#enver gortash x y/n

[handoverthekawaii]

Tyranny of the Heart | Enver Gortash & You | Chapter 6

Your jaw drops as a figure materializes out of the shadows of the Steel Watch foundry. She — for it is a she, you quickly realize — is like no being you’ve ever seen before, no diagram you’ve ever paged to in an ancient, dusty book. The woman is beautiful and terrible, with milky eyes, corpse-like skin and flowing, braided hair. In each hand, she twirls a large, ornate dagger around her fingers.

This is bad, you think to yourself. Really bad. But before you can react, to your utter shock, Lord Enver Gortash places a gauntleted arm in front of you.

“Stand down, Orin,” he warns.

Orin?! you think, mind racing as your eyes dart between Gortash and the woman — Orin, apparently. They KNOW each other?!

Meanwhile, Gortash’s order causes Orin to throw back her head and laugh, a deranged cackle that echoes down the deserted docks.

“Insolent fool!” she responds after composing herself. “Father was right about you… your mind fills too, too, TOO quickly with diversions.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Gortash shoots back, his voice oozing with derision. “Killing the same way every day just isn’t good enough for you, is it? I understand you’ve been trying your hand at finger painti—”

“ENOUGH!” Orin interrupts, pointing one of her daggers first at Gortash’s face, then yours. “This meat sack distracts you from our unholy purpose.”

“I wonder if you’ll behave better after I put your little lamb to the slaughter.”

You have no idea what in Avernus these two are talking about, but it doesn’t seem to bode well for your personal health and safety. Your eyes dart around the harbor, looking for possible escape routes.

“You shall have to face me first,” says Gortash, taking a step forward to stand between you and Orin. “And need I remind you… if you raise your blades against me, you will have sundered our alliance forever. I imagine your Father wouldn’t be very happy about that.”

“You do not speak for Him, WORM!” Orin shouts, jabbing her dagger in Gortash’s direction to punctuate her words.

“But fine, so be it! I tire of your pitiful excuses!” The strange woman lowers her blade, appearing to take a deep breath to calm herself down. Then, to your further surprise, she holds one dagger up to her mouth and runs her tongue down the glinting edge.

“I will not cleave her flesh this night, lordling,” she hisses. “But this one’s blood will age like a fine wine… tasting all the sweeter when I finally let it spill.”

And with those parting words, Orin the Red transforms into a cloud of dust and disappears.

Silence hangs in the air for a moment, broken only by the waves lapping against the dock below your feet. But the quiet is quickly shattered when you blurt out,

“Who the fuck WAS that?!” [continued on AO3]

[yeehawbvby]

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

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

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

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

Check it out on ao3!

Snow was bountiful in the Lower City this winter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You truly were a being after his own heart.

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

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

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

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

The poor soul was long gone anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[freesidexjunkie]

tell me you're mine

f!Dark Urge OC x Enver Gortash

2036 words

Rating: E

Content: p in v; jealous and needy gortash; death/murder; definitely smut

Summary: Enver overhears some cultists making lewd remarks about his Bhaalspawn, and needs to rectify this situation.

“And what about the bhaalspawn?”

Gortash knew he shouldn't be listening. He had better things to do than listen to every bit of gossip that passed between these cultists. Nevertheless, at the mention of his co-conspirator, he found himself rooted to the spot, skulking behind the half-opened door frame like a common thug.

“You’d have to be mad to even try,” a drow woman said to the elf in front of her. “She’s likely to carve out your heart where you stand if you got too close.”

The elf snorted, puffing out his chest a bit. “I bet I could handle her,” he replied, insufferably cocky to Gortash’s ear. “She wouldn't be so scary once I was–”

Enver had heard enough, he decided. He threw open the door as he stormed into the room; a bit more dramatic than was likely necessary, but it certainly made his presence felt. The cultists’ eyes grew wide with shock as he leveled a fearsome glare at them.

“Y-your holiness!” The elf stammered out as the pair fell to their knees, eyes pointed downwards as his face colored.

“Such reverence,” he replied, the unnervingly calm in his voice not reaching his eyes. “Such respect. Tell me, do you only blaspheme against your God's Chosen in secret, then?”

“N-no, my lord!” The elf replied, head bowed low as he kneeled at Gortash’s feet. Sniveling little worm, he thought; all bravado, and no judgment. Useless.

“Oh, by all means!” He drawled, almost sweetly beneath the venom. The wicked snarl on his face was a challenge as he looked down on the man, wallowing pitifully into the dirt. “Do continue. Tell us how you would show due respect to your leaders. Enlighten us.”

“I… I–” The elf’s eyes darted around the room as he spluttered pathetically, desperately searching the faces of his compatriots for aid. But he found none; all averted their eyes from him, as if his doom might be catching.

Gortash could feel nothing but disgust for the man. He was clearly useless to their cause; he seemed to think himself above his betters, yet showed no spine when challenged on it. He could do nothing but weaken them. Gortash turned his sneer on the drow with him. “Does this man speak for you?”

“No, my lord,” she answered, her voice calm and her eyes cast down as she knelt.

He unsheathed his short sword and threw the blade at her feet, a snarl escaping his lips as he bid her, “prove it.”

The drow gave a curt nod as she lifted the blade. “Yes, my lord.” He watched as the elf’s eyes widened in terror as he looked to his former friend, a silent realization dawning on him. The sword was through his chest before he could make any plea for his worthless life; his only answer a little gasp as the blade was pulled from his chest as harshly as it had been thrust in. The room watched in silence as he collapsed to the floor, a few more pitiful gurgles before the elf quickly succumbed. The only pair of eyes not watching were the drow, still cast down reverentially as she presented Lord Gortash’s sword to him, her charge fulfilled.

He watched her, looking for any sign of weakness; but she showed none. He considered for a moment that he may punish her regardless for her complacency. But no – she showed promise, and he trusted that this would serve as a lesson for all who had watched. He took the sword back without a word, turning his back as he settled it back into the sheath. His gaze swept over the room, eyes still full of fury as he watched the onlookers busying themselves with their work, none of them eager to share the elf’s fate.

Gortash spared them one final displeased grunt as he left the room. “Clean up this mess. Give it to the gnolls, perhaps,” he called behind him as he left the room, letting the door slam behind him.

Insolent man. Presumptuous fool. He would never have been able to do any real harm to Maevris, Enver knew; the elf’s companion was right, in that she would have gutted him before he could even make an attempt. But that did not excuse his lecherous tone, his disgraceful comments about something so far above his own station.

“The bhaalspawn,” they had said. As if that was all they thought of her; some demon child of a has been god. Didn't they realize what was owed to her, as their leader? As the brilliant mastermind that she was, the fearsome assassin, the Chosen of a god, as was he? Yet they spoke of her without the fearful respect her position should inspire in them. They spoke of her as if they had any right to the parts of her that were –

Enver stopped short of finishing that thought. The ice cold shock of his own feelings on the matter doused the burning rage in his chest, if only for a moment. But a moment is all he allowed it, lest those thoughts run wild.

He felt heat creep up the back of his neck as he mounted the tower’s stairs towards the library. There had been no words spoken between them as to the… particulars of their arrangement. Was “arrangement” too crass of a word for it, he thought? Was there a better way of describing it, the stolen moments of private worship that passed between them? Would Mae have objected to the man’s words, if given the chance; might she even have reveled in them, encouraged them? And at what moment, he wondered, had that become so abhorrent a thought to him?

He would be master of his own emotions; this he swore to himself. He was a powerful leader, the Chosen of a god, soon to be a god in his own right. It made no sense to worry over himself over someone else’s affair. It made no sense to –

“Argh!” His fist slammed into the frame of a bookcase. Enver leaned against it, letting out a gravelly huff, before hearing a book being snapped shut behind him.

“Rough day?” Came Mae’s voice, lilting with amusement. She was leaning back against a desk, her angles and curves on a tantalizing display as she watched him with a smirk.

Gods dammit it all, he thought to himself as he charged towards her. In a moment, he was on her; arms gripping her tightly, one hand tangled in her hair to pull her in. He met her lips with a crushing urgency, pinning her against the desk’s edge. Mae made a surprised little laugh against his mouth, looping her arms around him.

Enver felt her pull back just slightly, only enough to pry their lips apart. “What’s gotten in–” was all he let her get out before lifting her onto the desk. Her legs opened for him as he slid one hand up the front of her thigh, underneath the hem of her skirt. She was already wet for him as he ran his thumb over the crotch of her undergarments, pressing herself into the touch with a little groan.

He told himself to be gentler in his touches as he grabbed her hips roughly. He chided his own impatience even as he tore off her smallclothes. But as much as he chastised himself, he found he couldn't help it; he needed her, needed to feel her around him, to feel her tremble at his touch. To know that she was his.

He forwent the normal pleasantries, their coy back and forth and the sweet little praises he liked to lavish upon her. Mae’s hands worked down his body agonizingly slowly, toying with the laces of his shirt collar and running over the skin of his back, her nails surely leaving little red lines in their wake. He didn’t have the patience to wait, not this time; he undid the laces on his pants hastily, freeing himself from the confines of the fabric he strained against. Enver could feel how eager she was as he guided himself into her; her little gasps, how readily she took him in, the way her breath caught as he worked his hand around her swollen bud.

