#some black hand: and what about lord Gortash?

[maegalkarven]

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

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

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

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

[adorablebanite]

I'm new here, but have we yet talked about why Gortash coins himself "Lightbringer?"

I know "Enver" translates to "shining one" in Turkish, or something of the sort, and "Gortash" means "stone" (not sure which language, I literally googled this for 2 seconds don't come at me!)

My assumption is he rebranded himself after rising in the underworld as someone more front-facing and politics-friendly, so of course "Flymm," being associated with poverty/bad business decisions was not an option (not to mention he'd want to separate himself from his parents for obvious reasons).

The funny thing to me, is while Bane is known as "The Lord of Darkness," "The Dark One," "The Black Lord," and Gortash, his right-hand man (metaphorically and literally) essentially brands himself as a beacon of light.

Is it because it looks and sounds good politically and socially? I'm assuming so, but it also has a cheeky practical connotation to it: infernal weapons.

The Fabricated Arbalest is no doubt an infernal weapon of his own design, and that cute little fucker decided to tune these things to do radiant damage:

So not only is he presenting himself as the antithesis of darkness while simultaneously worshipping a dark god, he's dealing "light bringing" weapons of destruction in the same stroke.

Maybe he's being annoyingly poetic, as light is required to cast a shadow-if he opted in for FULL darkness, he might as well be a Sharran. But tyranny requires balance to prevail- the subjugated masses need hope to avoid fully revolting against a tyrannical leader, and toppling regimes- the best way to enact a tyrannical edict, is to convince one's subjects they love their tyranny by pretending to shield them from some terrifying threat (when in reality the true threat is tyranny). Banites know the intricacies of this delicate balance. Gortash can be that hope- he can be the light that reminds the subjugated he's the one to guide them through the darkness.

It highlights his meglomaniacal and duplicitous nature.

He's also paradoxical in nature, because not only is he completely self aware of his own intentional deception, but he also appears to fully subscribe to his own intentions as the correct way to resolve the world's problems.

I don't even think the "Lightbringer" title is supposed to be in the spirit of trickery- he's being literal and sincere when he calls himself such.

I wouldn't even doubt that with his penchant for technology, he would quite literally seek to "bring light" to Faerún. How long has Baldur's Gate been using candles and torches? Why haven't they progressed passed that since...forever?? When you look at the Iron Throne, it has actual lights- not flame!

I don't doubt he honestly planned on progressing Faerún into a technological age that has drastically been held back by what he sees as inefficiencies in leadership, and a lack of unity. In his own fucked up way, he wanted to jumpstart the evolution of technology - not particularly for altruistic reasons, but because he knew he could.

I hate him very very affectionately.

[baldurs-simp]

Gortash fall in love with the most kind, caring, silly and bold Tav. A Tav he thinks is easy to manipulate, but ultimately, she manipulates him - in a certain way. An artificer Tav to add some more spice (?)

I love Gortash at the moment, so with pleasure!

Masterlist

A loud boom shakes the manor, unsettling the dust in the rafters, telling everyone exactly what happened without the need to investigate. Everyone already knows that their lord, Enter Gortash, will already be on his way to the source of the explosion before the dust even settles again.

You're still fanning the smoke away with your hand, coughing loudly as you try to blink away the tears welling up in your eyes from the smoke. "What in the hells have you done this time?"

You turn your head towards your laboratory door that has blown open from the blast, and you can faintly make out the figure od your lover, Gortash.

"Dabbling in black powder. I may have used a bit much this time," you mention, immediately turning to your notebook on the table to scribble something down, still muttering to yourself. "Perhaps half of the quantity next time. Or a quarter?"

"If you continue like this, you'll bring down the manor before the year is up," Gortash says, tentatively stepping into the room but still carrying himself with immense confidence. "I didn't allow you to stay here just to destroy my home with your...experiments, did I?"

But it's as if you don't hear his words. You're still mumbling to yourself, noting down things on parchment pieces in a chaotic way that Gortash can't understand how you know where anything is.

He calls your name, but you only hum a response, still now paying attention to him. He has to speak your language, so to say, if he wants your attention. "What exactly is it that you are working on?"

The question makes your whip around with a bright smile on your face, glee in your eyes as you beacon him closer. "It's a firearm," you say, turning your gaze to the mangled piece of metalwork on the table. "I've read about them. They're like a ship's cannon, but smaller so you can hold it in your hand. Like a crossbow or shortbow, but less big and without the clanky ammunition that gets stuck on everything. It'll be more convenient and deadly if I get it right. But I'm working on infusing them with some magical elements, too. Like a 'fire' firearm that shoots fire pellets, or an 'ice' firearm-"

"You're rambling, darling," he cuts you off, smirking at your when you bite your lip in embarrassment. "I thought our arrangement was that you work on the weapons we already have, improving my military defense. Not trying to invent some new nonsense."

"But I've done all that and more. It's hard to improve on something that's already great," you say, pouting at him as you fold your arms across your chest. "I'm bored with swords and arrows. Don't you want to be known for something new? Something that no one else has?"

Gortash sighs, dropping his head between his shoulders as he shakes it in defeat. He thought that he had you under his thumb, but every day, he feels that it is the other way around. And yet, he will still give you all that you ask.

You ask him to give you the entrie city for your experiments and he would.

"Very well. But you know I expect nothing but excellence for this," he says, waving his hand at whatever it is that lays on the table in a mangled mess.

You giggle in glee, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek as a thank you. "I know. And you know that I never let anything leave this room until I am completely satisfied with it."

He hums as you step away from him, picking up the contraption to inspect the damage as you right a chair that has been blown over. "Oh, I need more black powder."

"More? Do you have any idea how tedious it is to find? Not to mention how much it costs."

Your eyes meet his, hoping that he will do what you ask without you having to beg for it. But he doesn't budge.

Sighing, you slowly stand up with your head hanging low and your gaze on the floor. "Fine. I guess I'll just have to find someone else who will want to help me if you do not care about me. Clearly, you do not wish to see me thrive in my craft."

You make as if to start packing up your things, making sure not to make eye contact with Gortash. As you try to walk past him, he wraps an arm around your waist, swiping you closer to pin him to his body.

"You will do no such thing, little Artificer," he growls, staring down into your eyes, making sure that you do not look away. "You will leave of I say leave and if I say you will stay, then you will stay. Do you understand?"

"Oh, big, mean Gortash, giving orders to someone that could blow him up with a simple stumble," you say, smiling up at him as you playfully wrap your arms around his neck. "What exactly would you do to me should I defy your orders?"

"Terrible things."

His quick response tells you that he doesn't have a clue what exactly he would do if you went against his orders. It makes you smile and slowly pull out of his hold around you.

"Then, I should get back to work. And you should leave. I do not wish for you to get hurt in my workshop," you say, giving him a light shove towards your door as an instruction to leave.

"Will you be dining with me tonight?"

"If you leave now, then I shall, my love."

Gortash finds himself beaming at the pet name you have used for him and your acceptance for eating with him tonight again. He smiles to himself, not caring that he might be falling in love with you. For with you by his side, you two could be the most powerful couple in the land.

[sorceresssundries]

A Scandal In Sorcery

Chapter 2 - The Dance

Pairing: Gale x Fem Tav

Summary: A Regency era/Baldur’s Gate crossover. Set in an Alternate Universe, containing familiar faces and key events in new light.

It is, predominantly, a love-story which will contain explicit content as the slow-burning bond between Gale and Tav deepens.

Chapter 1 here

(This is also published on AO3)

Word Count: 3.1k

A/N: This story is set in an Alternate Universe. Though there may be echoes of sound and flickers of light from a well-loved place, please bear in mind this is a new path in a familiar forest.  Take comfort in the familiarity and care into the unknown.  Some things are destined to come together in every universe, just as others are doomed to fall apart.

Gale Dekarios wasn’t sure what it was exactly that drew her to him. Whether it was her sullen demeanour, unconventional beauty or the fact strands of weave shimmered around her like cracked light through crystal.  

He had sensed her almost immediately as he had entered the ballroom, felt the air spark as though she was an approaching storm. His gaze drifted her way, and as soon as he met her eyes he was spellstruck. Her skin, warm and tanned, adorned with freckles, bore a delicate pink blush across the bridge of her nose and the high points of her cheekbones —a complexion undoubtedly caused by a day in the company of the sun. While the majority of women in the room adorned themselves in the season’s satin, empire-waisted gowns, she stood out in corseted robes of navy and gold, sculpted to accentuate her curves and flowing gracefully to the floor. They were daringly slit on each side to reveal laced-up boots over fitted breeches. There had obviously been an attempt to tame her hair for the occasion, but loose black curls were making a desperate escape from the tight coil they had been imprisoned in. Amidst the tamed field of the other guests, she was a wildflower. A cherry blossom in a forest of pine, and he was determined to delight in the shade of her if only for a few moments. Perhaps being coerced into this charade wouldn’t be as unbearable as he had initially feared. 

He managed to interrupt his companion from flirting for a few seconds to enquire about her.  “Mr. Ancunin, who is that over there hiding away in the dark corner?” The silver haired man winked at the young lord he was talking to, before turning to flash a disarming, pointed smile. 

“Ah, that is young Duke Ravengard. Heart of gold, morals of a white knight, blade of a hero.” He gave an exaggerated sigh, as though this disappointed him. “Shame really, he is handsome, but frightfully boring.” 

“Not him, the woman he is speaking with.”

"Ha, Ostavia Olyn, now she is a much more intriguing character. Rumour has it her family is penniless, and her father is treating her like a prized mare at auction, but hush, you didn't hear it from me," he chuckled, a hint of cruelty in his laughter. "She's a firecracker, to say the least, but I'd advise caution if I were you. I hear someone has their eye on her." Before Mr. Dekarios could press further on the matter of her admirers, the silver-tongued Mr. Ancunin had already drifted back into conversation, and the host of the evening had begun his speech. As Lord Gortash talked, Gale began delicately moving through the enraptured crowd, determined to get as close to her as possible in the hope of asking for a dance.

Despite accepting his hand, her temper still sizzled. He couldn't quite fathom what had ignited her ire, but he couldn't deny the allure of a stoked fire over a tepid rain shower any day. Intrigued, he found himself eager to uncover more about her.

Gale had been a popular hand at the Blackstaff Ball back in his days as an apprentice. Admittedly, his time away from the material plane and with his Goddess had not allowed much room for practising his steps but he found it was an easy rhythm to fall back into, especially with such an enchanting partner. 

Tav, on the other hand,  was less practiced, less graceful, and far less enchanted. It took a few delicate moments for her to find her feet. He was more respectful than some of the other partners who had dared take a turn with her. His hand on her waist was courteous, yet there was a firmness to his grip that guided her with confidence, preventing her feet from stumbling - though it did little to steady her breath. In the proximity of their dance, she caught the scent of him—sandalwood and parchment - He smelled like crisp autumn. 

“Are you managing to enjoy the evening from your hideaway?” He asked politely.

At his attempt at small talk, Tav steeled herself for another dull turn with a dull partner. The politeness and reservedness of it all was suffocating. She felt restricted and bound - constantly stuffed into conversations two sizes too small. She was sick of it all. She wanted her hair down, she wanted to smile with her teeth and laugh from her belly. She wanted to sprint corsetless through warm summer rain and spin magic from her fingers like she was born to do. 

She often felt these long evenings of repression were unproductive for someone alive with magic. She should be spending her time with her gift settled on the surface of her skin, and soaking in the cool freshness of it. Instead, she felt like it was a caged, prowling animal she was destined to tame but never master. If only she had the freedom she craved, the pure, eternal, bright freedom of someone like Gale Dekarios. He had everything she wanted, and yet here he was letting himself be paraded around like a prized possession. He infuriated her, but she supposed she would have to indulge him for now, if only for one dance.

“Very much so Saer, I find it gives me a perfect vantage point to observe the events of the evening.” She tried very hard to keep the bite out of her voice, but sharp teeth are tricky to file down.

“And what have you discovered from your vantage point, oh mysterious spy?” His tone was refreshingly playful, and something flickered in her chest and in her smile. 

“If I told you, I wouldn’t be a very good spy would I?” 

Gale Dekarios realised he was very quickly dabbling with trouble in the crackling presence of this wildfire woman. “Wizards don’t make for good spies, I don’t think we are built for all that sneaking. Let’s leave that to the rogues and scoundrels shall we?” His observation surprised her, perhaps he was more attentive than she gave him credit for.

“What makes you think I am a wizard, Saer? Do I display their famous arrogance? I was not aware I had conjured any magic tricks this evening.” His response to her indignation was a smile which could brighten the darkest midnight. She continued, starting to feel a little unsteady.  “If you are expecting a show, I’m afraid I must leave you disappointed.”

"Well, for a start, you've opted for robes instead of a dress," Gale remarked, his gaze tracing the contours of her attire with a knowing gleam in his eyes. "And secondly, you're a flame around which the weave flutters like a helpless moth." There was a charged pause, his thumb delicately brushing against her wrist as they moved in tandem. "You seem to evoke a similar reaction in those attuned to it" He slowed their dance, and his eyes fluttered to her lips. “You are most intriguing…”

She tried not to meet his eyes again, in fear she would fall into them and not be able to find her way out.  So, instead she tried to distract herself with a turn in the conversation. 

“Your date is watching us very intently, Saer. I hope I am not interrupting anything.” 

Gale snapped out of his trance, momentarily confused. However, as he spun her gracefully across the floor, he realised she was referring to Mr. Ancunin, who indeed had fixed his stare upon them with an unreadable expression on his face.

“How kind of you to show concern, my lady.” She didn’t have to look at him to know he was smirking. “But he is not my date, he is my… escort.” Tav’s expression must have given her surprise away, as he quickly stumbled up with “I mean.. He has escorted me here from Waterdeep, under instruction of Lord Gortash.” She can feel his shoulder tense slightly under her hand as he mentions their host. How unusual, she thinks, why on earth could the presence of this chosen one be so important to this particular evening?

“Surely the chosen of a Goddess doesn’t need someone to hold their hand and guide them to our modest little gathering”

He chuckled and she felt her cheeks flush, as though somewhere there’s a joke she’s missed the punchline to. 

“It wasn’t a travel issue my lady, I can assure you my navigation skills are incomparable.” She risked a glance at him then, and her fears were confirmed. His eyes were so warm and dark that the sparkling candlelight came to life within them. She found herself momentarily lost, before mentally shaking herself free from his hypnotic gaze. 

She wasn’t sure if she imagined it, but she thought she was suddenly a little closer to him than before.

“Mr. Ancunin is a senior magistrate and dear friend of Lord Gortash. He was very clear with his.. focused...message that I was to attend here this evening.” His tone darkened slightly, and for a second he appeared lost in thought. “Upon our introduction he delighted me in conversation about his influence within the justice system, and let me know I need not bother him with smalltalk about my upbringing or connections. He knows everything about me and my inner circle, apparently.” His eyes met hers again, his meaning heavy.

Tav couldn't help but admire the audacity of threatening the prized possession of Mystra in such a brazen manner. Yet, she swiftly dismissed the thought. The political machinations and power plays of politicians and playthings held little interest for her. She was on the cusp of freedom from this city, and once she ascended to the rank of archmage, she vowed not to be coerced into attending such meaningless social gatherings ever again.

Her gaze once more met Mr. Ancunin's, noting his demeanour did befit that of a magistrate. However, her learnings had taught her to view most in such positions as nothing more than corrupt bloodsuckers. A shiver of distaste ran down her spine, earning a laugh from Gale.

"You have no talent for hiding your feelings, Miss Olyn," he remarked, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Tav's lips curled into a wry smile, her gaze unflinching as she met his. "My talents are unknown to you, Mr. Dekarios, and that is how they shall remain." Here, in his arms, unfurling the bright petals of her wit, she felt herself bloom slightly—a bud with a taste of sunlight. "Maybe I am a woman who likes to make her feelings known."

His arm moved slightly further around her waist, and he leaned forward to whisper in her ear. "One certainly hopes so."

He was so close now she could feel his breath against her cheek, one hand pressed against her back and the other softly clutching hers as they moved. Her temper had dimmed, she had noticed, and just as she found herself truly relishing the sensation of being in his arms, the music came to an end, abruptly breaking the spell they had cast together.

There was a brief moment in the dip of the music, just before he let her go, which he let himself sink into. Only for a burning second. The sensation of her small hand in his, the gentle curve of her waist beneath his touch, and the scent of vanilla, how warmth sang from her skin as though her day basking outside had dazzled her into the sun itself. He wondered how that warmth would taste against his lips…

She stepped back and bowed quickly, formally, now acutely aware of the whispers breezing around them. They had become the focus of the party. It was a position Tav had always been determined to avoid, yet here they were, at the centre of it all. Amidst the murmuring crowd, she caught sight of her father near one of the bowls of punch, appearing uncharacteristically flustered and oddly alone. It struck her as peculiar.

Gale was about to inquire if she would like to share another dance with him when a figure interrupted.

"May I cut in? I would be honoured if you would grace me with the next dance," the voice came, clipped but courteous. Tav felt a rush of relief as Wyll stood by her, offering her some friendly comfort on the dance floor. However, as she turned back from assessing her father's odd countenance, she realised Wyll was not addressing her, but rather Mr. Dekarios. Wyll was glaring at him as though trying to set him alight, but the wizard seemed unperturbed. 

He bowed at the invitation. “Of course my lord, how could I turn down such a genteel invitation.” Tav once again felt out of the loop, but despite the strange tension, she felt grateful for an opportunity to step out of the limelight and talk to her father. 

He became even more nervous as Tav approached him. 

“Father. I am surprised at you!” Tav mocked. “It is unusual for you to give up so quickly. Have you finally run out of suitors to harass, or are you just gathering back your strength for another round of negotiations?” Her mood had once again soured. 

“Ostavia…” his voice was a tired plea.

“I tell you what, how about I do a lap of the room ringing a bell and sending up sparks to draw some extra attention?” 

“Tav, please… we must speak privately, there is someth…” He was speaking in a hushed tone, and Tav was becoming more and more irritable. What a dream it would be for one to be able to express their thoughts openly and at a normal volume.

“Let us speak privately at home father, Leyana will be desperate to hear all about the evening, and what kind of a sister would I be if I deprived her of such fascinating tales. I am tired and this silly circus of a party is of no use to us.”

"Silly? Oh, I don’t know. I've found the evening rather... eventful," a low, amused voice chimed in from behind Tav, causing her to whirl around. There, standing before her, was Lord Gortash. Handsome in a different way from Mr. Dekarios, he exuded a certain invitation, like a dark path veering away from busy, lamplit streets—enticing, alluring, and perhaps dangerous. Up close, he appeared more pallid, with shadows under his eyes making him appear slightly haunted. His features were undeniably strong, his eyes so dark they were almost black. However, unlike the warmth she had felt with her dance partner, these eyes held a colder, more baleful gaze. They were focused, attentive, and fixated on her.

“My apologies, my lord.” Tav gave a slight bow of her head, she ought to be embarrassed but she was having such an awful time she was past caring. Perhaps if she came across as rude to their host she would be excluded from all social events, or perhaps she just didn’t feel like being polite to any more men this evening.

"You are forgiven, dear lady," he smiled warmly. "I see you've been enjoying the company of some esteemed individuals. Tell me, what is your impression of Mr. Dekarios?" At his mention, Tav turned to see him still immersed in dance with her friend. Wyll led, both in steps and conversation, his expression bearing an uncharacteristic sternness. Whatever they were discussing didn’t look particularly agreeable.

"The legend of his magical ability certainly travels," Gortash continued before she could answer, his tone deliberate, almost intimate. "He must be absolutely fascinating for one such as yourself who is also... gifted."

At the last word, Tav's eyes whipped back to him, stunned into silence. What did this man know of her gifts? Perhaps he had heard of her prowess during her studies? But she couldn’t fathom why someone like her would be on the radar of someone so deeply entrenched in politics.

He chuckled at her. “Don’t be alarmed, my dear. Your father and I have been deep in conversation and I've been keeping a close eye on you for some time. He has much to be proud of, to have not one but two daughters gifted with such powerful sorcery.”

Tav flicked her eyes toward her father, who couldn't meet her gaze, and a wave of panic surged through her. What had he done? What had he let slip?

She summoned every ounce of composure, striving to calm her racing heart and settle her tumultuous thoughts into still waters. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Saer,” she replied, forcing a serene smile. “My sister is no sorceress; she was not blessed with…”

He laughed again, each peal a shard of ice down her spine. “She does you proud, Yondrel. Sharp as a whip and as pretty as a night orchid.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Tav’s father offered with frustrating meekness.

“Do not fear. The secret of your sister’s condition and family standing is safe with me. I promise you that,” Gortash assured, and for a moment, the veil of threat lifted, replaced by something resembling sincerity, though Tav couldn't be certain if it was genuine or merely a flicker of hope in darkness. “Do not be angry with your father, dearest. It wasn't him who told me of your sister’s troubles.”

