#but then Gortash came along and confused all of that for him

[thrassisfras]

The fact that I went into that first conversation with Gortash completely blind and he somehow managed to be the one that almost convinced me to side with him is just wild to me. Gwydion had been incredibly resistant to anyone (even his partner) trying to get him to be just a little power-hungry, but then Gortash came along and started talk about unity and stability instead of "we're gonna be evil and rule the world" and it was working on Gwydion.

My only thought during the coronation scene was "damn, he really does know Gwydion"

[jegonriver]

Part 2 of my Raphael notes and observations from combing over the House of Hope, be warned these may be spoiler-ish:

There's a copy of the DnD-verse K*ma S*tra in his boudoir, I cant remember what its called tho its like quarta serto or something.

There is an eternal debtor that worships Raphael's used chamberpot. There's an action to 'use' it but tbh I was not interested in trying it out.

There is a voyeur eternal debtor that Raphael instructed to always stand outside the boudoir and watch what goes on inside but never to join. She seems pretty into it.

Most of the plaques, scrolls, books etc suggest he has a strong sense of justice and a love of rules and laws which makes sense.

As a child, Gortash was sold by his parents to Raphael to pay a debt and he was kept in the prison and regularly beaten until he escaped.

Signs letters and instructions with 'R'

Has a 100 chapter book he's written of what is essentially fanfiction-esque imaginings he has of different in which he is coronated Archdevil Supreme, one of which is of course the scenario in which you give him the crown. The book describes some different chapters as being written as though they are historical fact, others as imagined futures.

One book describes how he himself created the Orphic Hammer to be able to break any infernally created chains.

Korilla has transcribed two scrolls of conversations Raphael has had with Hope. The first of which he askes Hope to sing him a nursery rhyme. The example he gives her when Hope is confused is a suggestive rhyme.

"Little Miss Teffle, sat on her kettle, steam blowing between her lips. Along came her oven, in need of some loving, and soon she had scalded hips."

Hope sings for him a nursery rhyme from her childhood and when the song ends Raphael sighs contentedly. He's so pleased he offers her the opportunity to be master of her own fate as a reward. She calls him "Sweet Raphael" and then tells him to eat shit. He responds with what sounds like genuine shock/disappointment "But..." and Korilla describes him as looking at Hope with immense "longing and hate", then implies she'll be punished.

In the 2nd transcription Raphael torments Hope with a jar filled with nightmares. Before doing so he says "Serve me then! Damn your pride and serve me with your whole heart!" She still says no, and he is disappointed and calls her naughty.

Oh also, he calls Hope by the pet name Sweetling, describes her as "my tenacious petal clinging to the flower despite winter, nature, and all common sense", and he also calls her 'dear one'

If you talk to Korilla she says Hope is Raphael's 'favourite toy', Raphael offered Hope "the world, but she didnt want it. He sweetened the deal; she said no. No matter how many times he upped the ante, she just laughed in his face. He didn't like that."

Korilla goes on to say "Eventually, he took her by force. Trapped her and swore he wouldn't let her go 'til she gave him what he wanted."

[perahn]

