A memory of your blood

by TimonTomato

Summary:

The chosen of Bane had found a strong ally in a time-old partnership with the Chosen of Bhaal. It was a promising alliance between two kindred spirits, until the Bhaalspawn vanished.
But what if he was found again, with not a single memory of his past? Wouldn't it be a great opportunity to resume their alliance?
With just the right influence, perhaps their alliance could even soar to new heights...

Notes:

• Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: 血之纪念 by Riesnahe

This story is an alternative to the plot of Baldur's Gate 3. It will contain spoilers, as well as interpretation of the characters and lore.
The Dark Urge in this story is the Default Dark Urge as pictured in the "Blood in Baldur's Gate" mini game.

This story will feature a toxic / unhealthy relationship between two villains, as well as a great deal of violence and potential sexual content.
Read at your own discretion.

Chapter 1

The city was slowly waking up, and workers were making their way to work. For those working the docks, they started hauling boxes at dawn, and only finished at dusk. The thick fog amassed around the harbour on that day was not unusual, but it was especially thick.

No one paid it any mind; but the workers cursed under their breath at they tripped and almost ran into eachother more than once.

One worker got there late. The fog meant that he was able to sneak past and pretend that he had been there on time; no one would be the wiser.

He was used to it, as it wasn't his first time waking up late, hangover from a night of drinking the day before.

Needless to say, he knew the best path to get on site unnoticed. As he dodged the usual boxes of good gathered on the docks, he found himself tripping over something, and falling face first onto the ground.

He groaned in pain and tried to get back to his feet. The ground was wet and slippery, and it took him a few tries before he got to his knees; helping himself with the lump of ... clothes? He had just tripped on. He wiped his moist hands on his clothes, staining them red.

Red? His brain froze. He looked at the stain on his shirt, then at his hands. Red. He looked to the ground next, where the thing he had tripped over was.

At first, he couldn't tell what it was, but he saw the sticky dark liquid that covered the pavement, covering the stones and filling the space between them. Then he saw dark fabric, and-

Entrails.

Everywhere. He let out a shriek and fell backwards, crawling away from what he  recognised as a corpse. He initially thought of an animal. But it was too big. All he saw were entrails, covering the cloth underneath; spread about like they had been pulled out with great enthusiasm.

And then, he saw it.

Pale skin. Eyes poking from under the gore.

"H-HELP!" He shouted. He couldn't move. Those eyes... they looked... afraid.

 

-

 

"The Grey Harbour turns red! Another gruesome death in the lower city!" 

A child waved a newspaper at the crowd of passerby, shouting the headline for all who would listen.

Death wasn't unusual in the city, even more so in the lower city. They rarely made the headlines for that reason. It must have been a particularly gruesome one to have caught the eye of the press.

 

Enver Gortash stopped in his tracks and eyed the boy waving the newspaper. The brat made eye contact and immediately started to shout louder. "Find out everything about the murder in today's edition!  You won't find more detail anywhere else!"

Gortash gestured at one of his guards, who immediately caught his meaning. They approached the child. "How much for the rag?" 

"2 coppers only, just for you!"

The guard rolled their eyes and tossed the coins at the child, snatching the paper from his hands. 

The boy remained unphased, catching the coins with ease. He then turned his attention to other customers, repeating the same words over and over.

 

Gortash signalled to his guards to resume walking. They had somewhere to be, and he abhorred being late.

 

The supplier they were meeting wasn't the punctual sort, unfortunately for him. They waited for the quarter of an hour before he arrived at the basilisk gate with the delivery.

A middle-aged dwarf woman approached them. "You're that Gortash guy? I got a delivery for you. Boss said it was urgent." She looked more than a little annoyed at having been rushed.

"It is indeed. I trust all is in order?" Gortash asked, looking at his cargo in the cart behind her before returning his gaze to the woman.

"Sure is. I got delayed by them fists. They're all uppity because of that corpse they found at the docks." She frowned.

"A corpse at the docks? Might as well call it just another day in Baldur's gate." Gortash said with an amused smile.

"That one was really messed up, I hear. The inside was all outside. The fists said it's some sort of wild beast. But I never saw any wild beasts in the city! Just them rats. Everyone says it's murder."

"So, about my delivery?" Gortash reminded the woman. 

"Oh, right."

All was accounted for, and the transaction went without a hitch. And yet,  the banite couldn't get that murder story out of his mind. He had a nagging feeling, like an opportunity about to present itself. Enver Gortash wasn't one to let an opportunity pass him by.

Once he had some time to himself, he decided to settle down in his office, where he conducted most of his business. The newspaper he had bought earlier that morning was not his usual read, he considered that kind of rag to be nothing more than a useful tool for the ones in control of it. Yet, that day, he found himself intrigued by the main article. Murders in Baldur's gate. Nothing out of the ordinary, but it wasn't the first time in the past month he had heard whispers of gruesome death and disappearances. Something that the article confirmed: Three different murders, all shocking by their brutality, had been committed in the past month alone. Nothing appeared to link them, the methods used varied widely, and the victims were from different walks of life entirely. Their only similarity was the shock it caused throughout the city.

Gortash put down the newspaper on his desk, and considered the situation. Should he trust his gut feeling and expand resources looking into these murders?

 

The next day, Gortash summoned one of his captains. An iron consul by the name of Nyra. She had recently proven her efficiency in dealing with the tasks entrusted to her. It would be a good opportunity to prove her worth, and Gortash knew that it meant she would not dare disappoint.

"You asked to see me, sir?" 

Gortash rose from his seat, placing a hand on the newspaper spread on his desk. The iron consul straightened up.

"I need you to choose people to look into   the recent murders.  You have heard of them, yes?" 

She nodded firmly. "Yes, sir. Last one was at the harbour." She said.

"Excellent. You will select no more than three people to look into it. I leave the details up to you. I want a full report within a ten-day."

The Iron consul's eyes lit up with determination. "Yes, Sir! In the Black Hand's name!" She saluted, and departed. No hesitation, no questions. That one would go far, Gortash thought. Lord Bane liked those who knew their rightful place. His mind did not rest however, and he endeavoured to plan the next steps. Should his intuition prove correct, he couldn't afford to be unprepared. And he never was. Order was key; as much in his office, where stacks of papers and books were carefully sorted according to their relevance,  as inside of his mind. He often thought of his own brain as a powerful machine, capable of bringing order and sense to even the most chaotic situation. Calculations, preparations, everything came to him as naturally as breathing. 

That was why he didn't so much as flinch when ten days later exactly,  his underlings brought him news of another murder. The victim was one of their brothers, and he had to suppress a smile as Nyra explained that she had  used him as bait for the murderer.

 

Just as planned.

 

Together with Nyra and a couple of bodyguards, Gortash headed to the murder scene. It was the first time the murderer chose not to display their work to the public; as the victim was found in his own home, hanging from the ceiling with his guts as a rope around his neck. Gortash frowned slightly as he stepped inside, and the sole of his boot made contact with something squishy. Blood and grim were everywhere, spilling on the ground, as if they had been propelled all the way to the door by some sort of fountain. The fountain being a major humanoid artery, judging by the scene before them. Gortash was no doctor, but his experience was enough to tell him that the victim must have been alive while the killer gutted him. Up to a certain point, at least.

 

"We kept the murder quiet. I hoped to find more clues without any fists or curious civilians interfering with the scene." Nyra said. Gortash nodded approvingly. "You haven't looked around yet?"

"Not yet. I wanted to warn you first."

"Good." Gortash turned to his two bodyguards, who had turned pale. "You two, guard the door. Be sure to make a show of it." The two guards happily obliged and left the room to enjoy some fresh air. 

"I'd like to say he had it coming, flapping his tongue the way he did, but I'm not sure anyone deserves a death like that." Nyra said.

Gortash didn't answer, and merely started looking around. She did the same, and approached the corpse to take a closer look. Gortash paced slowly around the room as he made meticulous mental notes of every document and splatter of blood.

But that wasn't why he was there. He didn't expect to find anything. He wasn't interested in finding anything.

What he was interested in, was showing his face to whoever he knew was watching closely.

That was why, after a few minutes, he let Nyra take care of the body, and left the perimeter with his bodyguards in tow. He had accomplished his goal, and all he had to do was wait. 

 

He spent the day in his office, and proceeded with business as usual. Time passed, until finally the sun had set, and the streets of the Lower City slowly emptied, the loud crowd of the day replaced by the occasional passage of shady characters and drunkards. 

Gortash wasn't the type to leave work early. When he was done with his more official business, he spent it on more personal ones. Namely, schematics for devices he had invented.  He had quite a few innovative ideas concerning traps and weapons, the best of which he kept as personal projects. 

He was deep into his work when he felt a presence behind him. Finally.

He turned to face the intruder.

"Good evening," said a creature Gortash would be hard pressed to call a man. He wore an elegant black and red costume, and am assorted tophat with bones adorning it. He looked positively grotesque, with a nose like a beak and beady red eyes. "I come on behalf of my beloved Master, to extend an invitation."

"I suppose your Master is the one responsible for slaughtering one of my men?"

"A most regretful misunderstanding!" The creature bowed in apology. "My Master only did as he does, slaughtering and murdering the curious. What a surprise to discover he was one of Lord Bane's followers. But fear not, my Master, in all his cleverness, took care of removing any and all signs of his association with the banites. You should be quite safe from prying eyes." 

Gortash smiled. Interesting. "It's appreciated. I would like to hear more about this invitation."

"Wonderful!" The servant clapped his clawed hands in delight. "My master wishes to meet you tomorrow night, as he understands such meetings are delicate; he offers to meet alone, no assassins, no guards." The creature frowned at the notion, clearly saddened by the prospect of having no bloodshed.

"Where?"

"Sharress Caress, outside of the city. If it pleases you, I shall carry the good news to my Master."

Gortash took a moment to consider the matter. Meeting outside the city was certainly a good idea. As for Sharress Caress, with the right amount of coin, he could hide his men among the crowd, and the clients were hardly pressed to eavesdrop. 

"Very well. I accept."

"My Master will be most pleased by these news! Tomorrow, at nightfall. Goodnight!"

And just like that, he disappeared into thin air. 

Gortash returned to his work, feeling quite satisfied by that development. As always, his instincts had not betrayed him. The Bhaalists were back, and Lord Bane willing, they would make fine allies for the things to come.

Sharress' Caress was one of Baldur's gate's most popular den of debauchery. Although it was outside of the city walls, any balduran knew that it was the place to go for entertainment- Or business. Brothels were places where secrets could be kept or sold for the right price. A wonderful source of information, as well as a perfect place for one's words to be drowned out in the music and chatter of the patrons. 

When Gortash stepped in, he was accosted by a well-dressed young woman, who greeted him with a seductive smile. "Welcome to Sharress' caress, where your desires come true. What are you looking for, handsome?"

Gortash smiled back at the woman with all the charm he could muster, even though he wasn't in the mood for such games. 

"I'm afraid I'm here to meet someone tonight. The only thing we'll be partaking of is a drink." 

"Oh, but of course. I'm here should you or your companion change your mind..." She winked and stepped out of the way; just in time to greet another customer. 

Gortash went upstairs and sat down at an empty table. There wasn't much space left, and the clientele was already quite loud. Music and perfumes filled the building, threading the line between refinement and vulgarity, much like the decor. Gortash barely had time to wonder how long he would have to wait before someone approached the table.

"I don't believe this seat is taken." Said a large, white dragonborn. Gortash smiled, and gestured at the seat opposite him. "It's all yours." 

The dragonborn sat down. "I almost waited." Gortash said.

The dragonborn smiled, baring sharp, murderous teeth as he did. His smile did not quite reach his blood-red eyes.

"It would be rude of me, after you've tried so hard to reach me."

The banite raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And I believed I was the one being contacted."

At these words, the dragonborn placed something on the table. He took his time to lift his clawed hand, revealing a bloodstained amulet, on which a black hand had been engraved.

"Your offering was appreciated." He said. Gortash took the amulet and quickly put it away.

" It was quite the gamble, to try and contact you. I'm glad we see eye to eye. My name is Enver Gortash. I have been chosen by my Lord to carry out His will in the city." The mere mention of his Lord made Gortash grin confidently. He knew the power He held, and he had no shame in showing it.

The dragonborn mirrored his confidence as he introduced himself in turn. "I am The Dark Urge. Chosen by my Lord father to resurrect His Temple."

Gortash couldn't hide his surprise upon hearing those words. He had been made to believe that all bhaalspawns were dead. He eyed the dragonborn for a moment as he considered whether he was lying or not, and concluded that he wasn't. It would be far too cocky of any worshiper to lie about such things, and there was something eerie about the man that made Gortash believe him. 