Dearest? Who was this man to call her dearest? To bring up family secrets and slip them sharp between her ribs like a rogue in an alleyway. Tav could feel her skin crackle with anger and indignation at the gall this arrogant, jumped up…

“It was Grand Duke Ravengard. His son is a close friend of yours, yes? I’m afraid there’s no such thing as family secrets in such a close-knit, generous community such as ours. I have many friends, in many positions.” He took a step closer to her, and she could not move, her feet were made of lead. “Besides, the two of us should have no secrets between us.”

Tav did not like where this was going, she felt out of her depth and did not want to continue the conversation until she had whetted her courage and supplied some well-needed ammo to her arsenal, or at least some decent armour to protect from the concurrent blows. She did not enjoy feeling like she was on the back-foot.

“If you would excuse me, Lord Gortash, I thank you for your hospitality but my father and I were just leaving.” She bowed low and went to turn away as politely as possible, but was stopped by Gortash’s hand placed softly in the crook of her arm. 

“Such formality, my dear. I can assure you, it is not needed.” He leant forward and grasped one of her hands in between his. 

“Not now we’re to be husband and wife.”

[chronurgy]

Gortash Week Day 2 - Worship/Betrayal

The inside of the church’s inner chambers was near black, befitting of the Black Lord. It also did a great deal to disguise a certain creeping age and shabbiness in the theoretically opulent furnishings, though it could not escape Enver Gortash’s critical eye. The congregation in Baldur’s Gate had always been small and thus tolerated by the civic authorities for its insignificance. This insignificance, in turn, ensured it received little and less in the way of funding from the higher clergy. There had been attempts to combat this, of course. But they had lacked vision. The whole of it was lacking, archaic, and insisted on clinging fast to crumbling stone. He would see an end to that nonsense.

A figure, enrobed and enthroned at the massive oaken desk that bore the room’s only lamp, resolved itself as he approached the back of the darkened room. He bowed deeply, as appropriate, and waited for the figure to speak.

He hung suspended for a long, lingering moment as the man’s quill scratched without pause. A deliberate show, he knew, meant to emphasize their difference in rank. Icar Exeltis was nothing more than a wastrel. A disreputable third son with little access to the family coffers playing at power. The man lacked imagination, lacked a deft touch, lacked the will to truly wield power yet held the highest church office in Baldur’s Gate thanks to his name. The church had shriveled under his headship, but he had seen no challenges from the congregants. He was a patriar and son of the last Dark Imperceptor besides. It was his place, they held, in the hierarchy – and thus they must submit unto the order of things. Or so the old blood said. The new blood could see. The new blood chafed against these dynasties old and rotting.

Dark Imperceptor Exeltis finished whatever inane nonsense he had cooked up to occupy him so, at last returning his quill to the inkpot and setting his letter aside to dry. He made a show of shuffling papers on his desk, placing them in one pile or another according to some whim all his own. Gortash knew it all to be thoughtless. He was well aware of those who actually handled the sort of useful paperwork necessary for running any sort of organization, well aware of those who offered value. Serviceable people. For all this man’s insistences at rulership, all the time he spent faffing about with obnoxious make-work, he ran nothing of the church. Not in all the million little practical ways that mattered.

His desk cleared at last of his dross, the Dark Imperceptor wound his languid way around his desk to lean insouciantly against the front of it, weight braced against his palms. “You are seen in this place, my Willing Whip, by both my eyes and the Lord Bane’s. Now give us the obeisance we demand.”

Gortash dropped to his knees without hesitation. He must keep the game going a little longer, and it would not serve him to balk now at this last moment. Pride and scruples were for other sorts of men, men who did not see the greater whole as he did. What was one moment, one lie, one simpering smile in the face of a lifetime? He kept the proper forms and pressed a kiss to the top of the man’s proffered boot. He sat up, the picture of the wide eyed naif he must soon no longer play, not here.

Exeltis ran a hand through his hair as he returned to his kneeling form, his hands so smooth from lack of work that he had no calluses, not even those of a dedicated writer, to catch upon the strands. “It’s good to see you on your knees, young Gortash,” he said, voice rough with desire.

Gortash remained kneeling. He must, until this claimed superior gave him leave to rise. “We are all well suited by our proper place within the hierarchy. You, for example, have always been at your most imposing like this.” He looked up at the man through lowered lashes, a calculated coyness. “It flatters you so well, Dark Imperceptor.”

The idiot was blind to his own failings, and thus agreed readily to falsehoods. He preened pathetically at his false complement, with no more thought in his head than in an ornamental bird’s engaged in the same. “I was born suited for this,” he agreed, his hand still stroking through Gortash’s hair. “We’re of a better sort of stock. Our birth entitles us to stand above the rabble. It’s good to see you know this, pet.”

He continued his irrelevant and incorrect rambles, coddled in the warmth of his self-delusion. But Gortash was not listening. It was not his usual tune out for his own sanity. No. He’d seen a flash upon the back wall, a hint of light in all this black that would never have been allowed were there not exceptional circumstances. He knew those exceptional circumstances, arranged for them himself. He knew who it was standing on the other side of that door. All the pieces in play at last.

“My lord,” he started, “I heard something in the antechamber just-”

“Insolent!” Exeltis hissed. “To think to use a lesser title for one of your betters! I ought to see you flogged for such impudence.”

He raised a hand as if to strike Gortash, but he had played supplicant long enough. And now, with his little army just outside the door, he was free to return to his proper place. He stood. “Oh, hold your tongue,” he told him carelessly. “Who are you to declare that the title of our Lord is too low to suit you? Dark Imperceptor, Grand Bloodletter, Vigilator, this is nonsense. I tire of this hysteria for titles. Lord will do well enough for us, as it does for Him.”

Exeltis was near gibbering with rage, spouting half remonstrations that he was too apoplectic to finish. They mostly concerned his failure to observe the proper hierarchy and indeed, the general conventions of propriety. “You dare,” he managed, spit flecked, at last. “You worthless, lowborn little whore, you dare speak in such a way to me? I will see you hanged for this.”

He does not understand, Gortash thought. He does not see the way the current had turned on him. He has not noticed the glances. He has not seen the others draw away. It has not coalesced yet, not for him. How delightful.

“You haven’t noticed,” he breathed, making no attempt to hide the relish in his words. “I suppose you shouldn’t have. I’ve been very careful, you know. But surely, I thought, surely you had to have guessed. Well then. Allow me, Icar, to enlighten you about your past and future.”

He grinned, wide and sharp. “If you were to look in the drawers of that desk you’re leaning on, you’d find so many interesting things Icar. You’d find them in your house, too, if you looked there. Every inch of it, all the way down to your bedchamber. It’s even in each and every one of your nasty little bolt holes. You’ve been so very profligate with this very, very sensitive information. How dissolute of you, to hide your tracks so poorly. But you’ve gone and done it, left evidence of your crimes all over the Gate from the hills to the harbor.”

“I haven’t done anything, you idiot,” Icar snarled at him. The man still hadn’t caught on. He still hadn’t realized what he was dealing with. An irredeemable failing in a Banite. “I don’t know what nonsense you’ve gone and gotten in your head but there is nothing to find because I have done nothing wrong!”

Gortash laughed, let the shimmering ecstasy of it roll off his tongue. “Like that has ever mattered,” he said, buoyant on a sea of victory. “But perhaps more to the point – I know the evidence is there because I put it there. I put it everywhere. Piles and piles of it, in any place you’ve ever so much as stepped foot in. And then I went to the rest of the leadership, ever so concerned about the things I’d found. I had seen things, I told them, things that implied that you were not so committed to our Lord as you professed to be. They went looking and found all that and more. You’re to be brought before the Black Courts on charges of apostacy and intentional sabotage. They will see you convicted on overwhelming evidence.” He leaned forward, pushing into the man’s space and sending him quailing backwards. “And while you are busy with your sham trial, I will be sitting on that throne of yours, shaking things up around here.”

There was fear tempering his rage now, Gortash could see it creeping through the man’s eyes. He rallied admirably for a fool. “They’ll know it was you,” he insisted defiantly. “And you’re nothing, Gortash, nothing. They’d never make some low-born rat whore like you Dark Imperceptor.”

“But that’s the brilliance of it, don’t you see? Who could ever suspect the lord’s young favorite?” he laughed again, the triumph of it sweet as honey. “Ah but you underestimate me still. I’ll have the recognition for this to trade on, and I’ve been making allies, Icar. Willing and unwilling. So many secrets in these halls and I know all of them. They’ll pick me. They won’t have a choice.”

The rage had now been swamped entirely by the ever-growing tide of fear. Icar could barely manage a pathetic whisp of a protest, but he tried nonetheless. “Someone will figure it out. They have to,” he gasped out between shaking breaths.

“Some will,” he agreed amiably. He would certainly mark this chain of events as suspicious and had no doubt that others would as well. “But those who can put the pieces together will respect me all the more for it. They’ll have promotions waiting for them to the last man. I have need of talented lackeys.”

There was a single loud rap upon the door. The final signal. He straightened up. Icar remained half bent backward over his desk, mouth gaping open like a particularly dumb fish. “That’ll be them,” he said. “Enjoy the Black Courts, darling. I’ve heard ever so much about them.”

They piled into the room, every high ranking Banite and their bodyguard (he’d need one of those himself, soon). They did not bother to list the charges. All here knew it did not matter. Icar went with them quietly, out of either shock or fear, and the whole thing was discharged so neatly and efficiently that Gortash found himself alone in the inner chamber within no more than five minutes, all told.  

He turned to the altar at the back of the room. It was a simple thing, made of a solid, glossy block of black obsidian, all the more imposing for its austerity. He knelt before it and pressed a kiss to its base as he had knelt before the former Dark Imperceptor not more than moments ago. “I hope this has pleased you, my Lord,” he said. “And that it has shown you the value I bring, how well I keep your tenets. You see now only a fraction of what I can do in your name. Lend me power, my lord, that I might further bring your order to the world. That we might throw down these petty pretenders, these puppets grown fat on easy slaughter the strength of a true ruler. Let us glut ourselves upon their fear before they are ground beneath our unstoppable rise. Let us see them weep.”

At first he thought there would be no answer. But then he felt it, felt the darkness thicken and densify, felt it curl around his throat as if to crush it. But it stopped short, stopped at a pressure that would not kill him but would let him feel each and every one of the five fingers that extended from the broad, black hand to encircle his throat.

You will serve, the voice said, as all must serve. But first, a lesson. The hand tightened. Spots danced in his vision. There is no we, boy. There is only me. You are a fleeting thing, born only to serve. And serve me you will. Ably so, young Gortash. I look forward to your next offering.

The hand on his throat vanished with the voice. “Of course, my Lord,” he said to the altar. “Of course I will serve. That is the purpose of those born to my station.”

Gortash smiled alone in the dark.

“I would never seek for more.”

[mllersjoel]

good old fashioned lover boy

Pairing: Regency!Wyll Ravengard x gn!reader

Summary: It's dreadfully boring at this ball, especially when Lord Gortash won't stop talking to you. Lord Ravengard steps in, and just maybe, this night can be saved.

Word Count: 1.1k

A/N: why does no one write for my bb boy. i love him. have some regency au (writing comms r open btw!)

It’s your second year as an eligible member of society, and you are bored out of your mind. Your guardian has dragged you to yet another ball, with dancing and schmoozing that you would rather die than be doing. Thankfully, you’ve managed to avoid just about everyone who wants to sign your dance card with a glare or pretending to choke so hard tears well up in your eyes. You came here because your best friend, Astarion, promised to accompany you this time and fill up your dance card with his name only, but that plan swiftly fell out the window as he laid eyes on a pretty half-elf.

You could see him check out of the conversation, eyes flitting to them then back at yours. 

“Just go, Astarion,” you sigh, shoving him playfully.

His eyes blink back to yours, trying and failing to pretend like he wasn’t ogling another person. “I have no idea what you’re on about, darling.”

“I can handle myself and it’s pathetic watching you try to concentrate on me. Go.”

Astarion smiles broadly, kissing your cheeks. “Have I ever told you you’re the light of my life?”

You snort. “Just when you want something.”

He shrugs, taking your hand and pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it. “If you need me, just shout.”

He leaves, and you’re barely able to let out a breath before another man (greasy, looking like he needs two decades of sleep) takes his place. Without asking, he signs his name on your dance card. “Enver Gortash, Lord of this estate. Care to dance with me?”

You are pulled to the dance floor before you can even answer and you desperately try to come up with an excuse. “I—I can’t dance right now,” you protest, attempting to extricate yourself from his grasp without seeming rude, “I’m waiting for someone.” He ignores you, laughing. 

“Don’t play coy,” he says, assuming a waltz position. The music begins, and you have no choice but to dance with him. You catch Astarion’s eye and watch him square his shoulders, ready to pull you out of there as you minutely shake your head at him. 

‘Don’t make a scene,’ you mouth.

The entire time you dance with Lord Gortash, he drones on and on about his estate, how he fought for his wealth (although it was an open secret that he participated in less than savory business practices), and how immodestly he thinks women are dressed now. The song feels like its going on forever, then, blissfully, the music stops. There is a slight bustle as everyone switches partners, looking at who’s next on your dance card. Lord Gortash takes your hand, and with a predatory grin realises you have no one else on your dance card. As he takes your pencil, eager to write his name again, a hand grips his wrist and stops him.

You look up and see a beautiful man, dark skinned, hair braided closely to his head and a slight stubble covering his cheeks. He has a deep brown, almost black eye, while the other seemed pale and translucent. His smile is charming and bright, without a hint of sleaziness the other man seemed to carry in bucket loads. “I’m terribly sorry to cut in,” he says, the dulcet tones of his voice sending a slight shiver down your spine, “but I believe it’s my turn to have the pleasure of their company.”

Lord Gortash scoffs, brandishing your dance card towards the handsome man. “Your name isn’t on there. Mine is. Get lost, Ravengard.”

The man—Ravengard—nods, taking a step back. He seems as if he’s about to leave, and your heart sinks at the prospect of another dance with this man when he leans back in, pointing near the back. “Oh, before I go, I fear I spy Lady Karlach on her way. She mentioned something about—what was it now?—getting even?”

You see Gortash’s face turn white as he whips his head around, trying to spot someone. Without sparing you a second glance, he practically runs out of the ballroom, tripping on his own feet as he’s nearly sent sprawling. You hide your laugh behind your hand, catching the eye of Ravengard. “Thank you,” you say, adjusting your clothes, “he just wouldn’t stop talking.”

“You seemed like you were in need of saving,” he says, taking your hand and planting a feather-light kiss on the back of it. “Lord Wyll Ravengard, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

You give your name back which he tests immediately, smiling at the way it sounds. He gestures to your dance card, his hand still holding yours. “May I?”

You nod, delighted that this night seemed to be turning around. He writes his name in neat, precise cursive, finishing just as the band begins to play the notes of the next song. His hand is warm as it envelops yours, large, course fingers wrapping around your glove, leading you to the middle of the dance floor.

A slow dance begins to play, and suddenly you are swept up in his movements. He dances easily, leading you as if it was second nature. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” you say, matching his movements easily.

He smiles bashfully, looking down for a second. “Ah, I’ve been away.”

“And how do you like being back?”

He twirls you, catching you easily when you return back into his arms. “I like it a lot better now.”

As you waltz with him, you catch Astarion’s eye once more. He mouths, ‘Good?’

You nod and smile, glad when he gives you a thumbs up of approval. ‘He’s sexy,’ Astarion tells you, and you accidentally snort, looking away when Lord Ravengard raises an amused brow at you. “Too clichéd?”

“No, not at all!” You scramble, trying to school your face into a neutral expression. Every time you looked at his face, however, you started giggling again. Lord Ravengard laughed along with you, still not missing a step and barely even wincing when you inevitably stepped on his toes. “My friend is being stupid, that’s all.”

“Well,” Lord Ravengard starts, stepping closer than what was deemed proper, “if it’s not my horribly cheesy sayings, may I say that you look more stunning than the goddess Aphrodite herself?”

You gasp in jest, smiling. “Careful, my lord, your hubris may see you cursed.”

The song ends, yet he remains still, holding you. “A small price to pay to adequately compliment your beauty.”

Your heart stutters as he steps back, bowing as you hesitantly remember to do the same. “May I see you again?” You ask, hoping your forward nature doesn’t put him off like so many other men.

He smiles broadly, genuine. “I would love that.” 

[mightymizora]

Blood and Bone, Bone and Blood

It was ever fated thus. 3437 words, The Dark Urge/Ketheric Thorm, background implied The Dark Urge/Enver Gortash. CW violence, sex, and a lot of father issues.

Read on Ao3

His letter had said that he would bring her. That after the correspondence, the time he spent in the libraries and archives, the long conversations about what might be possible, that it was time to make it so. That they had been blessed in their endeavours, these Chosen of the Black Hand and the Lord of Murder, and the crown was theirs.

Their Gods blessed them all. It was time to claim their reward for their devotions. 

She is a little rough around the edges, says Lord Gortash in his careful hand. But you’ll like her. She keeps one sharp.

*

The Lord of Bones is a fair master to him. He came to him in the darkness, and he made an offer of one more chance for the light.

Shar was the absence. The nothing in the long night. The darkest part of the shadow, the last ragged squeeze of the exhale. 

Myrkul is the entropy, the judgement. The eternal proof of what is dead can truly never die.

He came to him in the darkness, as his mind still searched for the light.

Come join me, undying, his Lord told him in his awakening mind as the lid of his tomb was pulled from its resting place. Meet the eternal promise. I can give you what you desire.

*

They arrive on a cold evening, two figures emerging from the bleak fog on foot. The horses had turned at the edges of the curse, they would tell him later, and she had ripped them open as a mercy. Their footmen had turned on the verges, and she had torn them limb from limb.

They arrive in his halls, he draped in dyed bearskin, her in a plain red cloak. There are whispers in the hall as she lowers her hood, as his servants take their belongings.

Gortash bows to him.

The Bhaalspawn does not.

“I would remind you,” he warns her as he sits forward on his throne, “That in my halls, you defer to me.”

“I obey only the blood,” she replies, her voice dark and heady with the kill.

*

She haunts the floors of the towers on their first night.

He has no need for sleep anymore, he has rested long enough. Her voice echoes in the darkness, chased by the sound of screaming, echoing across the staircases and winding up into the sky.

He stalks the sound of her. Tracks her. He can only assume this is what she wants as she leaves great trails of blood along the wall, exsanguinated goblins and other such expendable creatures littering the ground as she paints her trail. He does not try to keep his feet light. She wants to be pursued; a game of hide-and-seek.

He dips his hands in the blood she leaves, feeling for the warmth blooming that will show that she is near. He follows her voice as it becomes clearer.

“My blood sings to their blood.”

He finally finds her, stripped naked with great gloves of blood half way up her arms, a mask of red on her face. “I will kill them, General,” she says with a delight in her eyes. “I will kill them, and you will make sure they return, won’t you? Blood and bone.”

She is like a child playing up for attention, her eyes wide in the torchlight, her body shivering in the cold. Punish me, she challenges, or make it right. He does not answer.

*

They speak through the plan from dawn until dusk, the crown on the table between them. It is strangely unimpressive to look at, this great prize, this key to dominion. Gortash lays out great scrolls of parchment, calls for food and wine, and he is happy to let him drown in the sound of his own voice. The plan is simple, really, beneath the theories and designs. His Lord has told him what he needs to know. 

“There are some last things to capture,” says Gortash. “Scribe Yanthus can take them down. We must ensure no part of this remains undocumented. We change the world, my friends.”

He raises his glass, but he is the only one drinking. The Bhaalspawn plays with the stem of her goblet. There is blood still under her fingernails.

“I will dine with General Thorm tonight,” she says finally. “He can tell me the history of this place, while you are working.”

“Manva-“

“Enver.”

Her name is a prayer, a plea on his tongue. His is a warning on hers. A moment’s annoyance, anger even, is replaced with a tight smile.

“Well, there is much to be done,” says Gortash, draining the last of his cup. 

*

They dine in silence in his rooms. He eats nothing. He needs nothing. He watches as she picks at a plate of dried fruits, of stale hardtack, of salted meat. She watches him in silence for almost an hour, her eyes set on him all the while, before she deigns to speak in a careful, measured, dark enquiry. 

“Your Lord spares you from death. Is that your bargain?”

She looks over him as she speaks through a mouthful of fruit that stains her lip.

“No.”

“It interests me. What you are given, what you ask for. Enver wears his ambitions every day.”

“And you?”

“I am the true blood of Bhaal. I ask for nothing. I only take.”

She spits a stone from the fruit onto the plate and looks at him. “I heard stories of the Great General of a hundred years ago. Leading the great Dark Justiciars across this land. Bringing the ever night. You were a champion. You served with glory.”

In a moment, her cup is knocked to the table as she pulls herself atop of it. She walks across and kneels in front of him, her hands on him so quickly he cannot stop them. 

“Is this what is left?”

He is struck by her tenderness, this child of Blood. She runs her hands so softly over his face, the callouses of her fingertips catching on the soft, hanging flesh.