How the Tadfools Stole Christmas

Most people in Faerûn liked freedom a lot, The Dead Three and their Chosen, the bards say, did not. They wanted to murder, creative and cruel: They wanted the dead and the undead, like ghouls: They wanted confusion, the town upside down, So they’d seize command with a fierce tyrant’s crown. This, you might say, could rightly be treason, But they didn’t care. No one quite knows the reason. Old General Thorm, who stood for the dead, Was hating and frowning at Orin the Red: While Gortash clicked his gauntleted hand And “Enough!��� he cried. “Do you understand? “We MUST plot and scheme! We MUST think – and quick! “We have to come up with some clever trick! “The people need ruling, and killing, and such – “Any more of this freedom is simply too much.” Then he got an idea! An awful idea! GORTASH GOT A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA! “I know just what to do!” he snarled with a sneer: “We’ll make a new god, and we’ll fill them with fear! “We’ll get a big brain, all squishy and wet, “We’ll put worms in their heads, and just watch them fret “As the brain in the hat gives commands, they obey: “And then I’ll ride in to rescue the day!” There was more of the plan for Orin and Thorm, A false army to lead, and sly changes of form – But Gortash, the hero, had the best role to play, And grew bolder and gloatier each passing day. But down by the river, which he didn’t guess, Adventuring people had got in a mess. They had swords, they had spells, they had hidden chains, They had hard-won friendship, they had worms in their brains. They had a withered old man on their side, And a ghaik in a prism who served them as guide. They came to the Towers, all shadow-cursed dark, And they killed off old Thorm, midst panic and snark. “That’s bad,” Gortash thought, “Though I’ve never liked him, “Our chance of success just got slightly more slim- “Orin, my dear, you’d best kidnap one.” “Oh goody,” she said. “This will be fun!” But her temple was pillaged and her victim freed And Chosen or not, it was her turn to bleed. The adventurers turned their steps towards the place Which Gortash had made into his fortified base. “He’s crowned himself Archduke, so he must be rich “We’ve emptied our invent’ries, let’s loot this bitch.” They grinned and they smirked with sinister pleasure They slunk ‘round the fortress and they stole all the treasure! They took the cheese wedges, they took the clam chowder, They stole eighteen potions and all the rune powder! The pears, grapes and apples went into their sacks, Along with two shields and an enchanted axe. They grabbed up the gems, and what’s even colder, They took the roast rothé, the boiled beholder! They gathered the beer, the ale, and the wine, When they heard a small sound, like the grunting of swine. They turned around fast, and saw in the door Gortash was leaning, with five guards or more. “Hello,” that Gortash most charmingly said, “You’ve got pretty far, but soon you’ll be dead.” But despite all the traps, the guards, spells and fire, The gallant adventurers quick made him a liar. As he lay on the flagstones, bleeding, out-fought, He was hazily thinking a vague final thought: “Maybe my plan went somewhat astray, “And freedom’s the friends we made on the way?” And what happened then? Well, the adventurers say Gortash’s small heart stopped completely that day, Then they gathered his clothes, his weapons and glove, And into the chimney he went with a shove! Then back at their camp, as soon as it suited, They laid out a table with the good things they’d looted! They toasted each other and the good cheer they’d found, A merry and jolly and earth-shaking sound! Tomorrow would come, and it might well bring pain: They still had the worms and the ghaik and the brain, But tonight they’d rejoice and forget all that bother, And the withered old bone man carved the roast rothé!

[bhaalbabebardlock]

Chapter 21- Sweetness

AO3 Link

Masterpost

Summary: Ilara continues to dream, and remember. She pays penance for her friendship with Gortash, so he shows her a moment of tenderness. Durgetash fluff.

She stopped in the shadows of his office, the way she had been doing for the past few weeks now every time she came here. She observed him quietly, the way she always did. She hadn't been to see Raphael in some time, his call through her magic having remained silent. That was fine, she wasn't ready to talk to him and have him pry information out of her about her plan to steal the crown from his father. He would probably laugh, encourage her to see what fun could come out of it. She was grateful for the respite in what sometimes felt like never ending submission between him and her father.

Her father. She had come to Enver this time after having been punished for being here at all, and she took pleasure in the fact that this meeting would only increase Bhaal's annoyance with her. Maybe he would release her and end her miserable life so she didn't have to waste away bringing him corpses to decorate his altar. She flexed her fingers against the chafing, raw pain in them and clenched her teeth against the heat of dried blood on her back.

Scleritas had not been kind as her father made him count those lashes, and she had screamed her throat raw while dragging her knuckles across the bloody stones. She shook her head, trying to bring herself back to her body. Pain wasn't new. Pain she could handle. And she had certainly handled it, every night of the last two weeks as she pleaded, said she would bring others and that for now, they needed Bane and his servant and their plan. A begrudging acceptance from her father, but her punishment was swift nonetheless. Defiance would not stand, even if there was a better plan.