"...A pleasure." Gortash ended up answering. He was curious to know more about the bhaalspawn, but he knew better than to talk about these things in public.

"Likewise." The Dark Urge- As was his name apparently- marked a brief pause before he spoke again. "Now, what is it that you wanted to discuss? Unless it's purely a social call."

They both knew it wasn't. Gortash had the distinct feeling that sitting across him was someone fit to be his match. Someone worthy to be called a Chosen, and not just a mindless murderer roaming free in the streets of Baldur's Gate. Their understanding of the situation was similar, and it made the conversation much simpler, and almost *enjoyable* .

"You are not without knowing that Our Lords have been allies in the past. I wish to rekindle that alliance, if you will." The dragonborn observed him with interest as he spoke. "I'm not here to demand you and your followers to submit, nor am I going to beg for your support. What I want is to create opportunities for both of us, as equals. What do you think?"

The Dark Urge tapped his fingers on the table as he narrowed his eyes to think. "A fair idea. I do not believe my Lord would oppose it. But beyond words, what is it that you propose, *exactly*?"

Gortash smiled, confidently producing a pamphlet, which he placed on the table. 

"Are you familiar with the Hall of Wonders?"

The dragonborn eyed the pamphlet and sneered. "Can't say I'm particularly interested in that sort of... entertainment."

"I have been there recently, and they have gathered quite the collection of artifact on the history of the bhaalspawn crisis."

The Dark Urge frowned at the mention. "What sort of artifacts?"

"Oh, all sorts. Bhaalist robes. Some corpses, daggers, ancient torture racks..." Gortash stopped to look at the bhaalspawn, whose eyes looked like they were burning with cold, murderous rage. 

"I have an idea on how to right this wrong, if you are interested." He said to the seething dragonborn.

"I have ideas too. A lot of ideas." The dragonborn smirked. Then he looked straight at Gortash and declared. "Let's see where this takes us."

Gortash smiled. "Let us see, indeed."

From their first meeting, Gortash had had the impression of meeting an equal for the first time in a long time. A useful ally, and one that Lord Bane expressed approval of. Together, they would be building an empire for their Lords. Conquer, rule, slaughter. All for them. 

Soon, they even had a plan. Everything was going swimmingly. The Chosen of the Dead Three, united at last, more powerful than ever.

 

But of course, it didn't last long. The change in leadership in the Bhaal temple had soured the taste of their project. In any other situation, Gortash could have cared less who led the bhaalist- But Orin was a loose Canon. She was unpredictable, and she didn't share their vision. As for Thorm, the old general was particularly fickle. It was only a matter of time before it all came crashing down.

And Gortash was sure it would have failed, had an opportunity to fix it not presented itself.

It came in the shape of an intercepted message to Ketheric, about a particularly resilient tadpoled individual. Gortash was first intrigued by the prospect of someone who could resist the orders given by the brain. He sent his spies to intercept the transfer of the prisoner to the nautiloid, in order to get them to a  secret location under the shadowcursed lands. The plan was to run more experiments on the reason behind the prisoner's ability to resist psychic orders.

As a man of science himself, Gortash took it upon himself to travel there to meet the prisoner.

He did not like the Shadowlands. A place without any life could have its beauty, but it served no purpose. What use was there to rule over nothing but dirt and shadows? What could such a land bring aside from death? No wealth, no prosperity, no glory. No power. 

 

That, and it was far too dirty for comfort.

Gortash kicked the remnants of a skull out of his way as he made his way underground, somewhere under the tower. With everything going on, Ketheric would certainly not be looking under his nose for one single missing thrall.

There were no doors down there, only a mixture of flesh and chitinous elements that opened on their own as Gortash approached.

Inside, three of his underlings were busying themselves around a table in the center of the room. They turned their attention to their leader as soon as they noticed his presence. "My Lord." The head scientist spoke. She lowered her head in respect, and her colleagues did the same. Their clothes were stained with blood.

Just as Gortash was about to tell them to get back to it, a noise between a growl and a gurgle came from the operating table.

One of the scientists jumped, fear clear on their face. "It's awake again! Quick, put it back to sleep!"

Gortash raised his hand to interrupt them. "Don't. I want to see." They exchanged a worried glance as he approached the table. "Don't get too close. It may be weak, but it can be quite willful at times." Gortash ignored her words and pushed past them to look at their intriguing test subject.

 

Sprawled on the table, covered in his own gore, was a white dragonborn. An incision had seemingly recently been done across his belly, but even as the man struggled to get out of his bonds; pulling on the stitches, he didn't seem in pain. His hands and feet were restrained by iron shackles, and in spite of it, he attempted to escape.

At first; the banite leader couldn't quite see the individual's face.

And then, he approached enough to see. The man tied to the table wasn't in pain. He was angry. Furious. His teeth gnashed and struggled against his restraints with no consideration for his wounds. 

But more importantly- Gortash knew that man.

The former chosen of Bhaal.

 

His red eyes burned with a hatred that no mortal could possess. Even as he was incapable of speech, perhaps even of coherent thoughts and entirely powerless, he fought still. His breathing was laboured as his eyes were fixed on Gortash who approached him.

"How far the mighty have fallen." Gortash said, as he stopped next to the operating table. The dragonborn went still for a moment.  "Is there even any of you left in there?" 

Instead of an answer, the dragonborn abruptly pulled on his restraints, freeing one of his arms. He attempted to grab Gortash, who stepped back with ease and smiled. "He's indeed quite lively." Gortash told the scientist, as they hurried to restrain the dragonborn once more.

Gortash observed them, and he said nothing as he noticed that his former ally had freed his other hand. The scientists were all too busy holding him, and they didn't notice the claws aimed at one of their colleagues' eyes until it was too late.

The claw hit; and dug. "Get it off me!!" The victim yelled, as the claws dug through his flesh; a finger piercing through the eye. Gortash grimaced. He was certainly glad it wasn't him in that poor guy's place. 

 

With his curiosity sated, Gortash stepped in. "Release him." He ordered the dragonborn, who let out an enraged snarl as he fought to resist the command. And-

his arm dropped, releasing his victim from his grasp. 

The scientists quickly put their test subject to sleep, and the two lowest ranking of them left the room to attend to their wounds, leaving Gortash to speak with the doctor. She sighed, wiping her bloody hands on her apron. "As you can see, in spite of the tadpole, this thrall remains able to act on its own. And all it seems to have in mind is violence. We have conducted several examinations of the brain and aside from tremendous brain trauma, there doesn't seem to be anything unusual."

Gortash hummed as he observed The Dark Urge lying unconscious on the table. He was no expert when it came to bhaalspawns and the intricacies of souls, but he guessed it explained much. The violent behaviour may as well be a knee-jerk reaction. An instinct that came over, preceding the conscious mind. In such a case, being mindcontrolled, and thus having one-s consciousness suppressed, could cause that instinct to surface.  Or perhaps, it was a conflict between the soulless nature of the mindflayers, and a being whose very own body was the essence of a God. There were a lot of possibilities. None of which Gortash was willing to share. He wanted to keep The Dark Urge's identity a secret for a while longer. Gortash had plans for him. And he could use a secret weapon in case Orin proved to be too ambitious.

"We will of course continue to research the cause behind this anomaly-" 

"Have him shipped to one of our safehouses in Baldur's gate. Discreetly." Gortash said.

The doctor seemed perplexed by the order. "Baldur's gate?"

"Yes. Do not delay. I have plans for this one."

He expected no argument, and so he left without waiting for her answer.

Gortash ordered The Dark Urge to be brought from the safehouse to the iron throne. It was a safer location, and he knew for certain that no one knew how to get there, including Orin. It was too soon for her to be made aware of The Dark Urge's survival, at that point, it would only cause issues, without solving any. 

The dragonborn was kept in his own cell, almost constantly chained to prevent any escape and subsequent murder spree. He didn't show any sign of improving, beyond his physical condition after his body was allowed to heal. His mind was still enthralled by the brain, and it seemed his divine soul didn't like that one bit.

If Gortash's theory was correct, then interrupting the control of the brain over his parasite could give him back his mind.

A risky task, but Gortash could always bring him back under control if needed. Or kill him. 

He stepped inside the cell, alone, and the dragonborn, who stood chained to the wall, stared at him with his usual murderous glare. He snarled and pulled on his chains. 

"As happy to see me as always, I see." He grinned as the sound of his voice appeared to further agitate the rabid bhaalspawn. "We'll see how you feel after my little trick."

On these words, Gortash raised his fist, and the netherstone embedded in his gauntlet started to glow. "Let's get rid of the interference."

The stone Shone brighter for a second, and The Dark Urge's eyes took a purple hue as the brain executed its orders. The light receded, and darkness returned to the prison cell. The Dark Urge's head hung low. Gortash approached just enough to check if he was still breathing, and concluded he had fallen unconscious. 

The banite left the cell, giving instructions to the wardens. He had to be alerted when the dragonborn would regain consciousness, as he was near certain he would. Whether he would remain rabid or not remained to be seen.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Darkness was the first thing he remembered. The second was blood, and the third was a burning, murderous rage that consumed all.

And finally, a name. The Dark Urge. That was his name, or at least he believed it to be, as he soon realised that everything else was dark. 

 

He opened his eyes and tried to understand where he was, but in the dim blue light of the room, there was nothing. Then he tried to move and realised that he couldn't. His arms and legs were chained. He looked down at his own body and saw that his legs were chained to a wall. He tried to suppress his panic, and focused on how he got there, but surely enough, he couldn't remember. All he could muster was a headache and the vague feeling of a memory, of something hitting him in the head, then nothing.

He groaned and struggled against his bindings, but no matter how much he tried, they didn't move. It didn't help that he felt so weak that he could have fallen back to sleep on the spot. 

But he wouldn't.  He had to get out of there. But how? 

He remembered some magic, but he had a feeling he had forgotten much, and nothing that came to mind could help in his current state. 

Having no idea of where he was or who had imprisoned him, The Dark Urge decided to wait and see. No use spending the very little energy he had on useless shouting or struggling.

 

For what seemed like hours, no one came. The dragonborn thought he heard sound outside, footsteps even. But he wasn't sure. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. All the while, he waited and analysed his situation. He was wounded- that much he knew from the pain he felt all over his chest and the pounding in his head. He could taste blood in his mouth and the sensation felt oddly familiar, almost comforting, like the aftertaste of a good wine.

His mind was suddenly assaulted with flashes of blood running over his body, covering his scales, hot and sweet...

He shook his head. Was that a memory? Or a sick desire?

 

He couldn't ponder it for much longer, as his thoughts were intruded upon by the screeching sound of a metal door opening. The Dark Urge raised his head, and blinked as the light blinded him. A shadow stood in the doorway, and as it advanced and his eyes got used to the light, the dragonborn understood that it was a person standing before him.

A man, wearing a long dark coat. As he came closer, The Dark Urge could see more details.  The light reflecting off gold bracers and ornaments. Raven black hair and an easy smile. As the man stopped right in front of him, The Dark Urge could finally see the expression on the man's face. He was surprised. Pleasantly so. 

"You are awake. How are you feeling?" The man asked. 

"Who are you? What do you want?" 

"Who am I?" He sounded surprised as his brows furrowed. "Do you remember what happened to you?"

Another question. "No. How about *you* tell me how I got here?" The Dark Urge answered.

The man raised an eyebrow. Then he smiled. "Of course. All in due time. I would prefer talking in a more comfortable setting. What do you think?"

The dragonborn pulled on his chains. "Anything would be better than that."

"I wouldn't be so sure. But fair enough. I'll let you down. So long as you don't try anything, of course."

The Dark Urge eyed the man, then the unfamiliar room. He spotted three other armed people nearby. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't run. And at that moment, what he wanted more than freedom were answers.

He nodded, and the guards freed him. Just like that, he was able to get back on his legs and stretch his arms. He had no idea how long he had been there, or how bad his wounds were, but his whole body was in pain. As he stood, his head started to pound, and his legs gave out from under him. The guards caught him in his fall, just barely. He was much taller than all of them. "Try not to overdo it. You've been unconscious for a while." The man said, as he reached out his hand to The Dark Urge.  A hand which the dragonborn ignored as he slowly rose to his feet once more.

"I'm fine." He said, rubbing his head. No one argued, and he was taken outside the room. He was given clothes, and was blindfolded. "The place we are in is rather secretive, you understand." Was the only explanation he got.

 

He was eventually brought to a house, where they removed the blindfold.

The Dark Urge looked around. He was in a dining room. On the large table, servants were placing dishes. 