“Is this what is left after the final breath? Is this what is left behind, after the bleeding stops? After the end? ”

“You fool,” he replies, his mouth by her mouth. “Death is no end at all.”

*

In the crypt, the candles burned out in a matter of days. He replaced them as he sat at the end of her grave over and over again. He bought the incense. He bought the offerings. He prayed.

Shar’s reward was just, he believed that. Shar’s reward was everything he had asked for. It was the moment of waking before one’s mind flooded with the grief of loss. It was the brief pause between the inhale and exhale. It was the moment when you had cried all the tears that your body could hold, and stillness fell.

He had no need for sleep, for food, for water. He had no needs at all, and she knew that. She did not come for him, because he did not ask.

He lived-not-lived in the gaps between for as long as he could, but that is the thing with grief. You can carve it away over and over, take the flesh from your body, bleed it away, but it lives inside your very bones.

*

She sits astride him and tears into his chest. The pain is an echo of what it could have been, his Lord’s great mercy, and her delight. Her strong hands crack his ribcage. It feels almost good. Right.

“Your blood smells wrong,” she says as she buries her face in him. “Oh, but your heart, Ketheric? It is so beautiful.”

She moves on him, and his eyes roll and what passes for his breath chokes him.

*

He holds her after, as his flesh knits back together and she watches like an awed child. He did not expect her to stay. It feels wrong to hold her like this, in the bed he shared for twenty years in love.

Melodia fit into his arms so perfectly. She would bury her nose into his neck, under his ear, tuck herself under his arm and his hand would find her waist. She would settle her hand so delicately on his chest as if any pressure would shatter him into pieces. 

“You did this for love, didn’t you?” she asks quietly. How old must she be, this reckoning in woman? Barely thirty, if that. The freckles across her nose remind him of Isobel as a child. Her strong jaw. Her pale eyes. 

“I did. I do.”

“You buried your wife. And then your daughter. And then yourself, in Shar.”

“I serve my Lord.”

“I think you serve yourself.”

Her fingers trace down the mark she left. 

She is not so delicate as her hands reach into him again.  

*

She explores the towers without his consent. She rifles through his books, asks questions of Balthazar. She feeds the gnolls, she watches the torturers in the dungeons, she runs her hands through the knives in the kitchen. 

“I wish to know you, my ally,” she tells him. “If we are to be bound together, I want to know you.”

“You are a blade,” he tells her. “You do not need to be anything more.”

*

“Tell me.”

“No.”

She has crawled into his bed again. This time, she has only let the blood from his neck in but a trickle, to weave her fingers in, to play with his black blood. When he heals, she pulls the flesh apart again gently.

“Do you want it? Is that why you ask?”

As her fingers move, so he moves in her. She sets the pace slow. He will follow.

“I will be the last being on earth,” she says. “If Bhaal wills me to quicken, then I have failed him.”

“I asked what you wanted.”

Her eyes glaze. She looks beyond him, and then into his eyes with a tenderness.

“Tell me of the day you first held her,” she demands, her lips by his wound. “Isobel. Tell me of the day she first saw the sun. Tell me of when you loved.”

*

When he held her he.

When he held her.

This body cannot recall it, not fully.

For when he held her, something changed in the very weaving of his veins.

When he held her he was flooded by the light she bore, the light that she was born with, ever radiant, his girl.

Every part of him that was good and just and right passed through into her. Every part of Melodia that was gentle and sweet and kind passed through into her.

When Melodia died, all that he loved lived in Isobel.

When Isobel.

When she.

There is a story of a man who sold himself part by part, and he tells himself that story. It is easier to tell it than to feel it again and again and again.

*

There is an affection there. They think he does not see it, but he does. 

Gortash holds the door for her as if he were the page of a highborn lady, and she steps through as if she is. He watches her as she moves through the halls of Moonrise, smiles as she smiles with that bloodthirst on her lips.

She swaps the ink pot as he scrawls without being prompted, and smiles as he writes and writes and writes. She reads his pages later as he sleeps. He knows from the smudges she leaves, but never tells.

It will be easy to take control over them, when the time comes. He barely needs to do a thing. He knows what that kind of love is capable of, that seeping in of gentleness in passion. If they survive placing the crown on the brain they will destroy each other over all these moments, with just the lightest touch, and as they turn to bone and ash he will endure.

He will endure.

*

The power of the brain has torn through his mind and dropped him to his knees twice already. The stone on his chest is being deflected. It buries itself into his armour, bores itself into the flesh. He can hear its voice in his mind, its mocking voice ripping through his mind.

Chosen of many, it whispers to him, Loyal only to one. You are brittle, breaking apart.

Gortash is on his knees, his hand above him not in defiance, but in protection.

He will endure. He will not fall before these children.

“She will be the all mother!” Manva cries, tears mingled with blood from her eyes. Her stone sits in a blade that she holds to her own throat in a rhapsody. “Her children will sweep through the world. They will be her children, and she will love them all.”

The crown flies from them and bonds to the brain, and the scream of it almost tears his mind in two.

*

That night they feast and he watches them. They are giddy, delighted with themselves and each other. She fills his cup. He tucks her hair behind her ear and she does not stop him.

“And now, we can take our rewards. The city will be mine, General,” says Gortash, “And tomorrow, we will help you claim yours.”

“And what does the child of Bhaal claim?” he asks her. 

She smiles in return. “Everything I am, I hand to my Father.”

*

It still smells of the herbs, of incense and of moss, of the strange sweetness of the flesh suspended from rot. It is still sacred, a hundred years later, preserved for all time with the strongest wards that he now dispels with a shaking hand. How many nights did he sit vigil here, and how much longer has it sat unmourned?

Manva moves the lid of the sarcophagus with ease, as Gortash holds the torch over the body.

The body.

His daughter.

His Isobel.

“Oh, but she is beautiful, General,” she swoons. Her hands reach down to her face, those vile instruments of violence.

“You do not touch her.”

The power of his own voice chills him, and she laughs at him, this degenerate, this poison.

“I cannot make her more dead, Ketheric. What are you afraid of?”

“Leave us.”

“But-”

“Leave. This is not for you.”

Gortash hands him the torch and takes her away. They leave him here, with the silence. That silence. And the fear.

“Lord,” he offers, falling to his knees one last time. “Grant me…”

He will be a supplicant. He will crawl in the dirt. He will push himself into the ground again, for this chance, and all the Lord of Bones asks for is his soul. His body. He prays for hours, awaits the hand of God to guide him, and it does.

As his hands touch her, her eyes open wide. She chokes on the cloth that sits down her throat and he pulls it from her as she gags. She tears away the bindings on her hands in dread panic, but her eyes, her eyes, they are bright and they are alive.

“Isobel. Oh, my love, my love, you are here with me!”

“Aylin?”

The sound of that woman, no not a woman, that creature’s name on her lips is a poison all over again. It seeps through him as her eyes come to focus on him fully.

Eyes that are full of dread.

“She is dead, Isobel,” he tells her. His voice sounds cold, so cold. “It’s me. I’m here. Oh, my girl, my beautiful, beautiful girl.”

The colour is starting to return to her cheeks. “Daddy, no.”

“We will be together now, my love.”

“What happened?”

Her hands, trembling, reach to his face, but stop before they can touch him. She buries her face in her hands and howls.

He wishes he could cry. Perhaps that would melt away the fear on her face as he picks her up, as he holds her to him, as he pulls her from the grave. She is still as stiff as a corpse against him, until he starts to pull her away.

“No-”

“It’s time to come home, Isobel.”

“No!”

He is pushed from her, hitting the wall in a flood of radiant light as she glows white, running past him on unsteady legs. Selune, moon-goddess, first love of his life, has borne down her blessing and her scorn.

“Isobel!”

He tries to run after, but the light seeps through his black blood and stills him, holds him, and he can only watch as she falls out of his sight once more.

*

He takes Manva to his bed. It is not up for discussion. 

“Perhaps I will kill you,” he tells her. “Raise you as my servant.”

“Perhaps I will starve you of your dead, Ketheric. Still the blades, if Father wills it.”

There is no satisfaction, at least in the physical, that he can take here. All the edges of his body are dulled. All of the great joys and the great pains stifled in service to his God.

But there something akin to joy in watching her discovery of his body. In watching that wonder that crosses her as she finds new ways to pull his flesh apart, as he hisses with an echo of the pain of it. She is delighted. She sparks. There is a beauty in it, a beauty that does not remind him of the sweet touch of his wife in bliss, but of the look of Isobel the first day she saw a songthrush, the first time she ate honey, the first time she realised she could say I love you to her father and make him laugh with joy.

There is a beauty in it.

In making her undone with ease, and wondering if Gortash can give her this. 

*

“I must return to the city to do what I do best,” she says. Gortash is waiting for her, and they will leave for Baldur’s Gate that morn. “The streets will run red with blood. We will have our victories. We will have our roles to play. And then…”

And then. She will try to kill them all. She will try to find the way. He will wait, as always, only now the world is his crypt.

She stops what she is doing, placing her pack on the table as she looks at him. She comes to him, sits in his lap again as she did that first night, and he does not stop her from taking his face in her hands.

“I wish they could rise again, those I will kill,” she says as she holds him close to her. “I wish they could rise to kiss me with such care.”

“If that is what you think care is, child, then I pity you,” he says, as his arms wrap around her one last time.

*

She stands before him again. Less defiant this time. New scars, new blood on her face. New allies, who look at her with that same dogged devotion young Gortash wore, the poor, misguided fools. It is a farce. It is obscene.

But if there is one thing he knows, it is that death is rarely the end.

As her eyes roam over him, he sees something stir in her. Recognition, for a moment, before a wave of uncertainty. Her lips part, her eyes are wide, and yet she says nothing.

“I am surprised to see you again, True Soul,” he says. “You are here to assist, and not to meddle, I trust?” He sits forward, and cannot help but smile. Oh, she is helpless. “I would remind you that while in my halls, you obey me - just as you would any other chosen.”

She does not take his meaning, his inference. Her eyes look to the others in the room. She is seeking confirmation, a hint, a purchase. She will find nothing. They are loyal to him.

“I’m sure you will enjoy seeing my justice enacted. You have to take what pleasure you can, after all, in your diminished state.”

She is pathetic. Her muscles shrunk to nothing, the fire in her a mere flicker. Her head bowed. Her eyes bloodless. 

“You know me?” she asks, but it is barely the hint of a question. She knows.

“Better than you know yourself.”

Blood and bone, bone and blood

It was ever fated thus

And as they mingle in the dirt

So the world returns to dust

[dearest-and-nearest]

More Gortash banters! I need him in party so badly

Gortash: I've been meaning to ask: what's it like to ride a dragon?

Laezel: I don't know. I rejected Vlaakith before I got mine

Gortash: Oh, come on. Didn't you practice riding them in creche?

Laezel: No.

Gortash: Even githyanki don't get dragons right away. And some say that this world is good

Gortash: It's funny, your father can't breathe because he's so noble, and at the same time his son is making a deal with the Cambion.

Gortash: I always knew there had to be a twist in "Blade of the Frontier."

Wyll: I did this to protect the people. You wouldn't understand.

Gortash: I got the Lord's title for "protecting our fair city," remember?… and don't tell me that's all you got out of it.

Wyll: It's up to you, "lord."

Gortash: I'm lucky I don't have kids.

Gortash: You know, Astarion, you'd make a good bainite. You understand the meaning of power, control…

Astarion: You're not a priest to offer to talk about the "Black hand of Lord Bane".

Gortash: I mean, you'd be high up in our hierarchy, and I could use a handy man like you.

Astarion: Need I remind you what happened to the last person who could use a 'handy man' like me?

Gortash: Point taken

Gale: How's life in hell?

Gortash: Hot. Stuffy. And there are souls howling over my ear, which is annoying at times.

Gale: That doesn't sound very pleasant.

Gortash: Well, it's still better than some of the balls in high places. From hell, at least you can escape

Shadowheart: So you're saying you knew our leader before all this?

Gortash: Of course. We were doing the usual friendly things: visiting each other, planning to take over the world, and killing people in between.

Shadowheart: Yeah. Sure.

Gortash: I'm kidding.

Gortash: I'm the only one who's been visiting.

Halsin: You should be ashamed of what you're doing.

Gortash: And you should bow to me since I'm an archduke. As you can see, neither is happening.

Halsin: I can't believe they'd actually let you into party after all you've done.

Gortash: I'm being kind, you know. Though I doubt anyone in your forests was taught what "progress" is and what it's worth

Laezel: About your interest in dragons…

Gortash: It is definitely based on an understanding of what a powerful weapon they are.

Gortash: As sole ruler, I would like something large, winged, and capable of torching all my enemies in addition to my steel watch.

Laezel: I was going to say that after we'll free Orpheus I might let you pet one of the dragons, but now I think you'll be fine without it.

Gortash: Wait, what? Will you give it to me for long? I can lend one of my watchers in return.

[flamemittens]

maybe for morgayne and gortash?

Flower Language prompts from here!

Gortash x F!Durge. 1.3k words. *Act 3 spoilers*.

*Now extended and on AO3*

Black-eyed Susan - "Revenge tastes sweet, and so are you."

The first time she meets with him is shortly after the coronation ceremony.

Her companions do not want her to go alone, but Morgayne insists. It is better this way. There is an inexorable pull towards the man that she finds she cannot ignore, and he seems to have at least some of the answers she seeks—if he is telling the truth. They have heard the rumours—from whispers that coil in dark corners, to braver shouts that ring off the buildings and cobblestoned streets—all over parts of the city and its outskirts; in his rise from upstart lordling to city ruler and protector, he has used everything and everyone—whether at his disposal or not—to ascend.

She finds him upstairs in his office, as promised.

He assures her that their plans can still be brought to fruition. He confidently directs, explains to her what they should do, and Gods, that evasive something in her wants to listen. It is all so frustratingly, distantly recognizable. Hypnotic, in a way.

There must be more to it, she thinks. To them. She recalls the torn page she found in the Moonrise mindflayer colony, and its frenetic, tormented penmanship.

“Lord Gortash. Who were we to each other? Really?”

He seems to wince, for some reason, at her use of his title. After a brief silence, he finally offers his answer.

“I meant what I said in the audience hall. You can use that as a reference if you wish.”

Morgayne frowns. “As strange as it may seem, that does not make things much clearer. I only have more questions.”

“Well then. Allow me to fill in some more of the specifics for you, in a way that leaves no room for interpretation.”

“Please do.”

“Have a seat, then.” He sees her hesitate, and adds, in a strangely gentler tone, “I insist.”

They talk for an hour before she takes her leave.

--

She returns to him again a day or two later. She doesn’t really know what draws her there; perhaps it is this nostalgic, tenuous thread of intimacy and trust that she cannot yet determine the root of.

They talk further.

“How are your memories?” he asks, after a while.

Morgayne sighs. “It’s like trying to complete a puzzle but all the pieces are broken, scattered, and some will forever be missing. However, some things are coming back to me, I think. Slowly.”

Something like delight flares in his dark eyes. Something like hope.

She stays for longer this time.

“How was your Archduke, darling?” Astarion asks later as he sidles up to her on her return to the Elfsong, amusement plain on his beautiful features.

“He is not my Archduke” she counters flatly, feeling none of the conviction she tries so hard to imbue the words with.

--

“I heard you went to the Hells today” Gortash begins the next time she visits him. “You’ve been busy, my dear.”

“Yes” she confirms.

She tells him about it all, of Helsik, of Hope, of Nubaldin. Of what the self-important rock gnome revealed before she was compelled to sear the flesh from his bones, to burn away his smug grin—but not how she later felt she had been told part of the story before. That she keeps to herself for now. She speaks of the Master of the House, and how she robbed him blind.

Any other eyes on the scene would think he is not reacting, but she sees something subtle in the set of his jaw, the rise of his shoulders, the pitch of his eyes. How one clawed gauntlet grips the edge of the table, pressing marks into the oak, how the knuckles on his other tightly fisted hand are turning white. How he won’t even look at her, his gaze fixed on the floor as she talks.

“Raphael is dead” she finishes.

His eyes flick to hers eventually, the tension bleeding out of him faster than it bloomed.

“It’s…curious, isn’t it” he muses.

She doesn’t need to ask what he means.

--

As per their agreement, she goes to him after her duel with Orin.

She tells him what happened, down there in the dark. How she defied her father. How she lay there, drained and dead on the cold, bloodstained stone. How she came to be here now, telling him about it all.

“You have our—your revenge, then. And your freedom.”

She takes a mouthful of the Marsember Blush, lets it linger on her tongue before swallowing. It’s a balmy evening, and the wine is as refreshing as it is spicy.

“Yes. It would seem I do.”

He studies her with an almost unnerving intensity over the rim of his glass.

“I always knew, Mori.” is all he says.

That’s the name engraved on the inside of the ring she wears on her right hand, she thinks.

Her Archduke looks tired tonight.

--

The letter arrives the next afternoon, precisely crafted if a little concise, and mildly fragranced like his coronation invitation. She takes it to a quiet corner to read, drinking in its scent. His scent. It is one line, with an Upper City address at the bottom.

M Come to this address tonight. I can promise you it will be worth your while.” E

Later, she slips away from the others, but is intercepted by Jaheira on the landing outside their rooms. The older half-elf appears concerned. She can’t say it isn’t justified.

“I feel we are losing you.”

“Interesting that you should say that. I feel I am finding myself.” She packs as much of an apology as she can into her smile.

Jaheira looks as if she understands somehow. “Be careful, cub” she says, after a beat.

A short time later, Morgayne reaches the building in question. It’s a sprawling, well-appointed manor like many of those in the Upper City. She glances down one side of the building, spotting a tall trellis thick with ivy that scales up to a balcony. A fragment comes back to her then—heavy rain, gloved fingers slipping on the wood before finally reaching stone.

On entering, she is welcomed and led upstairs; she notices the guards, yes, but also the minimal staff, the thin coat of dust over almost everything—he does not come here much anymore, she recognises.

She is ushered into what she is informed are his personal chambers.

Gortash—Enver—sits at a desk, nearby a large chaise that faces an unlit fireplace. Multiple pages of what looks to be Steel Watcher schematics are spread over its surface. A decanter and tumbler, both half-filled with amber liquid, sit at his elbow. He is casually dressed, save for his golden gauntlets.

“Ah, there you are. You found your way here, at last.”

He rises as she approaches, walking around to stand in front of her.

She sees it all then, plain on his face. Relief. Pride. Desire.

He leans in with a confidence, a lover’s closeness that she supposes he has already earned, long ago. Something clicks into place as she smells the whisky on him—it’s less a moment of realization and more of a punch to the chest that steals her breath away—it speaks of the past, of hushed conversations and affection and trust.

The air seems to become warmer, thicker with every passing moment. He’s orchestrated all of this, she knows now. A tableau of echoes just for her.

She believes it all, feels the truth in it.

He kisses her then, and she kisses him back. It’s clumsy at first, like a musician trying to recall a once beloved tune, but she falls into the familiar rhythm soon enough. He trails his mouth along her jawline and pulls her flush against him, as one hand slides round the back of her neck and up into the base of her braid—the cool metal against her warm skin is…grounding.

“Stay here” he murmurs into her ear. “Where you belong. Don’t go back to them.”

And Gods help her, she stays.

[sorryseraphim]

“What in the hells happened here?”

Confusion was the first to rush through his body. And then, anger and frustration as Enver saw his scattered books and torn bedsheets across the room. The night before with Helene had been splendid, sensual, and intense even, and now it went downhill as he watched her clean the dagger, an heirloom gifted by her divine father. She was sitting comfortably by the edge of his bed, legs crossed as she focused on her blade, as if trying to clean the rough edges by wiping it with cloth.

His mood soured increasingly as the silence lingered between them, her not answering his question. 

“Helene.” His voice a combination of anger and annoyance.

She stopped moving for a while, her gaze now focusing on her fingers as she flexed them wide, her dagger strapped to her side. “You tell me.” was her only response. He stared at her momentarily, trying to gather his thoughts, inspecting the damage around the room: a broken vase, flowers scattered and ruined across the floor. Most of the sheets they shared the night before were slashed to pieces, and his books, a few of them torn to their spine; it was a total mess. With a hiss, Enver spoke again, his tone sharper and angrier.

“You can’t just have a tantrum like this and expect me not to have questions. You are not a toddler I need to coddle. Start talking.” 

“Why don’t you ask your dear Franc about what you did?” Finally looking at him, Enver noticed how her crimson orbs were darker than usual, almost black, as if they would seep out of her sockets and drown him. She was clearly enraged; her hands continued flexing on her side, fidgeting, a habit Helene always did when itching to spill blood. He sighed; it was certainly an unexpected question and annoyed him even more.

“Franc Peartree is a genius in his lane. He is an important ally to our cause, smuggling materials to be forged as weapons under the lords’ noses.”

“And? Does this partnership include him sending you items, signing as ‘affectionately yours,’ Gortash?” 

