: Ilara comes face to face with Orin for the first time since she disappeared.

"Wake up, sweet sibling. I want to see just how scrambled your pretty little head is." Ilara's eyes snapped open, her tent coming into focus around her, her vision swimming with the pale woman in red crouched over her. Her marble skin seemed to twitch and move, her long hair laying across her shoulder in a meticulously woven braid, a wild look in her eyes as she studied Ilara.

"Your pretty little rogue left you all alone blood-kin. Much like when the little lord did. You are so vulnerable when you sleep."

She scrambled backwards, shoving the woman off of her, spitting her name out of her mouth. She didn't remember of course, but she had been told enough, had seen enough that she knew she didn't want to be anywhere near her. Orin fell backwards, the two of them glaring at each other from the ends of the bedroll, her lilting, taunting voice sending a cold tendril of fear through her stomach.

"Father is laughing at you, you know. The way you slip and slither, belly dragging in the dirt. You were his favorite, and now look at you. Have you forgotten your way home, my sweet blood starved sibling? Did I mangle that cute little skull of yours too well? You really weren't supposed to come back at all."

Ilara's heart was racing in her chest, her mouth dry. She could feel the panic rising as her hands shook, sweat cooling her fingers. "What did you do to me?"

She laughed, high and manic, a sound that made Ilara's stomach curdle in knots. "I just twisted my little knife into the back of your head and popped a worm in to make you more agreeable. Gave you to the little necromancer so she could see what really made you tick, sibling." She clicked her tongue, leaning forwards. "The little tyrant was not happy when you went missing. And he didn't enjoy when I wore your face." Orin's words cut into her like blades of ice, and she didn't even know where to begin.

"When you wore-"

"Oh, yes. He didn't know for weeks, you know. Poor little Banite thinking his little whelp had grown bored of him. I would slither through the city wearing your skin and never going to him- he pretended he didn't care when his letters to you went unanswered, even though his little spies said you still lurked in the shadows. He was so angry when he finally realized, asking what had happened to you. I told him it didn't matter and didn't concern him. That I was Bhaal's chosen now, and that you were gone. He did not like that."

Ilara's mind was racing, and the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, even though she already knew the answer.

"His little whelp? Letters to me? Who are you talking about?" Orin's face seemed to twist in sheer delight, more of that unnerving laughter spilling out of her.

"Oh you really don't remember anything do you? Not even your precious little lordling. What a shame. He always knew how to tumble and twist your mind matter, leaving you knotted in his cords. I suppose there just isn't enough mind matter left." She suddenly crawled forward across the bedroll, putting her face only inches away from Ilara's.

"Enver Gortash distracted you before, sister. You did not do what you were supposed to and you left yourself weak. I had never seen you so weak before and you didn't deserve to remain father's chosen- in love with a Banite as you were." She pulled away, letting the words hang in the air between them.

Ilara felt like the chasm inside her chest had split open, revealing a truth that she had known but couldn't remember, didn't want to face. After a long pause, Orin continued.

"We will talk again soon, sweet sibling. When you come to the temple to face me, when we decide once and for all who is father's favorite." Ilara's breath hitched in her chest, and she shook her head violently.

"I don't want to. You can have it, Orin. I don't want anything to do with it, I don't want to be his chosen, I don't want-"

"Well you certainly have grown weak haven't you?" She laughed delightedly, her eyes darkening as she looked back at Ilara.

"His blood cannot be denied slaughter-kin, and neither will I. You will come." The air was still after she vanished, leaving nothing more behind than the echo of her laughter and the weight of her words. Ilara had known when she asked, and it only made it worse. She shook her head, groaning softly as she let her face fall into her palms. She was snapped out of the maelstrom of her thoughts by Karlach's voice, slicing through the silence as she peeked her head into the tent.

"We got an invitation. To Gortash's coronation as Archduke of Baldur's Gate. I'm going to rip his head off."

Shit, Ilara thought. Shit shit shit. Instead of saying anything about the whirlwind of thoughts in her head, she held out her hand, her voice strained.

"Can I see that?"

[rinwellisathing]

You're Awful, I Love You: Part 46

We spend a moment with Orin here, trigger warning for misgendering and also there is definitely some grooming going on...Just Sarevok being generally kind of a piece of shit

Enver Gortash/Trans Male Tiefling Dark Urge

Sentry's siblings kept hard at work in their respective hunting grounds. The Baldur's Mouth was soon brimming with stories of whole families in the upper city falling violently ill of a mysterious hemorrhaging disease from which no healer could save them in time. A horrifying specter haunted Rivington in the night when the fog rolled in, leaving the headless corpses of hapless lovers out on a stroll or a picnic. In the lower city, a shadow stalked the alleys and back roads, leaving the corpses of young woman strewn across the pavement in the early hours of morning. By the docks, bloody stabbings and bodies left arranged in tableaux with odd notes and sometimes, strange disappearances which left no body at all.