“Careful,” Mae warned, a low and shaky whisper in his ear, “if you keep doing that, the whole tower will know what we’re up to.”

Enver wrapped his arms under her legs, hoisting her up and further against him. “Good,” he replied, almost a growl. “Let them.” Let them all know, he thought, biting carefully at her neck. He would let them hear his name cried from her lips, let them see the sweet little marks he would leave on her skin. He was keen to remind of his many uses, his well honed skills to be put to use. The various ways he could bring forth her ecstasy as no one else could. He thrust into her again, harder, as he tugged a fistful of her hair to better expose her neck, earning a delicious moan from deep within her chest to echo off of the stone walls around them.

“Fuck,” she rasped, face turned upwards as she panted, “Enver, I… I…”

He pulled her closer to him again, gripping her ass and encircling her waist as he murmured something unintelligible into her jaw.

Mae turned back towards him to speak into his ear. “What was that?” She asked quietly, every word an effort against the blissful feeling spreading across her body.

He pulled his face away to look into her eyes, his eyes dark with lust as he kept a slow and deliberate rhythm pounding into her. “Tell me you're mine,” he said, more clearly this time. “Tell me that you are mine and mine alone. That if anyone else dared to lay a finger on you, you would want me to tear them limb from limb. That no one else can have you but me.”

Mae let out a breathless little chuckle as she grinned up at him. Looping her arms around his neck, she pulled him in for a long, needy, passionate kiss as she continued to buck against him. Without pulling away, she spoke with a grin against his lips, “of course, darling.”

“Say it,” he said, almost a plea as he neared his climax.

“I’m yours, Enver,” she said, her voice coming undone as she came closer to the edge. “All yours.”

And it was that that did him in. He felt himself reach his end as he snaked his arms around her back and up behind her shoulders, burying his face into her neck as he spilled inside of her. She cried out his name as she came with him, surely loud enough to be heard throughout the floor. It was a proclamation to any that would dare to look at her: his.

Maevris was running her fingers gently through his hair and across his back. She planted small kisses to his temple as he shuddered against her, breathing heavily into her shoulder, still buried inside of her. “Do you feel better now, love?” She asked with a wilting playfulness.

He let out a short laugh as he straightened himself up, pulling out of her and pressing a last kiss to the side of her neck. “Of course, my dear,” he said, arms still circling her waist as he leaned back to look at her.

“Good,” she replied, running a hand up his chest with a smirk. “You should clean yourself up, darling. I believe we’re late for a meeting with the General.”

She met his eyes with a pleased little smile. Wicked thing. Sinfully gorgeous, wicked woman. “Oh no,” he answered with a devilish grin as he wrapped her legs around his waist and lifted. “No, pet. We are going upstairs, so I can show you just how mine you are.”

Mae acquiesced quite willingly, all kisses and giggles as she relished in teasing him all the way up the stairs. She was his, he repeated to himself. All his. Only his. And the thought entered his mind more than once, that he was entirely hers.

[madschiavelique]

I saw your dating headcanons for BG3 guys and I loved it.

I hope it's okay to ask for Enver Gortash dating headcanons for fem s/o please, love that racoon man 🦝💕

omg thank u !! hell yea the racoon man!!!

─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ pairing : gortash x fem!reader

─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ content warning : none, absolute fluff, fem reader, no use of y/n

─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ words : 382

( not proofread, english is not my first language ☆)

dating gortash means that his lap is your throne while he’s sitting on his. He doesn’t have a single shame about it, he wants to display how breathtaking his partner is to the eyes of the entire world, which means he has to have you at all time near him.

once you get your official throne by his sides though, he mourns the feeling of having you sitting on him, of his golden covered fingers combing through your hair as he distantly listens to whatever complaints has been brought forth to him today. But he knows that once you’re both out of the throne room, he’ll get just as much of you as he wishes.

It also means calling the most refined couturiers there are in all kingdoms to dress you. He could spend all day just admiring how each and every colour suits you, how the shapes and forms of the gowns that are made for you makes you look like a painting ready for the museum of his mind.

‘How could one become hotter when putting on more clothes ?’ is the question he keeps pondering as you try yet another gown. Don’t assume he simply fills your wardrobe, no : necklaces, earrings, he buys you the sweetest of sweets, employs the finest of cooks, instals the softest of sheets. It’s like living like a princess.

But when he can’t be by your side for whatever reasons, such as his duties depriving him from you, the world seems a lot duller. He spends a lot of time doing paperwork, endlessly sitting at his desk while somehow managing not to cover his fingers in ink.

He stays up till late at night to just make sure every paper is completed so that he can spend the rest of his time with you.

You come to see him when it’s so late, sitting on his lap again as he works, hugging him warmly and softly from your sleepiness as you mumble in his neck for him to come to bed.

He smiles, murmuring “not yet” as you groan and just remain like this. All tensions that he had from work before vanish from your touch and presence. He finishes writing another boring report before calling it a night and standing up from his desk while holding you to him, sleeping like a koala. He'll lay you on your shared bed, placing a soft kiss on your temple before preparing for the night.

[floral-and-fine]

Have My Heart

Enver Gortash x Fem Durge Reader

Summary: y/n wakes in Enver’s bed and finds herself covered in blood as well as parts of the room, but she is unable to recall what happened and assumes the worst.

A/n: Thank you @bhaalbust for all the suggestions and help with this fic! Really made a difference❤️ if I write any more bg3 fanfic it’ll probably be for other characters that you can’t romance in the game. Enjoy!

Warnings: Durge related violence and content and lemon

Y/n sighed in her sleep, her body was heavy but her mind was oddly at peace, lost in a dream of being elbow-deep in the guts of a cadaver, their insides still warm and fresh. She could practically feel blood splatter on her face as she pulled them apart, fingers wrapping around soft organs and squeezing. Her lips tugged upward in a giddy smile, allowing the wave of ecstasy and satisfaction to wash over her as she admired her work. The faceless victim, with dead eyes and a slack jaw, laid beneath her, y/n could almost still hear their screams ringing in her ears.

Rolling onto her side, she hummed appreciatively recognizing her favorite scents surrounding her, blood and… Enver’s cologne. It was a dark and smoky fragrance that encapsulated power. Without giving it much thought, she buried her face further into the pillow breathing in deeply.

Her fantasies shifted from a scene of gore to one of lust and passion with her lover. Enver’s bare body was pressed against hers, the only thing he was still wearing was his gauntlet. The cold metal tickled her cheek as his fingers pushed back a few stray hairs from her face.

She could feel his tongue leaving a trail of saliva as it swept over her sternum, up the mound of her breast, and then teased her nipple, his teeth playfully nipping and tugging at it. His warm wet mouth ventured higher, arriving at the tender flesh between her neck and shoulder, without hesitation he bit her, hard, mercilessly, teeth bruising her skin before they punctured through drawing blood. Y/n gasped at the sudden pain, her back arching off the bed, followed by a low moan. Enver chuckled, nuzzling his nose against hers before he kissed her with her blood still on his lips.

She never knew what to expect from him, he seamlessly could go from tender and loving to harsh and devious and back again. And she loved it, it kept her on her toes, constantly anticipating what he’d do next, wondering whether he would bestow upon her more pleasure or more pain.

Enver sat up on his knees between her thighs, his eyes roaming over her body with a look of ownership as he placed his hand by her throat. The sharp tips of his gauntlet on his thumb and middle finger traced her collarbone.

Y/n bit her lip, peering up at him to see the smug expression on his face. It was no secret how much it pleased him, the control he had over her: his assassin, his partner, his lover.

This was an unforeseen affair, to say the least. She never expected that anything could come between her murderous desires and depraved thoughts, but here she was dreaming about him instead of murder.

Enver’s other hand adjusted her thigh, in order to position his cock between her folds, his fingers curled around her neck. As he slowly entered her, he simultaneously applied pressure to her throat to match his pace. He groaned as he bottomed out, fully sheathed within her. He was still for a moment before he began to move his hips.

Y/n’s hand gripped his wrist as he fucked her faster and choked her harder. Through blurry vision, she gazed at the man she adored. The one who had accepted her in a way that she never believed was impossible. He appreciated her efforts and self-control, validated her work, and trusted her.

Gods, she loves him.

Y/n moaned shamelessly, her eyes were still shut, but her body was now very much awake, she reached a hand out in search of her lover, only to find his side of the bed empty.

It was then as if a switch had suddenly been flipped, snapping y/n out of her dreams. She immediately sat up, eyes wide as it dawned on her that this place, his home, shouldn’t reek of blood and death. Her eyes darted around the room, streaks of red painted the walls and bed sheets. Bloody footprints stained the carpet, and her hands and hair were covered in dried blood.

Had she finally done it? Her worst nightmare fulfilled?

Everything went quiet as she sat alone with her racing thoughts. Y/n had been so careful, she was killing in droves, slaughtering men, women, and children to satiate her urge and protect Enver from herself. But was it still not enough?