He became infuriated by the fact that she refused to call him his name. Frustrated, he started walking towards her, maintaining composure as he tried to soften his voice, only to come out entirely wrong and more irritated than he already was. “I’m well aware of what he wants. And I have tried to maintain it where I can call him a colleague.”

Helene scoffed, staring back at him with the same anger he had shown her. “Colleague? Are there colleagues in this city–no, in this realm– that treat the other as their lover? Shamelessly writing of whisking them around, telling them sweet words?” 

His eyes widened as his heart had also skipped a beat. She knows, but how did she know? He thought, slowly dawning upon him, furious at the thought of her doing.

“You’ve been spying on me?” His voice was now full of indignation, almost grumbling and low. He clutched hard on his tunic, his knuckles turning white from gripping the fabric. Helene didn’t budge; she was also furious that he lied; what had he done behind her back? Her mind racing, ridden by madness. “I came here earlier to wait for you. And what did I see? A letter delivered, scented, written, and sealed beautifully. ‘Affectionately yours’? You are a fool if I think I’d let it pass me by!”

She walked away, her steps heavy as she grabbed the hilt of her dagger. With a sudden jerk, she looked back at him, spurting words like poison in her mouth. “I went to his house, Gortash. It was easy. He was so careless, letting that stupid letter of yours lying around.”

“You’ve read everything then? And you didn’t notice anything other than my flowery words?” 

“Was there something I need to read? Some smutty lines that you two have exchanged with one another? Fuck him, and leave me alone!” 

With a few strides, Enver held her wrist, pulling her towards him until they were face to face, the other hand holding her by the waist. She was breathing hard from anger, her nostrils flaring as she gazed up towards him. “Why do you think I did it? Could it be because it was a necessary part of tactical machinations? Do you even understand the game I am playing?” 

She noticed how his voice grew sharper, his eyes darkening as her interrogation dragged on. “You’re conveniently telling me that just now, thinking I’d believe you?” Tugging her wrist from his grasp, he held it even tighter, her grip on her waist harsh as he tried to keep her in place. She held her free hand up, balling it to a fist and letting it fly to his face, which he had dodged easily. As he had anticipated, she would resort to violence when held up. He let go of her waist to contain both hands, pulling her closer to him.

“I have nothing to gain by lying to you. It was a calculated move. Politics is a game filled with secrets and deception. And if I were to play the long game, rising to power, I must seize everything to meet my ends. I have been playing this longer than you could hope to comprehend.” 

“Thank you for reminding me that you know much better than this game, Gortash. You never even intended to tell me, too, aren’t you?” She said with a hiss, baring her teeth. His grip loosened, putting her hands down. He’s struggling hard to make her see reason, but it proved difficult as he thought he might also be at fault for hiding it from her. He won’t accept defeat, no matter who she is to him. This was an opportunity to further his name, if not by the patriarchs at this very moment. 

“It involves a constant dance of power, Helene. I have carefully considered my actions to serve my ends, making sure there would be no bearing on our relationship. Why would it matter if I tell you or not?” 

With a quick push, Helene shoved him away from her. Her hands immediately found her blade’s hilt, letting it out in the air. She was breathing hard, her body ready to strike as Enver held his hands up as if in surrender. 

“To serve your ends. Yes, aiming to become the noble Lord Gortash? No! After everything you told me, the genuine care you’re so proud of dangling in front of my face, this is not it!” Backing away, she continued to stare him down, studying his stance and how his jaws clenched. She knows him too well to know this is him trying to read her back, thinking of ways to bring her down. After another step, she continued to speak.

“I want to carve your heart out and use it to kindle my altar’s fire, but I won’t. I will walk away from you and your life. I am done with whatever nonsense we’re doing!” 

His eyes widened as he looked at Helene speaking those words. She was ready to end it all. In a blink, the months they’d spent together were thrown away. His body tensed, and another wave of frustration took over. He had enough. “You are done? Do you really believe that I will allow you to walk away after we've been through? You are mine.”

“I’m not anybody’s property. I didn’t betray my father for me to become another man’s plaything.”

Taking a step forward, her words were the final act of defiance he was willing to accept. His anger had flared to its highest level as Helene continued to be blinded and unwilling to listen to reason. As she watched him step forward again, she held her dagger firm up, the blade aimed at him, ready to thrust it deep into his chest.

“If you think you can touch me with that dagger, then I must say you are truly a fool. Your emotions are getting the best of you, making you completely irrational.”

“I’m irrational? I’m not the one who lied!”

“He was a tool! I need him to think there is a mutual benefit between us, if not by power by—”

“Promising to fuck him? Marry him instead, then!” 

Reaching his breaking point, he didn’t anticipate how possessive Helene could be. The temple praised her; after all, she’s used to getting what she wants when she wants it. At this very moment, she was clearly showing how there was no limit to her entitlement. With another stride, he was now standing by the end of her blade; if she pushed it forward, she would succeed in driving it through his chest. 

“You’re leaving then? You’re going to walk away from me like it’s that easy?”

He lunged at her dagger suddenly, grabbing it out of her hand as he tried to anticipate her defense. Trashing away from him, Helene tried to yank it from his grip, failing miserably as the hilt slipped from her grasp. Gaining the upper hand, Enver tackled her to bed, holding her by the waist as he carried her, dropping and pinning her down on the mattress. 

Helene tried to kick him back, writhing underneath him as he put half of his weight to lock her down. He was determined to let her stay, even if she couldn’t see reason right now; he wouldn’t let her walk away, their relationship ending like this. 

“I’m going to fucking kill you!” She shouted at him, not caring if there were guards stationed outside that he forgot to dismiss.

And as if to silence her, he had one hand gripping her by the throat, pushing her down the bed further. She held her gaze to him as his grip tightened enough to put her in place and shut her up. Enver didn’t flinch, his eyes darkening as he held her by the neck; even though he could have done much worse than this, he knew that if he went too far, Helene would actually retaliate and kill him despite the oath.

As she waited for him to speak, she noticed how he lowered his head, his breath hot as he paused for a while before he kissed her hard and aggressively. She let his tongue invade her mouth, and as he did, she bit him softly as he tried to push it deep. He didn’t move away and let his other hand travel to her chest, tugging the knots of her blouse. Helene’s hands were free, yet she let it rest on her sides, thinking if she did use them, Enver would tighten his grip. Her head moved with him as the kiss became deep and powerful; frustrated by the ties, he let go briefly from choking her and ripped her blouse down to the thin lace of her undergarments. 

He had to have her now as his body began to heat up, aroused by her defiance. He grabbed her by the hair, yanking it to the side hard as he kissed her neck, sucking areas until he was satisfied with how red it was, visible on her pale skin. She moaned violently as the other hand squeezed areas around her body, consumed by his lust.

And as if on cue, Helene let her hands rest on his chest, letting him drive both their desire further as his hand moved to undo her pants, hastily pulling them down. As she pulled him closer, Enver bit her lip gently, tugging it before driving his tongue down her mouth again. It boils her up further, her carnal needs matching his as she tugged his shirt up, baring his torso. 

Enver grinned at her, feeling his cock hardened as she helped him take off her pants completely. Throwing it down the floor, he moved swiftly to undo his own, letting his manhood free, stroking it quickly to reach its full length. Gasping hard as she eagerly watched him jerk himself, she sat up and crawled towards him, standing on the edge of the bed, her hands now caressing him, mimicking his movements as she looked up at him. 

He held her by the hair again, dragging it to the side as he pushed his waist towards her face, the tip of his cock brushing her lips. And as if to tease him, she let her tongue out, letting his length’s head rest on top of it. Enver sighed deeply at the sensation, prompting him to push it further down, making her wrap it whole with the softness of her mouth. Helene can’t help but moan, eyes not leaving his as she sucked his cock.

She bobbed her head back and forth, holding him by the waist for support. Jerking her head from his length with a quick tug of her hair, he looked at her for a while, their gaze warring and waiting for the other to move again. With another tug, she forced her down the bed, flipping her body and making her lay on her stomach. 

“No, I don't want to be in thi—”

“Kneel. You can't say no to this, this time.”

Pulling her waist up with one hand, he spat on his fingers before driving them down her cunt, making them work sloppy circles before driving his cock inside, both of them groaning as they felt the other's body. Steadying himself to the position, he drove his length in and out of her harshly, his body covering hers.

She can't help but grit her teeth, trying to stop herself from moaning. They both felt on fire as Enver became rough and bold with his movements. His hands found their way back to her hair as he pulled her, bending her back towards him. In shaky breaths, Helene could only make out the words "mine," "forever," and "I will never let you leave" as he drove his length deeper than the last. 

“Fuck you! I hate you!” She said, moaning afterward as he squeezed her hips hard. She was doing an excellent job of driving him mad with her attempts to resist. Kissing her nape down her back as he went, he pushed deeper. She could feel her body tremble slightly after each pound, making her gasp hard and close her eyes shut. “Enver!”

Pulling her hair harder, he growled in her ears, his tone mirroring his movements as he grabbed her waist aggressively. “You are mine. Mine, do you hear me?”

“Fuck you!”

He has ignited once again after hearing her curse, exciting him greatly, as if he couldn't get enough of it. In response, he whispered smoothly in her ear, a tinge of cruelty made known as he let it linger. “Oh, I know you're enjoying this.”

Biting her lip hard made it difficult to resist his doing. She can't admit that the way he held her down, forcing her to submit, aroused her, too. Her desires were already raging hard the moment he had let his smugness out and let the cruelty in. She craved it as much as he was, and now that he was fucking her as if prey under a predator's mercy, she let out another moan to let him know he could have this night as a win. 

At the sound of her pleasure, his speed grew faster. Growing more confident in his words that he knows what she likes and how rough she can take it, the sounds become undeniably true. Helene couldn't hide how good this felt, how her body shook, his movements rippling to her core. 

He sighed, not wanting this moment to end just yet. Taking his chance, he halted for a moment and flipped her back around to see her face contorted, reacting in pleasure as he continued to drive his cock deeper. 

“Enver! Fuck, I'm going to come!”

“Be a good girl, then. Show me.”

Digging her claws into his shoulders, she let out a short cry, reaching her climax: wetting the bed as she did, making his movements sloppy and slippery as he didn't stop. She was a sight to watch as she panted hard, catching her breath. Still, he kept going, grinning down at her as he watched her lips tremble, chest heaving from her release.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like this, Helene.”

“Enver, please…”

Just before he released, he held her again by the throat, leaning forward and kissing her neck. He breathed her in, panting heavily as he dragged himself further to last. Lifting his head a few inches from hers, he stared into her eyes, drowning in them as she stared back at him, her mouth partly open, her body continued to shake from the sensation of each aggressive thrust. His body started to tense, finally reaching his limit. 

And as he filled her with this cum, he buried his face in her neck, growling and panting. Collapsing on top of her, they lay there, sweating and breathing hard as the sensation washed over them. Trying to nudge him away from her body, Helene grumbled, pursing her lips as she noticed her efforts were futile. He grunted a bit as she tried again. 

“I hate you.”

He chuckled softly, lifting his head a little to see her face. “I don’t think so. You could have killed me, too. But you didn’t.” Moving lower down her body, he rested his head on her chest, listening to her heartbeat as her breathing went back to normal. Resting a hand on his back, Helene sighed, exasperated, rolling her eyes. “Go to Franc, then. You’ll never see me again.”

He smirked at her remark, propping his arms for support as he lifted his torso up, hovering above her. “Your jealousy brings a bright light to my heart, I must admit. I’m glad he bothers you so much.”

“You want me angry? Is that it?” 

“Of course I do. This side of you never really showed up before. Knowing you want me for yourself as much as I want you is quite endearing.” 

Looking at him, her brows furrowed, Helene bit her lip, trying to figure out if this was one of his schemes. She had known him to trick people left and right, furthering his ambition using deception, all of them made known to her, except this. She could feel her throat tightened, a lump on her throat that made her question the entire affair. Noticing how her eyes grew wild, looking for trickery, Enver leaned forward, smiling at her before letting his lips touch her neck, trailing kisses down her collarbone.

“I don’t want a simple, boring woman after all. You’re the one I truly want; I am yours to command.”

Her lips curl into a smile. “It wouldn’t hurt to promise me, then?” Her words demanding, challenging him.

With a quick kiss, he answered immediately. “I promise, I want you, even the annoying parts. It would not be you if these aspects of you were missing.” Helene smiled again, pulling him closer and letting their lips touch, succumbing to his words. As she let him take it further once again, she held onto his word, promising herself that if things went sour, her dagger would finally meet his end. 

She was satisfied for now. 

[latent-sense-of-loyalty]

Ch. I

Word Count:3637

Masterlist ¤ AO3 ¤ Ko-Fi

~

CW: Graphic depictions of violence

AN: I'm ferally excited to begin sharing this with everyone. The idea has been in my head for a long while and now I get to put it out there! Big big thank you to @enterthedreams for proofing and just being generally amazing.

If you wish to be updated for future chapters, let me know, and I'll add you to the tags! Now, enjoy!!

“Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

So blend the turrets and shadows there

That all seem pendulous in air,

While from a proud tower in the town

Death looks gigantically down.”

-”The City in the Sea”

Edgar Allen Poe

Tendrils of smoke pooled from his mouth and nose, dancing around him. The next was a breath mixed with the midnight sea breeze, carried away towards the distant ships of the harbor. With the sounds of the old ships groaning at the docks, the occasional shout and laugh of the late night stragglers, it was almost as if the smoke had some kind of harmony to dance to. A fleeting one, as the next breeze whisked it away into the far unknown of the city. 

The Gate always seemed so different at night. 

If one were to excuse the robberies, murders, and other unsavory activities that seemed to thrive at this time, it was almost beautiful. But maybe, to him at least, that was part of the splendor of it all. The unclean, the unsavory, it all had its appeal, he supposed. He was like that once, and he was nothing if not charismatic.

The sound of metal on stone broke him out of his thoughts, heavy steps making their way towards him from one of the alleys. It was the scent that really tipped Enver off first: a suffocating mixture of rot and dust. With another pull from his pipe, he emptied the contents into the inky black void of ocean beneath him, watching the ash dissipate and sink. 

For a moment, he could see the bodies he had placed in that very same spot. Vacant eyes staring up at him as they sank below. Hundreds of unspoken curses, each one paving the path closer to his ambitions. 

“Honestly, you’d think one of your station would at least have the common decency to bathe” The lord turned up his nose as he finally faced Ketheric, his cane leisurely staying at his side. “At the very least, it wouldn’t kill you.” 

He only received a huff from the cloaked figure. The Man strode up beside him, taking a moment to take in the ocean air before he removed his hood. The silver of his hair and beard seemed to illuminate from the moonlight above. Out here, he almost seemed alive. 

Almost. 

“The last person I would think about taking any kind of advice from is you, upstart.” The timbre of his voice reverberated inside Enver’s chest. Even in monotone, that voice still commanded power. Authority. It made even Enver shiver. They stood together for another long pause of silence, the tension growing quite palpable. “This could have been much more efficient if we had this meeting at Moonrise, or even in your...fine abode, Gortash.” 

There was something about the way Ketheric spoke his name that just irritated Enver. Like he was talking down to some child, in lieu of the fastest growing political powers in this city. 

“Unfortunately, we are still in a position where we need to be concerned about the walls listening to us. Besides, anyone that passes by here will either be too drunk to understand what we are discussing, or will be dead before sunrise.” Gortash waved his hand dismissively to the general, twirling his cane just so he had something to do with his hands. 

Under normal circumstances, Enver usually was far more in control and composed with these kinds of situations. Yet the general just unsettled him to no end. Was it the aura of undead? The separation of age? Or did he just see the Lord of Bones in those dead, lifeless eyes?

Ketheric simply raised a brow, looking the other up and down.

“So tell me, old friend, how does this new lease on life that your gracious lord gifted you feel?” Enver straightened his back a little. If the General was going to inspect him, might as well give the old man a show. 

The general scoffed at the assumption of friendship, wanting nothing more than to take that irritating smirk off of the lord's face. 

“He sees I still have a vital part to play. My devotion to him will not sway. I am his  justice -” The speech was quickly cut off by the lord’s snickering beside him as he balanced himself on the cane. 

“Gods, and I thought I was the one with the potential for grandstanding.” The scowl on the old man's face elicited another snicker. “Truly, Ketheric. If this whole general business doesn't work out for you, I'm sure you'd have a wonderful time in the world of politics.” Gortash motioned to Thorm with a flourish. “The Baldurian's, at least, would love you.” 

“Unlike you, Gortash, I did not have to scheme my way into power.” 

“No, only betray your greatest values. A few times, if I’m not mistaken.” The way Ketheric tensed tipped Enver off that he was indeed on thin ice. 

“Do not worry though, I'm sure most of us have surely had our own moments of weakness. Besides, with recent potential investments, I'm sure most would look over your past mistakes.” 

“How reassuring.” Sarcasm dripped like rotted ichor from his mouth. “You have quite the amount of confidence for one that is relying on a lot of… potentials.” Ketheric looked out to the ocean again before his eyes went back to Gortash, much more serious. “I'm not here to play silly political games with you, Gortash, and I'm sure our predecessors would agree. Now why have you asked me here.” 

“We haven’t  been chosen on a whim, dear General.” It was Enver’s turn to change his tone. “To save you the speech, it is time for a centuries old pact be reignited. With recent events taking place, we now have the greatest chance we could be gifted for absolute domination… and it starts with what is below your home.” The look of befuddlement on Ketheric's face was enough to quell any remaining nervousness Gorthash had felt. 

“I've devised a plan-” 

The sound of gurgling took the words from his mouth, both staring back into the alley. The golden eye, illuminated by brilliant crimson steel, froze Gortash in his place. Even Ketheric stood straighter. Slowly, they saw the crimson blade make their way from the stranger’s throat to his groin, body spasming in its death throes. 

All the while, Gortash stared into those brilliant liquid gold eyes, the stare almost searing into his brain. The grotesque sound of the man's entrails slipping onto the wet stone below, followed by the body, could only make the General shake his head. 

Slow, wet steps came towards them as the moonlight illuminated her face. Gortash had only met her a handful of times, yet the sight still made his throat tighten.

Ketheric was the first to regain composure, clearing his throat. Those eyes went to the General before she removed her hood. Her hair was damp, black strands clinging to olive skin. 

“A pleasure… to finally meet Myrkul’s chosen.” The Bhaalspawn inspected Ketheric, the look in her eyes flickering between predatory and admiration. 

When those same eyes landed on Gortash, they quickly changed to annoyance. 

“Lovely to see you again, my dear.” It took everything within Enver to hide his indignation. 

Just seeing how she smirked at his feeble attempt to gain some kind of control filled him with a silent rage. Judging by how her smirk grew, he was not surprised if she could smell it on him. 

“Never expected one of your kind to be so…” Ketheric was almost at a loss for words, the woman seizing the bit.

“Eloquent? Civilized? Lucid?” The Bhaalspawn circled around the man like a vulture, the image almost making Gortash laugh. “Oh, don’t fret, you're exactly how I expected one chosen by Myrkul to be. Dead, covered in the dust of his former life.”

Now that made Enver laugh. The two looked at him as he did his best to cover it with a cough. 

The tension was palpable for a few moments, all three waiting for the other to make a move. The Bhaalspawn cleaned her blade on her cloak, staring back at the body wistfully before sheathing the blade. The look on Gortash’s face tipped her off that he was less than impressed with the spectacle. 

“What?” She grabbed the body from the alley, dragging it so it could slip off the pier into the water below. “I was doing you a favor.” The three just silently watched the horrified face sink below before Gortash cleared his throat. 

“Well, “Gortash said, clapping his hands, “since we are all introduced now, I feel it is time to speak of why we’re truly -” The woman was quick to step in front of Gortash, smirking as he stumbled on the words. 

“Yes, the plan that I came up with that you so graciously tried to take the credit for.” She sneered at the lord, gold eyes brimming with irritation. “But you might as well finish what you started.”

“I would if the interruptions would cease,” Enver hissed. 

Ketheric rolled his eyes at the immature display. With a shrug from the Bhaalspawn, Gortash continued. 

“As you’re both well aware, we have all been chosen for a purpose, and it seems that our lord's have decided it best that we all work towards the same goal. Just as in the past, we continue the Pact of the Dead Three.” There was little reaction from Gortash’s compatriots, steeling himself before continuing.

“After some... collaboration,” His eyes flicker to the woman, “It seems a perfect plan has been laid out before us. All that stops us is our willingness to work together and take it..” Enver raises his hand, clenching it into a fist. The others could not help but roll their eyes, waiting for him to get on with the rest. 

“General, it seems that you hold one of the key figures to this plan, right beneath the very stone of your home.” 

The gleam of joy in Enver’s eyes was undeniable as he watched the General go through the stages of confusion to disbelief. 

“To even entertain the thought of any of us somehow using, let alone convincing, an Elder Brain, not to mention the colony surrounding it to work with the Dead Three? I see that Bane has chosen a man on a suicide wish.” Ketheric shook his head, scoffing at the mere notion that the three of them stood a chance against such a creature. 