"I apologise for the rude awakening." Dark Urge didn't answer that. The man didn't seemed bothered by it, and merely gestured to a chair.

"Come. Let us eat. You must be starving." 

The Dark Urge hesitated, but sat down as he saw his host do the same. He looked at the food and his stomach growled. He was starving- but something in his guts churned as he stared at a particularly bloody steak. The man observed him in silence, hands joined over the table. The dragonborn resisted his need to eat, and instead asked, "You still haven't told me who you are and what you want."

"Still no recollection?" He shook his head. "It can't be helped. I am Lord Enver Gortash. And this is my home." He gestured around him. It was a large home, one that couldn't have been easy to obtain. "As for the reason you are here, I can only say as much: You and I were allies. My people found you half dead, with your mind lost to you. So I secured you, and did my best to help. Does that answer your questions?"

"Some. If you are telling the truth." 

Gortash seemed amused. "Still as cautious as before, I see. I cannot blame you."

The Dark Urge eyed him, then the plate before him. He hesitantly took a piece of meat and tasted it. It wasn't bad.

"Good. You should eat. We can talk more once you're properly rested."

The dragonborn didn't need to be told. He felt like he hadn't eaten in forever. And in a way, it was true, as he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten. 

After a good meal, Gortash summoned a servant. It was a young girl; barely an adult judging by her childish features. "Take our guest to his room, and prepare a bath. He will need it."

The servant bowed, and she turned to smile at the Dark Urge, who nearly froze in place. Something about her felt sickening. She was so overwhelmingly sweet and innocent, how could she still be alive? Pictures of the woman, eyes veiled by death and carrions eating her exposed entrails took over his mind unprompted. 

He decided to stop his train of thought for the moment, and followed her to his room. A small, but well furnished guest room. A bed, a bath, a fireplace, tapestries, rugs and curtains. Even a large bed.

If The Dark Urge had ever known such luxury, he had no recollection of it. Truth be told, he felt he didn’t care much for it. What he wanted was answers, and if he didn’t know best, he would have gone to get them out of that Lord Gortash immediately. It felt like he was stalling on purpose, and without knowing more about who he was and the nature of their past association, The Dark Urge couldn’t guess his intent. 

As soon as the servant was out of the room, he took some time to look at his own body in the mirror. It was strange, to look at your own face and to wonder if it had always looked that way. The wounds on his body had been sewn shut and appeared to be healing fast. Some of his scales had been ripped out in places, but he could imagine what he had looked like before. Tall, imposing, handsome, even. At that moment though, he looked as miserable as he felt. The pounding in his head and the strange thoughts wouldn’t stop. Even as he stared at his own reflection, the dried blood on his body brought violent images to his mind. Blood. Rivers of blood and corpses. And himself, standing in the midst of it all. Was that a vision of his past? Or some strange ailment of the mind caused by amnesia?

Whatever the cause, he felt tired enough to lie onto the bed and fall asleep near instantly.

He dreamt of the faces, some he felt he knew, and others he didn’t, all hanging from a tree, and next to it, faceless corpses. Someone was carefully peeling off the faces from these people, still alive and screaming. He looked down at the hand holding the dagger that dug through some poor man’s flesh, and noticed white claws and scales. Out of curiosity, he looked at the reflection in the dagger, and his very own face stared back, grinning from ear to ear.

 

He woke up in a pool of his own sweat. After that, he couldn’t fall back asleep. 

 

A few hours later, Lord Gortash brought along an older half-elf with a pair of binoculars on her nose. She had brought along a bag, which looked quite heavy for her frail frame. 

“Good morning, my friend. I trust you rested well?” The Dark Urge didn’t answer, and remained seated on the bed, eyeing the woman with suspicion. Gortash seemingly caught on, as he looked at her as well, before doing introductions. “This is Doctor Taruna. She is an excellent physician, specialised in afflictions of the mind, such as amnesia.” The doctor bowed her head. “You are in good hands, ser. People do not pay my fees unless they expect the best.” She proudly declared.

The dragonborn was still not sure what to make of Gortash. So far, he seemed friendly, but who knew what his real intentions were? Without knowing who the man was, or his own identity, it was hard to see the whole picture, and what exactly he could gain from that. Either way, perhaps if The Dark Urge could recover his memories, he would be able to understand. Letting that doctor examine him couldn’t do more harm than good. So long as he kept an eye on her. 

He nodded at her, and she approached the bed, placing her bag next to The Dark Urge. She opened it to reveal a mess of tools and what appeared to be magical trinkets. 

Gortash took a seat nearby, observing them with a casual expression. When he noticed the dragonborn’s stare, he raised an eyebrow. “You don’t mind me staying, do you?” As if there was any choice. “Do as you wish.” Was all he answered to the human.

“I will start with a few basic questions. Answer truthfully, or I will know.” The doctor declared, just as she grabbed a white stone with a potent magic aura. He nodded. No use in lying.

“What is your name?”  “The Dark Urge.” The woman seemed perplexed, and checked the stone in her hand, which was glowing with a comforting orange glow. “Uh. What do you know.” She muttered under her breath, before continuing. “Where do you come from?”

“I don’t remember.”  The stone kept the same glow. She asked a couple more standard questions, such as “how old are you” “Do you have any living family” Then she moved on to more general questions, about the world, the gods, that kind of thing. Most of the questions about his own life, he couldn’t answer. Questions about the world were easier, for the most part.

The doctor hummed thoughtfully. “You at least remember some things about the state of the world. It’s encouraging.” She declared.

“Does that mean he could recover his memories?” Gortash asked.

“I don’t know yet. I have to do further examinations. If you’ll allow it?” The question was directed at the Dark Urge, who reluctantly nodded. The doctor approached and placed a hand on his head. She then closed her eyes, and light gathered around her hand as she prodded around. She grimaced as the light receded and she dropped her hand. “That’s not good. Not good at all.” 

Gortash rose from his seat. “What is it?” 

“His brain is… Damaged. Physically. There is a hole in there. On top of the parasite now lodged in it.”

“A Parasite?” The Dark Urge didn’t like the sound of that one bit. He liked even less that his self-proclaimed saviour didn't even look surprised to hear it.

“A harmless parasite. I personally made sure to get rid of it. That was the only way to give you your awareness back.” Gortash immediately added. He didn't even bother to lie. 

“And you forgot to tell me about it, I suppose?” The Dark Urge asked. That whole mess was too much. He already had no idea what was going on, and on top of it, he had to fall in a den of snakes.

Gortash sighed. “You’re right, I should have  told you. But you were already confused because of your amnesia, I simply didn’t want to panic you any further. As I said, that parasite is harmless. Of course, if you wish to leave, you’re welcome to try your luck out  there. I’m not keeping you here.” He opened his arms as he said that, and all of his  body language agreed with his words. But did The Dark Urge really have a choice? Sure, he could leave. But with no memories, belongings or allies, he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere. That was hardly a show of sincerity, more a show of power. “How kind of you.” The dragonborn answered, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Anyway-” The doctor interrupted. “-It’s very likely that most of his memory loss is due to a massive brain injury that should have killed him. It may be possible to recover some memories, but I can’t imagine him making a full recovery.”

“But I can recover at least some of them. How do I do that?” The Dark Urge asked.

“With the right triggers, it’s possible. That’s why I’m here, aren’t I?”

 

Without lingering further, the doctor took out a pendulum out of her bag. Gortash stood there watching her every step instead of going back to sit in his chair. She sat next to The Dark Urge on the bed, raising the pendulum. “I will use hypnosis to make your memories resurface. All you have to do is relax, look at the pendulum and listen to my voice. I need absolute silence for it to work.” She aimed that last sentence at Gortash, who merely crossed his arms, waiting.

Determined to remember something- Anything- The Dark Urge cooperated. He stared at the pendulum as it started swinging, the golden circle catching the light of the sun peering through the window. It was indeed quite mesmerising. The Doctor started to whisper instructions. She told him to relax, and to focus on the first thing he remembered clearly. Of course, it was waking up chained in a dark cell. He remembered that well, as if he was back there. Confused and afraid. In the dark. “Now, go back a second further. What do you see?” She instructed. His mind slowly shifted back into that memory. “It’s dark.” He felt himself mouth the words without any effort. “Go back further. A minute.” 

Still that all encompassing darkness. “Now slowly go backward until you see light in the dark.” 

He did. He searched the darkness, and he saw a speck of light. A memory. “I see something.” The light came rushing to him as his senses were assaulted by a memory so vivid he felt he was there. “What do you see?”  

Red. Red everywhere. The smell of iron and the feeling of something warm and wet on his scales. Dripping. And a feeling of absolute euphoria washing over him, as warm as the liquid on his body. He felt a smile grow on his face. “Blood. So much blood.”

Then he heard breathing. Ragged, pained breathing. A man was looking back at him, his body bloodied, covered in wounds. And yet, he was still breathing. Sure, he would eventually die, but why leave it at that.

One well aimed kick in the thorax did the trick. Soon, the man was choking on his blood, and his breathing stopped. Euphoria filled The Dark Urge’s mind. “Murder.” He whispered reverently.

When the vision ended, he felt disoriented. The abrupt change in surroundings gave him whiplash, and as his senses came back to him, he realised several things. The first being: He was standing. The second, he felt something warm and soft under his bare feet. Fear seized him as he looked down, and he saw his feet lodged in the chest cavity of the Doctor, her eyes wide, and her mouth agape in frozen horror.

He jumped back, dislodging his bloodied leg from the corpse, almost falling over in his hurry.

His heart was beating fast, and what he originally thought to be fear turned into a rush of euphoria. Just like in the vision.

Then he remembered. Gortash. 

He whipped his head around to look at the man, who stood a safe distance away, arms still crossed, observing the scene calmly. “I- I don’t-” The Dark Urge tried to justify himself, but Gortash merely shook his head and approached him, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It seems one’s nature does indeed always come back to the surface.Although I would prefer it in a more controlled fashion.”

“What ?” Was all he managed. He was too confused to think. Too many conflicting emotions and thoughts ran through his head.

“There’s much I can’t tell you, but I think I can tell you as much: You and I, we’re no clerics of Ilmatter.” He said that last part with an amused grin. “Now, let’s get someone to clean that mess, and let’s have a talk, shall we?”

 

Just what kind of allies were they?

 

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

People came by to carry away the woman’s corpse. Some of them wore masks,and all were armed. None of them said a word, and The Dark Urge had the suspicion they were used to seeing dead bodies. They brought fresh water and towels too, and put it down on a table in front of him. The Dark Urge looked at his reflection in the water, and he saw blood splatters on his face. His hands were bloody, his clothes were too. As he stared at his reflection, he wondered who exactly he had been that he would do such things unconsciously. 

Perhaps the worst part was that he didn’t feel any regret. Was he supposed to? All he felt was calm, and the feeling of being fulfilled. 

Gortash, who was standing nearby, pulled up a chair to sit next to the dragonborn. He picked up a towel which he immersed in the water, and twisted it before he started to wipe the blood off The Dark Urge’s hand. “Having regrets?” He asked. “No.” The answer came naturally. There was no need to hide it, clearly, Gortash didn’t care to be in the presence of a killer. He expected it, even. “Good. You shouldn’t. It was a useful death, too. You learned something about yourself.” The Dark Urge stared as the towel turned red, staining Gortash’s hands. The man didn’t seem to care. “I am a killer. That’s why I’m of use to you.”

He dropped the towel in the water once more. The blood rose slowly from the stained cloth like red clouds, slowly staining the clear water, until it in turn became red. “I have plenty of killers at hand. You, my friend, were much more than that- ARE- much more than that, should luck be on my side.”

The dragonborn scoffed, picking up the bloody towel to clean himself off on his own. “You talk a lot, but you say nothing. Who *am* I? Who are you?” Gortash dried his hands on another of the towels, staining it. “I can’t tell you who you were in detail. I’m afraid a lot of the more personal aspects of your life were only yours to know. I can tell you the obvious: You were a killer, yes, and an ally. An Ally I could trust. You can imagine how rare that is.” The Dark Urge kept on cleaning himself. Another towel. The blood never ended. Gortash continued. 

“As for who I am, I introduced myself before, but not in detail. I am Enver Gortash, an arms dealer, politician and the chosen of Bane.” He put a specific emphasis on that last part. The Dark Urge recognised the name. Bane. “God of Tyranny.” He said.

“Among many other things, yes.” There was pride in Gortash’s tone, and his confident smile confirmed it. The Dark Urge felt …Familiar with the name “Bane”. Of course, beyond the general fact of who it was, he couldn’t pinpoint where that feeling came from. Had he been a servant of the god himself? Just as he considered it, something in his soul churned in disgust. The Tyrant could have never claimed him as a servant, he wasn’t worthy.