She felt sick to her stomach.

It was unfortunate how being chosen left her with no choice, or at least it felt that way. Compelled almost every moment to do her father’s bidding, plagued by thoughts that all led to violence.

It was only a matter of time before this alliance would fail, that one would betray the other, but still y/n had hoped that they would’ve been able to accomplish their plans, and even more so she had hoped that this partnership would’ve lasted longer, much longer.

…

Enver rubbed his tired eyes and stared at the presumably romantic gesture that y/n had left for him at the bottom of the staircase in the center of the foyer. It was a graphic arrangement of bloody limbs and intestines in the shape of a heart. He tightened the belt of his silk robe as he circled around his surprise gift while admiring his lover’s twisted handy work.

At the tip of the heart were clasped hands, obviously belonging to different victims, that had been roughly amputated according to the jagged edges. He could only assume that that was part of her loving message, perhaps something along the lines of staying together even when being torn apart, but that was all speculation, he wasn’t what one would call well-versed in her uniquely violent language.

Gifts and surprises like this weren’t an entirely new occurrence, he had previously awoken to find similar presents such as human hearts tied together with ribbons sitting on his nightstand or strange yet sweet messages scrawled in blood on his bedroom window. But this was by far the most extravagant declaration of affection to date.

He lifted his brow, noticing the trail composed of severed ears, fingers, and toes. He figured rose petals would’ve been far too cliché for his little killer.

Now where did they lead to, exactly?

Enver followed the path, careful not to step on any unpleasant bits of flesh with his bare feet. Perhaps he should make a habit of putting slippers on before leaving his room if this becomes a regular thing.

Arriving at his study, he came face to face with 3 heads impaled on spikes, proudly mounted over the fireplace. It only took Enver a moment to recognize the lifeless faces, they were his competitors, former black-market weapon dealers like himself.

A small part of him was a bit envious that they had met their end without him present, that he had no say in how to prolong their torture, and that they didn’t die knowing that he was the reason behind it. Of course, this was nothing he couldn’t get over, he knew that y/n made the bastards suffer before ending them, but still if it had been anyone other than his bhaalspawn interfering with his meticulous plans he’d probably have them killed or severely punished already.

“Well gentlemen, I’m sure the three of you were just as surprised as myself by this outcome,” Enver announced to the heads decorating the mantle. “But we all knew one way or another that I was always going to come out on top.”

He smirked to himself, filled with a sense of gratification, aware that his lover did this for him. It was a different sort of pleasure compared to when he’d send y/n to kill, she did this unprompted and it was that much more meaningful.

Perhaps later she’d give him all the gory details. Y/n was always eager to relive her kills with him. Typically she’d return from an assassination and immediately start filling him in while stripping out of her clothes right before straddling his lap. This was definitely a beneficial aspect of their relationship, that she got off on murder while he got off on power and control.

“You’re alright,” y/n murmured from the doorway, seeing Enver standing there in his black silk robe, his back turned to her as he stared at the heads on display, it was a beautiful sight, better than all the gore and horror she saw on the way here, which in actuality brought her no joy and only added to her panic.

“Hm, oh yes, I’m fine,” he started, eyes still focused on the severed heads. “can’t say the same for these fellows… seems they met a grisly fate at your hand. Impressive work as always.”

She stifled a sob that immediately drew Enver’s attention. A combination of emotions that she had been fighting had worked their way to the surface, relief, fear, guilt, but mostly just she was just grateful, grateful that he was unharmed.

“I thought- I thought I killed you,” y/n confessed.

He lifted a brow, unfamiliar with the sight of seeing her so shaken. The typical cold analytical look in his eyes was gone and replaced with concern. “Probably just a bad dream,” he said in an attempt to be sympathetic.

Y/n shook your head, “I don’t remember these killings.” She gestured to the unfamiliar faces behind him. “I must have killed them while blacked out, but I shouldn’t have, I’ve been slaughtering and maiming all over the city.”

She took a deep breath. “I must have killed them because I can’t kill you, I won’t kill you, despite the urge compelling me to,” she explained.

His gaze fell upon her, studying her in such a vulnerable yet wild state, naked, eyes bloodshot, hair knotted, dried blood staining her arms and legs, but she was still beautiful in a dangerous sort of way.

“Have you considered that these unconscious killings aren’t a tribute to your god but rather for me?” He asked. “Or do you typically create heart-shaped atrocities for Bhaal?”

It was practically inconceivable that such a perfect and powerful specimen would love him to such a degree that she’d choose him over her god and rebel against her very nature for him. All this blood and gore was a testament to how much she cared. Y/n was truly his.

“For weeks now you’ve been leaving me unconventional gifts and love notes,” Enver explained further. “Do you remember any of them?”

“No,” she whispered.

He smirked moving closer to her, “You subconsciously killed 3 of my biggest competitors and brought me their heads, it’s quite thoughtful in a way, a wonderful present.”

Enver tilted y/n’s head up, his lips lightly kissing along her jaw. “Thank you,” he whispered into her ear.

She closed your eyes as he cupped her cheek, the familiar touch of his fingers stroking her skin had a calming effect. Y/n leaned into his hand, taking in the warmth of it.

“Don’t worry about the mess, I’ll get someone to take care of that. But first,” he said. “Let’s get a bath ready.”

There was comfort in knowing he’d take care of everything including herself. Life as a Bhaalspawn was lonely. Any sort of friendship or family ended in death or abandonment. The only people with whom she interacted were Bhaal’s followers and her butler, Scerleritas Fel. She was honestly scared that she was going to be alone again.

It was so nice having someone who wanted more from her than murder, who saw that she was capable of more, capable of being a partner and a contributor.

She opened her eyes and placed her hand over his, giving her love a rare genuine smile, it was almost sweet if she wasn’t also looking like a wild animal.

Y/n slipped past him and moved towards the fireplace, looking up at the mantle with renewed vigor, her lip twitching upward as she watched a glob of congealed blood drip from the head in the center. Gortash moved behind her, tenderly sweeping away her hair from her neck before placing his lips on her shoulder, his teeth grazing her skin.

“Appreciating your own work?” He asked, knowing exactly what sort of effect it had on her. With a firm hold on her hips, he pulled her towards him, her ass now pressed flush against him, with his silk robe being the only barrier between them.

Flashes of the faces, contorted in absolute agony, appeared in her mind. She could practically hear their screams all over again, they were deliciously ear piercing.

Y/n reached up, her hand clutching the back of Enver’s hair as she twisted her neck to meet him in a sloppy kiss. Her nails scraped against his scalp and he smiled in response, loving how desperate she was for contact, to taste him, to feel his skin.

Her free hand yanked on the belt of the robe to loosen the tie. Quickly, he shrugged his robe the rest of the way off, letting it pool at his feet. His hands immediately returned to her hips, grip tighter than before as he rubbed his hardening cock against the smooth curve of her ass.

She started to breathe harder as his fingers traveled closer to her pussy, which was already slick. She whined, rubbing her thighs together as she anticipated his touch.

“Always so ready,” he purred, his ring and middle fingers finally delving between her lower lips, stroking over her clit lightly before increasing the pressure.

Y/n rutted against his hand as he teased her, fingers expertly circling around her little bud. Enver moved his fingers lower, pushing his middle inside. She was obscenely wet, her cunt squelching as his finger moved in and out.

“More,” she gasped, as he added another digit, stretching her tight hole wider. He was an expert at finger fucking her, moving and curling his fingers just that herlegs turned to jelly. She had to lean against him for support to keep herself from falling to the ground. She cried indignantly as he suddenly removed his hand from her pussy.

“Get on your hands and knees,” Enver commanded, giving her a little shove. “I want you right here.”

Y/n didn’t waste a second, following his orders and lowering herself onto the floor. From this angle, she could better see the grotesque innards of the neck muscles and bones. She suddenly recalled that she had not been gentle when separating these heads from their bodies, she had stabbed over and over, ripping and tearing as she further mutilated the corpses. It had been such a rush.

Teasingly, y/n wiggled her ass in the air, more than ready for Enver to fuck her senseless.

“So needy,” he murmured, taking his time as he sank onto his knees behind her. He placed his hand at the base of her spine and caressed her back without hurry, prolonging the moment, before abruptly grabbing a handful of her hair and jerking her head back. She whimpered, at the slight sting.

The tip of his erection was now so close to her entrance, making her even more aware of how empty she felt. “Ready?” He asked.

“Yes,” y/n hissed as he tugged her hair harder.

Closing his eyes as he eased his cock into her warm velvety cunt. “Mmm,” Enver moaned, “So good.”

His pace started out slow and leisurely, once again taking pleasure in being in control while his poor lover was on the verge of being delirious, longing only for release. Despite him fucking her at such a painstaking rate, she was already so close to coming. Her hands balled up into fists, her nails digging into her palms.

“Faster, please,” she begged.

Instead, Enver stilled, his cock only half in. He couldn’t help but smile as she pathetically whined and tried to rock her hips back to fuck herself. But the hand that had been resting on her hip stopped her, squeezing it firmly.