What she couldn't handle was him. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. She had spent so little time with anyone outside of devils, myconids, other worshippers at the temple, victims she kept at arms length until she needed them to warm the floor with their offering of blood. She was not used to the way he asked her probing questions. The way he was interested in watching her as she sat sketching. She had furrowed her brow at him in confusion when she had returned after that first day, him holding out the small book to her, along with a small leather wrapping of pens.

You said you liked to draw. I figured you could use this, when you're here. I won't look in it, it'll be safe for when you want it. She had taken the book and small pouch in her hands, stunned by the simple act of kindness. Nobody had ever given her a gift before, certainly not without a cost. When she incredulously asked him what he wanted from her and he said just your company it had only made the worms in her stomach squirm even more, her confusion grow brighter.

When he had suggested that they sit together and she draw while he works on some blueprints, she found herself agreeing, curious at what spending leisure time with someone else looked like. She found herself regularly peeking up from her sketches to see what he was doing, only to see him looking back at her, his eyes quickly going back down to his own work. Their banter had grown comfortable and light in those few weeks, the two of them falling into a natural rhythm to see who could have the upper hand. More than a few times he had reached forward, gently rubbing his thumb over ink she had gotten on her nose. She wondered what he was thinking in those moments, if like her, he felt that pull to find a connection amongst the chaos of their lives. She finally stepped forward, clearing her throat as he looked up at her.

She was so used to his normal mask of apathy that for a moment, she was caught off guard by the emotion she saw flicker across his face. If she didn't know any better, she would have thought it was concern.

"You're bruised." She felt a pleasurable warmth in her stomach at the sound of his voice, and she couldn't help but let out a small bitter chuckle.

"I am always bruised, Enver." She watched him closely as she spoke, the way his eyes softened slightly as she called him by his name, the way the muscles in his arms tensed as he pushed against his desk, standing and walking over to her. The familiar tang of the magic from his coat hit her tongue, the warmth of his own scent hitting her nose. He always smelled like warm soap, fresh water. Clean and sharp and dark. She flinched as he raised a hand to brush her face, his fingers only stopping inches from her skin before he dropped them, realizing what he was doing. This time, he cleared this throat.

"You've got dirt all over your face, your hair is a rats nest, and you are covered in what appears to be your blood as well as a spattering of bruises. What happened to you? I only saw you two days ago and you certainly were not this worse for wear." She found herself prickling at the insults, annoyed as ever by the fact that he was not afraid of her. That damn coat.

"Do you take the god of murder to be kind, Enver? I was supposed to kill you, and yet I come here every night and laugh with you while we sit by candlelight. That defiance comes with a price." There. There it was again, another flicker of emotion. She faltered as she stared back at him, noticing that this time he didn't smooth over his face. Guilt. He was looking at her with guilt. He reached his hand up again, letting his fingers whisper against her cheekbone as he brushed her hair out of her face.

"You were hurt because of me. Punished. Because of me." It wasn't a question, just a statement of facts. She said nothing in response, frozen in spot by the delicate touches. Nobody had ever touched her like that. It was always starved, hungry, desperate, wanting, hurting, bruising, taking. She wasn't sure if she preferred this, but it made warm prickles of heat curl inside her chest so she did not pull away. She closed her eyes, instead finding herself leaning into his touch, his palm warm against her cheek. They stood there like that for a moment before she realized what she was doing, and she snapped her eyes open, taking a step back from him and watching as his hand fell back to his side, as that careful mask of apathy slipped back over his features.

"I'll draw you a bath. And get you some clean clothes. And food." She opened her mouth and he must have seen the incoming objection because he lifted his hand, that voice he used when he didn't want an argument coming out.