“Hear him out.” She nodded for Gortash to continue. The spawn stepping in to support Gortash was enough to make Ketheric pause in shock for a moment. “Trust me, it is worth the risk.” 

“Thank you.” Even Enver was a little surprised at her sudden change in behavior. Shrugging it off, he kept going. “I agree, Ketheric, it would be a foolish endeavor for us to even try convincing the creature. But, what if we had means to control it?” 

The lord’s trademark smirk grew wider, which in turn made the General’s frown deepen. “Unless you have suddenly become the greatest archwizard of all time, I highly doubt it. This is becoming a waste of time -”

“The Crown of Karsus.” The Bhaalspawn looked directly at Ketheric now, gold eyes alight. “We may not be able to convince it, but we can bring it to heel and make it obey us.” 

Restless, the spawn began pacing back and forth, her eyes still trained on the General at all times. 

“Tell me, child of Bhaal,”  Ketheric arched a brow, his stare condescending as the girl laughed,  “How is it you know of such an artifact? Is that common knowledge around your circles?”

“Honestly, do you think of me as an untrained rabid dog?” Venom dripped from her tone, Gortash noticing her fingers twitch for just a moment. “I do know my fair amount of history, thank you. My father made sure I was born with a proper brain.” 

He almost considered stopping her if she were to lunge at the other’s throat. 

Almost. 

“Anyways, the plan is relatively simple.” Enver took the lead in conversation again. “We get the crown, place it on the Elder Brain, and use it to create an army worth the names of our lords.” Ketheric was quick to wave his hand dismissively. 

“If it does actually exist, how do we expect to find it?” The smile on the spawn’s lips grew, rocking on her feet a little. 

“We already know where it is located. It seems that after the fall of Netheril, Mephistopheles himself claimed possession. Now it remains sealed in his vault in Cania.”

“And how did that information fall in your hands?” The General stood much straighter now, that dismissive look now shifted to one of trepid curiosity. 

“My father showed it to me.” The toe of her boot scuffed itself on the cobblestone as she looked down. “In a dream.” 

Gortash couldn't stop himself from pinching the bridge of his nose. The bark of laughter that escaped Ketheric made the two of them jump. It was not a sound they ever expected to hear from him, making it much more unsettling. 

“So, that’s what we’re basing this entire plan? Dreams?” He motioned between the two of them, eager for some kind of answer. 

“Oh? I would think you would be the last to turn your nose up at a divine gift from your lord.” She got closer to Ketheric, staring up at him with a dangerous glint in her eyes. “Or are you really that unappreciative? Does Myrkul know? I'm sure he would be quick to resurrect another’s decayed carcass to do his work.” 

The General swallowed the lump in his throat, eliciting a larger smile from the spawn. 

“Either way,” she went on, turning her back to Ketheric and pacing back closer to Gortash. “Bhaal has shown us exactly where to go. Now, all that is left is to get there and get the crown.” 

Shaking his head, Ketheric let out another chuckle, this entire plan reaching levels of absurdity. “So what you’re saying is that the three of us make our way to the eighth layer of the hells, and perform one of, if not the most, ridiculous heist of all time.” 

“Exactly.” Both Gortash and the spawn agreed at the same time, giving each other a put off look before making the space between them slightly larger. 

“There has to be more to this than what you're saying. This can’t be it. Say we actually manage to steal the crown, how do we even control the Elder Brain?” Ketheric’s voice was tense, eyes kept flashing between disbelievement and genuine curiosity, his head tilting to the side. 

“There seem to be three foci that resonate with the crown itself. Using these three stones, we can control whoever, or whatever wears the crown. Convenient, for us.” Gortash said, shrugging his shoulders. “With that control, we can use the illithids to infect others with the parasite. With enough infected, who is there to stop our masters?” 

Gortash felt the muscles tense in his throat at the word. The spawn could see him tense, quickly flitting her eyes away before she was noticed. 

“Besides,” she spoke, motioning towards Ketheric. “You will be staying here. There is a different plan for you in all this.” 

Ketheric was taken aback, confused at the possible implications. “Are you saying I am not capable of such a heist?”

“Well we certainly wouldn't want one of your age and accomplishment to be over exerting themselves now, would we?” The glares Gortash received not just from the General, but from the Spawn made him put his hands up in feigned surrender. “Easy now, merely a joke. But in all honesty, we find that there is much more important work for you to do up here.”

“Such as?” Ketheric raised his brow.

“Even with my followers, we do not have the proper numbers to stage an invasion on the illithid colony.” The girl tried her best to keep her tone strong. Ketheric noticed the uneasiness in her voice. “If we are to have a chance at getting the crown on that brain, we need a big enough army to pose a distraction. Keep its attention away from us. Which is where you come in.” She motioned to the general, taking a deep breath before she continued. 

“We need you to raise a number of undead. Canon fodder, to throw at those squids until we can secure the crown on its head. So, while the upstart and I are gone –” She could not help but smirk as he hissed a breath through his nose. “--you will be building this army. I will have my sister, Orin, bring some cultists to you at Moonrise to… procure necessary ingredients, let's say.” The unsure look in Ketheric’s eyes fed into her anxiety, but she had to have some faith. “Don't worry, I'll make sure she is kept on a proper leash for you.” 

“Not the only one who needs it…” Gortash mumbled under his breath. 

She did not look back to him, but he could see the Bhaalspawn tighten her hand into a white knuckled fist, blood slowly blooming from her nails. 

“And what is your way to actually get into Cania? Not exactly a short distance to travel for the two of you.” Ketheric questioned, his eyes darting between the two. 

Gortash was the one to speak before the spawn.

“That, General, is what I am just completing. An old contact of mine has the means to make a temporary portal between here, and Cania. With that supplies, once we reach the vault, we can easily teleport the crown straight to your door. No sense in lugging such a heavy thing back.”  

The spawn jumped in after. “We will travel to the eighth layer by the barge on the Styx. Both the upstart and I have been able to procure a fair amount of Soul Coins. I'm sure Charon wouldn't mind giving us the lift.” 

There was another long pause between the three Chosen. Each looked between each other for some kind of affirmation. It wasn't until they started hearing faint birdsong that they were snapped out of their contemplation, all three looking into the horizon, now starting to show signs of morning bleeding in. 

“I will not go against the plan set in motion by our masters.” Ketheric’s voice was tense, yet firm. “If this is what we must do to see their grand design come to fruition, who are we to object?” 

Adjusting his cloak, he covered his head with the hood, readying his departure. 

“Wonderful!” Gortash clapped his hands together, his face positively radiating with cheer. “My business with this colleague shouldn't take too long, so I would expect us to see each other again within the week, at your humble abode.” Enver motioned to Ketheric  “We will bring those cultists in tow, best to get an early start on that army.”

Giving Gortash the slightest nod of the head, Ketheric turned his attention to the Bhaalspawn, her face calm. 

“Praise be the Dead Three,” she said quietly, bowing her head as Kethric turned on his heel, disappearing into the shadows. 

“Well, as enjoyable as your company is, I am a busy man with many things -” Enver was cut off by a crimson blade, the tip poking into his throat. 

“I am surprised, upstart, that you would take credit for this plan so quickly.” Her golden eyes burned with curiosity as she looked him up and down. The spawn stepped closer, forcing Gortash to put his back to the wall. “Interesting that you would omit how it was me who brought this to you.”

Her eyes narrowed as a small smile grew on her lips. Enver tried to mirror the expression, yet his own wavered in nervousness. 

“As the one who perfected the plot, I felt it was only right.” He knew he was treading on thin ice, the woman easily able to end him here and now. 

But both knew, there would be no other replacement capable of fulfilling this heist. Taking another step closer, the spawns face was mere inches from Enver’s, their breaths mixing. He was surprised how hers faintly smelt of mint. 

“Well, it is a good thing I am understanding. The credit is yours.” Her voice was menacingly quiet. “Now, if the plan fails spectacularly… our Three Lords know exactly who to direct their disappointment and rage at.” With a slight flick, the blade tip was removed from his throat, not without making the slightest incision on his adams apple. The woman’s eyes flickered to the blood beginning to bloom. “By the way…” 

Her hand reached out towards their right, her hand twisting and emanating a red glow. From the shadows, another figure slowly walked out, their eyes glowing the same hue that resonated around the spawn’s hand. Gortash quickly made out the emblem of the Guild on his chest, swallowing the lump in his throat. 

“Your throat, cut it to the bone.” The spawn hissed to the spy. 

The spy slowly took out their dagger, and after a brief pause, began cutting into their throat. Like a saw, the man cut left and right, blood pouring to the stone as their jugular was brutally torn apart. The smile never left the girl's face as, after another few seconds, the body collapsed before them, knife stuck in the guild member’s throat. 

“That is yet another favour. Be careful, lordling. Would hate Arden to not be around for your death.” Turning away, the woman stepped on the body, eliciting another hiss of blood to spurt towards Enver as he watched her walk into the shadows, quickly disappearing. 

It was when she was out of sight that Gortash realized two things: First, his heart was pounding in his chest, ears filled with each throbbing pulse. 

 The second: His lungs shrieked for air that had been denied them since the moment she nicked him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tags: @theannoyingurge @enterthedreams @rivthewriter

[crystal-overdrive]

Supporting Sentiments 2 (Gortash Week Day 2 - Worship/Betrayal)

I continue to expose the tyrant's diary. More under the cut! EDIT: Forgot the AO3 link!

Eleasis 10 1492DR

Ancunín is a conniving, lying, rat bastard...

How dare he hide the truth from me? How dare he sit at my table and accept my hospitality when he knew the position he'd put me in? Put both of us in.   Is the best friend thing some kind of act? They are unusually close, but with how fast he was to sell her and their companions to me I never felt it a concern. A boon, if anything. A direct line to her that I can control. Now I find I was not in control at all. Unacceptable.

Destroying him would be gratifying. But he still has use, a purpose in my plans. The veneer of friendship shall continue, for now.   And what of my friendship with Tavarina? Her power grows. She spewed hatred made manifest at my dear Captain this evening. A shame that her Selunite appeared to react poorly, but Ilyera is playing her part wonderfully. If it is she who leads Rina into the Dark Lord's cold embrace less suspicion will be cast on me, surely. I am but a guide in the darkness. One she so desperately needs. Especially with one more friend gone.   Tonight was certainly enlightening. This mess between us is more than salvageable. It was the price to keep her here, and it has paid it's dividends. She was unusually kind about me this evening, in a raw display of emotion that was rather endearing. Her feelings for me are strong. I can use this. It surely marks the end of this no touching deal.  I told her about my upbringing. She called me clever, handsome. She said I deserved the world. I would conquer it, but she would give it to me by rights. I need her by my side. I think I want her there too. The Dark One encourages it. Strange. Normally lo these sorts of emotions are considered weak, an antithesis to to tyrannical order.  There is a simple solution to the problem in the North. One that I am not entirely opposed to given the weaknesses I just confessed to. Perhaps, this time, weakness can be my strength. To possess Tavarina is to possess the North, and, should my suspicion prove true—which I have no doubt it will—the act of binding her power to mine will bring me closer to Gehenna, closer to Godhood itself.   I remind myself that the Black Hand's consort is his Queen and servant. Not his equal. One future may be closed to me, he may be lost, but another path opens. I must persuade Rina to walk this path with me. She will do as she is told.

[midnightlitterateur]

True Soul Bared

Pairing - Gortash/Durge m/f

Summary - The Durge fulfills a desire.

Warnings - n/a no smut just a little sitch that crawled into my head.

“Could you…” Ophelia turned around and pulled her long grey hair over her shoulder to reveal a row of pearl buttons. She sensed Gortashs amusement as he stepped towards her. “ I really like this dress,” she admitted quietly with a shy smile. Warmth crept over her cheeks as she felt his hands begin to unbutton her slowly, making her shiver as his fingertips brushed against the bare skin of her back. The Bhaalspawn was unaccustomed to letting anyone this close, unless she was about to slaughter them of course but that was a different kind of thrill.

Ophelia slipped the grey silk from her shoulders and carefully stepped out of her dress. She kept her naked form turned away as she handed him the gown and held her tail down to preserve what was left of her modesty.

“Alright,” she sighed, preparing herself mentally for what she was about to do. Taking a deep breath she let the powerful urge out. The Slayer exploded from her body in a rain of blood and gore. A roaring screech tearing from her throat as she exalted in the raw might that Bhaal had blessed her with. The Slayer turned around slowly. Letting Gortash get a good look at the terrifying visage of the Lord of Murders favoured child.

Gortash was very rarely speechless but at this moment he was dumbstruck. Gone was the striking Tiefling girl that he had spent a charming evening with and here in her place was a monster. A gloriously beautiful death machine, all horns,arms and teeth. He watched with trepidation as it circled him, crawling around him clicking its many fangs.

“You are magnificent, Ophelia!” He cried, trying not to show fear to the beast that stalked him. It swished its tail excitedly and stood tall, inviting him to come closer by beckoning with one of its clawed hands. He took a few tentative steps towards the creature, his hands before him as he instinctively tried to protect himself. She was an intimidating sight and though he trusted the Tiefling, the Slayer was another thing entirely. It was created for one purpose only. To kill. As was Ophelia of course but she was capable of restraint, who knows what kind of temperament the beast had. Oh but he had wanted to see it. It had taken him so long to pluck up the courage to ask her as it seemed such an intimate request. How do you ask someone to show you their soul? Their true self?

The Slayer offered her claw inviting him in, keeping very still, careful not to spook her prey he supposed. Beady, black, soulless eyes stared as he took her blade sharp claw and it watched him intently as he marvelled at its form. He ran his palm over her rough skin and stroked her spurs, drawing back his hand with a quiet gasp when the needle sharp growth pierced his skin. The impressive jaws clacked together and it whined, almost as if it were concerned. “Just a scratch,” he said, relieved that at least some part of her was at the helm. It tilted its head and leaned down to look at his wound. The “scratch” was dripping blood all over the stone floor. Its nostrils twitched alarmingly and before he could react, out shot its long sinuous tongue. Ophelia licked up the blood gently, laving the wound as she chittered and clicked, worrying over the gash like a mother hen with its chick.

Gortash was astounded and a little bit turned on - if he were honest. As he watched her tend to his hurt he reached out and lovingly touched her face. “Lia…I…” Suddenly the door opened with a loud creak and the telltale clanging of Ketherics armour announced the Chosen of Myrkul's presence. “What have I just walked in on?” He questioned, his face a picture of confusion and disgust with a little bit of embarrassment thrown in. They both stared at him in shock, as if they had been caught doing something that they shouldn’t. “It’s not what it looks like,” Gortash blurted, surreptitiously trying to conceal his tented trousers.

The Slayers gaze could have burned Gortash into ashes instead she growled in annoyance and padded off to her room where she transformed back into her Tiefling body and threw herself on the dusty old bed and sobbed her dried up little heart out. For reasons she didn't quite understand.

[bloodlust-1]

꒦꒷ Blood Bond ꒷꒦

Bound by blood, associated by marriage.

Gortash x fem Tav durge Explicit 18+

Chapter: 7

Part 1 ->here<-

No warnings. You know what you came here for.

As Tav laid, it was like she could feel someone’s hand on her shoulders, tightening a grip. But there was no one in her room, she was all alone.

And the dream that night would ingrained in Tav’s head.

A knife in her hands, and the thirst for blood. But not just anyone, the mistress she saw with Gortash in particular. It was like Bhaal's influence had seeped into her veins and possessed her into a heinous killer.

Stabbings over and over covered Tav in the warm slick of this woman's blood. truthfully, Tav was okay with this gruesome scene, even if it wasn't 100% by her own influence. In Tav’s twisted mind, she deserved it. Bhaal was forcing Tav's body into the crime.

The adrenaline raced through Tav's heart in her dream, and it was like her bed turned into a hot barrel of coal, coating her skin. Tav loudly screamed in this trapped dream.

Her father's wrath.

Tav gasped.

She opened her eyes and saw a cleric healer and Gortash standing over her bed. She frowned and eyed the both of them, her heart pounding. Gortash yelled at the healer, "You did something wrong. She's acting delirious again."

Tav rubbed her sore head from last night. The memory she saw of her and Gortash resurfaced again and Tav frowned to herself. Gross.

The healer's voice quivered, "I-I did everything I could, my lord. She seems perfectly fine now."

Tav glared at Gortash. "There's nothing wrong with me, fool," she snapped.

"You nearly fainted last night, I will not be questioned of my better judgment. Especially from you." Gortash eyes averted from Tav and coldly turned to the healer and waved his hand away as a 'fuck off.'

As the healer quickly bowed and left the room, his tired eyes fell back at Tav, "And you - Stay in place. I will not argue this."

Tav scuffed, "That's real rich, that you think you dictate where I go." She rolled her eyes, "Besides, I didn't faint. I just felt a little dizzy."

Gortash shook his head as his thumb fell onto his temples. Gods. Tav was so stupid. He rubbed his head for a moment of annoyance, "That's what fainting is."

"I'm not incapable all of a sudden." Tav's eyebrow curved up. She wasn't sure why he was hounding her so much about last night. It's not like they were close. "I can take care of myself."

"Clearly you did not last night," Gortash nonchalantly crossed his arms, unamused.

Tav rolled her eyes and turned away, completely pulling the blanket over her head. Gortash watched her for a moment, "I'm going to be busy today running blueprints. Don't be bothering me with any more of your nonsense."

In a mocking tone, Tav spoke muffled into the blankets, "Good bye, Gortash."

Gortash sighed annoyed and left the room. Slightly slamming the door as he was leaving. Tav finally peeled away the blankets, sitting up with a groan. Why did he have to be so contradicting? Whatever mind games he wanted to play, Tav wasn't interested.

“Blueprints he says?” Tav whispered under her breath.

Yes, that’s right, she remembered the bird-like machine drawn in his notes the day he caught Tav in his office. But that was months ago...and Tav wondered how everything had been going now. She remembered the striking resemblance of an eagle of some sort but in machine form. It was intriguing.

What is he up to?

Tav kicked the blankets off of her, hoping out of bed with one thought in mind: I’m going down to the foundry myself.

Tav put on a black dress with frilled sleeves. She knew that Gortash would be angry if he found out she was sneaking out of the palace, but she didn't care. She needed to know what he was up to.

She snuck out of her bedroom and down the hallway, careful not to make a sound. She paused at the door to Gortash's room and listened. It was silent. He had already left the palace it seemed.

She snuck out of the palace past the steel watches, hiding behind the walls and pillars before leaving out the doors. She scuffed in annoyance that Gortash would even try to keep her away from their estate business.

The crowd on the streets of Baldur's Gate was thick, and Tav was careful to keep her head down as she made her way through it. She didn't want to be recognized, not yet.

A little Tiefling child tugged at his mother's shirt as they saw Tav, and the child's eyes widened in recognition. "Mommy, it's the queen!" he said.

The mother looked up and saw Tav, and her face paled. She quickly pulled her son away and hurried off, muttering something about needing to get home.

"But wait!" The child tried to tug away from his mother's grip.

Tav smiled wryly. It seemed that her reputation as a fearsome warrior was well-known. She put her finger against her lips and shushed the child with a wink. Then she turned and disappeared into the crowd like nothing had happened.

A few moments later, Tav arrived at the foundry. She walked up to the door and crossed her arms. She knew the Steel Watchers would rat her out that she was here - uninvited. All well. He wasn't going to do shit.

"I know you can hear me, and if you don't let me in I will blow this entire building up with you in it." Tav tapped her foot waiting for the Steel Watchers to move aside from the doors.

And that they did.

Tch. Tav chuckled amusingly. Well...that worked.

Tav strode into the Foundry, her boots echoing off the walls. The Gondian workers stared at her with scared looks, but Tav only stared at their metal collars.

She hated the way they looked and it seemed so restricting. How could anyone work like that? And Gortash expected them to work their best chained like a dog? Impossible.

"Oh!...M-my, uhm, Miss Tav! I mean - Queen." A worker, seemingly in charge of the Gondians came stammering over to Tav. The man was visibly nervous, stumbling even over his own feet.

Seriously? Tav scanned the man from head to toe, unimpressed, "Collect yourself before speaking to me."

"Yes! I am the captain in charge of watching over the Gondians." Before he could utter a word more, Tav cut his whole spiel off.

"What is it they are building?" Again, her eyes fell on the group of engineers. Perished and famine they looked.

"We're making good progress," The captain said. "We just received blueprints from Lord Gortash just this morning.."

"Good," Tav said. "I want to see them, now."

She turned and walked away, heading over to a nearby Gondian worker. Tav peered over their shoulders as they twisted screws into the iron pieces between their fingers.

"Here you are," The man handed the blueprints to Tav with a slight bow.

Tav looked up and glanced at the blueprints. She chuckled. "The Iron Wings?" she said. "That's a stupid name."

"It's Gortash's idea," the shift leader said. Their eyes trailed from Tav's lips to her eyes. Her features were delicate and soft, unlike her personality.

"Well, he's got a stupid name too," Tav said. "Tell him I said so."