“Say it again,” he instructed, not at all hiding his smug tone.

“Please,” she mewled. “Fuck me faster.”

The sound of her crying for him was music to his ears. Finally, Enver complied, pulling on her hair as he thrust back in, he bucked his hips harder and faster. Her juices were dripping from pussy down her thighs and onto the floor.

She didn’t last much longer, her walls clenched as came. She collapsed onto her chest, cheek pressed against the floor, her body limp and heavy after her orgasm.

“Oh, that’s it,” he groaned, feeling her cunt practically milking his cock as it spasmed around him.

Enver continued to fuck her, using her more roughly as he chased his own release. Her body slid back and forth against the floor, her sweaty skin creating some friction as he pounded away. His teeth began to grit down as his orgasm approached.

Quickly, he pulled out, his load landing on her back and sullying her even further, dried blood and now semen decorated her body.

“I think you’re in desperate need of that bath now, my dear,” he chuckled.

Y/n slowly sat back up, sitting on her knees, she could feel his cum sliding down her back. She turned towards him and her eyes narrowed, “I should cut you open for teasing me like that.”

Enver laughed, “Don’t be ridiculous, you loved it, every single moment of it.” He leaned towards her and brushed his lips against hers in a simple kiss.

After getting cleaned up, they returned to bed. Y/n rested her head on Enver’s shoulder, fingertips grazing over his skin and playing with his chest hair. The sound of his voice was steady and warm as he talked about the next steps of the plan. She felt grounded with his arm holding her by her waist and her leg draped over his.

Soon, she knew that she’d have to go out and find a victim to satiate her urge, but for right now she wanted nothing else than to be here.

[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.

[mumms-the-word]

In Fathoms Below - Ch. 2

Ch. 2 - The Launch

Characters: Gale, Karlach, Wyll, Lae'zel, Shadowheart, Astarion, Halsin, Minthara, Gortash + other OCs; pairing is Gale x fem!Tav Plot: The island city of Nautera disappeared over 4500 years ago, if it ever existed at all. Now not a single, legitimate record of Nautera exists, save for one. The Nauterran Account. Long thought lost, it has recently been retrieved from the depths of Candlekeep’s archives and placed into the capable hands of one Gale Dekarios. With the Nauterran Account in hand and an eclectic team of Baldurians and other allies mounting an official expedition, Gale journeys to find the ruins of Nautera…but hopes to find so much more. A/N: Gale is meeting the team and the submersible is about to launch! For those curious about where a certain pale vampire is, don't worry. He's around here somewhere. Also, have some mood music!

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Lord Enver Gortash. It wasn’t a name that Gale immediately recognized, but the man carried himself with an air of confidence and self-importance that was impossible to deny. Whoever he was to the city of Baldur’s Gate, it was someone of significance.

Gortash straightened from his subtle bow to offer Gale another charismatic smile. “I’m in charge of this little expedition, at the behest of Grand Duke Ulder Ravengard himself. It has been a lifelong dream of mine—and his—to locate the fabled Nautera. When we heard that there was an ancient record of the islands and that there might be a man capable of reading and deciphering it—well, it was practically a dream come true. We wasted no time in organizing this expedition to seek out the fabled city. Rest assured, I’ve gathered only the finest to ensure our success. Including you, naturally. You’ve come highly recommended.”

Gale struggled to keep up. Recommended by who, Elminster? And how did this man know about the Account when not even Gale had been certain it still existed until only a few short days ago? And Ravengard—that was a Baldurian name, if he recalled. One of four Grand Dukes that ruled the city. If this was a Baldurian expedition, why had Elminster arranged for him to join? Then again, perhaps he ought not to look a gift submersible in the mouth...

He set those concerns aside for now. “A pleasure to meet you, Lord Gortash.” 

“Likewise.” Gortash snapped his fingers at the drow woman. “Minthara. Gather the others will you? We can have a little debrief before we launch.”

Gale didn’t miss the withering look Minthara shot at the back of Gortash’s head, but she turned and left even so. In the meantime, Gortash gestured toward the githyanki, who was watching them both with a sour expression, her arms still crossed over her chest.

“This is—”

“I am capable of introducing myself, istik,” she said, cutting her eyes briefly at Gortash before settling her gaze back on Gale. She straightened and lifted her chin. “I am Lae’zel of K’liir. No doubt I will be this expedition’s strongest fighter, should the need arise.”

“Lae’zel is here to offer her people’s expertise on Nautera,” Gortash said, appearing unruffled by her interruption. “The libraries of K’liir contained quite a few tir’su slates with accounts of the islands. I’m sure the two of you will have much to discuss as we draw closer to the city.”

“Truly?” Gale couldn’t help but be intrigued. “I confess, I’ve always wanted to learn tir’su. No doubt time in your company will prove valuable to us both.”

“Save your words, istik,” she said, settling back against the table and folding her arms again. “I offer only that which is necessary, be it in words or with blades. I do not chatter.” 

“Ah…duly noted.” 

Gortash chuckled. “Don’t mind her. She’s like that with everyone. Ah, here we have our healers. This is Halsin Silverbough of the Emerald Grove and Shadowheart, a cleric who has offered her services to the cause.”

“You must be the translator we’ve been waiting for,” Halsin said, nodding to him. “Well met.”

“Funny,” Shadowheart said, looking Gale up and down. “I thought you’d be more…”

“More…what?” Gale tilted his head. “Dashing? Roguish? Elegantly dressed?”

She pursed her lips. “More of a peacock, I suppose. Your reputation precedes you.” Her gaze settled briefly on his silver Mystran earring before returning to his face.

“Ah. I dare not ask which reputation you’re referring to, if that’s the case,” he said, laughing somewhat awkwardly. He could just imagine what the others had heard about him by now, especially if Elminster had arranged for him to join up.

But just as she noticed his earring, he couldn’t help but notice the symbol on the circlet she wore over her hair—a round black disk like a new moon. Any follower of Mystra would recognize that symbol. It was the mark of Shar, one of Mystra’s longest and most relentless divine enemies. The two goddesses absolutely hated each other.

Curious that there would be a Sharran cleric on board. But if she was here as a healer, perhaps she intended to do no harm. Or so he hoped. He offered her his most charming smile and a little bow.

“Rest assured, I’m more than happy to offer my services to the expedition. The discovery of Nautera is not something a man simply passes up.”

“That’s the spirit,” Gortash said, flashing him a quick grin. “Ah, and I know you’ve met Karlach.”

“Hello again, Gale,” Karlach said, giving him a little wave. He waved back.

“And this is young Wyll Ravengard, son of Grand Duke Ulder Ravengard.”

“At your service.” The young man bowed gracefully before rising and offering Gale a smile. Gale noticed that one of his eyes had been replaced with a smooth, stone eye and that there were several scars on his face and neck.

For a young son of a grand duke, Wyll didn’t look the part. This man had clearly seen trials the like most could only find in their nightmares. Still, it was curious that he was here. From what little Gale recalled of Baldurian nobility, Ulder Ravengard only had one son, and this expedition was sure to be dangerous at times.

Wyll's presence must be a hint of Ravengard’s confidence in the success of the expedition...or else there was some other, darker reason no one dared to name. Gale hoped it meant the former.

“And finally,” Gortash said, as the drow woman returned to the table, “allow me to introduce our general, Minthara of House Baenre. She has brought with her a retinue of drow scouts and soldiers that will no doubt be invaluable as we explore any Underdark passages along the way.”

“I also serve as the second-in-command for this expedition,” she said, clasping her hands behind her back. “And I suffer no disobedience of any kind. If you will not listen to Lord Gortash, you will listen to me. Is that clear?”

“As crystal,” Gale said, trying to look sincere. He glanced around the group, trying to match faces with names and names with occupations. Gortash, the lord and leader. Minthara, the general. Karlach, the bodyguard. Wyll, the young noble. Halsin, the druid healer. Shadowheart, the cleric. And Lae’zel, the githyanki soldier and tir’su expert.

An ecclectic group if he ever saw one. He couldn’t fathom why half of them cared about finding the ruins of an ancient city. At worst they would find nothing, save perhaps stone blocks and broken pottery, and at best they’d locate ancient writings, perhaps a rare fragment of the legendary mythallar. Gale knew what he wanted out of the trip—answers about Nautera and its relationship with Netheril as well as the pride in knowing he had proven generations of Candlekeep scholars wrong—but he dared not wonder why the rest were interested.

Perhaps it was better that he did not know…for now.

“Now,” Gortash said, clasping his hands together. “There are plenty more important people to meet but you can make those introductions along the way. We had best be off. Gale, you will be sharing a bunk with Halsin and Wyll while aboard the submersible. I trust they can show you the way?” At Wyll and Halsin’s nods, he continued, “Splendid. Everyone, we will meet at the helm in exactly one hour. If you’re not inside the submersible, you’ll be left behind. And, Gale…” 

Gale paused just as he was turning away to follow Wyll and Halsin down toward the submersible. He faced Gortash again, finding himself caught beneath the Baldurian lord’s dark, unreadable gaze. Gortash’s smile, however, was as charming and practiced as ever.