"This isn't a discussion, Ilara. You'll be taken care of. It's my fault you're uncomfortable." That annoyed her too. It wasn't his fault, not really. She had a choice. She still has that same choice, should she want to. But she could endure the punishments. Those long nights spent laughing by candlelight and asking each other questions was too tempting to give up, at least for now. She was too starved of friendship to not put up with a few lashes.

"It isn't your fault," she heard the words come out of her mouth, stunned by them. She was not used to trying to comfort people, to assuage their guilt instead of her own. It was so foreign to her. He smiled at her, and the way his lips tilted up sent a small trickle of heat running through her stomach, her eyes drawn to them. Her mouth felt like cotton, her eyes snapping up to his as he spoke, heat spreading across her face at the thoughts she had been having about those lips.

"Gods, you are a matryr. Of course you'd say that. Bathroom, now." She didn't argue with him as he reached his hands out, placing them on her shoulders and lightly spinning her around, urging her towards the stairs where she knew his bathroom and bed were. They hadn't been back to his bed since that first night's tense conversation as they had sat across from each other, sizing each other up. She couldn't help but think that the hot bath would feel good on her aching muscles, on the raw skin striping her back. She felt him gently push her again when she didn't move, casting an irritated glance over her shoulder at him.

"I can walk, thank you." The words came out harsher than she intended despite her desire for the bath, and she saw that familiar flicker of amusement at her neverending sass dance in his eyes. Sometimes, she wished he were afraid of her. Sometimes, it was nice for the fear to not be there at all. She wondered if he would fear her without that coat.

"Then by all means dearest, walk." Dearest. She wondered why he did things like that. The sketchbook. The soft names. He was such a puzzle to her. She shook the tension out of her muscles, turning back around towards the stairs and heading up them. She could hear his quiet footfalls behind her, watching him carefully as he went ahead of her and into the bathroom.

She stopped in the doorway, observing him with that same carefulness she always did. He had started the bathwater already, dropping small oils in it by the time she appeared to watch him. She wondered for a moment why he was doing this himself, he had plenty enough servants he could have asked to do it for him. She assumed it was some of that misplaced guilt, that he felt like he owed her something. Her sins were her own, she didn't know what to do with pity.

She could smell the warm scent of rain and flowers wafting up from the building steam, and it made her chest burn with longing for a life long gone. Not that he would have known that. She walked forwards, stopping at the edge of the tub next to him, watching the steam curl off the top of the water.

"There are towels over there, when you're finished. I'll be downstairs if you'd like to join me when you're done." She felt her hand snap out before she could think, her fingers ghosting against his arm as he turned to leave. They both froze in spot, equally surprised by her rare touch.

"Will you stay?" The question felt too intimate and she immediately felt herself blushing, the tips of her pointed ears burning with heat. She didn't know why she had asked him that, but for some reason, being alone felt worse. She had started to open her mouth again, to laugh and say nevermind she hadn't meant that, but his next words stopped her.

"Of course." They were almost too simple in their conviction, as if he hadn't been surprised she'd asked and was annoyed she would think he would have said anything else.

"Will you turn around, though? So I can get in?" Her face still felt warm, and it only got warmer at the burning look in his eyes as he traversed them up and down her body, stopping back to meet her gaze.

"If you wish." He turned, clasping his hands behind his back, waiting patiently for her to get into the water. She hesitated for only a moment, so unnerved by both her own request and his agreement that she thought it might be better if she left. Then she got another waft of that warm, flower scented water, the nostalgia for her old life, and she found herself quickly slipping out of her tunic and pants, stepping over the edge of the tub, and sinking into the water with a sigh. She pulled her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them as she stared at his back.

"You can turn around now." She drank in his desire as his gaze slid back to hers, his eyes sliding down to where her knees rested in the water. She was almost tempted to lower her legs, to let him see her, but she felt oddly aware of herself in a way she usually didn't. He always made her feel that way. She watched him as he stepped forwards around the tub, her head tilting softly as he stopped, some decision crossing his features before he sighed. He turned back around, removing his coat and folding it neatly, setting it on the sink before turning back to look at her.