“As I said, there isn’t much I can tell you that can shed some light on your past. But I do have a proposal.” Gortash said. The Dark Urge stopped what he was doing to listen. “What do you suggest?”  

“A mutually beneficial deal. I can help you find out more about your past, and in exchange, you agree to act as my bodyguard for the time being.” The dragonborn narrowed his eyes. “Bodyguard?” Gortash smiled. “You’re strong, gifted, even. And you look appropriately imposing for the role. It could give you the opportunity to see more of the city. It might jog some memories. What do you think?”

“I have nothing better going on at the moment, you’re in luck.” He answered sarcastically. 

Gortash laughed. “You could also try your luck with the flaming fist. They would hire just about anyone.” 

“I think they wouldn’t be as open regarding my unconscious murderous tendencies. Should they happen again.” He hoped it wouldn’t. As much as he didn’t feel remorse, he still didn’t like not being in control of his own impulses, and if it happened at the wrong moment, it would land him in trouble.

It took a few days for The Dark Urge to recover from his physical wounds, and from the general dehydrated and starved state he had been in. All the while, he was clothed, fed, and attended by a servant. The young lady he had met when he first got there. Her name was Wysper, and she usually didn’t say much. The Dark Urge even wondered if she was mute, and thought about ripping her tongue out just to check, before coming back to his senses. 

During that time, every time he slept, he had nightmares. Death, blood, gore, dealt by his own hand or turned against him- punishing him for not dealing nearly enough death. And when he woke up, his knife hand tingled, like it wanted to act. 

Eventually, he was summoned to keep his word to Gortash, and act as his bodyguard. He was dressed in fancy but practical black and gold robes for the occasion. It showed off enough of his arms to keep people aware that magic wasn’t the only thing he was good at, but brute force too.

Gortash was waiting in what seemed to be an office when The Dark Urge was brought to him. He was busy writing, his quill dancing on parchment with an elegant flair. Once done with his task, the man looked up and smiled. “If it isn’t my bodyguard! The outfit suits you.”

The dragonborn huffed at the compliment. Of course he would say that, he picked the damned thing. In the past few days, the banite had been especially friendly, which set off alarm bells in his brain.

Regardless, he had a duty to do, if only for as long as it would take for him to find any other option. Being able to see people and go outside would certainly help with finding said options.

 

Baldur’s Gate was both familiar and foreign to The Dark Urge. As he accompanied Gortash through the lower city,  he observed the bustling streets and its people. He couldn’t recognise any face, but he could recognise certain traits in them. Who looked naive, who appeared suspicious, the ones of interest, and the simple bystanders. It was like he was walking through a dream, where everything looked strange and twisted, and in spite of it, the mind was still able to see it all for what it was meant to look like.

The buildings gave him much of a similar feeling. Like he had been there before, and he could see himself going inside, but couldn’t recall what he had done there.

One thing he didn’t remember were the large metal constructions that appeared to be standing guard all around the city. They were huge, and everyone gave them a large berth.

He didn’t have a lot of time to investigate on his own, either, but made mental notes of going back to some places should he find an opportunity to.

They made several stops on their way, Gortash talked to a few people- Some artisans, some wealthy looking individuals. They all greeted him with different reactions. Some appeared sincerely pleased, others avoided his gaze entirely, and some glared, fists clenched. The Dark Urge kept an eye on that last category of people.

They got to the harbour, and approached a large warehouse- Which was guarded by a few of these metal automatons that haunted the city. They stepped out of the way the let Gortash in with just a glance, and they stepped inside what appeared to be a factory. The Dark Urge looked around with a furrowed brow. The whole place was crossed by pipes, and steam occasionally came out of them. Gnomes worked on assembling what he recognised to be pieces for the large metal constructs that guarded the very place, while masked guards kept a close eye on them.

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Gortash grinned proudly, gesturing at the place before them. 

It was impressive. The Dark Urge couldn’t remember ever seeing technology similar to that, although whether it was because it was exceptional or he simply couldn’t remember, he couldn’t tell.

One of the masked guards eventually rushed to greet them. It was a half orc man, wearing a mask that hid half of his face. If he looked imposing in size, as soon as he approached Gortash, he appeared to look much smaller. “My Lord! We weren’t expecting you so soon today. Apologies for not preparing a better reception.”

“It’s fine, no need for ceremonies.” Gortash answered sternly.  “Show me your progress.”

“Right away, my Lord. Follow me.”

The half orc led them down some stairs onto the main production floor, where guards had lined up gnomish workers in an orderly line. They all saluted Gortash, although the prisoners did so reluctantly. 

As the half orc- probably the overseer- explained to Gortash how the production was going, The Dark Urge looked around the place. He wasn’t particularly interested in their conversation, and he couldn’t quite follow with all the technical terms they used. Everything was orderly, and it looked even cleaner than a factory should be. No doubt that they had prepared everything for Gortash’s visit. What caught The Dark Urge’s attention were the workers. They all wore some sort of collar, and looked like they didn’t want to be there. It didn’t take a genius to understand that they were probably prisoners. One of them, an older lady, kept looking around nervously. She appeared particularly interested in a spot behind Gortash, somewhere further inside of the factory. The Dark Urge didn’t know if something was wrong, but just to be certain, he left Gortash’s side to check out the premises. Gortash eyed him curiously as he left, and he merely gave him a nod to communicate that he knew what he was doing. 

He first started in the opposite direction to what the gnome woman was bothered by, to make sure that if anyone planned anything, they wouldn’t suspect he was onto it.

He found nothing out of the ordinary there, just metallic parts, tools and boxes. No one lurking in the darkness or behind pipes and boxes. He did cast a little spell to keep an eye on magic sources, just in case something was trapped.

Then, he went in the opposite direction, where the woman still occasionally looked. She just couldn’t help it, even as other prisoners glared at her.

Gortash and the overseer had moved closer to the place of interest as they went on with the visit. The banite leader’s face didn’t betray any concern, he appeared fully focused on what his underling was telling him.

On that side of the factory were a few unknown machines, with levers and buttons everywhere. And a faint magical presence nearby. Illusion magic. The Dark Urge observed the room for any sign of movement, and closed his eyes to focus on sound. Sure enough, as he approached the source of the magic, he heard breathing. It was faint, but the fear made the little mouse breathe harder. 

That made The Urge within stir. It wanted to hunt. To play. He wanted to play, before catching them. So he pretended not to find anything, and turned his back on the source of the breathing. Having spotted them, he could almost distinguish the shape of the Gnome, just by feeling the magic around, and listening to the noise they made. Then he stepped forward a few steps, grabbing his dagger as he stared at the nervous old lady with a smirk. Her eyes widened in fear, and she looked past him as if to warn her companion. Just then, Gortash and the Overseer approached. 

The mouse came out of its hole, rushing mindlessly toward Gortash. The Dark Urge heard the footsteps, turned around and threw his dagger towards the sound with enough force that it lodged itself in the flesh of the invisible person. 

A scream of pain echoed, and all eyes turned towards the sound as The Dark Urge slowly stepped forward to dislodge the dagger from the body of a male gnome, who had become visible again. It had lodged itself in the man’s shoulder, and the gnome cried in pain as the blade was slowly pried from his flesh, purposely angled to graze the bone. He fell to the ground, and the dragonborn placed his feet on his chest to keep him down while he turned to Gortash. “I think I found a mouse.” He told him.

“It seems like it, yes.” Gortash approached them with an amused smile. “Tell me little mouse, what were you doing there?”

The gnome on the ground was bleeding profusely. His breathing was heavy, and he wheezed in pain as he spoke. “Revenge- M-My family-”

“Overseer.” Gortash called.

“Yes My Lord?”

“Execute them all.” 

“Consider it done.”

As he spoke the words, the overseer pulled out a device, which made the prisoner on the ground howl in despair. “P-please-” 

There was no pleading possible with the Overseer, who executed his orders. There was a short burst of energy through the device, and the Overseer put it away.

Gortash knelt near the bleeding gnome and smiled down at him. “Don’t you worry, you’ll be joining them soon, so you can explain what they died for- Nothing.” The gnome was crying, almost choking on both blood and snot from his tears. Gortash rose back to his feet, and nodded at The Dark Urge, who picked up the gnome from the ground with one hand, and slashed open his carotid with the other. Blood poured weakly from the slashed artery, the man had lost too much blood already. But it was enough to splatter in the face of his comrade as The Dark Urge tossed the body at them. His eyes locked with the terrified ones of the dead man’s accomplice, and he considered selling her out, but he decided against it in the last moment. Let her squirm. Her turn would come eventually.

Gortash let out a heavy sigh. “Now that this is done…” He turned to his overseer, seizing him by the throat. “Lord Bane does not tolerate failure.”

There was a cracking noise as the overseer’s windpipe was crushed. Then Gortash let go, and he fell on his knees, struggling to breathe. Another guard came up behind him and cut him down with their sword.

“Clean up this mess, or you’ll be joining him.” A guard barked at the gnomes, who hurried to do as they were told. It seemed she had taken up the overseer’s place almost immediately.

The Dark Urge stared at Gortash all the while, silent as he considered the man anew. If he had thought of him as being too weak to fend for himself before, he sure stood corrected in that moment. 

“Shall we?” Gortash said, gesturing towards the exit. The dragonborn snapped out of his thoughts and nodded, following Gortash outside.

 

“You’re still as sharp as ever. “ Gortash remarked as they stepped outside. The fresh air was welcome, even if the foul smell of the harbour wasn’t the most pleasant to breathe in. 

“So are you.” The man raised an eyebrow. “You sound surprised. What, did you think me incapable of getting my hands dirty?”

“Something like that. You look like you would rather give the dirty work to someone else.”

He laughed. “I do prefer having others do the more tiresome tasks. It’s the advantages of being a leader. But it’s also important to lead by example from time to time. And to bare your teeth, lest they get any funny ideas.”

The Dark Urge stared at him in silence. He didn’t want to voice his approval just yet. His companion didn’t seem to care and just declared. “Let’s go to my office, I have a few letters to write.” The dragonborn nodded, and followed. He almost hoped for an assassin to come crawling out of an alleyway. His knife hand was itching, and his whole body craved blood from earlier’s kill. He had thought that killing would help satisfy the urge, but it seemed to only keep it aflame. 

 

That night, The Dark Urge had yet another dream. One of blood and death, but that time, it was of the day’s kill. He saw the gnome die at his hand, but then he moved on to each and every single one of the prisoners. Then he turned to Gortash, who had himself killed all of his followers, and as their gaze met, he thrust a dagger in The Dark Urge’s brain.

He woke up with a throbbing headache, and a feeling of boiling rage in his chest. He was so restless that he left his room and decided to roam the house.

The house he was confined in was, to his understanding, one of the many safehouses Gortash possessed. High fences surrounded the property, and most of the windows had been barred. The chosen of Bane sometimes worked there, but he certainly didn’t live there. At night, The Dark Urge was alone with a handful of servants.

The servants. His mind turned to the faces of the many innocent souls that kept the house running. And to one young face in particular: Wysper. What a fine dead body she would make. The tragedy of youth coming to an end, promises and loved ones left broken behind.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts before they got the better of him. He didn’t like it- Not killing, that, he enjoyed tremendously. What he didn’t like was feeling like he wasn’t in control of the kills he made. He may have been a killer, but did he have to be an animal with no control over his impulses? The thought displeased him, and yet, these urges called to him so sweetly… No. He would kill, but on his own terms.

That night, he didn’t sleep much.

 

The following days were dreadfully uneventful. Gortash was always on the move, and The Dark Urge followed, regardless of where he went. He felt more comfortable when dealing with shady characters than with Patriars, who barely registered his presence at all, but in all scenarios, he hardly had to kill anyone. Most of the time, intimidation was enough, others, just a couple of hits or a spell was required. But it never went nearly far enough to require a death,  and it was starting to weight on him. Every day, he saw the servants around him, and he wanted to slaughter them all. He wanted to decorate the walls with their innards and bathe in their blood, to chew on their marrow after he'd pulled out their spines. He felt like a starving animal, but food simply wasn’t enough to satisfy his cravings.

That meant he was particularly on edge when Gortash announced they were going to meet some “dangerous” people. For him to label anyone as dangerous, it meant that a fight was bound to break out, and it seemed he expected as much, as he had brought along six banites, all armed to the teeth.

 

The rendez-vous point was in the outer city at night. It wasn’t unusual in itself, but the place was desolate enough that it only emphasised how dangerous the deal was. And yet, Gortash stood there waiting upright, with his hands behind his back like he always did. He commanded respect, that much, The Dark Urge had to recognise.