Orin did not enjoy competition. Her own slaughter-kin had criticized her art when his rarely if ever honored father, always honoring that Banite filth. She clenched her hands, fingernails digging into the skin as she thought back to a time when Sentry had not been her rival, her enemy. She bit her lip as the memory formed in her head. She had been young, just entering pre-teens, laying on her stomach, hands coated in blood, pressing them to paper on the floor of the temple. Grandfather had entered, flanked by Fel and a tall, thin boy a few years older than Orin. She'd looked up curiously, white eyes focused on the newcomer. He had been spattered in blood and gore and seemed...sad, maybe. “Lady Orin, this strapping young lad is Sentry Ojeda, your elder brother. You'll recall I had been searching for him for some time.” Fel had announced. Orin had noticed Sarevok sneer slightly at the introduction, but was silent for the time being. “Are you...are you making a painting?” Sentry had asked, slowly approaching Orin and kneeling beside her. “It's quite good. Want to paint together? I've got some special paints with me.” He'd fished some crimson vials from his pockets and set them out on the floor. She had smiled at him.

The following year or so, she recalled being close with Sentry, tagging along with him when he would go out to fetch materials. She remembered a blacksmith had leered at Sentry and the boy had simply smirked. “Now, Orin, you see how his teeth glisten? Gold. We can use that for our sculpture work, wouldn't that be fine in our sculpture of father? He loves gold and jewels, yeah?” He'd explained quietly as he'd approached the blacksmith, swaying his hips, letting his tail flick back and forth teasingly, beckoning the man into the shop and discreetly nodding for Orin to follow. She recalled giggling and clapping her hands in delight as Sentry had wrenched the man's jaw open, the sickening crack of his skull separating, how his blood spilled across the floor. She and her brother had knelt in the red puddle and prayed to father reverently before Sentry had handed her a pair of pliers to extract the teeth while he perused the walls of murder implements. When the task was done, he had presented her with two fine stilettos with gold hilts set with rubies. “A present for my favorite assistant.” They had spent the next several days in Sentry's sculpture garden, building a replica of father from bone and flesh, seating him atop a throne of corpses. A throne Orin knew now held a different lord...That pitiful Tyrant.

She remembered visiting grandfather and telling him all of the things she and Sentry had done, the fun they'd had, calling him her favorite slaughter-kin, beloved big brother. But grandfather hadn't smiled, he'd simply given a mirthless laugh.

“You cannot have a 'favorite' sibling, Orin. You know father's will: there is only one chosen, the rest are destined for slaughter.” Sarevok had reminded her with a cruel sneer. “Do you not know what your 'brother' truly is?” Orin had stood silent, looking at her feet. Speaking to grandfather was difficult, she could rarely find her words in his presence. “SHE is Vereena, the breeder. Meant as a vessel to bear unholy assassins for Bhaal. She is beneath you and you must remind her of her place.” Sarevok's voice dripped venom. “But...he is my brother...” Orin started. “No. She is merely a vessel who has convinced herself she is your better....Will you allow this insult?” Sarevok leered down at Orin, his expression filled her with fear. Perhaps if Sentry really was lying to her, if he really did look down upon her... She had to convince herself it was true. The alternative was too painful. Besides, had her own mother not tried to kill her in her bed? Why should Sentry...no...VEREENA be any different? She could not look at the beautiful stilettos in her hands as the thoughts filled her mind. She pushed away their silent side by side prayers on bloodied floors, surrounded by viscera. Their sculptures, their paintings...it all meant nothing. This so called chosen was just another liar waiting to slit her throat to get one step closer to being father's favorite, a place which should he hers by right.

These thoughts blurred through her mind as she stood by the docks, staring out at the sea. She had taken on the form of a half orc woman today, dressed in simple sailor's attire, reddish brown hair pulled into a careless braid to keep it off her tanned face. Several feet away, a vessel was docked and while no one knew it yet, the entire crew was dead, laid out perfectly to symbolize another piece of father's legacy. Sentry had called her art amateur...pedestrian...the art he used to sit by her side and create with her. It confirmed everything grandfather had ever said about him. Unfit to be chosen, an upjumped breeder with delusions of grandeur, refusing to even fulfill that simple task. He'd maimed Jackal, killed him at least once. He refused Sarevok, ignored his summons and denied him. He chose instead to rut with the chosen of father's own sworn enemy. Sharing father's own flesh with a simple Banite. His death would be a blessing, a fine tribute to father. He was poison to the family, a tumor to be excised.