Well, that is certainly new. She hadn't expected that at all, as many times as she had poked and prodded to try and unravel the mystery of that coat, he had offered no explanation beyond he simply did not want to deal with the messiness of something as trivial as fear, and that no, he would not be removing it. She quirked an eyebrow as he rolled up his sleeves, exposing the smooth expanse of his strong, tanned arms.

"What are you doing?" She asked as he walked around the edge of the tub, stopping behind her. He picked a cup off the floor, gesturing down to the water.

"Can I wash you? Just where you're comfortable, you don't have to move. Your back and hair maybe." Of all the things she had wondered that he might ask, that was the farthest from her mind. She didn't know how to respond to his request. Even in all her years of that mockery of freedom, she had never had anyone offer to bathe her. Myconids weren't ones to need such things, and her victims she lured to the temple certainly had no time for hygeine or base comforts. Her baths in the boudoir at the house of hope hardly counted even if Haarlep was sometimes there, the healing waters necessary to erase the signs of Raphael's affections.

"How many times?" She froze further at this next question, casting a glance over her shoulder to look at him. He was staring at her back. She sighed.

"You don't want the answer to that."

"I do." She saw something flash across his face. If she wasn't so unnerved already, she would almost say it looked like fear. Interesting, she thought.

"It was only twice the first week, three times the second. Now it's three dozen every two days that you are not dead. I get one day between for reprieve and in that time I am to repent by bringing other lost souls to the temple to lay their lives down instead of yours." She tensed as she felt him reach out, tracing one of those callused fingers she had wondered about so many times down her spine.

"I'm sorry." The words hung there between them, and she wished that she could swallow them down, wipe away his shame at her pain. She wanted him to understand it was worth it, that he was worth it. That she was feeling raw in a way she had never been allowed to feel before. She couldn't say the words, too frozen by the aching fear of her own vulnerability.

She flinched as warm water spilled over her shoulders, relaxing as he lifted the cup again to gently pour it over her head. She tilted her head back, letting her eyes close softly as he continued to pour water through her dark curls, the water beneath them turning a murky red with the dried blood that seemed to always be hidden in them. A soft sigh left her mouth when she felt his fingers softly, almost tenderly massaging against her scalp, the scent of his fresh rainwater soap filling the air. Maybe being vulnerable wasn't as bad as she thought it was going to be.

She couldn't help the way the tension seemed to melt out of her shoulders, the sharp sparks of pain uncoiling as he gently pressed a soapy washcloth over her back, washing clean the wounds from her punishment. She almost felt angry at the tenderness he was showing, undeserving of it as she was. He knew what she was, he knew what she did when she left Wyrm's Rock to crawl back to her chains, her doctrine, her duty. But the feeling of his hands brushing against her skin so softly, the glide of that warm water on her aching bruises- it was too sweet to say no to. She wanted to savor this moment, to remember it always. She hoped against hope that she would never forget this.

She almost felt bereft when his hands left her skin, as he stepped away towards the sink and grabbed a towel, turning to hand it to her before he averted his gaze. She reached out slowly and took it from him, intrigued by the color in his cheeks. She wasn't used to him not making direct eye contact with her, with anyone really. She stood, wrapping the towel around herself and continuing to look at him.

"Thank you," the words felt foreign on her tongue. She was used to thanking for many things between devils and Gods, but thanking the man before her for washing her was not something she had seen coming.

"Don't thank me." His voice was softer as he looked back at her, seeming entranced by the way the water dripped off her skin, his eyes traveling down to the top of the towel sitting just below the tops of her breasts. He cleared his throat loudly, turning back to the sink and grabbing his coat, sliding it on before waving a hand in the air, indicating she should follow.

She did so wordlessly, almost disappointed when he slipped it back on. He had seemed so much more raw in those few moments he could feel everything, and she found herself craving to see more of that softness. They stopped in his room, and he turned to her, pointing at the dresser behind them.