“Bring your little book. We’ll have need of it.”

-----

The interior of the submersible was nearly all metal. Metal sheets, metal pipes, metal grates, metal bolts. If it wasn’t metal, it was thick glass that peered out into the blue depths beyond. While not entirely unwelcoming, it was certainly different from the creature comforts Gale was used to in his Waterdhavian wizard’s tower.

The bunks, at least, looked passably comfortable, though Gale was a bit disappointed that there was no chance of a private room. Still, Wyll and Halsin seemed sensible, even friendly company.

“How does a young noble and a druid come to join an expedition like this?” he asked them as he dropped his pack onto the only available bed in the room. It was little more than a narrow padded mattress with a thin pillow and a blanket folded at one end, but it was his now.

Wyll, leaning against a ladder-like set of rungs that led to a bunk over Gale’s, gave a light shrug. “It’s a legendary city at the bottom of the sea, like a fairy story of old. What's not to enjoy? I wanted to see it for myself and my father was only too happy to negotiate a place for me...so here I am.”

Gale noticed a shift in Wyll’s voice at his last sentence, but couldn’t quite discern the meaning or emotion. Wyll’s pleasant expression and soft smile were polite, but impenetrable. If there was more to his tale than he was letting on, there was no way for Gale to know it.

“I take it you’re interested in the legends and the history of Nautera, then?” Gale asked.

“Only what I don’t already know. I’ve heard the stories, of course.” Wyll began to gesture with his hands, as if painting the scene. “A fabled city on a distant island, home to a thousand wonders of every kind. Flying ships, walking stone creatures, marvels and magic and more. Only for it to disappear over the span of a single day. One day it’s there, another island in the vast sea, and the next—” he snapped his fingers, “—gone. Not even a rock jutting up from the water to suggest it was ever there.” 

He smiled and dropped his hands, shrugging. “They say the person who finds Nautera will be granted one wish, whatever their heart desires. But I’m not so sure that’s true.”

“Perhaps not, but there are always elements of truth even in the midst of a fairy story or a legend,” Gale said. “Perhaps wishes were granted there, back when it was above water.” 

He turned to Halsin, who was seated on the bunk opposite, his wooden staff resting on his knees. “What of you? I’m surprised to see a druid of the forests showing an interest in an underwater city.”

Halsin smiled faintly. “It is odd, and this…submersible is unnatural to me. But I was told there was a need for a healer, and I have been many strange places in my modest life. To see the ruins of a civilization that predates my own people…such marvels are not to be ignored, I think. I am here to be of service and to satisfy my own curiosity.”

“Then our interests align. Though I hope we will not need to rely on your services too much, Master Halsin.”

“Just Halsin, please,” the old druid said, chuckling. “And I agree. Though if the need arises, I can be useful in other ways.”

Before he could explain further, there was a sharp knock just outside the bunk room. A young man in uniform leaned in through the open doorway. “Saers, you’re wanted at the helm. We’re to launch in a few minutes.”

“We’ll be right there,” Wyll responded, and the young man disappeared. Wyll took a deep breath and turned to smile at Gale and Halsin. “We’d best be off. I hear the best place to witness a submersible launch is at the front.”

He and Halsin ducked out of the room, the tall elf literally hunching to make it through the rounded, low doorframe. Gale made sure to retrieve the Nauterran Account and tuck it carefully into his satchel, alongside his spellbook and a few other supplies, before following them out of the bunk room. 

The helm featured an impressive array of controls, dials, levers, and gauges, all manned by various pilots, including one surly-looking blonde dwarf at the very front. Overhead, bolted sheets of metal made up part of the sloping, dome-like ceiling before transitioning to curving panels of thick, reinforced glass between metal bars, giving them a clear view of everything immediately ahead and above them, and a fair view of the sides too. At the center of the room, a large, curving, mahogany desk and a surprisingly plush chair took up much of the space, looking elegant yet out of place, as if they had been teleported in from someone’s office back in the city. Someone had laid out several maps and navigation tools on the surface. The chair was unoccupied at the moment, but Gortash stood just to the side of it, hands clasped behind his back, watching the pilots work. 

A few paces away, Karlach shifted restlessly on her feet, tapping her fingers against her thigh and turning her head this way and that, as if trying to catch all the action going around her. Minthara, Lae’zel, and Shadowheart stood nearby, with Lae’zel and Shadowheart eyeing each other darkly and Minthara ignoring both of them to stare over the head of a gnome pilot messing with specific controls.

Gortash glanced over his shoulder and noticed the three of them entering. “Ah, good. You’re here, just in time to watch the magic happen. So to speak,” he added, sending a grin Gale’s way. 

Before Gale could respond, Gortash turned away and directed his next words to the blonde dwarf at the front of the room, where a big metal ship’s wheel was waiting. “Redhammer, begin the launch and take us out to the open sea.”

“Aye, saer.” The dwarf pulled one of the levers and took the wheel. “Commencing launch.”

All around the room, various pilots began to flip switches, pull levers, and turn wheels, calling out responses or numbers that Gale could make no sense of and watching various screens and gauges as they worked. He felt the floor beneath him shudder as distant engines roared to life, the dull rumble and vibrations reaching them even there in the helm. The excitement in the room was palpable. Gale’s heart began to pound and his blood began to race through his veins, all in anticipation of the launch. 

All at once the entire submersible gave a downward lurch, as if being dropped or let go, and a flurry of bubbles billowed up against the glass. Gale moved to a free space near one of the windows, out of the way of the pilots, watching as more curtains of bubbles bounced and twirled upward as the seacraft began to lower gently away from the docks. He felt his ears pop as they sank lower and lower and began to turn away toward the deeper blue of the ocean depths.

No turning back now.

“Watch those power gauges, boys,” Redhammer said, directing his fellow pilots. “Steady now. Increase engines one and three and bring them to thirty percent.”

The rumble from the engines louder grew until it was a sonorous thrum in the background, the vibrations beneath Gale’s boots now a constant drone. Outside the submersible, the massive metal fins on either side came to life, frightening and scattering several fish that had ventured too close. He felt the seacraft tilt and adjust before it fell into a steady, subtle rocking pattern, like that of an undulating whale, as it began to move forward. It wasn’t unlike the rocking of a ship on the sea, though perhaps more regulated. 

As they moved away from the docks and out toward the open expanse of the ocean depths, they cut through fronds of thick, towering kelp, sending fish and other creatures fleeing through the waving undersea plants. It was surreal to watch the underwater world pass by them through the windows of the submersible, almost as if he were seeing merely illusion rather than reality.

“Whoa…” He turned to see that Karlach had joined him at a nearby window, staring out of it in wide-eyed wonder. Her glowing eyes were even more alight as she took in the waving plants, the fish, and the bubbles as they moved through the water. “We’re really doing this…”

Her wonder bolstered his own and he offered her a somewhat crooked smile. “Nervous?”

She glanced sidelong at him and laughed. “Too late for that now, soldier. Besides, Gortash doesn’t pay me to be nervous.”

Redhammer’s voice called out again. “All engines to forty-five percent. Take us down ten degrees down-angle and hold us steady.”

Working in tandem, the pilots pivoted the seacraft and maneuvered it downward, increasing the speed until they were moving along at a noticeable clip. The kelp forest quickly gave way to rocky reefs with sparse coral and from there to gray, silty sand that disappeared into darkness the farther they descended. The sunlight overhead grew fainter and fainter until at last they were enveloped by inky blue and cobalt, the waters ahead illuminated only by the brilliant enchanted lights that shone outward from the front of the submersible. 

Beyond the reach of the seacraft’s lights, the depths below beckoned, looking like a vast, empty void of velvet black. Gale held tighter to his satchel, his eyes on the dark waters ahead. He was loathe to pray to any goddess other than Mystra—and even she hadn’t been listening to his prayers lately—but he was tempted to offer a meek prayer to Umberlee, the chaotic goddess of the seas. They were in her territory, after all...

And at the mercy of her infamously temperamental whims. The darkness of the depths was a tangible reminder of their tentative place in her domain, because, as any Waterdhavian knew, the Bitch Queen was more than capable of summoning a creature from the depths to sink a ship.

A massive submersible diving into her depths would only be that much more annoying to her, and that much more susceptible to destruction. Gale could only hope her attention was diverted elsewhere.

[cutephlegm]

Something red

II - Vanilla and rosemary

Pairing: Gortash x reader

CW: Slight NSFW

Read on Ao3

Summary: You accompany Gortash to the banquet, and in heat of the moment- combined with your consumption of alcohol that evening you admit to the lord more than intend.

You’d tossed and turned that night, restless, desperately trying to get a wink of sleep, but your mind was unforgivingly relentless. You ceaselessly replayed the events that had occurred a few hours before, the sweet words that had spilled out of Enver Gortash’s devious smile. You couldn’t help it- after all what he’d propositioned was certainly unexpected. Though you would be lying if you said the prospect didn’t excite you… at least a little bit. You, a humble middle-class citizen would be dining with lords and ladies in the next 24 hours. That was something you didn’t expect when you had applied for a position as a secretary. Eventually you managed to fall into a blissful slumber. You had an important day ahead of you.