Twenty or so minutes later than planned, the smell of sulphur suddenly permeated the air around them. The air crackled like electricity coursing through the sky during a thunderstorm, and finally, light. 

Ten devils appeared, they too, were well armed. At their head was a cambion, and behind him, a couple of imps, barbed devils and spiked devils. The Dark Urge felt his whole body tense up, ready to jump into action and kill. But for the moment, he had to wait. 

“Late, as usual.” Gortash remarked. The cambion laughed. “What can I say, the nature of our deal is sensitive… I  had to take some additional precautions.”  He eyed the devils behind him meaningfully.

“Do you have the artefact? Or do you wish to waste both our time with banter?”

The devil frowned at that, and snapped his fingers, making a golden box appear in his hands. “They weren’t lying, some of you mortals are more impatient than Asmodeus himself. Of course I have it…But.”

“But?”

“It occurred to me that I could do even better than our current deal. What use do I have for trinkets when you own Karsus’ crown?”

Gortash smirked at that. “You think I would surrender the crown of Karsus? You’re overreaching, cambion. Even your betters know not to get in the way of the gods.”

There was a twitching in the cambion’s left hand. The dark Urge noticed, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“I think you won’t have any choice in the matter.” The devil turned to his peers. “Kill them all, and get me that stone!”

 

And just like that, chaos unleashed. 

It was different, to be in a full blown fight instead of simply murdering. The sound of metal clashing, of skin tearing, fire and arrows hissing around. And the smell of blood, from allies and foes alike. 

The Dark Urge found fighting as natural as breathing. He had done it before, casting spells that burnt the skin on his enemies’ frame, that froze them in place or devoured them from the inside. The other banites kept the enemies largely off his back, allowing him to cast his spells and devastate the area. He also spotted Gortash in the fight, skillfully alternating between melee and ranged attacks. He moved with ease around the fighters, aiming for weak points while using his followers as protection. Even his fighting skills were closely calculated.

The fight was brutal, and short-lived. The devils had soon done to kill most of the banites, and The Dark Urge and Gortash ended up facing four devils alone- Although already quite beaten. The Cambion was already rejoicing a victory that wasn’t his. “Surrender, mortals. Your lives are forfeit.” 

The Dark Urge’s blood boiled. He felt rage like never before, and a surge of power came to him as he obliterated the remaining devils by striking them down with lightning bolts.

Gortash blinked, surprised, before a grin lit up his face. “That’s what I call a grand finale.'' That said, he approached the cambion’s burnt corpse, and kicked it to reveal the small box it had been holding. The Dark Urge came up behind him, eyeing the box. “What is that even?”

“This,” Gortash started, lifting the box up to the light, revealing infernal writing engraved around it. “This is insurance for later. Have you heard of infernal puzzleboxes?”

The Dark Urge pondered the question. “They hold infernal contracts.” 

“Precisely. And they are quite notoriously difficult to open. But nevermind that. Let’s go back to the city to celebrate. I reckon you’re owed a little something for your success.” Gortash pocketed the box and clapped The Dark Urge on the back amicably. The Dark Urge wanted to frown, but he did feel in a pretty good mood, so he followed wordlessly, curious what reward Gotash could possibly have in mind.

 

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Notes:

A bit short. Once again, murder, gore, more gore

The duo walked through the streets of the city without so much of a flaming fist glancing their way. A lot of them were too busy playing cards or getting drunk on the job to care about anyone covered in blood skulking at night. Most of the passersby in the lower city were too drunk to notice anything, or too wise to ask questions. There, it was better to keep out of other people’s businesses. 

When they got back to the safehouse, Wysper greeted them at the door. The young woman’s sweet smile quickly vanished as all colour drained from her face. “Milord, what happened? Are you wounded?” She rushed to meet them and get a better look. As she approached Gortash, he waved her away. “We’re fine. But do get some water and a change of clothes.” Wysper hesitated, and looked at The Dark Urge as if to confirm they were both indeed fine. He said nothing, so she bowed her head. “Of course, Lord Gortash.” And she left. He stared at her as she left the hall and passed through the double doors leading further into the domain. “A sweet girl, isn’t she? An orphan, of course.” Gortash remarked. Sweet. So sweet . The Urge inside of the dragonborn sickened, and he felt his stomach twist as he remembered how concerned she had been. He shook his head. How naive she was, to be so concerned  for a stranger. 

“Come, let’s get into the parlour. We should celebrate with a drink!” Gortash said, as he strode forward.

The Dark Urge followed. He wouldn’t say no to a drink.

 

The parlour was a beautifully decorated room, decorated in warm tones. Cabinets and bookshelves of mahogany complemented well the tapestries hanging on the walls, depicting varied hellish creatures. Some fought, others celebrated in bacchanals mortals could only dream of. A massive fireplace, adorned with brass was lit up, and chairs had been placed in front of it, perfect for a night of relaxation. 

Gortash fetched glasses from a cabinet, as well as a bottle of amber liquid. “I know you are more of a wine person, but I figured we needed something stronger for tonight.” He grinned as he handed one glass to his companion. “I don’t remember being a wine person.” The Dark Urge flatly remarked as Gortash poured alcohol into his glass. He smiled as he looked up. “Hopefully your palate will have grown more refined from that ordeal. Your taste in alcohol left something to be desired.” 

That actually got a smile out of the dragonborn, who sniffed the liquid inside his glass as Gortash poured himself his drink. “I don’t think my nose is anymore refined.” 

“I assure you, it is an outstanding amnian brandy.” He raised his glass, and The Dark Urge did the same. “To our second first battle side by side. To our victory.” The banite said. “And a literal bloodbath” The Dark Urge added. Their glasses clinked, and they drank. 

The alcohol was strong, but it felt familiar. Drinking with an ignorant victim, celebrating a kill- But it wasn’t The dragonborn’s favourite drink by far. No, it lacked something metallic. Something thick, almost syrupy… Blood, of course. 

“... I think I’m more of a wine person.” he said.

Gortash laughed heartily at the remark. “Some things never change. For the better, and the worst.”

As they drank, a few servants brought water and clothes. They cleaned and stripped the two men of their stained clothes, giving them clean, and comfortable clothing. Gortash wore a much less encumbering outfit, still in black with gold embroideries. He kept his right gauntlet regardless of the outfit, with the purple stone affixed to it shimmering oddly as always. The servant scuttled away with just a glance from their master, although he held one back. Wysper. “Go get the box on my desk, dear.” He said in a sweet voice. The young woman almost tripped over herself rushing out of the room. Gortash smiled, but it wasn’t his usual polite smile, or the smirk he gave almost on a reflex. No, it was a satisfied smile as he looked at The Dark Urge, who furrowed his brow. “You seem in a good mood.” He said.

“Why shouldn’t I be? We prevailed, I got what I wanted. And on top of that, I get an old friend back.” Something about the way he said those words made them sound more than they appeared. 

The servant came back with a long, thin wooden box in her hand, which she held out toward her master. Gortash turned and carefully opened the box, revealing a beautiful ceremonial dagger. The Dark Urge could feel magic coming from the dagger. The banite took it in his hands almost solemnly, and took a few steps towards his partner. “Your reward.” he declared.

From up close, the dagger’s aura felt mesmerising. It was beautifully crafted, the handle look carved in ivory, or from some sort of bone, at least. The blade itself twisted like a snake and depending on the light, it seemed almost red. The Dark Urge hesitantly took the dagger, and as he seized it, he felt magic coursing through him. A bond born of past history. The dagger had once upon a time been attuned to him. “This… Is mine?” He asked without looking up from the strange weapon, observing every familiar angle.

“Quite so. I sent my people to retrieve whatever could be found of your old life. I hoped it would help with your memory.”

Flashes of the past flooded The Dark Urge’s mind. Victims upon victims struck by that blade. Fatal blows, teasing cuts. He couldn’t remember them precisely, but he could feel them.

“I think… It may be working. I’m.. Not sure. It’s mostly just …”

“Death?” Gortash interjected.The dragonborn looked at him with a suspicious look.”It’s an assassin’s weapon, what else did you hope it had been used for?”

The dragonborn shook his head. “Something more useful than just that.” He groaned in frustration. 

“Then I’ll keep looking. You were good at hiding, but I’m good at getting what I want..”

It occurred to The Dark Urge that Gortash had technically fulfilled his part of the bargain by getting that dagger. It was a strange thought to contemplate, as he had fully expected to be exploited with nothing in return. It would have been in his power to do so, after all, as The Dark Urge had nothing else to bargain with than his own self. “You say we were allies. But what kind of alliance did we have?”

“The kind between two like-minded people. Between equals .” Gortash remained purposely vague. But he didn’t appear to be lying. Whatever they had been working on, it had been important.

The dragonborn finished his glass in silence, and looked at the dagger in his hand before he spoke. “I think I’m going to rest. Good night.”

Gortash nodded. “Get some rest, you deserve it, my friend.” 

Friend. He liked to use that word, but did he even know the meaning of it?

The Dark Urge left, clutching the dagger in his hand. The feeling felt so familiar, so reassuring. He felt a tingling at the back of his damaged brain when he held it, like memories lingering under the surface, ready to come up should he do the right thing. He wondered how much more death was lying dormant. How many people could a man kill in barely half a lifetime? Whenever he remembered those bloody memories, he pictured a vast sea of blood, as far as the eye could see. Corpses floated on the surface, and underneath it many more bloated corpses waited. Thousands upon thousands of deaths, but was it the truth? Or was his mind clutching to that image for reassurance that he had been someone, that he had left his mark and would find himself again by following the trail of blood?

That night, he fell asleep with the dagger at his side.  

 

He was woken up by a scream. A woman’s scream. He felt the weight of his dagger in his hand. Soothing, warm. He clutched it as he slowly opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was a familiar face. A young face. Wysper. Colour had drained from her face, but it wasn’t in concern. Blood pooled at the corner of her lips, and her eyes were wide open in silent horror as her scream turned into a gurgle. The Dark Urge’s dominant hand was clutched tight around his dagger, which was dug deep into the young woman’s neck.

Again. It had happened again. He was seized by fear as he realised that he had lost control again. How many times would that happen? He pulled the dagger out and staggered back, letting the servant slump to the ground like a doll. She spasmed, she whimpered as blood poured out of her, staining the carpet of the bedroom. Next to her, on the floor, an upturned bowl and fresh water spilt on the ground. Had she come to check on his wounds? The idiot.

“You should have used  that pretty brain of yours.” He  told her. 

He was back in control. And he only felt contempt for the pitiful nearly-corpse before him. 

It was her fault it had happened again. He shouldn’t have lost control of himself that way. He should have done his kills when he wanted to. He felt more like a beast than a killer, with none of the satisfaction of a kill he could not recall.

As he contemplated the corpse before him, he heard a noise. He turned on his heels, dagger raised in defense, and was faced with none other than Gortash, who stared at him with his arms crossed. “I was wondering when you would act on it.” He said.

“I-” At first, he wasn’t sure what Gortash wanted. Was he there  to confront him? 

“You appear confused. Are you quite alright?” He asked.

The Dark Urge dropped his weapon, breathing heavily. He felt a sharp pain in his head, and clutched his temples, groaning. Gortash rushed at his side, placing a hand on his shoulder and guiding him to sit on the bed. The dragonborn hissed at him as he sat down, pushing him away. He wasn’t some small, fragile thing to be cared for.  “I’m fine. It’s just a cursed headache.”

“Do you remember killing her?” 

The Dark Urge lifted his head to look Gortash in the eye. He was unreadable. He had no way of knowing what he should say. “I don’t.” He finally said. Gortash hummed thoughtfully. “I figured so. You don’t usually look distraught after a kill.”

the dragonborn snorted. “I am not distraught. Just a bit confused.”  “It’s understandable. Although I am curious to know one thing: You were looking at her with that look before. Why didn’t you simply kill her?”  The way he said it, he had been expecting the kill. 

“How well did you know me before?” The Dark Urge said. His companion tilted his head quizzically. “How well? As I’ve told you before; you were always quite secretive. But I believe I had a good grasp of your general character, if that is your question.”

“How did I pick my kills?” The question came out on its own. He didn’t want to ask Gortash about his urges, his impulses to kill, so he had to get his answer another way.