[rinwellisathing]

You're Awful, I Love You: Part 11

Enver Gortash/ Trans male Tiefling Durge

Content warning: sexual content, BDSM, misgendering, bullying

The following weeks passed by for the most part as Sentry's time often did. He worked in his room, locked away from the others, emerging only to hunt when the mood or lack of materials struck him. Further correspondences from Gortash arrived, usually handed to him with a knowing wink by Tomi, causing Sentry to wonder how many disposable messengers Gortash had to spare. A particular invitation arrived towards the end of the month, leaving Sentry somewhat baffled.

“A dinner outing? So...like...he's courting me? Or just extracting information? I'm all thumbs when it comes to this sort of thing.” He asked, turning the letter over in his hand and squinting as he re-read its contents.

“Well, it's flirtation at the very least. I know most of my kills begin with a night out.” Tomi offered, slipping behind Sentry and producing a fine comb of carved bone, beginning to brush through his silvery hair. “You will want to look your best.”

“Be sure to kill him before you get to the bedroom, he might not like what he finds elsewise.” Jackal taunted with a wicked smirk on his face.

Sentry went pale, anger flashing in his eyes. Before Tomi could stop moving the brush or Jackal could react, one of Tomi's fine crystal perfume decanters shattered across Jackal's face, shards pushed further in by Sentry's now bleeding fist. “Say it again. Talk about that again, I fucking dare you.” The tiefling snarled, pinning the still laughing drow down and punching mercilessly into his bloodied face.

Tomi pressed a hand to Sentry's shoulders and whispered some soothing words in her language he still didn't understand and he slowly relaxed back into her grasp as she returned to brushing his hair. Jackal crawled back to his usual perch, spitting blood and muttering to himself.

“Miss Tomi, preventing our rotted master from his bloodshed is most frowned upon, as you know.” Sceleritas chastised as he entered the room, setting down the tarnished silver tea service on the side table. “Remember who is in charge here. I would hate to lose such a capable killer as yourself.”

“Oh, but our little princeling has a caller tonight, it wouldn't do for him to upset himself before such a grand event. Imagine, a wealthy Banite in our pocket, one climbing towards political power. Think of how we could expedite father's perfect slaughter.” The pretty creature cooed softly, now taking a cloth and dipping it into the tea, massaging the gentle herbs and hot water over Sentry's wounded hands. “Don't let Jackal's barking distract you, little lord. Being a man has very little to do with how many holes you have. By the time I'm done with them, men have hundreds! Jackal is just a dimwit. A dullard. Too many years rotting in drow society under foolish matriarchs.”

“Yes, you're right, Tomi. Thank you.” Sentry found himself gripping her hand, perhaps with more affection than he meant to. Deep down, he knew her words were for Bhaal's Chosen, she might never have said that to him if he were a lesser man, but she did say them and he felt affirmed in his heart hearing them. “I think I need some air...maybe to get some fine things to wear, after all, he's some kind of noble, yeah?”

“He is an advisor to the dukes and patriars of Baldur's Gate, young master.” Sceleritas interjected helpfully. “So yes, a wealthy man rising to power.”

Sentry nodded. He rose to his feet and made his way to the doors of the temple. He needed help, help his siblings and devoted butler could not provide. Checking his coin purse, he nodded. That should be enough for what he needed. With that, he made his way back towards Rivington.

This time, he did not pass into the town proper, but stayed in the small mercantile district just outside Wyrm's Rock. No one questioned a handsome young man in paladin garb making his way to Sharess' Caress at this time of day, though there were the usual array of whispered comments about repression.

“Welcome back, Sentry, dear. Who are you here to see today?” The vibrant blonde at the desk beamed. “Um....well, two people, actually...Is Ffion in?”

“Yes, she's just finishing up with a client. She'll be glad to see you! And who else?” Mam'zell bent down, her sharp nose nearly touching the paper of her ledger as she went through the names.

“Wysp Silksong.” Sentry blushed a bit.

“Oh, he is fond of you. It will make his day to hear you've come.” She winked knowingly. “Head up to his room, I'll tell Ffion you're here once you and Wysp have finished up.”

Sentry nodded and made his way down the dark, winding corridor that led to the round stone room. An orange cat greeted him at the stairs and nodded to him. “Oh, hullo Malta, guess Wysp knew I'd come if he sent you to get me.” He reached down and scratched between the cat's ears as he rubbed his warm, fluffy body against Sentry's legs, finally allowing himself to be picked up and carried up the stairs.