Tav's eyes detailed every piece of mechanic she could on these papers. And something caught her attention...She shook her head in disapproval. "The wing span is too small," she said. "It won't be able to fly properly."

The wing span was small compared to the body. Tav wasn't surprised that Gortash wasn't good at bird anatomy. "Stretch the wing span at least by 6 more inches."

The worker was unsure to listen to Tav, "My lady, Gortash has finalized these I can't change them without his approval. He will have my head."

She glared at the cowering man in front of her. "I said do it," She snapped, her voice low and menacing. "Or I'll have your head."

The worker nodded and began to sketch over the wings on the blueprints.

But to no avail, Across the room, Tav caught a glimpse of Gortash. his scowl deepening when he saw her standing in the middle of the room. He didn't need to say a word; his expression was enough to tell her that she was not welcome.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Hi to you too, Lord Gortash" she teased his name, unfearful of his threats, unlike the captain who was cowering just the sight of Enver's angry expression.

Enver didn't have time for sarcasm. Just from the sheer deadpan of his face Tav rolled her eyes at his seriousness.

He should learn to have some fun, especially after Tav somewhat was trying to forgive him in her head. Or maybe just toyed with the idea of forgiveness.

"By the way, I fixed your machine." Tav hummed and tilted her head, a contradicting smile on her face. "Call it an improvement."

There was no way Tav actually thought she was smarter than Gortash. Especially not at his invention. Gortash laughed. "You? Improve my design? You're a joke."

Gortash stepped close enough to throw Tav off guard, but she stood her ground. Arm in arm, Tav looked up to meet his challenging gaze as his lips opened, "What do you know about building a machine?"

His tease snaked into the air and tried to choke Tav of her better judgment. Tav challenged Gortash's dark eyes, "I know enough to know that a bird needs a wide wingspan to fly," Tav said. "If you don't increase the wingspan, this machine will never get off the ground."

Gortash snatched the blueprints from the captain's hands and began to look them over. As Enver read, his expression changed from anger to disbelief to annoyance. When he was finished, he handed the paper back to the man's hand.

Fuck, she was right. Tav couldn't be doing this to him: making him look stupid compared to her. So he decided to play it off.

Gortash grabbed Tav by the waist and pulled her to his side. He leaned his head over and whispered in her ear, "That’s the sexiest thing you've said in months."

Tav felt her cheeks flush as Gortash’s hand lingered on her waist a moment too long.

The warmth of his breath tickled Tav's skin and she quickly pulled away from him, "I better get going now." Her heart raced in that brief moment. It was like her body enjoyed his knowing touch, but her mind said: Absolutely Not.

Tav took a few steps back, her gaze shifting to the captain, whose mouth softly dropped opened from Gortash flirting so openly with Tav.

Shit, this is awkward.

Tav was both flustered by Gortash’s attention and frustrated with herself for allowing it to affect her so deeply.

With a firm sigh, Tav nodded her head at Gortash, quickly turning a heel to leave the foundry.

Yeah, nope. Not happening. Tav shook her head as her inner thoughts tore her piece by piece. There's no reason for Tav's heart to race under his touch. She didn't even really like him much.

Or maybe she just didn't like that he was with another woman.

Tav bit down on her inner cheek. It's not like she liked it when Gortash touched her waist. She instantly knew she didn't want to be so close to him, but at the same time, her body betrayed her. How annoying.

She blankly walked past the docks and stared out into the ocean. It must have something to do with their past relationship, that she feels so connected to him. Tav groaned in annoyance, running her hands down her face, and dragging her skin down. She hated feelings and what they did to her mind. She just wanted to be angry at him and keep it that way.

To Be Continued ~

Any Thoughts? Comment 👇🏼 I love to engage!

Next part here

I thought it was funny

[childofyuggoth]

Are you upset that you didn't get more of Abdirak? Thirsty for our beloved priest of pain?

I present to you some fluff and smut that I wrote for our follower of Loviatar.

(( AO3 link for anyone who wants it: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50565967 ))

My writing, please don't steal, I'm insecure enough about my work as it is. 😅

TW: Bondage, whipping, blood. Obviously.

----

Life had been unkind lately. No, you thought as you took another large gulp of watered-down beer from a dirty mug. Life has been absolutely terrible. Your struggling business had finally gone under, killed by some new policies that Lord stick-up-his-ass Gortash had implemented. Then the bank had repossessed your house, because you no longer had the money to make your payments. And now there was apparently a fucking army of deranged cultists about to march on the city, just to top it all off.

Which was why you found yourself trying unsuccessfully to drink your sorrows away in this filthy Lower City bar. You'd normally never set foot in a place like this, but nevertheless, you found yourself perched on a bar stool, elbows-deep in your cups and feeling very sorry for yourself. It was a waste of the last of your money, but what else could you do? You spent your days hunting for jobs, but everything was either something you weren't qualified for, or illegal. At this rate, you were half-tempted to apply at Sharess's Caress.

The rest of the patrons had largely ignored you, having their own business to conduct in ill-lit corners. Bawdy ballads rang in your ears, along with the sound of clinking money and drunken slurring. You grimaced into your mug. The alcohol had done nothing except depress you more. All that was left was to go collapse in the flophouse where'd you taken up residence and resume your fruitless job search in the morning.

You ground your teeth in frustration before tipping the last of the sour ale into your throat.

As you took a last look around the bar, a flash of snow white-hair against black caught your eye. A man at the opposite end of the bar, his hand on a glass of dark red wine. Black cloth and leather robes that looked almost clerical fell from his waist to to his ankles. His muscled chest and upper body were bare, except for ornate black pauldrons, spiked and wickedly sharp. They connected across his collarbone by a radiating pattern of twisting black wire, barbed and jagged.

All of this you took in quickly, your eyes lingering for a moment on the scars and cuts that graced his skin like little red prayers.

His face was what held you. Half of his head was shaved, but snow grey hair fell softly over the other half. He was human, from what you could tell, but there was an almost elf-likequality to his face that made it impossible to tell how old he was. His cheekbones were high and dangerously sharp above slightly sunken cheeks, with a straight grecian nose that curved slightly at the end above a generous mouth.

As if he could sense your gaze, he turned slightly to meet your look with a calm, slightly quizzical expression. His eyes were the most incredible shade of light grey. They seemed to catch and scatter the dim light of the room with a dazzling brilliance, boring into you with an intensity that rooted you to the spot. Your trapped breath fluttered in your lungs like a butterfly between caged fingers.

He extended a large hand and crooked a finger at you.

Like a fish on a hook, you jerked forward, the alcohol removing your inhibitions. You made your way down the bar and slowly sank onto the stool next to him, your heart pounding in your ears.

What in the nine hells were you doing? You didn't do things like this. Meeting strange men in bars was decidedly not your normal activity. The rational part of your brain buzzed at you distantly, but it was easy to ignore. The alcohol and, more intensely, the strange gravity of this man had a hold on you that you couldn't quite explain.

"You seem troubled." His voice was startling. It was deep, and warm. His tone made you feel protected. Safe. Before you could stop yourself, you were telling him everything. Your name. Your hopes, your fears. All of your recent tragedies rolled off of your tongue, your hands twisting in your lap, unable to tear your eyes from his. You were drowning in crystal grey hues.

He gave you his whole attention. Listening raptly, drinking in every word with an intensity bordering on manic. Nodding at all the right places, tipping his head to the side in sympathy, even smiling gently at some of your self-deprecating jokes.

It all poured out of you, every terrible event of the last year. The shop becoming your sole responsibility after the death of your parents. Your partner leaving for someone else. Losing the shop. Losing your home. The pain and the loneliness and the sorrow washing over you like a flood. Your utter despair right now.

When you finally finished, he gave you a long, searching look. "Such pain. Dear child, you have known incredible sorrow." He smiled. "I am Father Abdirak. I serve Loviatar, the Maiden of Pain."

You stiffened, fear souring your fascination. Loviatar. You weren't well-versed on religion or gods, but she did not have a good reputation. The few stories you'd heard told of a cruel, sadistic order dedicated to torture and brutality.

Abdirak frowned slightly as you pulled away, your body language going from open trust to quite the opposite in the time it took him to draw breath. You sat back, folded your arms over your chest, and crossed your legs. Internally, you tried to quell your rising panic. You'd just spilled your guts to the priest of an evil god. Made yourself vulnerable. Your instinct was to bolt, but fear held you to the sticky half-broken bar stool. And, if you were completely honest with yourself, some of your former fascination was mixed with that trepidation. There was a dark allure to him that still tugged gently at you, against your better judgment.

"Peace, dear one. I mean you no harm." The earnest way he spoke had you almost believing him, and the affectionate moniker made your cheeks flush. It had been a long time since anyone had addressed you with such care.

"But..." You bit your lip, eyeing him like an enchantingly beautiful viper. "She's the Goddess of Pain. Torture." You fumbled your words, the alcohol making it difficult for you to find the right ones. "I mean, those aren't... good things." A frustrated sigh fell from you as you uncrossed your arms and ran a hand through your hair.

Abdirak nodded assent at your first sentence. "Without pain, how do we know pleasure? And there can be release in pain. A surrender of all your sorrows at Her altar as you lose yourself in the sensations." Those carved smoky quartz eyes met yours again, sending a not-unpleasant shiver through you.

"I do not do anything without consent, nor do I push a body beyond its breaking point." A delicious smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes narrowed in pleasure. "And I am very good at what I do, dear one."

By the Gods, was this... arousing you? Your fingernails were digging into your palms, and your breath came rapidly, as if you couldn't get quite enough air. Between your legs, there was a pulse beginning, deep, slow, hot and hungry. You couldn't tell whether it was because you were attracted to Abdirak, or intrigued by the things he was suggesting, or both.

In the intervening silence as you wrestled with yourself, he finished his glass of wine and laid a few silver on the bar.

"If you want to receive my ministrations and surrender your pain to the Maiden, you are most welcome." He gave you directions to a part of the Lower City you were vaguely familiar with. Not the worst part, but definitely somewhere you would want to approach during the daytime.

You received these instructions mutely, still caught in his dark presence like a fly in silk-soft webbing.

Then he was gone, out the door into the night. You stared after him for what seemed like minutes, the sounds of the bar falling unnoticed on your ears.

You'd probably dismiss this whole notion in the morning. Obviously you were more drunk than you thought, for you to even be thinking about taking Abdirak up on his offer. To be thinking about those piercing grey eyes staring at you from inches away, muscled chest pressed tight to yours. Absolutely ridiculous to even linger on the idea of that sweet, deep caring voice telling you what a good girl you were being for him as his breath hitched in pleasure...

You shook your head firmly, standing up from the stool as if by doing so you could leave those thoughts on the cracked wooden surface, and headed back to your room.

---

Morning came, but distressingly, you still found yourself mulling over the possibility of seeking out the Priest of Loviatar. He'd left an indelible mark on your mind, a dark and jagged thing that nevertheless promised comfort at a time when you had none.

You laid there, staring at the beams of the ceiling above you. They were dusty and filled with cobwebs. A sudden ache filled your chest at the thought that this was your future. That you would wake to the sight of innumerable hostels and flophouses for the rest of your days until your money ran out, and then-

Stop. You scolded yourself. It wasn't that bad.

Still, though. It wouldn't hurt to see what exactly Abdirak was offering, would it? He'd said he didn't do anything without consent. A wry chuckle left your lips as you reflected that, honestly, job hunting was far more torturous than anything he could dream up anyway.

So you got out of bed. You felt more yourself than you had in weeks. This was something new, something that broke the monotony of misery you'd been stuck in. And as much as you hated to admit it, you were intrigued by the strange man's offer.

It was a wet, cold day. A storm was rolling up the coast, soaking everything in a freezing mist and darkening the sky so that the streets were almost as shadowed as they were at night. But you pressed on, navigating the increasingly narrow streets and alleys until you came to a dead end near the docks.

You stood in the cold and rain, your cloak drawn tightly around your shivering form, and stared at the shabby wooden door before you. A single lantern hung overhead, swinging in the storm, its dull orange glow doing little to penetrate the dark grey around you.

Did you have the wrong address? There was nothing to mark this as the home of a Priest of Loviatar. Then you looked closer. There, on the wooden beam across the top of the door. The carved image of a barbed flail, small but deep.

You hesitated, rocking on the soles of your feet, and almost turned around. But the thought of going back, of laying in your dingy rented room or pacing the streets looking for work was so abhorrent that you swallowed your fear and knocked.

There was a short wait, where the wind wailed in your ears like a thousand souls in torment and lightning lashed the sky.

Then Abdirak answered the door. Seeing him again forced your breath from your lungs like you were a blushing maiden on her first date, only the feelings stirring in you were far darker. Hungrier. Gods. That muscled bare torso and those sculpted arms had your knees going weak.

His perfect grey eyes widened a fraction, as if in surprise, then he was standing aside and waving you in with a welcoming smile. The expression was tinged with just enough sinister suggestion that you blushed and looked down at your feet as you entered. Something about a smile on that face was unholy, in a way that made you feel almost feral with need. You clenched your hands and tried to compose yourself as filthy fantasies played through your mind. Luckily, what you saw inside distracted you from that base hunger.

You weren't sure what you had been expecting in his house, but this wasn't it. The room you found yourself in was small and carefully furnished. A red carpet was laid out on the wooden floor, in front of a well-used sofa and a couple of plush armchairs. A half-finished glass of wine sat on a side table, next to a oft-thumbed leather-bound book. Candles lit the small space, shutters on the windows fastened against the rain, and a cheery fire burned steady in the hearth. Closed doors lead to the other rooms.

It felt almost... cozy. You stood there for a second, slightly bewildered, before realising that your outerwear was dripping all over the carpet.

"Ah, I'm sorry!" You pulled off the cloak, which continued to deposit rainwater on the floor, and frantically looked around for somewhere to put it, your hands out in front of you, clutching the wet fabric.

Abdirak closed the door before walking over to you. A gentle chuckle emanated from him as he laid warm, scarred hands over your own cold ones. You stood still, almost petrified, as he intertwined his fingers with yours. The slow, tender touch made you shiver, your flesh tingling where your fingers met. An intimate moment passed as he looked down at you, interlocked digits tightening around yours with careful strength. A pale hunger to match your own flickered in his eyes, his jaw tightening with an unnamed emotion as his gaze burned into you.

After a beat, he prised the cloak from your grip, making sure to caress the backs of your hands with his thumbs as you reluctantly gave up the contact. He took a few steps to lay the sopping garment on the brick in front of the fire before turning back.

"Thank you." You glanced up at him sheepishly, your words stuck in your throat. What did you say now? Anything sounded far too forward in your head. Your eyes strayed to his bare chest, muscled and marked with scars. A slow heat churned in your abdomen.

"I'm glad you came, my child." He laid a hand on your shoulder, his hand warm against your shirt. You shivered slightly at the touch, but did not stir, instead losing yourself in his gaze. Flint-grey, and just as sharp.

"I..." you swallowed. "I've never done anything like this before." Your stomach was an anxious knot. Abdirak squeezed your shoulder before letting go and beckoning you to follow him.

"Leave your concerns at the door, dear one. I will instruct you in all that you must do." He went to one of the doors, unlocked it, and gestured you through. After a moment, you obeyed, mastering the sudden quiver of fear that manifested in your stomach.

This room was far more of what you had expected from a Loviatar follower, and you slowed as you entered. Instruments of pain lined the walls, all on neat hooks and shelves. Whips, flails, maces, knives, and other sharp things for which you had no name. There was a curious structure bolted onto the back wall, a large wooden X with various straps hanging from the ends of the legs and the middle. Your eyes were drawn to it, and your cheeks flared with heat.

Your heart accelerated as Abdirak closed the door and came up behind you. He stopped a hairsbreadth behind you, close enough that you could feel his body heat and taste his scent. Leather, musk, and the faintest hint of rose. You wanted to lean back into it, to lose yourself in him, and never find yourself again. The heat between your legs flamed hotter.

"Strip to your comfort." His voice was husky in your ear, going straight to your aching core. He seemed to pause, then, as if mastering some impulse, then walked over to a rack of tools and began to busy himself.

You took a deep, shuddering breath. This was it. You could tell him thank you, but you were not interested. Or, you could see where this went.

Your hands were already slipping under your clothes as the thought passed through your head. Fuck everything. You were going to give yourself over to this, to him, in every way possible.

With that in mind, you pulled everything off before slipping out of your shoes, shivering slightly as your soles met the stone floor.

Abdirak turned back to you just as you finished tossing everything into one pile of fabric. He stopped short, stormy eyes darkening as a wicked smirk stretched across his face.

"Oh, dear one." his voice dropped to a guttural purr. His gaze raked over your naked form, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. "Such a tribute you offer to the Maiden of Pain."

"And to you." You murmured, meeting his eyes with a coy smile. A certain recklessness was coursing through your veins, fueled by the desire softly throbbing between your legs and the desperation of the past months.

The priest seemed slightly taken aback, eyebrows rising before settling down into an expression of unbridled desire that narrowed his eyes and pulled at his mouth in a delicious smirk. "Do your sins weigh heavy on you, my child?" His deep voice, so tender, so caring, contrasted and complimented perfectly with the way his knuckles whitened on the handle of the flail he held, the way he watched you with an eager violent lust. His words held a certain ritual quality to them, and you responded in kind after a beat, bowing your head.

"Yes, Father Abdirak." You spoke quietly, bowing your head and clasping your hands behind your back in a gesture of deference.

He exhaled, a deep breath that shook slightly as it left his lungs, then strode over to you. He laid a hand on your bare back, calluses rough against your skin.

"Walk." The command was deep, accompanied by a curling of his fingers into your flesh. You bit back a whimper of anticipation and let him guide you to the cross on the back wall.

He manipulated your body with deft touches, tightening restraints and adjusting the buckles with a smooth efficiency. You were facing the wall, arms and legs splayed out, your heart hammering in your chest so loudly you swore you could hear it echoing off of the stone chamber. You closed your eyes, enjoying the slight terror of not being able to see where he was or what the priest of Loviatar was doing.

Abdirak's voice sounded next to your ear in a deep growl. "You will scream for me. Let me hear it all, dear one. Beg. Plead. Whimper. If you wish for me to stop, you say 'Aboleth'." A touch caressed your back, then fingers fisted in your hair and gave it a yank that made you gasp in pain and ecstasy. "Say it."

"A-Aboleth." you half-spoke, half-moaned, the feeling going straight between your legs. This was dark, and dangerous, yet you felt somehow safe. Free to let go. Free to let him take complete control.

"Good." Lips caressed the side of your neck, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses on your skin as he relinquished his grip on your hair.

There was a few agonizing seconds of nothing but the sound of your beating heart.

Then searing stripes of pain, cruel and red-hot, carved across your back with the satisfying thwack of leather on flesh. Your body shook and your torso curved as much as it was able, ropes taut on your limbs, and a scream erupted from your opened mouth. As the pain receded, a profound sense of relaxation flooded through your veins, leaving you slumped and sobbing in your restraints.

"That's it. Surrender it all to the Goddess." Abdirak sounded delirious with delight. "Beg, child, scream for Loviatar's forgiveness!"

There was a swish, then another biting strike of the many-tailed whip. Another throat-scalding scream came from deep within you, hysterical and high-pitched, a keening noise the likes of which you had never heard from yourself before. "Please! Gods!" You were babbling as the pain faded into a dull ache, tears running down your face and dripping onto the floor. But along with that pain, there was a creeping warmth, a strange and twisted.... pleasure? You flushed, a sigh escaping your lips.

"There, yes." The priest sounded as aroused as you felt, his voice ragged and laboured. "Give in to her blessings, dear one."

"I..." you groaned, the aching heat in your back intensifying, sending jolts of pleasure that throbbed in the dripping slick of your cunt. "Fuck, I need more, please."

The growl that Abdirak responded with had you quivering. Deep. More animal than human, a dark and throbbing sound.

You didn't even tense in anticipation as you heard the hiss of leather through air, letting your muscles go limp. The pain that came as it struck your relaxed back was heavenly, pleasurable almost the instant it hit. There were no thoughts anymore, no worries or anxieties. Just bliss. Total surrender into Abdirak's care. You writhed, screamed, and shuddered as the sensation shivered through your body.

No other god had come close to giving you this kind of ecstasy. You were begging for more the moment the stinging began to fade, your pleas hoarse and alien in your own ears. The priest complied, laying skilled strikes along your back, then across your ass and the backs of your thighs, each time a novel feeling, wrenching heartrending cries of pain and delirious pleasure from deep within you.

Time fell away. There was only blissful agony, the sound of whips on flesh, and Abdirak's voice over and through all of it. Praising you, worshiping you in a tone like honeyed leather, telling you how good you were, how penitent, how beautiful.

When the strikes began to bite too deep, when you began to shy away from the whip rather than greet it with glorious moans, he stopped. Gentle hands undid the ropes that bound you to the cross. You slumped back into his embrace, boneless and euphoric. Abdirak carried you in his arms like a child, holding you close to his chest. You nuzzled at him, burying your face into his sweat-slicked pectorals, inhaling his musk. A total sense of peace pervaded you, wrapped you in a bliss you hadn't known since you were a very small child.