"You'll find clothes there. They might be too big on you but you'll be comfortable. You can sleep in my bed. Do not-" he continued, holding up his hand at her incoming protest- "argue with me. I will sleep down on the couch. Your father will live. I want you to get a good night's sleep, for once. I'm sure my bed will be more comfortable than whatever you have cobbled together at that temple." Her bed in the temple was not uncomfortable, but it was not comfortable either. Large and hard, relatively flat. She had sat on Gortash's bed only a few weeks ago, and had to admit that it was much more comfortable.

"Stay with me. Don't... Don't go sleep on the couch. Sleep with me." She didn't know why she wanted his vulnerability so bad, why she wanted to show him her own. She didn't want anything from him other than the comfort of his body laying next to hers while she slept. His eyes softened again, and he nodded slowly.

"If you wish." She did. She didn't know what exactly it was she wished for, but she wished very, very much. She nodded her head, and needing to feel not as embarrassed she turned and walked over to the dresser, pulling out one of his shirts. She turned back to him, purposefully letting the towel fall and carefully watching the look of desire cross his features as she slipped the shirt over her head.

"Are you not going to put on anything else?" She smirked softly, a game she was now familiar with playing.

"Nope." She thirstily took in the way his eyes raked down her thighs, stopping where the shirt did, lingering.

"Very well. Go. To the bed." His voice was lower, strained, and she could tell he was barely maintaining that careful control he tried so hard to keep in place. It made more heat curl in her stomach, but she obeyed, walking slowly over to the bed and sinking down amongst the sea of soft silk. She watched as he, for the second time that evening, removed and carefully folded his coat. Her hungry gaze watched as he removed his pants, rolling up his sleeves and standing before her in just his boxers and undershirt. He slid into the bed next to her, their bodies only inches apart under the blanket.

She didn't know why she did it, but she found herself closing that space, pressing her face against the crook of his neck. She was almost as surprised as he was at her rare burst of affection, a soft gasp leaving his mouth as he slowly, hesitantly wrapped his arms around her. She felt safe. She never felt safe.

"Goodnight, Enver," she said quietly.

"Goodnight, Ilara," he whispered back.

***

[oathwilled]

@faereun queried: “ we all have secrets, don’t we? ” / gortash!!  :: question prompts ( accepting )

" OF COURSE WE DO. The world thrives on secrets. " It’s blunt, and unapologetically so. " Show me who claims to not have them, and I’ll show you a liar. " Shoulders shrug, loosely. " You have yours. I have mine. "

He didn’t come here to fight. He’s not even sure he came here to parlay, to bargain, to fight — he’s alone, though, and oath-sworn though he may be, he’s also lived long enough to no longer be enough of a righteous fool to pick foolish fights — even if everything that this one stands for doesn’t drag him right back in memory to his near-youth, golden-hearted and bright, new and freshly anointed, promised the world by a city’s leader with a flashing white smile, charm, and blood and rot and ruin running in rivers behind the curtains. 

Something surges in him, bile-sick, and he grits his teeth and swallows it down. This one isn’t the same. Is the same, because so many songs repeat the same lyrics and tragedies for a reason. Cities raise and fall on the backs of corrupt leaders, but the question is: how much choice do they have?

It’s not their first meeting. He hadn’t said yes, hadn’t said no. He’s spent his life being pointed at things like a gods-damned unholy warhammer.  [ You’ve never been a leader, have you? You’ve had those guiding you, leading you, telling you what to do. You’re confused. The decision feels too heavy to be on your shoulders. ]

And so: instead, calloused fingers run absently along the grain of a wood-top table, pick up a coin; his thumb casts over the figure in relief stamped on one side. It’s merely distraction to buy him a moment to think; he rolls it off the back of his fingers. " And so I assume, " oh, heavy on the emphasis, voice thick; he clears his throat. " You’ve been watching us. Because I’m not a fool, and neither are you. So as it stands: if we deal — " Gods, but that feels wrong to say; his mouth stretches thin, " —— then we deal. Because I have some —— counters. "