Gortash smirked. “As far as I know? On a whim. If they hadn’t slighted you, and you had no reason to want them gone, you would just pick at random. I noticed during a few of our outings that you would look at some people a certain way, and next thing I learnt, they were found dead. Although, you always were good at avoiding unwanted attention, so I don’t know how random these kills really were.” He placed a hand on the dragonborn’s shoulder. “My friend, you weren’t just any small time killer. You were born to kill. There are some things that are simply in our nature, and going against them instead of embracing them is a fool’s errand. You were great, powerful, and you never once shied away from your gift. This is what made you such a formidable ally.”  He looked in the distance with a smile, as if he was nostalgic of those times. Then he turned to face The Dark Urge once more. “My advice is- embrace your gift. You will only grow stronger for it. Trying to suppress it only causes chaos.” He looked at the fresh corpse at the feet of the bed.

The dragonborn frowned as he pondered that advice. Would it be that easy? To embrace his urges, so that they would not govern him? Did he even want to fight them, to begin with? Truly, if he had listened and killed that girl before, he would have felt oh so satisfied. Going against it only brought confusion and a  bitter taste in his mouth at having forgotten the kill. IT should have been great.

“I don’t know what you have to gain by saying that. But I believe it makes sense.” He declared after some time. Gortash grinned upon hearing the words. “I have everything to gain. But all things in due time.” He got up, and dusted his trousers. “I will let you rest for now. We’ll  get rid of that body first thing tomorrow. Do try to sleep some, and don’t play too much with your food.”

On these words, Lord Enver Gortash departed, leaving The Dark Urge to contemplate his fresh kill. The corpse was still warm, still flexible. Rigor mortis wouldn’t set in before a while, and there was so much one could do with a fresh body. Rip its limb, tear its flesh and chew on the bones. He felt a shiver as he knelt in the blood to pick up his dagger. 

 

He was elbow deep in gore, digging through innards and clawing at flesh when he heard a voice.

“Master? I have found you, at last!”

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

Gortash had people take away the corpse in the morning, he figured The Dark Urge wouldn’t mind it so much, and judging by the state it was found in by Gortash’s people, he even had fun with it. What else to expect from a bhaalspawn?

As the body was carried away, Gortash and The Dark Urge observed. “You slept well, I hope?” he asked the dragonborn. Hopefully, all these mutilations done on the body weren’t the fruit of yet another unconscious deed. It would prove troublesome if these urges got out of control. “Yes, once it was out of my system.” “I wonder about the rationality of being reassured you did this -” he gestured at the corpse being wrapped up tightly in sheets. “-fully out of your own volition.” The dragonborn smiled dangerously. “You wanted a killer: you got yourself one.” He radiated confidence as he said those words, and for a moment, Gortash saw the bhaalspawn he remembered before him: Confident, cold-blooded, utterly ruthless. Amnesia had taken much away from the dragonborn. Having no recollection of who he had been, and of the power within him, he was no more than a lost, rabid puppy looking for direction, for a master to show him the way. And Bane willing, Gortash would be that master.

“Get yourself some rest for today. I will soon entrust you with  something rather important, so I need my very own killer to be in top shape.” He smiled as The Dark Urge looked almost disappointed. “Don’t sulk- Use the opportunity to look around the city. Oh and, should you kill somebody, be a dear and don’t drag the corpse home, hm?”

The dragonborn chuckled. “I’ll be sure to leave a loving note with your name on it.” and with that said, he left the room, without so much as a glance to the corpse on the ground. It seemed he had grown to trust Gortash somewhat. Good. 

With The Dark Urge out and about, Gortash decided to leave as well. He had some work to attend to, and if all went well, a rather disagreeable visit too.

 

Gortash’s work consisted in writing letters to important collaborators, giving orders to his underlings, supervising essential transactions and last but not least, attending to social events. As such, he had met a great deal of people, wealthy, poor, unnerving sweet talkers and insufferable pricks all alike. And yet, he always kept a neutral face and a polite smile as he made notes of everything and everyone. Weaknesses, strength, use of the individual. It came as naturally as breathing. Sometimes though, some of the people he had to meet with had absolutely no redeeming quality, and were simply a hindrance. Collaborating was impossible, and so all he thought of was : How do I kill them?

He spotted Orin the moment she stepped in, shapeshifted into The Dark Urge. He had expected her, too. He glanced at her with disinterest and returned to reading his reports. "Good morning, Orin."

"You're no fun." She pouted. It was fun to hear that petulant tone with the dragonborn's voice.

"Let me guess. You're here about The Dark Urge." 

Orin grinned, returning to her usual appearance. Her blond braid moved with each step as she approached Gortash.

The banite put down the letter he had been reading and smiled at her casually as she sat on the edge of his desk.

"You're playing a dangerous game, little tyrant. I love playing. I love winning even more. And you know what the price is? Your and my kin's corpses hanging from hooks in my bedchamber."

She pulled out her dagger and aimed it at Gortash's face. He eyed the red blade but didn't falter. He knew Orin couldn't harm him.

"Your sibling, dear Orin, cannot remember a single thing from his past life. He's hardly a threat. But he is a useful tool."  He looked from the dagger to Orin, who glared. "It isn't *your* toy to play with. It is mine."

He smirked at the remark. "Yours? Then why did you discard him? I found the poor soul out of his mind near moonrise. Such a waste of a good weapon.”

She frowned in disgust. “Dead. I dug, dug into his brain, made the juices flow out and spill. I killed him.Put the worm in to dig in too. He shouldn’t be thinking. ” She waved her dagger in front of her ally, re-enacting the scene with well practised stabbing motions.

Interesting. So it truly was Orin who had put the tadpole inside of her former leader’s skull.  “I am truly sorry if my actions got into the way of your plans. Truly, I had no way to know this was your doing.” A bold lie, which the chosen of Bhaal didn'tfail to notice. Gortash smiled even as her dead-white eyes spelled murder. “But, I do have a way to make it up to you. If your goal was to make him into a mindless thrall in the army of the absolute- It is accomplished. I fully intend on using your brother’s skills to my own ends.” The shapeshifter eyed him suspiciously, for a moment, she appeared to be thinking before a smile crept on her face. “Father’s favourite little boy, turned into the Tyrant’s little doggie. I like it.” She cackled. 

“So, do we consider ourselves even?” He asked, rising from his chair, eyeing Orin’s dagger meaningfully. She smiled and put her weapon away. “For now, little tyrant, I will watch your puppet show, then when I get bored, I’ll cut the strings.” She flashed a last, dangerous smirk, pointing her dagger at Gortash’s neck a last time, before she disappeared.

He sighed heavily, shoulders sagging. That damned creature was half insane. The Dark Urge needed to get stronger soon and get rid of her before she sent their whole plan tumbling down. They had worked so hard for it, and it was almost coming towards its grand finale. They could not afford any mishap.

The Dark Urge walked the streets of Baldur’s Gate with the same ease as someone who had lived there all of his life. He had learnt much recently from accompanying Gortash, and he occasionally remembered a few useful details- shortcuts, back alleys, places where he was pretty sure he could dump a body without anyone noticing. Sometimes, as he walked, he would feel a headache coming on as vision of blood flashed before his eyes. He couldn’t tell if his condition gave him those headaches at random, or if it  was triggered by anything specific around him. A smell, a place, a sound- Anything could be triggering his memory. But all of them were so similar that he wondered if it was even worth trying to remember, if all there was to recall was blood. 

According to the butler Sceleritas, it was likely the case.

He hadn’t told Gortash about the creature in a tophat that had visited him the previous night. His butler, Sceleritas. It was a grotesque being, short, with beady blood red eye and sharp claws and teeth. Every word he uttered were words of reverence, and yet The Dark Urge had no recollection of him or of the reason why he deserved a butler in the first place.

Of course the damned thing wouldn’t tell him about his past. “Our betters do not allow it.” IT felt that every time The Dark Urge got new information about his old life, it only brought more questions than answers.

The only useful thing that had come out of that visit was a gift- A rather useful cape to get away with murder.

 

The dragonborn walked aimlessly through the streets, he had no real purpose for doing it, but he couldn’t help but feel that he was hunting. His eyes kept checking around him, examining passersby and shopkeepers, looking for threats, but also for prey. He only noticed it when someone caught his eye, and his right hand twitched. It was a half elf with short black hair and a freckled face, who was playing the lute for a handful of onlookers. Some asked for a specific tune, others clapped. He smiled as he played, but the tension around his shoulders betrayed his uneasiness. 

The Dark Urge approached to listen. His imposing size immediately caught the attention of the onlookers, and of the musician himself. He looked concerned for a moment, but The Dark Urge gave him a smile and a coin, and the half elf resumed playing heartily. 

He loved musicians. He loved it even more when they sung for him, as he squeezed the life out of them-

“Isn’t it Gortash’s guard dog?”

His thoughts were interrupted by voices behind him. The Dark Urge frowned and turned to look at the interlopers. The two men were rather large, one was a half orc, the other a human. They had scars on their faces and bodies, and smelled of alcohol and dirt. 

“That’s him alright.” The man said with a grin.

“Where’s your master? We have a few words for him!”

He eyed the men with disgust. First, they interrupted him in his contemplation, and for no good reason on top of it? His jaw tensed. He wanted to use his icy breath on them, teach them a lesson. But he had to stay civilised in the presence of witnesses.

“He’s not here, evidently.” He answered.

The two brutes approached. They may have looked imposing to your average human, but The Dark Urge was taller than both of them and was unimpressed. The crowd around them quickly stepped back as they saw the tension escalate. They fully expected a fight to break out. Who could blame them? In the lower city, fights tended to break out fairly often. It wasn’t The Dark Urge’s intent to fight these men. It was a waste of his time, and an unnecessary risk. 

“You’re a funny one, aren’t you?” The half orc took hold of his large battle axe, which he had been carrying on his back. The human didn’t move yet, but his weapon arm tensed, ready to brandish the sabre at his waist. 

“Just tell us where your boss is. We’ll deal with him ourselves.” The human said.

The Dark Urge smirked. Did these two think Gortash only had one bodyguard? Or were they  just that desperate to meet with him? “It must be important if you’re so desperate to rush to your death.”

“You bet it’s damn important! Because of that dickhead, me and my men lost one of our biggest deals! Do you know how much money we fucking lost because of that twat?” The half orc was fuming, veins buldged in his neck and forehead, it clearly took all he had not to swing his weapon.

The Dark Urge had no idea what deal they were talking about. Gortash had a finger in every pie from the look of it, and there was no way for someone on the outside to guess with such a vague description. But those men didn’t look awfully relevant either, so how big of a deal could it be? Either way, the dragonborn couldn’t care less. His role was to keep people away from Gortash, and all he had to do was ignore these men. “It sounds like a you problem. You should go look for a new deal instead of going after Gortash. Or up your offer. Either way, it’s not my business. Leave before things get ugly.” 

“You fucking-” The half orc swung his axe at The Dark Urge, who smiled, and in split second it took to react, sent the men flying with a wave of thunder. They both landed on the ground further away, scattering the crowd and gathering some curious onlookers from a safe distance away. The fools charged again, that time, the human took his weapon out as well and charged. He managed to land a hit on The Dark Urge’s arm, splitting his scales enough to cause bleeding. The dragonborn looked at the blood pouring from the fresh wound and staining his pristine white scales which he had struggled to clean from his victim’s blood in the morning. He snarled, furious, and opened his maw to let his  dragon breath freeze the two men in place. The half orc tried to charge again, but he fell to the ground, breathing heavily as he struggled to get back to his feet. The human had lost none of his determination. He persisted on trying to attack even as his skin had turned blue, and he struggled to move his sword arm. A simple hit on his hand caused him to release his hold on his weapon, which clattered to the ground. The human attempted to punch The Dark Urge, who stopped his hand, holding it by the wrist. “Are you going to leave?” He asked again.

The human tried to hit him with his other fist. This one, the dragonborn caught between his teeth. The man’s eyes widened in fear as he bit down on the frozen hand, hard. Hard enough to feel blood gushing and bones crack. He cried out in pain and tried to free himself.

The Dark Urge released him, and the human fell to the ground. “You’re insane!!” He shouted, holding the bloody mess that once was his hand. 

“Leave.” He repeated. That time, the two men got up and left without arguing further. He smirked and licked the blood from his muzzle. 

Sadly, when he looked for the half-elf musician, he was nowhere to be seen. He had probably run off during the fight. What a waste. Perhaps he should keep those two in mind for later…

 

The Dark Urge came back to his temporary home as night was falling. When he stepped into the parlour, he hadn’t expected Gortash to be there, reading a book by the fire. He stopped in the doorway a moment to observe as the man calmly turned the pages one by one, his face bathed in a warm orange light which cast dark shadows over his eyes. In that light, his arms, covered in those golden gauntlets he never took off, appeared to be on fire.  There was something quite eerie about the scene. Had the Dark Urge not known the banite was human, he would have assumed he was some sort of devil.