He laid you on something warm and soft, then sat down next to you. Your eyes still closed, you moved towards his heat, curling up against him and pressing your face into the robes against his thigh. His hands began to work something cool and slick into your back, pressing in gentle little circles and giving attention to the deeper marks that he had left.

"You did so well for me, dear one." He murmured as he worked. You opened your eyes to see him smiling down at you. He had a kind of awe on his face, an expression that softened his eyes and made him look almost vulnerable. "Such wonderful agonies. You truly are beautiful, my sweet, penitent child."

You curled closer to him in response, craving his touch. He stroked your hair with one hand, then gently lifted you into a sitting position, your back cradled against his arm. He brought a mug up to your face, pressing it to your lips. The scent of honey and chamomile filled your nostrils, and you were suddenly aware of how dry and sore your throat was.

"Small sips, child." You obeyed meekly, the sweet warm liquid soothing as it went down. He guided you through the whole mug, holding you close and occasionally wiping a stray drop from your chin with his thumb.

By the time you were done, your eyelids felt heavy, your head full of nothing but contentment. Abdirak laid you back down on the small bed, covering you with a blanket and tucking it around you with a tender attentiveness that made you melt inside all over again.

You caught his arm as he stood, and he looked down at you with surprise. You smiled sleepily up at him. "Thank you." You murmured, trying to convey your feelings as best as you could in that simple phrase.

The priest simply smiled back, then leaned down and placed a tender kiss on your forehead. "Sleep, dear one."

You obeyed.

- - -

You awoke feeling deliciously relaxed. There was a warm throbbing in your back, but otherwise you felt good. No, better than good. Great. The best you'd felt in a very long time.

After a moment of simply luxuriating in your happiness, you sat up, wincing and smiling at the slight pains that action brought. Abdirak was nowhere in sight. The bondage cross had been wiped down, and the tools he'd used on you had been put away.

You idly wondered how many others he had brought this pleasure to. Not out of jealousy, but curiosity. He was so skilled, and you felt honored to have received his attentions. Still, you wanted more. Gods, did you want more. The way he had made you feel, you could become hopelessly infatuated with him. The pain. The gentleness. All of it together.

You stood, the blanket falling with a soft thwump to the floor, and went to the door, opening it to peer into the main room of the small house.

Abdirak had fallen asleep on the couch, his head resting back on an arm of the faded piece of furniture, a book on his chest. It was opened to a particularly gruesome diagram of torture methods. You hesitated, watching the steady rise and fall of his breath. There was a slight frown on his face, and his brow was furrowed. He looked vulnerable, almost sad.

You leaned against the doorframe, lost in thought. How had he come to Loviatar, you wondered? There must have been a great amount of pain and tragedy in his life for him to turn to the Maiden of Pain. Had he been like you, a lost soul who had been taken in by a fellow follower? How many of his scars were from the worship of his Goddess, and how many were from some terrible past?

These thoughts swept through you, stirring a profound sense of tenderness for the sleeping priest. You closed the door carefully behind you, and walked up to the couch on noiseless unshod feet before kneeling beside him.

He shifted slightly, mumbling something in his dreams. A wince passed over his face, pulling his mouth into a quick expression of sorrow and terror. It made him look so much younger, and the soft, sweet feeling in your heart swelled. Tentatively, you reached forward and brushed the lick of white hair back from his brow.

The gentle touch stirred him, and he opened his eyes, blinking slowly. A smile touched his lips as he saw you.

"Dear one." He caught your hand in his, sitting up to look down at you with fondness in his eyes. "How are you feeling?" You smiled from where you knelt, and he squeezed your hand, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your palm.

"I..." You paused. How were you feeling? "I feel better than I have in a very long time. That was... incredible."

A genuine look of happiness lit up Abdirak's face, light dancing in his grey eyes like sunshine on deep water.

"It was my pleasure." A slight innuendo darkened his voice at the word, and a blush crept onto your cheeks. He paused. "If you wish, perhaps I could continue to instruct you in the Maiden's ways." The statement was tentative, as if he wasn't sure how you would respond. After all, you had very recently professed profound alarm at the very idea of Loviatar.

You furrowed your brow, speaking slowly. "I... I think I'd like that. This... isn't what I had imagined. I think I'd like to learn more."

Abdirak smiled again, the sincerity of the expression taking your breath away, and he guided you up beside him onto the couch.

"Not now, of course, you must heal first. Mustn't be greedy, my child." He chided with half a laugh in his voice.

You nodded your assent, and a comfortable silence stretched between you. Abdirak glanced over at you, his eyes raking over your naked form. He seemed to be teetering on some sort of precipice, desire and something else mixing in his gaze. He wanted you, you could tell. But something held him back.

When he made to stand, you caught his arm with a frown.

"Abdirak, I..." You met his eyes, stormy with emotion. "I want to lie with you." The words made you flush, but you continued, stumbling over your profession. "I want to give you pleasure. I want to give.... I want to give everything to you."

A low groan sounded deep inside the man's bare and scarred chest, which rose and fell with a constrained want. Everything in him was tense, his muscles clenching under his skin, a hungry, almost predatory look on his face.

"Dear child, I..." he swallowed thickly before disentangling your hand from his arm. He stood, staring down at you with balled fists. It seemed to be taking everything in him to not lunge at you. To devour you completely.

"You do not know what you ask. There are others. Better men. I will happily show you Loviatar's love, but you... you deserve much better in your bed." His jaw tightened with emotion, and he looked down, refusing to meet your gaze.

"I don't want them." You spoke softly as you stood up, closing the distance between you. His chestpiece pricked at your flesh as you pressed your body against his, stinging and drawing tiny droplets of blood from your breasts. He watched, his entire form shivering with need, as little rivulets of red trickled slowly down your naked flesh. His mouth opened in a silent moan.

"I want you." Your voice dropped to a low murmur as you leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

Another deep sound, primal and hungry, rumbled inside of him. His chest rose and fell with deep, desperate, shaky breaths. The blood on your breasts smeared against his chest as you pressed against him, slick and warm between you.

"Please." You slipped your hand inside his robe to find his cock, hard and throbbing, and began to smear the dripping precum around the head of the pulsating organ.

The priest snapped.

In one moment, his mouth was on your breasts, his hands grabbing under your thighs and pulling you off the floor to hook your feet around his back. His tongue licked eagerly at the bloody streaks on your skin, head bent as he cleaned the wounds with a insane hunger.

"Dear one." He panted, turning to push your back against the wall, grinding himself against you with a ferocious need, voice muffled in the flesh of your breasts. He raised his head to lock eyes with you, his dilated pupils darkening his eyes to a stormy sea-black. A subtle streak of red ran down his lip, but was caught by his questing tongue.

You leaned your head forward in a hungry, violent kiss, teeth knocking, tongues twisting, needful noises from both of you drowned in each other's mouths. It was slick, and hot, and good, and you wrapped yourself more tightly around him, hands grasping at his back, sliding against muscled flesh.

Abdirak broke the kiss to press his forehead against yours, eyes glazed and mouth open in a half-smile of needful lust. His hips were working constantly, thrusting forward to meet you, thin cloth soaking quickly as he rutted himself against your dripping cunt. He pushed you more firmly against the wall, freeing his hands and holding you there with the weight and pressure of his body, sweaty with animal heat. He hastily undid hidden buckles and straps on his waist, shoving the clothing onto the ground as he pressed his face into the crook of your neck, teeth nipping at your flesh.

There was a desperation in his breath, in the little voiced groans as he left bruises on your neck and collarbone, that made you wonder how long it had been. He seemed almost starved, feral for touch and sex and the hot, sweaty passionate grappling of bodies. You did everything you could to sate him, moaning and pressing every part of you to him, your fingernails digging into the skin of his back.

Now naked but for his spiked pauldrons, Abdirak stepped back, cock in hand, staring at you with a crazed intensity. You straightened up as much as you were able, your back to the wall, flushed and breathing like you'd never tasted oxygen before.

"On your knees for me." His voice was ragged and dark, but a trace of tenderness softened the words, as did the gentle hand on your shoulder, guiding you down to kneel before him. You stared up, hands on your thighs, as he gave himself a few slow pumps, closing his eyes and tilting his head upwards in ecstasy. Slick drops of precum slid down his shaft just a few inches from your face, and your mouth watered in response.

Unable to contain yourself, you leaned forward and gave him a slow, wet lick along the bottom of his flushed cock, gathering the sticky fluid into your mouth and ending with an open-mouthed kiss on the head of the quivering organ.

His hips jerked forward, eyes flying open in surprise. A wicked smile played along his face as he looked down at you, your lips in an O as you wriggled your tongue into his dripping slit.

"Greedy girl." He purred, pleased as you began to slowly take him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and flickering your tongue along the underside of his cock. The salty, slightly bitter taste of him spurred you on until you were trying to swallow as much as you could, half-choking but not caring, your hands grasping at his hips as they rocked forward. His fingers found your hair, clutching at your scalp and twining almost lovingly in your locks, pulling you further and further until you couldn't even breathe, and everything was a mess of gagging and saliva and a hard pressure at the back of your throat. You couldn't stop, ignoring your own panic at the lack of oxygen, trying to swallow more and more and more, pre-cum trickling down your throat, a subtle ringing in your ears, you were drunk on his taste, your vision starting to go black as his hips moved more and more violently-

Abdirak forced you back, yanking your hair as you mewled in protest, sticking your tongue out in desperation as he popped out of your mouth. Long strands of saliva and precum connected you and him, and you wriggled in his grasp, eager to resume your feast.

He spoke in short, clipped phrases, as he half-carried, half-dragged you to the couch, picking you up under your arms as if you weighed no more than one of his instruments of pained delight. "I want-" He sat you on the piece of furniture, your hips on the edge, and spread your thighs with hands gripping hard enough to bruise- "-to taste you-" His eyes glinted with ravenous lust as he moved between your legs- "-dear one."

Those last words were spoken a hairsbreadth from your clit, his lips just barely caressing the wet, quivering little nub of flesh. A harsh moan grated your throat, and your hips jerked in his grasp.

His mouth opened and he slid the length of his tongue along your dripping slit, ending with a flickering across that lovely bundle of nerves hat had you squirming against him, desperately trying to move closer to the heat of his breath as a lance of searing pleasure shuddered through you.

"Abdirak!" You moaned his name like a prayer as he fastened his mouth to you and began to work with his lips and tongue as if you were the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. His tongue wormed its way inside you, stroking your sticky, quivering walls with lovely writhing twisting caresses.

His hands rubbed up and down your shaking thighs with a soothing motion as he brought you to the edge and kept you there with slow licks, his eyes narrowing as he looked up at you. You whined in protest, a shivering hot bubble of pleasure threatening to burst under the careful movement of his mouth. "Please!" Your voice was a breathy, trembling, needy thing, and a smirk crinkled at the corner of his eyes at the panting desperation in your tone.

He moved his face so that his tongue and lips were focused solely on your clit, softly kissing and lapping at that little kernel of pleasure that vibrated wetly with the stimulation. You grabbed at his head, hands tangling in his soft white hair and scraping along the shaved stubble with a choked wail of need. Slowly, gently, he slipped two fingers inside you, stroking at your walls with a touch that was melting you. A fire flamed hotter inside of you with every deliberate pump and curl of his fingers as he suckled at your clit with an even pulsing of air and breath.

"Come for me." He murmured, voice soft but still commanding, like velvet wrapped steel. He flexed his digits inside you, pressing right into your g-spot with perfect force. The very tip of his tongue wetly tickled your clit as he gave it a hard, demanding suck, lips sealing around it so that no single nerve escaped the pure bliss he forced upon it.

You obeyed, falling head-first into an orgasm that built with a slow, roaring intensity and swept through you with shuddering, ecstatic force. Your body curved back, hips pressing his mouth flush to you, thighs clamped around his head as a throbbing pleasure seized your cunt and pulsed with glorious release. Again, and again, and again, thick hot waves of sticky pleasure vibrated from your core, Abdirak working you through it even as you soaked his face in your release.

As the last shiver died down, leaving a beautiful tingling resonating in your bones, he rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and staring down at you with something like reverence on his face.

"So very beautiful." He murmured. You made something approaching speech, swallowed, then tried again, your voice trembling like a leaf.

"Come here." With a herculean effort, you managed to move yourself so that you were bent over the couch, feet on the floor and hands on the back of the piece of furniture. You twisted your head around to see the priest hesitating, even though his cock was painfully erect, freely dripping precum, his scrotum high and tight against him, bulging with seed that you knew was aching to be released.

"Are you sure, dear one?" Despite his words, he moved closer behind you, hands settling to grasp your waist. You wondered why he was so reticent. It certainly wasn't from any deficiency on your part, not with the way he'd feasted on you. Not with the way he looked at you.

"Please." You tried to project every ounce of your need that burned inside you. "Abdirak, I want to give you this. I want to have you. I want to be yours."

"My child..." He murmured. "Oh, my dear, beautiful, penitent sinner." His voice sank lower with each word, until, at the last syllable, he nestled the warm head of his rock-hard cock against you, and began to push himself inside.

You tensed, pushing back against him and crying out in ecstasy. Little spasms of pleasure fluttered inside you as he worked himself in, opening your utterly sopping walls and ending with a soft thump nestled against your cervix. Your knees trembled, and he waited a moment for you to adjust before he began to move again.

You were lost the second he moved his hips. The wet, sliding, stretching motion, tearing you apart inside with every thrust, had you gasping, clenching, eyes rolling back into your skull. His hands were painfully tight on your waist now, and you could hear his panting breaths, the wet smack every time he bottomed out.

"Oh fuck!" You moaned, swirling your hips against him. "Fuck, Abdirak!" He didn't reply, but instead began to set a punishing pace, his self-control falling to pieces. He was forcing you further and further into the couch with powerful, bruising strokes that slammed against your g-spot. Low groans emanated from his chest as he chased his own end with an increasing desperation.

His thrusts were so rapid you could barely breathe, the constant sliding, grinding, pounding pleasure on every inch of your walls pulling you forcefully towards another orgasm. Your arms gave out, and your face sank into the cushions, the fabric muffling your desperate, degenerate noises of ecstasy. His hips stuttered, and you clenched as hard as you could, wanting to give him his release, but he stopped short, breathing raggedly.

"Not... without..." He rasped, then moved his hands, sliding them up your body and pulling you up against him, your back flush against his chest. With one of his hands he grasped at a breast, kneading at it with bruising force, fingers pinching your nipple with a pain that had you writhing against him, scoring your back with the jagged wires on his collarbone, biting back cries of the agony and the pleasure of it.

His other hand came down between your legs, slipping in the wet mess to begin stroking at your over-sensitized clit. You choked out a moan as he began to move his cock again, keeping you close against him as he set a desperate pace, matching his hips and hands so that the swirling of his fingers against your aching nub was sending you down a spiral of pleasure. Your walls spasmed around him, your clit shivering sweetly, nipple burning with the squeezing of his fingers. White-hot oblivion flickered just out of reach, beckoning with every savage thrust of his hips into yours.

Abdirak trembled against you, leaning down to bite your shoulder as his hips began to shake, his cock twitching deep inside. The sinking of his teeth into the meat of your muscle undid you, and you came apart with him. To be orgasming on his cock was pure bliss. You could feel the thick, hot ropes of cum splattering inside you, the waves of pleasure that had you screaming and milking every drop from him with a powerful clenching and squeezing ecstasy. Your clit spasmed and shuddered under his fingers, the thick fluid of your own release gushing and coating his hand as he coaxed every little murmur of pleasure from the organ.

Teeth-clenchingly slowly, the delicious throbbing waves of your orgasms swept through you both in concert, until all that was left were spent muscles and limbs wrapped loosely around each other, sweat and semen and release covering the pair of you.

You ended up tangled together on the couch, Abdirak still buried inside of you, the slow softening of his cock permitting a slow sticky flow of your mixed release to slide down your inner thigh. You were curled up, your back against his chest, his arms tightly wrapped around you and his face in your shoulder. A happy glow suffused you, golden and warm.

"Abdirak?" You murmured. He stirred behind you, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your neck in answer.

"Why..." You hesitated. You didn't want to kill the mood, but you had to know. "You made me come so hard. You gave me the best damn orgasms of my life." You took a breath and snuggled back into him, not caring that his chestpiece continued to scratch your back. "But you were so reluctant to let me pleasure you. To take your own release. Why?" There was a long silence where he simply held you, breathing against your neck. You almost thought he'd fallen asleep when he answered, so quiet you had to strain to hear his words, even though they were spoken inches from your ear.

"A story for another time, dear one." He hesitated, pressing another kiss to your shoulder. "Suffice it to say that I have served others, then Loviatar, for so long, that to take anything for myself..." He trailed off, his tone distant, almost sad.

You moved slightly, turning to meet his eyes. He smiled and moved a hand to cup your cheek. "Please, Abdirak." You touched your forehead to his. "Let me be here for you. I... I want to stay." You swallowed. "If you'll have me."

Clear grey eyes widened inches in front of your own in a mix of astonishment and fondness. "Dear one..." An expression passed over his face, something almost like pain. "You would stay for me?"

You smiled and bent forward to kiss him. "Yes. Until whatever end may come."

Then there was only bliss, and later, the slow peaceful dreams that come with sleep in another's arms.

[rinwellisathing]

Paint the Lines, Cut The Flesh: Part 1

The thrilling sequel to You're Awful, I Love You

“His hair it hangs in ringlets

His eyes as black as coals...”

No, not black...emerald. That stuck in Sentry's mind for some reason and whenever Jaina sang her song, his mind snapped back to that thought as though chastising himself for forgetting, as if forgetting that was the worst mistake of his life.

“My happiness attend him,

Where 'ere he may go...

From Rivington to Reithwin, I'll wander weep and moan

All for my jolly sailor until he saileth home...”

Her voice was beautiful, though, even if for some reason, the eye color in the song struck Sentry as so irreconcilably incorrect. He sketched quietly as he sat with his back to the riverside, keeping watch for anyone who might try to peek at his friend while she washed. Maybe, Sentry considered, he had loved a jolly sailor bold and that was the face that stared back at him from the paper. Dark eyes, strong, handsome features, carelessly styled black hair. He certainly looked the part.

“Hmm...Your sketches are so lifelike, Sentry. Perhaps you should sketch Astarion sometime so he can stop pondering that empty mirror of his.” Jaina chuckled gently, resting a hand on Sentry's shoulder. “Anyway, your turn. I'll keep watch for you as well. Your secret is safe with me.” She assured him.

“Thank you...honestly I'm not even sure it's a secret...But just to be safe, I don't want a lot of questions from the others.” Sentry gave a small, weak smile as he stood, leaving his art supplies near Jaina as he shuffled off into the tall grass to undress.

Sentry looked himself over as he stepped into the river. His chest was scarred beneath his pectorals, two well healed surgical scars. Two praying hands bound in red ribbon decorated his left pectoral just above the nipple, he recognized it as the symbol of his patron deity, Ilmater, and assumed it had been tattooed there when he'd taken the oath that had made him a paladin. Across his right bicep, the name 'Ojeda' was tattooed in infernal. Obvious enough, it was his surname, that much he remembered. His belly and waist were criss-crossed with scars from past combat as were his arms and legs, but just between his crotch and his belly button, the tattoo made less sense to him. A black palm print right over his womb. That seemed strange. He remembered vaguely going to brothels and seeing sigils or hearts tattooed there on some of the female employees as something of a gimmick, but first of all, he was a man, and second of all, he had never seen a hand print tattooed there.

If the other tattoos were related to who he was, this one could be too, he only had to find out what it meant. But it felt strange showing such an intimate area of skin even to ask a question like that. He frowned and began to wash his body, the soap he'd bought at the first trader they'd come across smelled comforting, something familiar about vetiver and patchouli, something like home. He breathed it in deeply as he ran it over his skin with a sigh.

---

Far from the small encampment, a celebration was just winding down. Cheers and toasts to Lord Enver Gortash and his glorious Steel Watch rang through the banquet hall and the clamoring of drunken patriars chattering and cavorting could still be heard down the hall as the man of the hour crept away from the party and back to his quarters. He had moved up in the world, into larger, more prominent home...a home he'd hoped to share with his lover and their child, but now, even full of party-goers, was so painfully empty without the only two people he'd wanted there.

Beautiful, broken Sentry. Enver had never imagined he would fall in love or that anyone could truly love him. Sex, romance, it was all a means to an end, manipulation. When he had seen the beautiful Bhaalspawn at that blacksmith shop the first night they met, he had been attracted to Sentry's power, his talent, the scores of cultists he commanded, Enver had wanted that for himself.

But over time, hours spent posing for the portrait that still hung from the wall, stolen kisses in the dark, exploring eachother's bodies in the most forbidden places, he had fallen in love, truly in love. And Sentry, a being made from a god's own flesh, himself a powerful, unholy being, had loved him too. He mattered. He meant something. A creature made to love only slaughter and think only of perfect annhilation, had loved him, had thought of him.