The thin, dulcet strains of violin music echoed from behind the wooden door and Sentry stopped a moment to listen as Malta leapt from his arms and began to scratch at the door. The music stopped and a sigh sounded.

“Malta, you petulant creature, in or out. It's really a very easy choice, friend.” Came a deep but gentle voice as the door clicked open. A drow a bit taller than Sentry with the lean muscled body of a dancer stood before him. His pale violet eyes brightened and his scarred lips curled into a genuine smile. “Ah, I see. You brought a friend.”

Sentry lowered his head, trying to hid the flush spreading across his cheeks as the man beckoned him into the room, nodding towards a comfortable looking mushroom shaped cushion. Sentry sat down and waited as Wysp closed the door, shooed Malta to a cat bed in the corner, and joined Sentry. The Drow had smooth dark grey skin, lined with scars and swirling silver tattooes, culminating in an elegant silver sword image taking up most of his back. Scars that matched Sentry's own, though not quite as carefully healed and much older marked his chest.

“Why don't you come see me more often?” The drow feigned a sorrowful look, but didn't bother to hide the playful glint in his eyes.

“You wouldn't like me if you got to know me, Wysp.” Sentry gave a small, hollow smile. “And anyway, I came mainly for advice today...I mean, relax, I'm still gonna pay full price, your time is important and all that, but....I.. um....” Sentry shifted awkwardly, moreso as Wysp put a gentle hand on his back and leaned in close. “There's this man...”

“Oh....” Wysp's expression was only briefly disappointed. He quickly righted himself and nodded. “Well, what can I help you with?”

“See, here's this letter he sent me, we're supposed to meet up, it's written like he wants to talk about business, this sort of back and forth little alliance we've had going since he helped me reclaim some things, but my sister thinks he's trying to court me.” Sentry explained, producing the letter and handing it to Wysp.

The young man read through the letter, arching a silvery brow and wincing slightly. “Well, I can see how you'd be confused, it's....equal parts ominous and threatening...but still kind of vaguely sexual if you read between the lines. Is this guy a politician?”

“Yeah. And also my muse.” Sentry added. Father's whispers were always so mercifully quiet in Wysp's room. Sentry wondered if it had something to do with the small obsidian statues of the dancer and her sword perched on every wall, or if it was something to do with Wysp's music. Even so, he was grateful for the reprieve, however brief.

“Your muse...” Wysp's expression softened, his gaze distant, though eyes fully on Sentry. “I know what that's like. Alright. So with these nobles, because I was one before my banishment, it's all about subtlety and subterfuge. There's a good chance one of the glasses at the table will be poisoned, but just a little. That's a test. Thankfully, we both know from our little games that you have a very good tolerance to poison.” Wysp added, running a finger down Sentry's arm.

“Those are some of my favorites.” The tiefling admitted with a little shudder of pleasure. The bitter taste beneath the wine, feeling it circulate between their tongues as they kissed, the dizzy feeling when he was the one to swallow, the coldness of Wysp's lips and the slowing of his breathing when he did.

“I know, but for now, focus. After all, you want to impress this man, right?” Wysp asked, arms folded across his chest.

“No, I mean, I don't....Maybe...” Sentry bit his lip and thought a moment. When he was near Enver, he could feel his father's anger, he could feel his blood rushing and the urge screaming at him, but something else forcing him to defy it, like an iron chain around his throat and wrists, like being brought to heel. He liked the feeling. The conflict inside him like being torn apart. “I don't know...I want him to work for it.”

“You're overthinking, you're tense. Lie down.” Wysp snapped his fingers and pointed to the ground.

Sentry hesitated. “I am not overthinking, this is important.”

Gentle but firm hands gripped Sentry by the horns and guided him to the ground. Sentry's eyes glazed over, mouth open just a bit, face flushed as he looked up at Wysp.

“Lie. Down.” The drow commanded again, and Sentry obediently lay on his belly, body prone on the floor.

“Yes, sir.” Sentry cooed, eyes rolling back as the grip on his horns tightened.

“There...Now...Do you need to clear your mind?”

“Yes, Wysp.” He needed almost lazily.

“Alright. And your safe word is?” Wysp let go of Sentry's horns and retrieved a flogger with bits of sharp silver woven into the strands.

“Dancer.” Sentry replied.