He finally crossed the threshold, which caused Gortash to look up from his book. He smiled, as he always did when he laid eyes on the dragonborn. “Back from your walk? I hope you didn’t get in too much trouble.” The Dark Urge shrugged. “Just the right amount of trouble.” Gortash chuckled as he put down his book and got up. “I expected as much. But the fact that I heard nothing from the fist tells me you know how to stay out of the trouble you get in. Which is a skill I’m in dire need of at the moment.” He walked up to the dragonborn, and produced a letter from his coat. The Dark Urge eyed it a moment before taking it. It was a report on the development of operations in the city. Apparently, Gortash was trying to obtain support from the Patriars, and the report was a list of all the names of those who weren’t favourable to Gortash’s cause. 

“I’ve not yet explained to you the depth of what we are doing, as you were adjusting to… well, everything. But I feel I need to give you an explanation. Our goal is to take control of all the major nerves of the city. Politicians, merchants, criminal networks, armed forces- They control the city, and if we control them, we control Baldur’s Gate.”

“And if you can’t control them, you need them gone.” The Dark Urge concluded. Gortash smiled. “Precisely. What use is a tool that cannot perform its function? Better to destroy and replace it, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Hard not to. I suppose I should be glad you still find use for me.”

The chosen of Bane seemed almost pained by that remark. “We are both tools for our betters to use. Should either of us fail, the punishment will not come from a mortal hand. But if it worries you- I have never considered you mine to use and dispose of. ”

The Dark Urge tried to detect any hint of a lie on Gortash’s face, in his posture. But his breathing was calm, his eyes looked focused and sincere, and if he wasn’t smiling to underline the gravity of his words, he didn’t appear to be hiding anything. And yet, the Butler Sceleritas had issued a warning the previous night. A warning which made The Dark Urge doubt his role in Gortash’s perfect plan.

“The Tyrant will try to undermine you. Prevent you from recovering what you have lost. He would make you an obedient dog, kept on a leash. But My Lord’s talent should not be anyone to control! No! You should kill for yourself, and yourself alone!”

 

“Who do you need me to kill, exactly?” The dragonborn eventually asked. Gortash’s easy smile came back, and he tapped the letter with his clawed gauntlet. “Everyone on that list must die. Consider this a test of your skills. Of course, when you succeed, I will have something for you, as per our deal.”

“When I succeed, I want more than vague answers.” The Dark Urge said. Gortash grinned. “You will get much more than that, my friend, trust me.”

Trust me. Easier said than done. The Dark Urge folded the letter and nodded. “Consider it done.”

 

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

Notes:

Trigger warnings for several murders of vulnerable individuals

The list given by Gortash had five names on it. Among them, Patriars of course, but not only. The first name on the list was the name of a Patriar’s son. According to the information gathered by the banites, he was barely an adult, and the perfect heir. A well-behaved and intelligent young man with a face that wasn’t too harsh on the eyes. He was, for sure, a promising fellow. Or he would have been, had his parents not been keen on openly criticising Gortash, undermining his efforts to sway the Patriars of the city.

The Dark Urge observed from afar as he saw the Patriar and their son having tea in a park in the Upper City with other wealthy individuals. The Patriar was quite old to have such a young son, and to be so bold in their opinions in public.

“Gortash this, Gortash that. Do you have no other names on your tongue than this fraud?” They sounded exasperated as the others debated whether or not Gortash’s recent rise to the title of Lord and on the council was good or bad news. “Remember that Vanthampur snake? All of these upstarts are the same. They only think about their own skin. True Patriars live for the city. They do not.”

That declaration sparked a very agitated debate. It lasted a few minutes, until the Patriar’s son intervened to calm his parent, who was getting a bit too carried away. “We should go home, I think you have an appointment with the doctor.” He said. The Patriar, still quite agitated, tried to argue. “The doctor can wait. I am not on my deathbed.” 

The young man lowered his voice. The Dark Urge read on his lips the words “Please, someone could be listening.” The Patriar waved their hand. “Fine.”

The two of them saluted everyone and went on their way. The Dark Urge slipped into the shadows to follow them. 

He knew where they lived, of course. But his goal was all other: He wanted the young man to feel watched. He wanted him to notice a strange Elf following them through the streets- courtesy of a disguise spell. A prey would never turn their back on the hunter, but they would turn it on the entire world.

The young man glanced behind him occasionally as they walked to their estate. When they arrived, he ordered a servant to lock the gate. It would, of course, not help them. 

The Dark Urge hid away and dispelled the illusion. All he had to do was wait until The Watch turned up. And they did- The Young man had sent for them, and the fools immediately set to look for a suspicious looking elf. They even stopped to ask him about it, and The Dark Urge was more than happy to send them in the opposite direction, following them to make sure they would be unable to report. Then,  he made his way to the gate, where a few of the Watch’s guards waited.

“Halt, citizen. What is your business?”

The dragonborn put on his most convincing panicked voice. “I saw a few Watchmen on the ground over there! I think someone killed them!”  He pointed at a street where he had made sure to leave a few watchmen corpses behind. The Watchmen exchanged a panicked look, and rushed towards that direction. They were not used to dealing with real crime. All they ever managed was petty theft and the occasional robbery. Whenever anything serious happened, watchmen were likely to lose their cool and end up acting before thinking. They left the gate unguarded, and with a simple spell, it opened wide to let the dragonborn in. From then on, it was smooth sailing. He convinced a servant that he had information regarding some elf who intended on hurting the masters of the house, and in a moment’s notice, he found himself alone in a room with the Patriar’s son. Of course he hadn’t wanted to warn his sickly parent, out of fear that the stress would be too much for them. 

“You know who is after my parent’s life?” The young man asked. He was so sincere, so eager, full of youthful naivety. 

“I know, yes. It seems they have made a powerful enemy.” The young man frowned. “It’s Gortash, isn’t it? I told them-” His next words were interrupted by a dagger right through the throat, cutting through the vocal cords, so he wouldn’t scream. “-To not wag their tongue? A shame they didn’t listen. But don’t worry, if the grief doesn’t kill them, they might just learn something from this.”

The young man’s eyes widened and teared up before he went limp. The Dark Urge removed his dagger, letting the blood pool out of the body on its own. The magic in his cape activated, allowing him to leave the premises undetected.

One down, four to go. 

 

The next name on the list was known to spend his time gambling in the Blushing Mermaid. It wasn’t the usual haunt of the Patriars in the city, but gambling wasn’t seen with a good eye among the wealthy. They liked to pretend that they were above such base entertainment, while enjoying drinking, gambling and even prostitution in the lower and outer city. 

That kill was easy. A drop of poison in a glass as he passed by. Then another later in the evening. The Patriar started wincing about half an hour after the first drop of poison, holding his head as a headache set in. His blood pressure started to drop considerably after the second. Headaches, vertigo, heavy breathing. He stopped drinking, and got up, wobbling on his legs. His bodyguards immediately rushed to his side and helped him up. It was easy to hand a glass of “water” to a stressed waiter, who rushed to give it to the sickly man.

After the last drop, his heart eventually failed, causing what appeared to be a natural death from a heart attack. And none would be the wiser of what had truly transpired. 

 

It took a couple of days to take care of the first targets, days during which The Dark Urge didn’t go back to Gortash’s safe house- his “home” he supposed. He didn’t miss it exactly, but his focus on the task at hand was such that when he got back, he realised how empty it was without Gortash around. Just servants, who were irrelevant in his eyes. They could give him nothing of interest, only Gortash had something he wanted. And he had to admit, conversations with him were always… stimulating. But the Chosen of Bane surely had other things to do than linger around all day waiting for news, so it was to be expected that he wouldn’t be there when The Dark Urge got back. 

After a good night of sleep, he was ready to tackle the third name on the list. That one, he got with a classic drowning, pushing her into the Chiontar river at night while she was drunk. A terrible accident, for sure. The next was a bit more tricky, as they never went anywhere without many guards. Alas for them all, the surprise collapse of a statue couldn’t be stopped with weapons.

Finally, The Dark Urge got to the last name. The child of a Patriar, yet again. An easy target, too, he told himself, as he kept an eye on the child running in the park near his nanny. He couldn’t be older than eight. It was early afternoon, and there already was quite a crowd in the streets of the upper city. The park was quieter, but not exactly the best place to commit a murder. Or at least, not on the main path. The first thing to  do, was get rid of the nanny. 

She was surprisingly easily distracted. He paid a beggar to go bother her while he approached the child, who looked up at him in awe. “Woah mister, you’re so tall!!” The child exclaimed. The Dark Urge smiled at him. “Do you want to know my secret?” The child nodded. “Magic. Do you want to see?” There was a bit of hesitation before the child nodded again. “Come with me.” He told the boy, who was smart enough to at least hesitate. “I have to stay with my nan. She doesn’t like it when I run off… She can be real scary!” 

“What can she say when you come back twice as tall as her?” 

It was enough of an argument for the child to follow. The Dark Urge brought him to a small shed, used to store tools by the groundskeeper. Children’s throats weren’t as resilient as adults’. All he had to do was lift the child by the throat and squeeze to hear bones crack. The airway collapsed, and he may even have broken a vertebrae. He tossed the child aside like a doll, and left. Killing a child in broad daylight- He wondered if he had done it before? Surely he must have, as the satisfaction from that kill gave him a high he hadn’t felt in a while. He felt even more elated as he passed by the panicked nanny and greeted her politely. All the other park goers cared very little for their surroundings, and The Dark Urge was tempted to follow the nanny to witness her reaction. Maybe kill her too, afterward. He had to resist it, as taking such a risk could get him noticed. There was only so much one could do in broad daylight without a witness at least spotting you. 

He reluctantly left, crossing off the last name on his list. 

All that was left to do was get his reward. He considered simply waiting for Gortash to come to him, but another idea crossed his mind. Maybe he should show his so-called ally that he was not at his disposal, and go find him instead. It wouldn’t be that hard to track the one and only Lord Enver Gortash.

 

It took him about an hour to find out where Gortash was. He had a meeting at Wyrmrock’s fortress with the council of the city in the afternoon. The Dark Urge had no interest in causing trouble for him by intruding on the meeting, so he merely waited for it to be over. By the time he got to the fortress, it was already getting quite late.

Be it luck or something else, he didn’t have to wait long for Gortash to come down the stairs to the main hall. He was accompanied by a woman in armour, and appeared to be in a rather animated discussion. “There is just no time to wait for news from Ravengard. You know it as well as I do. The Absolute threat in the city grows by the minute.”

“You could send your steel watchers-”

“My steelwatch isn’t ready. How many do you think I can make with my limited resources? This-”  His eyes fell on the dragonborn at last, and he was surprised for a fraction of a second, before he recovered, smiling. “Ah, but you’ll forgive me admiral, I believe I have other pressing business to attend to.” 

“Lord Gortash-” She tried in vain to get his attention, but Gortash merely waved his hand in dismissal as he walked off, coming up to greet The Dark Urge. He clapped him on the shoulder and gently urged him forward. He truly didn’t want to continue his discussion with that woman.

“You’re  a lifesaver. I couldn’t have taken any more of that incessant whining about Ravengard.” He said, keeping his voice low as they  headed out  of the fortress towards the lower city. The Dark Urge smiled, amused as he briefly glanced at the annoyed woman behind them. “She does seem to like you.” Gortash chuckled. “A bit too much, I’d say. They all do, they would love to get their hands on my Steelwatch. But they’ll have to make me a worthwhile offer first.” 

“Why, are they trying to appeal to the goodness of your heart?” The idea seemed ridiculous. In the relatively short time The Dark Urge had spent around Gortash, he couldn’t imagine anyone truly thinking there was any kindness left to spare in Enver Gortash’s heart, if he ever had any to begin with.

“Oh yes. ‘It would  be a great service to the city’, ‘we would be so thankful’. Soon, they’ll be begging to name me their ruler, but for the moment, I have to endure that nonsense.” He rolled his eyes and sighed before he regained his usual detached composure. “But I don’t suppose you’re here to hear me complain about politics. What news do you bring?” 

“Good news.” He handed Gortash the list of names, with each name crossed out. Or rather, blackened by blood. He kept forgetting to bring a quill and ink with him on his murder spree.

Gortash glanced at the paper with a smile, and handed it back. “As expected. You probably didn’t even break a sweat.” The dragonborn  grinned. He hadn’t. “It was entertaining.” 

“I’m glad to see you haven’t changed on that point either. I was afraid you would be a bit rusty. I’m glad to see I was wrong.” The Dark Urge hummed. He had to admit that as much as he had felt rusty with his magic at first, murder felt oddly natural to him. “I don’t think I can forget that more than I can forget how to walk.” His companion nodded gravely. “Some things simply are in one’s nature. Still, it is no small feat. And I am a man of my word- You deserve your reward.”