His mind kept returning to the night after they had crowned the elder brain, how Sentry had come to his quarters and slipped into his arms, kissing him so sweetly, promising him everything could be perfect now. He'd believed every word until his hands had traced down Sentry's body only to feel that it was wrong...only to find Orin smirking there in his place.

His stomach knotted with nausea at the memory, he had thrown her off of him immediately and run to look for his lover, but Sentry had been nowhere to be found. Nothing but a sketchbook stained with blood, opened to loose page with a desperate prayer written on it.

After that, he had arranged for Rio to be adopted someplace far away, somewhere she would be safe from Orin...and now, he was alone. He closed the door to his bedroom, slumping down onto the small, lonely bed in the corner as he looked up at the portrait Sentry had painted of him, pulling his coat tighter around him to stave off the growing sense of anxiety, the magic woven into the material forcing it down.

Still, he poured himself a drink, setting it on his bedside table and burying his face in his hands, whispering Sentry's name softly.

---

As Sentry rinsed the soap from his body, he pictured a perfumed bath set into the very floor of a lavish boudoir. Even in the chilly waters of the river, for just a moment he remembered warmth. He remembered the warmth of the water, of the scarred and calloused hands that had run over his body and the soft, hairy chest pressing against his back. For one brief instant, he recalled a kiss.

“-try...”

“Huh?”

“Sentry, I was asking if you're almost done. Everyone's getting ready to turn in and since you always volunteer for first watch, that means you're on deck, sailor.” Jaina informed him.

“Oh...yeah...Sorry, my brain did that thing again, where I think I'm remembering something but it's kinda like a dream...” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly with an apologetic smile as he went to fetch his clothes from the tall grass. “Didn't mean to keep you waiting.”

“You didn't, I probably won't sleep right away anyway, Octavia had some questions about my people for her book. Which, you know, kind of nice considering I'm used to people kind of hating us or ignoring us.” The tiefling shrugged.

“I see. That's fair.” Sentry nodded as he finished dressing. “Hey...uh....on an unrelated note....when we get back to that refugee encampment, would it be weird if I invited someone back to camp?”

“Well, I'm not in charge of the camp, so...it's not really my decision.” Jaina quirked an eyebrow. “Besides, I'm pretty sure you're older than me, so you can bed who you want and I can't stop you...I'm not your mother.”

“Well, it's just...um....you don't seem to like him very much is all...” Sentry replied. “I don't want to make things weird.”

Jaina sighed and gripped her upper arms with a small shudder. “ It can't possibly be as weird as when we found that poor dragonborn throatsinger dead in in our camp. Gods, that was awful...And I don't think it was wolves, a wolf wouldn't leave a sigil...This goblin cult probably found us out here and attacked her as payback for our defense of the grove when we arrived...That poor woman, she had nothing to do with any of this...”

Sentry froze, eyes wide. “Yeah...” He managed, swallowing the lump rising in his throat. “Yeah, you're probably right, those goblins....” He trailed off, looking back towards the camp. He didn't know why he did it, he didn't remember doing it, but he knew it was him, and he had no way of knowing if the rest of his new friends were in danger now as well. He felt his hands start to shake and quickly grabbed onto his tail.

“Are you okay?” Jaina asked, looking from Sentry's tail to his face.

“Oh, yeah...yeah I'm fine.” Sentry nodded. “Don't worry about it! Anyway, we've got goblins to worry about, don't we? A proper infestation if what we've heard is anything to go by.” The paladin picked up his art supplies and headed back to the fireside, the sorcerer following behind with a shrug.

---

The wilds of The Sword Coast were more familiar than The Underdark itself after multiple human lifetimes hunting there...well, at least a couple before being locked up and then having to hunker down with his fellow Bhaalists in Baldur's Gate for a while. But Jackal felt better out here, especially with that ungrateful cubling Ojeda gone. Not that Orin was much better, but at least she'd been willing to send him out beyond the city.

He wore heavy black hunting leathers and a thick cloak with the hood pulled low over his face to hide the decay and the scars from his impromptu resurrection at the hands of those Myrkulites. Gods, he hoped Sentry had gotten it worse for what he'd done to him. Hells, he hoped Minthara's shit leadership back at the goblin camp would get her worse when they returned. But then, that was why he'd even accepted this mission from her to begin with, to strike out and find the artifact. If he found it first, that prissy little wannabe matriarch didn't even need to know. He could pretend to be empty handed and then, when she tried to plead her case, saunter in calmly as you please and present it to Ketheric, positioning himself as the mastermind and her as an incompetent failure.

He grinned to himself at the prospect as he brushed back some thick hedges to peer through, seeing the light of a campfire in the distance. He frowned, eyes narrowing as he stalked closer. No, no way. It couldn't be. Orin said he was dead.

And yet, there he was. Those tall golden horns, the fair, handsome face marked with a burn across it and dark jagged tattoos. That pale silvery hair and the armor of a junior paladin. Sentry Ojeda. But more interesting than that, a true ghost from Jackal's past. His eyes fell on the handsome, pallid features of a younger male elf, a star elf or maybe a moon elf, Jackal didn't care to categories faeries correctly. White hair in intricate curls, but the eyes...they were different. He remembered blue flecked with gold, but now they were red.

Jackal's mind wandered back two hundred years to a courtroom in Baldur's gate. His wrists manacled, his mouth gagged. He stood before a bored looking young elf in fine robes as the guards approached the bench.

“Your honor, this is The Mad Jackal of The Gate. That killer what murdered all those poor girls down in the lower city.” One guard spoke, shoving Jackal forward.

“I might have known he'd be some unwashed brute.” The elf sighed, rolling his eyes. He shuffled some papers in front of him, his expression was one that said he would rather be doing anything else but this and he could hardly bear the tedium of his job. “You've quite a long list of offenses, 'Mad Jackal'. Do you have anything to say in your defense?” He practically yawned.

Jackal had struggled against his bindings and tried to speak through his gag, assuming it would be removed so he could reply. But no effort was made to take it from his mouth. His eyes darted to the crowd in the courtroom, a faceless blur to his panic-maddened eyes. He heard their whispers, felt their eyes burning into his flesh. He may as well have been stripped naked for the shame that came from being seen in broad daylight by so many eyes.

He didn't hear what the common folk said, or maybe they said nothing. Perhaps the magistrate alone would decide his fate. He wasn't sure how these surfacer courts worked. He was confused enough by the simple fact that the magistrate was a man and not some sneering matriarch.

“Well, with a list of offenses this long, I suppose it wouldn't matter anyway, would it?” The elf shook his head. “No, it would just be a waste of everyone's time...And looking at you, worse, smelling you from here, I can't imagine you possibly have the money to pay for bail...” He thought for a moment, one single moment to decide what could have been Jackal's entire future, the rest of his life. “He's clearly mad, wouldn't you agree? Jackal Silk, I sentence you to life in the mad house. Now please, remove him from my courtroom, I can't bear the smell!”

Jackal growled at the memory, bristling at the thought of that sentence, of how long he'd rotted there until the cult had sent Tomi and Gabraela to secure his release.

The man seemed to be speaking intently with Sentry, almost begging him for something. And of course, that idiot with more muscle than brains, seemed to agree, gently placing a hand on the elf's shoulder and saying something to him, the expression on his face told Jackal it was some sort of reassurance. And then he laid down. Of course, the whore WOULD find a way to get fucked out here in the woods.

But the two remained clothed, even as the elf mounted Sentry's hips and gently took his wrists in his hands raising them above his head. He leaned in and...a kiss? No...Sentry's face contorted in pain. A bite. Well, things just got VERY interesting very quickly. It seemed that uppity magistrate had come up in the world, become something useful, something powerful. Perhaps an introduction was in order....

---

“That....um....Th...thank you for that.” Sentry grinned, rubbing at the wound on his neck. “I think I remembered something when you did it...also if I'm honest, it felt quite good.” Of course, Sentry left out that his memory had been on the opposite end of the encounter, his own sharp teeth digging into a neck dotted with a bit of stubble, light brown skin warm beneath his lips as he nipped and bit, drawing blood and lapping it up eagerly, while low masculine moans and hot breath beat against his pointed ear.

“Really? Well, glad we could both help eachother, then.” Astarion smirked, turning to walk away. He paused half way and turned around, giving Sentry a serious look.

“Forgot something?” Sentry asked, slowly sitting up.

“No, it's just...” Astarion's lips twitched as though he were searching for the words to say, or trying to make himself say them. “This is a gift, you know...I won't forget it.”

“Oh...uh....” Sentry watched him walk off, standing taller and more confident now. “Uh...you're welcome then, no problem...come back any time. Ojeda's blood bank is open for business....” He blinked, scratching the back of his neck. “Fuck, that sounded dumb...glad he's probably out of earshot...” The tiefling sighed and, realizing sleep wasn't in the cards anymore, pulled his sketchbook from under his pillow and began to flip through it, that same face staring back at him again and again. Handsome and haunting.

Certainly, the tiefling had to admit Astarion was a good looking man, and that had been a far more erotic experience than he had anticipated when he'd first agreed to let him feed from him, but he couldn't shake the image of the man he kept drawing, the one that haunted his dreams, from his mind. What if this was a lover back home...wherever home was...still waiting for him? But then again, what if he was dead and gone, hoping Sentry would move on and find happiness again. He raised the tip of his tail to his lips and chewed at it anxiously, torn between the two possibilities.

As he sat there wondering, Astarion still off on his hunt, the rest of the camp sleeping, Sentry returned to his drawings, focused intently until he felt a prickling sensation along his back, the feeling of eyes, of being watched. He scrambled to his feet and turned around in a hurry only to see a diminutive figure standing before him.

“Oh! My dear master! So splendid to see you keeping up with your artwork! Although I do note you haven't made any of your special paint even after your latest...ah...materials acquisition. But, you of course intend to retrieve the body and collect the necessary parts for your next macabre masterpiece, yes?” The little man cooed, clapping his hands together eagerly as he looked up at Sentry with what might have been an almost parental sort of fondness.

“Um...not to be rude, but...who exactly are you?” Sentry asked, taking an awkward step back, tail raised warily, eyes darting to his companions, hoping none of them were awake to hear this.

“Why, Sceleritas Fel, of course! Your loyal, ever adoring butler.” The man bowed. “I have searched for you for ages, my putrid prince! It was no easy task, but you cannot imagine how pleased I am to have finally found you.”

“Right...um...I have a butler? So then...I'm a knight, like real nobility then?” Sentry asked, but there was a discomfort to his guess, like a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit.

“Patience, my liege, all will be revealed in due time. In the meanwhile, a fellow of your fine lineage shouldn't walk around dressed like some squire...here, a gift from your father.” Fel reached into a satchel at his side and produced a beautiful red velvet cloak.

“Thanks, but red isn't....” And at this, Sentry noticed the man had disappeared, leaving him holding the cloak. “My...color...Oh well...maybe Astarion will like it.” The paladin shrugged, beginning to carefully fold the cloak so as to avoid wrinkles.

----

The road to the goblin camp was littered with corpses and debris. It reeked of death and decay and a thousand other unpleasant smells, but the party made their way through the ruined village. They split up in their usual fashion, Sentry all but acting as bodyguard for Astarion as the elf made his way through the ruins, looking for anything of value left behind. Meanwhile, Jaina, Wyll, Karlach, and Shadowheart searched for any survivors. The Githyanki siblings brought Gale with them on their errand to clear out and goblin forces occupying the place.

Sentry was the first to be approached. Astarion was unlocking a particularly interesting chest in the basement of an old house, while Sentry kept watch at the door. He didn't see the man enter through it, however, rather seeming to suddenly appear at his side.

“Ah, Mr. Ojeda. We finally meet. I must say, I'm an admirer of your work....” The man smirked. “Shall we discuss things somewhere more comfortable?”

Before Sentry could manage an answer, the man snapped his fingers, their surroundings replaced with a room awash in red and gold, a banquet fit for a king laid out of the table. Sentry's eyes darted from the man to the table, distrust washed over him. He wasn't sure why, but something deep down in his subconscious told him this man was trouble. There was the aura of course, an aura of the hells that his honed paladin senses clocked immediately, but it was more than that.

“It must be so difficult, struggling to remember who you were. On top of everything else going on in that pretty head of yours.” The man began. “I could restore your memory, remove that tadpole, fix it all so easily...” He brushed his fingers under Sentry's chin, tilting the young man's head up towards him.

“So why don't you, then? Get to the point.” Sentry frowned, pulling away roughly. He didn't like the way this man touched him and something in his gut told him to be wary.

“Because, little mouse, you still have hope. You still think you can beat this on your own. So by all means, try. Try by whatever means you like, you always were so very creative, after all...” The man laughed coldly. “But when hope runs out, I'll be there...” A quick flash of red and another snap of the man's fingers and Sentry was back in the basement of the ruined shop, shaking himself off like a dog.

“Found some of that iron Karlach needed...A few trinkets that could be worth something as well.” Astarion was saying as he climbed down from the loft the chest had been perched on. “Are you alright? You look like you were a million miles away.”

“Oh...uh...yeah....Brain fuzzies, you know, those happen to me a lot.” Sentry smiled weakly.

---

“Hope that poor little guy finds his husband or whoever.” Karlach remarked as the group watched the rescued deep gnome hurry away.

“That was impressive, by the way. That voice was like you were a different person when you spoke to those goblins.” Wyll smiled gently at Jaina, who just chuckled a little and shook her head.

“Oh, that's just my teacher voice...Children can be mean, but only because they haven't learned any better, it just takes a stern tone to redirect.” the tiefling explained as she tossed the ropes she'd freed the gnome from to the side. “It kind of becomes second nature, really.”

“That belief in inherent goodness comes so easily to you, Miss Thalassia...” The group looked up as a well dressed figure approached. None of them could exactly discern where he'd come from as he stopped right in front of Jaina. “But for how long?” A snap of his fingers and Jaina was gazing about, bewildered, as her companions disappeared and her surroundings were replaced with a fine banquet hall.

“What is this place?” She asked, her expression slowly moving from confusion to annoyance. “Why did you bring me here?”

“I simply wished to make you an offer, pretty little thing.” The man smirked, and with a snap of his fingers, he transformed from a fairly ordinary human man into a tall, imposing Cambion with deep red skin and impressive wings. “Squirming little parasites may be something your adept at dealing with, after all, but I think the one in your head is a bit beyond your skillset.”

Jaina rolled her eyes, unamused at the jab towards children. “Well, I don't think it's proven to be anything I can't handle just yet. Why would I sell my soul to deal with something a little time and research could fix?”

“So matter of fact, so reasonable. But will you still be when you start to sprout tentacles?” The cambion chuckled coldly.

“I'm a follower of Umberlee, there was always a chance I'd sprout them one day.” The sorcerer replied coolly, folding her arms across her chest. “Now if you're done trying to intimidate me, my friends and I were trying to do some good in the world.”

“Ah, yes, trying to spread a bit of hope. Well, when you find that hope has spread thin, I'll be waiting.” He sneered, snapping his fingers and returning her to Wyll's side.

“Are you alright, soldier?” Karlach approached carefully, eyes moving slowly over Jaina's body as if looking her over for injuries.

“Yes, I'm fine. But we'd best keep our guard up. We've caught the eye of a devil interested in a deal.” The young woman replied, folding her arms across her chest.

---

“You know, my sister always told me Istik were rather 'squishy' but I didn't understand what she meant until we joined with you, Gale Dekarios.” Kroger quirked a brow as he healed yet another deep laceration on Gale's arm.

“Ah, yes, the hurtful old wizard stereotype at play once again.” Gale shook his head with a somewhat sarcastic smile. “Phenomenal power in an all too fragile package, I suppose.”

“Oh, don't worry! Lae'zel can teach you how we condition our bodies back home at our Creche. You'll be hardier in no time!” Octavia beamed, those big, bright blue eyes gazing warmly at Gale.

“Well, I certainly look forward to it, Octavia.” The other wizard nodded, looking into her eyes for just a moment.

“Tchk...” Lae'zel rolled her eyes. “The first suggestion to keep from being slaughtered in combat is to focus on the enemy, not your companions. Focusing on us is Kroger's task as the healer.” She spoke bluntly as she began to check the corpses for any valuable loot.

“Sound advice. But perhaps not the most helpful with an illithid tadpole wriggling in your skull.” An unfamiliar voice sneered.

Octavia looked in the direction of the voice and found herself no longer kneeling beside Gale in the village, but instead in an ornate room. Kroger was there as well and he stood up, brushing himself off.

“Do you mind? I was tending to a patient. This is incredibly unsanitary.” The male Githyanki wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“I will only take a moment of your time, ghustil, I assure you.” The man smirked, snapping his fingers as flames engulfed him, transforming him into towering figure with proud horns and large wings.

“A real cambion! In the flesh!” Octavia gasped, eyes wide with wonder as she fumbled in her pouch for a leatherbound notebook and a quill. “If I may, I have a few questions, sir!” She beamed.

Kroger rolled his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head. “Every second you waste of my time is a second our companion risks infection. Would you spare us the theatrics?”

“Tsk tsk, you have no flare for the dramatic, boy.” The cambion scoffed. He ignored Octavia's eager clamoring. “I would think given how your people will react, you would be far more worried about the illithid tadpoles squirming in your brains than about some long-winded wizard you just met.”

“I am a medic, sir. My oath to heal supercedes my own wellbeing.” Kroger replied coldly, standing his ground, fists clenched at his sides.

“About those questions...Were you born of a mortal mother and an infernal father, or....” Octavia's words went ignored yet again as she prattled.

“Very well, return to your duties then, but I'll be there when your oath feels a bit less dire than the rapidly worsening symptoms of ceremorphosis.” The Cambion snapped his fingers, returning the two Githyanki to the battlefield.

“Tsk'va! He didn't answer a single one of my questions.” Octavia frowned, lowering her head sadly.

Kroger simply scoffed and returned to his work, muttering about possible contamination, how there was absolutely no way such a decadent place was sterile.

---

Jackal had kept pace, following the party throughout the day, hidden in the foliage. Mostly he kept his eyes on Sentry and that vampire, but the pretty little school teacher also caught his attention. She was just the kind of girl he enjoyed killing the most.

He watched their interactions, the way the party divided their tasks and split up, trying to plan his winning scenario. The Sharran with the pretty throat was the one with the artifact he was hunting for, he knew that much. But she was always near the big Tiefling or the armored Githyanki woman, neither of whom Jackal liked his chances against in close combat.

He bit into a freshly picked apple with a satisfying crunch as he considered his options, mulling it over until his sharp ears picked up a sound behind him. He dropped his apple and turned quickly, drawing his bow and notching an arrow in one fluid motion.

“One wrong move, asshole.” He growled, mangled lips curled in a feral snarl.

“Oh perish the thought, my friend. I merely recognized an intelligent man capable of knowing a good bargain when he heard one.” The human smiled, malice dripping behind the expression. But that didn't bother Jackal, he felt power behind this guy as well.

“Alright, fine, What do you want?” He asked, not lowering his bow.

“To make you an offer, of course.” The man spread his arms theatrically. The world around Jackal swirled and reformed into a decadent palace hall, a table laden with all manner of fine food, red velvet carpets over marble floors, walls and furniture inlaid with gold.

“Hmmph. Not quite my scene, bit too hoity toity for my tastes.” The ranger grumbled, but it didn't stop him from nicking a turkey leg from the table and biting messily into it.

“No, of course, you prefer a more rugged setting, I'm sure...But indulge me. I do so hate to be out of my element when making a deal.” The human form faded away revealing a tall Cambion. That was more like it.

“I see...well, I'm all ears.” Jackal grinned. “It's a weakness of mine, see, men in power.”

“I assumed as much.” The Cambion smirked. “And a smart man such as you knows what someone like me can offer. So I'll make this simple: For now, continue the way you are. Follow these would be heroes and report on them, but instead of delivering your reports to the drow woman or to your sister, you'll work in tandem with my employee and report to me. In return, I offer you the power you crave.”

Jackal thought a moment, mulling it over in his mind. “Sounds good to me. I'm through reporting to those two, especially Minthara. Fuck that up tight would be Matriarch.”

“Then it seems we have a deal. Good.” The drow was more foolish than Raphael had thought he'd be, but then again he wasn't his true target, simply a stepping stone on the way to Sentry Ojeda. A convenient tool he could use to achieve his winning scenario. The object he'd coveted for so long in his hands, and revenge on his wayward former ward for daring to steal from him and worse, for taking what was his before he had the chance.

Jackal shook the Cambion's hand, smirking at the look of disgust on the devil's face at touching a hand filthy with grease from the turkey leg, and to the drow's delight, he found that when he returned to the forest, some of the extra food he'd stuffed in his pack remained.

“Eatin' well tonight.” He grinned. “Yessir, no goblin dreck for me this evenin'.” And with that pleasant thought, he returned to his post, watching the party move throughout the village, blissfully unaware of his presence.