Wysp nodded and brought the strands down on Sentry's back, blood blossoming under the skin where the shards hit. Sentry moaned in pleasure, closing his eyes and arching his back into the blows, allowing himself to become lost in the sensation. His vision went red behind his eyes and he pictured the crimson rivulets dripping down his back with each strike. A clear head, that was what he needed going into this. Of course Wysp was right. Tension, overthinking, that would trip him up. He was chosen, he was Bhaal's own flesh, if anything, this petty little tyrant should feel thrilled Sentry would give him the time of day, much less the privilege of allegiance.

Every jolt of pain that sparked through his nerves brought him back to his senses, eased his mind and showed him his path forward. The safe word never left his lips, after all, no matter how he adored Wysp, no handsome, good-hearted bard could come close to what The Executioner could withstand, and indeed even enjoy. As Wysp wound down and gently caressed Sentry's body, softly kissing the back of his neck and shoulders, he wondered how far would his muse go? What violence would he be willing to enact on a lover.

When Sentry got to his feet and redressed, Wysp helped him fasten the straps of his gambeson and leaned down, pressing a soft kiss on Sentry's lips. “Be careful out there, Sentry. Rich folks are more dangerous than anyone you'll meet around here.” He warned.

I doubt that, my darling Wysp, at least not more than me...That is what Sentry wanted to say, but instead he simply returned the kiss gently and smiled. “I'll be careful, I promise.”

Malta stretched and padded lazily across the room, escorting Sentry out and back down the stairs, stopping and awaiting his customary head scratch and a small scrap of dried fish from Sentry's rations pouch before returning home.

Sentry's next stop was the room the establishment proudly called 'Elminster's Library'. As he knocked on the door, a stout, stern woman with grey curls tied back off of her face greeted him. Her dour expression immediately turned to a motherly smile as she pulled the much taller man into a tight hug.

“How's my boy?” She asked as she guided him into the room and sat him down.

“Well, Ffion, I have a date, it seems, and as you know, no mother to guide me.” Sentry explained with a little chuckle.

“I see, I see, well! I certainly wish my boy would get a date. He acts so odd lately, you know?” She shook her head. “Anyway, how can I help? Damn, it seems like just yesterday you were this shy awkward little thing clutching your tail every time I asked you what you liked.” She smiled proudly at him, laugh lines creasing her dark skin.

“So...the guy is a noble of some sort and a business man. You're a classy woman, Ffion, you were married, you have all kinds of callers, so I thought you'd know best...what do I do? What do I wear? It's not exactly The Blushing Mermaid or The Elfsong, after all.” Sentry explained, shifting uncomfortably. “You know me, apart from my visits here, I'm a homebody.”

“That you are, my boy. I've never even seen your name at those art exhibits that Jannath woman hosts and your work's good, maybe even great! But don't worry, mama's got you covered. Let's see...” Ffion made her way over to a tall wardrobe and began to pick through it. “Sometimes clients leave things behind, and lucky for you, tall men are my bread and butter. Hmm...This one is roomy around the nethers, so if you're nervous about first impressions, you could even pack it if you wanted.” She produced a beautiful pair of velvet trousers with silvery vine details snaking up the sides. She was right, there was room to stuff it with rags to avoid answering any difficult questions. “And then personally, I've always thought a nice doublet over a crisp white shirt was a smart look. My late husband would wear that on our anniversary, you know.” She fished out a gorgeous doublet that nearly matched the pants and a soft stark white undershirt. “Your usual boots finish it off nicely, I think. The silver buckles pull it all together. So, what do you think?”

Sentry smiled gratefully and began to strip out of his clothing. Ffion had seen him naked hundreds of times in the time they'd known each other, if he trusted anyone not to fuss, it was her. She even helped him re-dress in the fine things she'd offered him, finally guiding him over to the mirror and gazing proudly into it at his side.

“Such a handsome young man.” She clapped him on the lower back and shook her head. “Next time I see you, you'll be some patriar's husband. You be sure and invite me to the wedding. Hells, I'll walk you down the aisle if you like.” She teased goodnaturedly.

“Thanks, Ffion.” Sentry smiled at her and knelt down, hugging her tightly. As the cinnamon and vanilla scent rested in the air, The Stern Librarian's signature smell, Sentry had an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach, one that made him hold her tighter, hesitating before letting go. “I...I'll come back and tell you how it went, yeah?”

“Of course, meet me at the bar after closing, I'm sure Wysp will be there too...And don't worry, he'll get over it, this is all part of the job.” She patted Sentry's thigh knowingly.

“What, Wysp?” Sentry blinked in confusion. But he realized the time and simply shrugged, thanking Ffion again before making his way out the door and back down to the street.