At noon you had already picked out your attire, having it professionally fitted… and gods was it expensive. You considered it an investment as you assumed you would likely receive compensation for the banquet, at least you hoped you would. You completed your daily tasks, going through letters and missives as you usually did until you felt a particularly heavy letter in your hands. That was strange… objects weren’t meant to pass through security for safety reasons. This one must’ve slipped through the cracks. You narrowed your eyes, reading whom it was addressed from. Lord Enver Gortash.

You took a double take before you realised it was addressed to you…? You peeled the letter open and peering inside you noticed the object, accompanied by a note. Your heart rate has for some reason sped up… were you nervous? Eventually you mustered up the courage to empty the letter, reading the note first. It was a short simple sentence; a command; ‘Wear this’.

In your admittedly shaky hands, you held the object which accompanied the note, a piece of jewellery. It was a necklace, you traced along the smooth silver down to the centrepiece; a ruby. Opulent as ever, it must’ve been worth a fortune… You tried not to let your mind wonder on why Gortash had gone out of his way to gift you with such a thing… or why he’d even asked such a thing of you in the first place. Before this point he had only spoken to you a handful of times, and these weren’t exactly notable encounters.

You hooked the necklace on admiring it slink down nicely framing your collarbones. This was time. You’d slipped into the dress you’d bought earlier on. When the lord said he’d wanted something red you weren’t too sure what to go for. Did he mean a vibrant red? A burgundy? You settled with blood red, the colour of the wine he often indulged in. You looked at yourself in a small mirror one last time before setting off to the location Gortash had provided.

You couldn’t remember much as you arrived, everything was sort of a flash of colour and noise. Surrounding you, were many luxuries; meat, wine, exotic fruits, some you’d never even seen before… you looked around the room you stood in the centre of, almost frantically picking through the many guests for that familiar face. “Ah, Y/N! What a pleasure for you to finally join us.” You turned around, your eyes meeting the source of that voice. Gortash.

You cleared your throat. “My apologies for keeping you waiting… I didn’t realise that the banquet had already began.” He grinned, moving closer in your direction. “Oh, by all means, no worries… What monster would I be to reprimand my betrothed for such a simple miscommunication, hm?” He jested flashing a sharp smile at you. You were facing each other now, and the closer you were the more vividly you could examine his features. Dark tired eyes… the same ones you’d seen during your last encounter, did this man never sleep?

Suddenly, he offered you his hand, and as you looked up at him you noticed he looked somewhat regal from this angle. You took his hand, and he grinned at you in response, a dangerous grin. The lord leaned in closer, so only you could hear him; “Follow my lead.” He instructed as he led you over to a crowd of well-dressed men and women. As he guided you, your bodies closer than they had ever been before, you could smell him- vanilla and rosewood with the hint of something deeper almost like well-aged brandy.

Arriving at the crowd, before he began his myriad of introductions, you noticed His eyes drop down to the necklace, he had gifted you before he cleared his throat and focused ahead of himself. You stood there, beside the lord and you as he entertained his guests. You tried to look focused however your mind was utterly somewhere else. Engrossed in the thoughts of how warm Gortash’s hands had felt against yours… how his eyes would flicker towards your general direction every now and again, almost making sure you were alright… Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was some hidden desire but you could tell that already you felt much differently about the lord.

A few hours into the banquet, Gortash had told you to occupy yourself as in he would be busy dealing with some affaires relating to business. He told you to look busy and that he would find you before the banquet was over. So, you did as you were told.

You made your round, frequented tables filled with beverages and perhaps helping yourself to some of the wines available. As the alcohol started to take effect, you found yourself talking to the lords and ladies alike. Some treated you with less grace than others, however once you’d introduced yourself as Lord Gortash’s personal guest, any lingering disrespect ceased to exist. You could feel the power it gave you going to head.

Later into the banquet you leaned against one of the many pillars scattered across the open room. You hadn’t an idea of what time it was but it was certainly past midnight. Your eyelids felt heavy and you focused on trying to stay awake, taking a sip of the red every couple seconds. “Is that my dear secretary?” You heard, coming from a familiar, stern voice. However, in this occasion it was light, friendly almost.

Stood before you for none other than Enver Gortash, his charming smile jolting you awake. “Oh! Gortash…” You regained your composure. He gestured to the glass, which was intertwined in two pale fingers. “Having fun?” His tone was mocking, accompanied by that same sadistic grin he usually sported. Yet there was something different in his eyes this time, and it certainly wasn’t the alcohol playing tricks on you this time. Desire. His dark gaze wandered across you, prying into your face, your neck, down to your exposed chest…

“Somewhat,” You responded, clearing your throat and glancing away, trying to prevent your face from reddening with all your mite. He let out a cruel laugh at your answer, and his brows proceeded to knot. “Ah, but there’s no use lying to me, you silly girl. I’ve seen you lingering around the tables, your eyes raking over the beverages like a starved peasant.” He spat. “If you aren’t enjoying yourself… well the banquet is nearly over so you’re very much welcome to leave.” His tone was friendly, however was a slight quiver in it. His smile faltering a little, masking something that he didn’t want you to see. He wasn’t letting something on.

You rolled your eyes and spoke in mock sadness “Oh? You’re so keen to get rid me of me?” You teased, narrowing your eyes. Control over your demeanour slipped from your fingertips… this type of comportment would usually risk you being fired yet the lord looked at you with humour, letting slip a scoff. “Of course not, I never get rid of my dear… partner. After all you’ve been more than sufficient.” He admitted. “I can’t put any blame onto you for your lacking enthusiasm. This banquet has been rather drab, even for me.” You could hear the disappointment in his tone, the lord letting out a deep sigh. You offered him your glass, earning you another scoff before he snatched the glass from you. He took a sip from it, his eyes still boring into you all the same. “How courteous.” He praised, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “It’s only natural,” You grinned. Perhaps this Gortash wasn’t as bad as you thought after all…

“How did your ‘business’ go?” You asked, an attempt at making idle conversation with the lord. After the night you’d had, it had only made you more curious about Gortash, he was always a mysterious figure, yet his recent actions had become increasingly undecipherable. You were curious. “I won’t bore you with the details- it’s a rather tiering ordeal- just know that the outcome of it has made me a content man.” He gleamed.

“And that man himself gives you his compliments…” He smirked. “You certainly shattered any expectations I had with such an attire, truly…” His eyes glancing back down to the dress you wore. “I wasn’t sure it was the right shade…” You tucked away a strand of loose hair behind your ear.

Time passed between you and the lord. You were both caught in conversation, sharing sweet mundane words, watching on as the guests spilled out from the hall. Occasionally Gortash would hook his arm around yours, waving at them, that sly grin spread across that handsome face… “I must say, you’ve surprised me, you haven’t been as dull as I thought you’d be.” He watched on as barrage of servants cleaned the hall, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. It was clear he was getting ready to leave…

You hesitated for a brief moment; you were in disbelief at the words which you were about to let spill from your lips. “Perhaps this could become… more than a one-time thing…” You pondered out loud, your index rubbing against your lip in thought. Gortash’s eyes split from yours as he cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “What are you implying?” He inquired. “In the eyes of the public, I would be willing to become… well yours.” By this point you were beyond the realms of shame or fear. Your only goal was to satiate that ever-growing curiosity you possessed for Lord Enver Gortash.

The wine had clouded your judgment, you could feel the heat radiating from your face, surely a blushing mess at this point. You would undeniably come to regret this moment.

“Hah! Well…” He began, not quite knowing what he intended to say in the first place. He gathered himself almost instantaneously, focusing his attention firmly back onto you. “While I do admire your directness…I’m not sure you would be able to handle it, in truth.” He paused, seemingly lost in thought. “Being tied to such a prolific political figure, such as myself, would certainly prove to be demanding.” You were so close to him, that could feel the heat radiate from his skin… his steady, unbreakable gaze suddenly not so unbreakable, as his eyes flickered between you and the ceiling, he was thinking…

“I don’t deny that you’re a… formidable woman.” Such words took you out of your trance. “Perhaps I will consider it. You’d still have to prove yourself to me, my dear secretary.” His voice dripped with something darker than it usually did causing a warmth to emanate from between your thighs…

“What must I do to prove myself then?” You retorted.

“Join me in my office at noon tomorrow, and we will further discuss this.”

[handoverthekawaii]

Tyranny of the Heart | Enver Gortash & You | Chapter 1

Note: This story is canon divergent, pre-BG3 Act I. Tav and the origin characters will not appear, and Durge has been totally removed from the story because Durgetash is canon, you can’t change my mind.

Lord Enver Gortash would rather be anywhere but here. Had he only declined the invitation when it arrived a tenday ago, he could be back in his office at this very moment, drafting a forthcoming proclamation or reading Steel Watch activity reports.

But instead, Gortash finds himself at a lavish gala hosted by one of the city’s oldest patriar families. He works his way around the ballroom with practiced finesse, a drink in one hand and his gold-handled cane in the other.

His winning smile and easy demeanor belie how little of a fuck Gortash actually gives about the social niceties of Baldur’s Gate nobility. The Upper City is a pit of vipers, so why must its residents host galas and schedule luncheons and generally pretend to like one another?

Gortash considers the question as he stands with his back to the ballroom wall, taking a brief reprieve from the hubbub of the crowd. The lord’s eyes dart over the scene, picking out nobles in need of a whisper in the ear or a thinly-veiled threat tonight — whatever it takes to keep the wheels of government turning.

He tires of these petty manipulations, the charade he must endure to keep this city full of human cattle in line. Not for much longer, he thinks to himself. One day soon, I’ll never have to smile and play nice for anyone ever again.

One day soon, perhaps, but not today. As if to underscore the point, Gortash sees an elderly noblewoman winding her way through the crowd towards him, hand clasped tightly round the elbow of a striking, younger lady.

Oh, here we go, Gortash thinks. This isn’t the first time a patriar has approached him, lady friend or relative in tow, with such single-minded purpose. The noblewoman clearly has one thing on her mind —

Marriage. [continued on AO3]

[handoverthekawaii]

Tyranny of the Heart | Enver Gortash & You | Chapter 2

It isn’t in Lord Enver Gortash’s nature to linger. His time is valuable, after all, and there are never enough hours in the day for a man as busy as he is. Gortash takes pride in his ability to conclude every meeting, to finish each conversation in the fewest possible words, so that he can finish one order of business and transition smoothly into the next.

But it is not so when it comes to you.

Your quick wit catches Gortash’s attention instantly and, from there, he only finds himself further enraptured by your seemingly endless sense of curiosity. In stark contrast to the noble men and women whom Gortash deals with on a daily basis, you demonstrate much more interest in asking questions than sharing grandiose stories about yourself and your past. He knows he should be excusing himself from your company any moment now, yet the Chosen of Bane cannot seem to tear himself away.

For your part, you mostly feel relieved that Gortash isn’t taking your great-aunt’s matchmaking attempt too seriously. You have nothing against romance in principle but, given your current station in life, marriage and courtship are the last things on your mind. So, mercifully free of any romantic distractions, you can focus one hundred percent of your attention on chatting up the city’s man of the hour.

“So how exactly did you become… Lord Gortash?” you ask, the man himself standing beside you at the ballroom wall. “I read that only patriars could be granted noble titles.”

Gortash shoots you a sidelong glance, both hands resting on the gold handle of his cane.

“It’s quite simple, really,” he answers, “though I can assure you, you won’t find the answer in any book. No matter how hard and fast the rule, there is always an exception.”

You immediately follow up with another question. “But why make an exception for YOU?” Gortash cocks an eyebrow at you in response and you blush, realizing that you just put your foot in your mouth again.

“Shit, that didn’t come out right,” you quickly add. “What I meant was —”

“My dear, I know exactly what you meant,” Gortash interrupts. He is smiling now, his expression a combination of bemusement (at your inept choice of words, you presume) and good humor. “You want to know why the powers that be deemed it worthwhile to bend the rules on my behalf.”

“I suppose you could say that they came to their senses,” the lord continues. “They realized they needed someone like me to keep our humble city running.”

Here, Lord Gortash briefly turns from you to catch the attention of a passing servant. When he faces you again, he is holding a freshly filled goblet in each hand.

“Now, let it not be said that Baldurians are stingy with our hospitality,” Gortash says grandly as he offers you one of the goblets. “May I offer you a taste?”

It hadn’t escaped your notice that Gortash called you “dear” a moment ago, and you don’t intend to let his choice of words go unacknowledged. If his Lordship wants to titillate, then two can play at that game. So you lean forward and, in a conspiratorial tone, ask, “A taste of what, my Lord?” [continued on AO3]

[handoverthekawaii]

Tyranny of the Heart | Enver Gortash & You | Chapter 5

You can hardly believe your luck — just days after reading about a heretofore undiscovered technique for producing magical artifacts, a chance has fallen into your lap to try and put theory into practice. If you and Lord Gortash succeed, you may be the first mortals in the realm to build a functioning magic machine.

To start, you familiarize Gortash with the details of the treatise you read at Candlekeep, outlining the mechanical requirements and spellworking considerations for a basic eldritch cannon. Next, the man pops open the receivers of several cannons to find the one best suited to your purpose. None of the artillery can be used as-is, but together you select the one which will require the least amount of modifications.

You help Gortash lift the chosen cannon onto the shop table so that his work can begin in earnest. As the lord pulls out a toolbox and begins rifling through its contents, you step away and flip through the spell lists copied into the front of your travel diary. You’ll need to imbue the cannon with the ideal spell — not too difficult to cast, but one that can clearly demonstrate whether this experiment ends in failure or success.

Meanwhile, Gortash is breaking a sweat so, while your back is turned, he strips off his ornate jacket and belt and drapes them over a nearby bench. When you reappear at his side a moment later, he notices how your eyes move over his black, open-collared shirt, his exposed chest. The deft movements of his hands, girded by metal gauntlets seething with Bane’s divine authority.

After a beat, you break the silence with a question about a particular tool he’s using. Any tension that had existed between you leeches away… for now. But as the conversation flows from there, a thought from earlier returns unbidden to the forefront of Gortash’s mind.

For nearly fifty years, Elturgard’s elites have overwhelmingly consisted of paladins oath-sworn to the service of Torm, Helm, or Tyr. According to Gortash’s vast intelligence network, the ruling family of Triel is no exception to this rule.

But thanks to Bane, Gortash already knows that you worship no god — so what IS the source of your magic? Perhaps the discord between you and your father stems from your taking a different oath than others in your family? Regardless, the man knows there is only one way to find out.

“I gather that you count magic among your many talents,” Gortash says to you as he works. “Alas, my own ability to wield magic may be a lost cause… unless, of course, you have any suggestions to offer.”

“I am afraid I don’t, my Lord,” you answer. “Magic is something I never had to study — it just came naturally to me.”

“If only I shared in your good fortune,” the Chosen of Bane responds.

To his surprise, his words cause you to laugh — a genuine, high-spirited giggle, so pleasing that a shiver runs down Gortash’s spine. You really are quite lovely when you laugh, he realizes now.

“You know what?” you say after you compose yourself. “I don’t usually share this with people, but fuck it.”

Here we go, Gortash thinks to himself. You turn to face him, then unexpectedly pull open the collar of your shirt, stretching the fabric so that one side of your collarbone is visible.

You know it may take Gortash a moment to see what you revealed — a patch of iridescent scales, reddish against the surrounding flesh. He leans in closer, eyes fixed on your collarbone for what feels like a bit longer than is strictly necessary. Then, his gaze flashes up and locks with your own.

“I didn’t know the ruling house of Triel had a dragon ancestor,” Gortash says, to which you reply,

“It doesn’t.” [continued in AO3]

[handoverthekawaii]

Tyranny of the Heart | Enver Gortash & You | Chapter 4

Lord Enver Gortash’s meeting with the Baldur’s Gate Harbormaster goes about as well as expected. You observe firsthand how Gortash navigates the tension with practiced ease, providing a thorough explanation of how the warehouse’s location allows raw materials to be delivered in the most cost-effective manner possible.

He even offers the first batch of Steel Watchers, when completed, to shore up port security under the Harbormaster’s personal direction. The city official agrees with the eagerness of a child reaching out for a shiny, new toy — so, although the matter may not be resolved forever, you expect Gortash will have no further trouble with the Harbormaster for some time.

After the meeting ends, the two of you are served lunch in a private chamber within Wyrm’s Rock. As you eat, you turn the day’s events over in your mind, thinking of more questions for Gortash with each passing moment — Is the Harbormaster more concerned about security breaches within dock facilities, or onboard the incoming and outgoing vessels? Could the docks be extended further into Gray Harbor to add back some storage space?

Many people would have tired of all your inquiries by now, but Gortash seems to all but revel in them. He goes over the finer points of his answers with you in exquisite detail, at times even taking your quill and writing out lists or drawing frenetic diagrams in your travel diary. Both of you are taking pleasure in this opportunity to talk over real-world problems with a well-matched, equally enthusiastic conversation partner.

“You continue to impress, my dear,” Gortash proclaims a little later. You and he are back in the carriage now, this time headed toward the Steel Watch foundry. “You have already demonstrated a greater interest in this city’s workings than many patriars ever will.”

“It must please the Grainlord that, one day, Triel shall be guided by your hand.”

Lord Enver Gortash is perceptive, a skill honed over years of dealing with fickle and volatile personalities. He notices the way his words make your body tense and your jaw set — apparently he has touched a nerve. After a pause, you respond,

“You flatter me, my Lord. But I shall never rule Triel… and the only way I can please my father is by staying as far away from home as possible.”

Gortash raises an eyebrow at your response. He had assumed that your studies, your many questions, stemmed from your status as the Grainlord’s heir apparent. Like generations of bright-eyed, idealistic young lords and ladies that came before, you wanted to be the best village leader that you could be — or so he had thought.

Still, the man is even more intrigued by your remarks about your father. Ever since the evening he met you, Gortash had suspected there might be more to your situation than meets the eye. He knew from his far-flung emissaries that children of Triel’s ruling house are styled Lords and Ladies —yet, though you hail from the same house, you are called Shield Maiden. The title honors you, yes, but it also serves to set you apart from the rest of your family.

There must be something different about you, he realizes now. Something that causes your family to keep you at arm’s length. And, though you seem to genuinely enjoy learning, your travels are less of a leisurely pastime… and more of a forced exile. A circumstance that Gortash understands all too well.

“Then your father is a fool,” the Chosen of Bane declares. His words bring a small smile to your face, emboldening Gortash to continue. “Yet, on behalf of the Sword Coast, I must thank him for his dim-wittedness…”

“Because Triel’s loss will surely prove to be all our gain.” [continued on AO3]

[handoverthekawaii]

Tyranny of the Heart | Enver Gortash & You | Chapter 3

Your great-aunt looked displeased when you let her know you were leaving the ball early but, frankly, her disapproval did not greatly concern you. The only reason you attended in the first place was because she demanded it, and you felt you had more than fulfilled your obligation.

Moreover, thanks to Lord Enver Gortash, you had a small stack of books in hand that you wanted to start reading immediately. So you left the host’s mansion on foot, headed toward your great-aunt’s residence nearby. She didn’t like you walking alone in Baldur’s Gate at night, claiming that robbers and even murderers could lurk around every corner, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

Once you made it back to your room, you cracked open the first volume Gortash had selected and began reading. Its comparative analysis of economic policy in the Lands of Intrigue instantly grasped your attention, and you soon began taking notes in your battered travel diary. When you became too exhausted to continue, you slept for a few hours before awakening at daybreak to read on.

You finish the first book by breakfast time but, before you pick up the next one, you would first like the chance to discuss its contents with someone else familiar with the subject matter.

And Gortash DID say to let him know what you thought… which is why, at 8:47 A.M., you find yourself being escorted into Gortash’s residence, a narrow townhouse in the Upper City overlooking the Basilisk Gate below. In the candlelit foyer beyond the grand front door, the lord of the house awaits you.

“Why, if it isn’t my newest friend!” Gortash says. “I must confess, I had not expected to be graced by your presence again so soon.”

Or ever, he thinks to himself. It would have been better for you both if you’d simply taken the books and gone on your merry way.

But you hadn’t… so could it be so bad for him to indulge in your company a little bit longer?

“Good morning, Lord Gortash,” you reply. “Have you any time this morning to talk about Dionysus el Almraiven’s Coin and Chattel?”

“Not nearly as much time as I desire,” answers Gortash. “I have a very important meeting at midmorn with the Harbormaster.”

“So come, step into my office!” the lord continues, outstretching both arms in a gesture of hospitality. “You may tell me your impressions as I make ready.”

He doesn’t need to ask you twice, and a moment later you are seated in a plush armchair in the man’s cluttered study. Gortash sits across from you behind his grand oaken desk, making a perfunctory effort to review a stack of papers before him as you share your thoughts.

Gortash is adept at pretending to listen — he knows just the right amount of “hm’s” and nods to convince just about anyone that they are the sole focus of his attention. And he tries, genuinely tries, to do the same with you, to go through the motions while internally reviewing his talking points for the meeting now close at hand.

Yet he just can’t seem to divide his attention — your eagerness to learn and discuss is a breath of fresh air in an intellectually impoverished city like Baldur’s Gate. Gortash finds himself in ever-increasing admiration for your unbridled curiosity, and his desire to engage with you further also grows with each passing minute.

By the time a servant appears to let him know that his carriage is ready, Gortash has resolved not to try and avoid you any longer. He senses that you have the makings of a leader… and, based on your fearless resolve to speak your mind, consequences be damned, you’ve got quite a backbone too.

“I fear I have taken up to much of your time already, my Lord,” you say apologetically, standing up and beginning to gather up the items you brought along. To your surprise, however, Gortash signals you to stop by holding up his hand.

“You study policy so that you may govern wisely one day. Am I mistaken?” he asks.

“No,” you reply. “I do hope, one day, to serve as a leader among my people.”

Gortash nods approvingly at your words. “In that case, you would do well to augment your studies by witnessing good governance firsthand. If you have no other appointments today, then consider doing me the honor of shadowing me as I work.”

“Th-thank you!” you exclaim, shocked at Gortash’s generosity. “I have no other appointments today, so I — thank you. I appreciate the opportunity so much.”

As the two of you go to the waiting carriage, Gortash silently addresses his god. Lord Bane, he prays, destiny seems hells-bent to throw this woman before our path. I sense she may have a part to play in Your Grand Design.

I beseech You, he continues. Reveal to Your Chosen whether You see potential in Y/N L/N. Should You deem her worthy, I shall cultivate her for Your service by mine own hand. [continued on AO3]

[freesidexjunkie]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❤️

ahhhhhhh but your fics are the lovely and perfect ones!! 🥺💕

okay okay top 5, which i did have to stretch a little bit bc my real number 5 is still in drafts...

5. Nuts & Bolts, a Fallout 4 crack fic that has no right to exist. This is my legacy among my friends. The lines in here still live in my brain rent free nearly a decade after writing them. My Immortal had a very brain-chemistry-changing effect on me in high school. I'm so sorry.

4. to have someone kiss the skin that crawls from you, a durgetash piece that was my first attempt at writing actual smut and part of my effort to break thru my years long writers block and get going again

3. First Light, Rolan x tav fic that took me nearly 6 months struggling thru angst and pain and imposter syndrome to get out. i felt like i would never be able to get this first chapter out or halfway presentable but in the end, im really very proud of it and glad i stuck it out!

2. tell me you're mine, durgetash smut that im really proud of for both the actual smut part and the intense opening scene (which im gonna paste below because. this is my fridge and i choose the magnets)

1. Din'an All Elgara, my solavellan fic that has my heart and soul and has to take the number one spot ❤️💕

“And what about the bhaalspawn?”

Gortash knew he shouldn't be listening. He had better things to do than listen to every bit of gossip that passed between these cultists. Nevertheless, at the mention of his co-conspirator, he found himself rooted to the spot, skulking behind the half-opened door frame like a common thug.

“You’d have to be mad to even try,” a drow woman said to the elf in front of her. “She’s likely to carve out your heart where you stand if you got too close.”

The elf snorted, puffing out his chest a bit. “I bet I could handle her,” he replied, insufferably cocky to Gortash’s ear. “She wouldn't be so scary once I was–”

Enver had heard enough, he decided. He threw open the door as he stormed into the room; a bit more dramatic than was likely necessary, but it certainly made his presence felt. The cultists’ eyes grew wide with shock as he leveled a fearsome glare at them.

“Y-your holiness!” The elf stammered out as the pair fell to their knees, eyes pointed downwards as his face colored.

“Such reverence,” he replied, the unnervingly calm in his voice not reaching his eyes. “Such respect . Tell me, do you only blaspheme against your God's Chosen in secret, then?”

“N-no, my lord!” The elf replied, head bowed low as he kneeled at Gortash’s feet. Sniveling little worm, he thought; all bravado, and no judgment. Useless.

“Oh, by all means!” He drawled, almost sweetly beneath the venom. The wicked snarl on his face was a challenge as he looked down on the man, wallowing pitifully into the dirt. “Do continue. Tell us how you would show due respect to your leaders. Enlighten us .”

“I… I–” The elf’s eyes darted around the room as he spluttered pathetically, desperately searching the faces of his compatriots for aid. But he found none; all averted their eyes from him, as if his doom might be catching.

Gortash could feel nothing but disgust for the man. He was clearly useless to their cause; he seemed to think himself above his betters, yet showed no spine when challenged on it. He could do nothing but weaken them. Gortash turned his sneer on the drow with him. “Does this man speak for you?”

“No, my lord,” she answered, her voice calm and her eyes cast down as she knelt.

He unsheathed his short sword and threw the blade at her feet, a snarl escaping his lips as he bid her, “prove it.”

The drow gave a curt nod as she lifted the blade. “Yes, my lord.” He watched as the elf’s eyes widened in terror as he looked to his former friend, a silent realization dawning on him. The sword was through his chest before he could make any plea for his worthless life; his only answer a little gasp as the blade was pulled from his chest as harshly as it had been thrust in. The room watched in silence as he collapsed to the floor, a few more pitiful gurgles before the elf quickly succumbed. The only pair of eyes not watching were the drow, still cast down reverentially as she presented Lord Gortash’s sword to him, her charge fulfilled.

He watched her, looking for any sign of weakness; but she showed none. He considered for a moment that he may punish her regardless for her complacency. But no – she showed promise, and he trusted that this would serve as a lesson for all who had watched. He took the sword back without a word, turning his back as he settled it back into the sheath. His gaze swept over the room, eyes still full of fury as he watched the onlookers busying themselves with their work, none of them eager to share the elf’s fate.

Gortash spared them one final displeased grunt as he left the room. “Clean up this mess. Give it to the gnolls, perhaps,” he called behind him as he left the room, letting the door slam behind him.