That was exactly what he had wanted to hear. He had no clue what that reward could be, but so far, they hadn’t disappointed. Gortash looked at the sky for a moment before he spoke. “It’s still early- good. At first I wanted to get it myself and bring it to you, but since you are here, let’s go get your reward together, shall we?” The way he smiled was uncharacteristically enthusiastic. It definitely piqued the dragonborn’s curiosity, and he followed Gortash through the lower city, eager to see what had his ally in such high spirits.

It didn’t take long for the  two to arrive to a small  cobbler shop. Gortash didn’t even mark a pause and all but waltzed in. He always looked confident whenever he walked around, but as he pushed those doors, he didn’t look like his usual confident self- no, he acted much more like a conqueror, he was thoroughly satisfied by whatever awaited him inside.

The shop was nothing much to look at. Just one of the many  similar shops in the lower city, with owners probably barely scraping by. However, as they walked inside, an old woman approached Gortash with a smile on her face. “Enver, my boy, how delightful to see you!” She turned to the man busy working behind the counter. “Dravo, come say hello to our boy!” 

The cobbler turned and he smiled as well. “It’s good to see you son- Oh, and you brought a friend. Sally, get some tea for the boys.”

“It won’t be necessary. I’m just here to give a present to my old friend here. Something I keep here.”

His parents’ smiles didn’t vanish, but they  stopped in their movements much like puppets cut from their string as he interrupted them. “Alright then, your things are upstairs, just as you left them.” Sally said, that smile wouldn’t leave her face. The more The Dark Urge stared, the more it looked like it was almost painful for her. The corner of her mouth twitched as if the muscles were sore from keeping up a smile all day long.

Gortash barely paid them anymore mind, and went upstairs. The dragonborn followed, wondering what Gortash could possibly keep in his parents’ home of all places- If they truly were his parents. 

The room upstairs was not much to look at. A single bed, a small kitchen, and a table covered in books, pamphlets and journals. The Dark Urge picked one up out of curiosity, and recognised Gortash’s precise handwriting. Those were indeed his. “Curious, are you?” The Dark Urge was startled by his companion’s voice, as he looked over his shoulder at the book he was holding. “You can take it, it’s the first draft of one of my books.” The Dark Urge eyed the cover. “The perfect state.” He read aloud. “Nothing in comparison to what we’re about to achieve. But everyone starts somewhere.” As he said that, he produced a wooden box which appeared to be locked. “Let’s get that back somewhere more comfortable.”

 

When they left the humble cobbler’s shop, the owners were still smiling. “Are they really your parents?” The Dark Urge  asked. Gortash laughed at the question. It wasn’t a happy, light-hearted laugh. It sounded quite bitter, in fact. “Surprised? But yes, my  parents are mere cobblers. I didn’t grow up surrounded by wealth. Quite the contrary.”

“I’m more curious about why they looked so- off.” 

“Few people would feel confident  enough to ask such questions directly to my face.” The man answered, his tone was almost threatening for a moment. But as the dragonborn didn’t react, he merely smiled. “You are not just anyone, though, so I’ll let you in on a secret. Do you remember the little guest in your head?” As he said that, Gortash pointed to his own head. “Hard to forget.” The Dark Urge grumbled. “Isn’t it? My first gift to my dear parents after years of separation- A tadpole each. Which may explain why they look a bit too over-enthusiastic.”

A cruel deed. Rare were the people who would proudly talk about inserting a deadly parasite in their own parents’ head. But The Dark Urge could hardly care about the reason behind Gortash’s actions. Those weren’t his to know, and judging by the dark look in his eyes, it was probably not wise to pry any further. All in all, his curiosity had been satiated, and he nodded. “This explains that.”

“I appreciate your candour. I much prefer to discuss that topic with a few drinks in me. It tends to put me in a dreadful mood.” 

He didn’t speak more on the topic. As they made their way back to the safe house. The Dark Urge eyed Gortash with curiosity, something about his behaviour had definitely changed from the moment they had stepped foot  inside that house. He hid it well behind his usual confidence, and yet the tension in his jaw betrayed a brewing storm under the surface.

The afternoon was slowly coming to an end, and they crossed path with the first of the evening’s drunks on their way back. A single look from the  dragonborn kept them at a distance, but they were definitely agitated by Gortash’s presence, even more so than usual. 

As they stepped inside the safehouse, servants came to greet them and get their coats. They settled in the parlour, as usual, and that time, it was The Dark Urge who decided to pour them both drinks, much to Gortash’s surprise. He had no idea what was in that box, but just to be safe, he preferred to ease the tension before they opened it.

They sat in comfortable chairs by the fireplace, drinks in hand, with the box placed on a small table between them. Gortash gestured for The Dark Urge to open the box, and he did just that. Inside were letters. And not just a few- Dozens of them. Picking one up, the Dark Urge couldn’t understand anything that was written. He furrowed his brows- And he groaned as his pounding headache came back. He was convinced that it was his handwriting, somehow.

Gortash watched quietly, his dark eyes reflected the light of the fire, casting deep shadows on his face. And something felt familiar about his face in that light- Yes, he had been in this room before, but something older than that. Drinking. Talking. The smell of alcohol and too many perfumes. 

The Dark Urge clutched his head as his vision went black, and he suddenly found himself sitting opposite to Gortash in a crowded place- Sharress’ caress. Then, he looked at the paper in his hands and his surroundings changed. The smell of perfumes, the noise of cheery patrons and music was exchanged for the pungent scent of iron and distant screams ringing off cold stone. He was writing something, a code- He lurched forward as his vision spun and he stood in the middle of a battle, blood on his daggers, and others fighting around. Gortash was there too, and they exchanged a victorious smile. He felt satisfied, like the answer to a question had been given. Another spin, another lacerating pain in his brain. That time he was standing in a palace he didn’t recognise. Gortash was there, and they drank, and talked. Hours passed and he felt something in his chest as the man placed a hand on his shoulder. A promise- and then a feeling of something more intimate- He blacked out entirely before his vision came back to him. He was on the floor, on his hands and knees, panting, his head throbbed and his vision danced. It felt like the worst hangover in existence. Gortash was next to him of course, and he helped him back onto his seat. The Dark Urge felt blood drip into his mouth, and he jolted abruptly, wondering if he had once again lost control. He looked Gortash up and down, and didn’t see any wound on him. He checked his face and sure enough, he felt blood there- but he realised that it was pouring from his own nostril.

“Here.” Gortash produced a handkerchief which he maintained against The dragonborn’s bleeding nostril, gently tilting his head back. “That looked quite unpleasant.” The banite remarked. “It is unpleasant.” A smile. “Did it work? Remember anything?”

The Dark Urge tried to focus on the fleeting memories, but it was hard to find purchase without that cursed headache trying to drown out everything. He remembered Gortash- Meeting him, exchanging letters, fighting at his side and- That last part. He wasn’t sure what exactly it had been about, but it left him feeling… odd . What was the opposite of the word murderous? He felt it was the word he was looking for. “Some things.” He took  the  handkerchief from Gortash, pressing it himself against his nostril. The blood was slowly calming down. Gortash stepped back just a little, waiting for more information.

“It was vague. Mostly our past association. You weren’t lying.” The Dark Urge said. Gortash feigned outrage. “Of course I wasn’t lying. Would I lie to my closest ally?” His smirk told the dragonborn that he would , but that he didn’t think of it as a problem.

Once his nose  had stopped bleeding, The Dark Urge folded the handkerchief and placed it down  on the table before he picked up another of the letters. As soon as he laid eyes on it, his head started pounding again. His companion gently prised the letter from his hands. “Perhaps I should do the  reading.” the dragonborn groaned and nodded. He listened as Gortash read the content of the letters- As he had thought, they had been encoded, and were conversations he and Gortash had had. They talked about their association, their plans to take over the city. An Elder brain, a magic Crown to dominate it, and their plans to raid Mephistopheles’ very own vault. All of it daring and incredibly risky by any mortal standards. 

“You really weren’t lying.” The Dark Urge said, as Gortash finished reading the last letter. “I wasn’t. As I told you- You were my closest ally. Everything we achieved, we came up with it together. Our plan to enslave the brain, retrieve the crown- It was all us .”

Gortash’s voice betrayed how passionate he was about all of it. It was the goal of a lifetime, and they had shared it. Perhaps that explained why he had bothered to save him, that kind of bond wasn’t easy to find. However, Gortash didn’t strike him as the sentimental type when it came to his allies. He was good at using people, and The Dark Urge had seen him make deals which he upheld without getting further involved. Even his own parents weren’t spared that treatment. The more he learnt about Gortash, the more confused the picture got. His actions seemed contradictory at  times, or perhaps, he was hiding the key to understanding his actions fully.  

“If that is the case, you could have started by telling me this.” The Dark Urge remarked. They would have gained some time instead of going through all that hassle to get pieces of memories back. 

“Take no offence- But without your memories, I had no certainty that you were the same man as I knew before. You were reliable, but with no recollection of your identity, no skill yet to your name- Telling you everything would have made you a liability, and a potential threat to our plan.” Gortash said, as he placed the letters back in the box, which he closed with a small key.  As much as he hated to admit it, the banite was right. A person without their memories was simply not a reliable ally, and entrusting capital information to someone you didn’t know you could trust was a sure way to ruin all your hardwork. “Point taken. But I expect you will be telling me everything from now on?” 

“I’ll tell you what we are doing, and what must be done. I want to resume our partnership as before. Our two brains against the world. How does that sound?” He extended his hand, waiting for the  dragonborn to take it. The Dark Urge rose from his seat, and after letting Gortash wait a few seconds, he decided to shake his hand. “It doesn’t sound half bad.”

Gortash grinned, and picked up their discarded glasses, handing one to his companion before  pouring more wine inside. It was a rich red colour, and smelled sweeter than the average red.  “Then let us drink to our renewed alliance.”

Chapter 7: chapter 7

They enjoyed drinks as Gortash explained in more detail the plot they had built together. Reading the letters had given The Dark Urge a general idea of what was afoot, but he was still missing pieces. The crown, the absolute, the mindflayers- It was a lot to take in in one night, but in spite of the state of his brain, the dragonborn  was quick on the uptake, and he soon had a pretty good understanding of the situation. “Now that all is proceeding more or less as planned, there is  one thing that still stands in our way.” The banite explained with a frown. “Oh?” He could tell that Gortash was about to ask him to do something. Not that he complained, that plot of his- of theirs- was rather interesting. He wouldn’t mind taking control of the world, and something inside him agreed with the sentiment, even  if it had another word in mind than control. Exterminate. Destroy. Obliterate.

He chased away those thoughts. “An artefact. A very powerful one, belonging to the  undead queen Vlaakith herself. We sent an operative to retrieve it, but alas, it seems they have failed to report. The artefact could be  lost, or worse.”

The name Vlaakith didn’t ring a bell. “Vlaakith?” Gortash looked surprised. “The Lich queen of the Githyankis. She claims to be the only one able to stop the Grand ilithid Design. The artefact she possessed could possibly be used to resist- or even destroy- The Elder brain.”

The Dark Urge frowned as he finished his third glass of wine. He was starting to feel a bit warm, but his brain was still capable of seeing the obvious. “It would  be bad if it fell into enemy  hands.” Gortash smiled as he snapped his fingers. “Precisely. It is our priority at the moment, but it seems our ally, General Thorm, is taking his sweet time recovering it. I’ve sent him letters, but it seems we ought to pay him a visit soon.”

“By we, you mean me?” he asked, and his ally grinned. “You first, then I will follow, once we know what  has happened. I would go myself, or even send my underlings. But my presence in the city is essential to the  plan, and I cannot trust mere servants to complete that  task. Which is why you are quite well suited for the job.” It almost sounded like flattery coming from him. But he was making sense. It was a sensitive and potentially treacherous task, they couldn’t just send anyone to check on Ketheric and retrieve that artefact. The Dark Urge accepted, of course. If he wanted a chance at ruling over the world before ruining it, he had to make sure nothing could come in between, and that artefact was one such thing. 

 

How hard could it be to find one magic box?

 

At least, finding the shadowlands wasn’t hard. The dead trees and smell of rotting corpses gave away the area from a few kilometres away, and the increasingly dire state of the road was a pretty clear sign  that danger lurked ahead. The Dark Urge couldn’t remember that place at all, but when he looked at the darkening sky, and the green and blue hues that  slowly took over the scenery, he had the feeling that he mustn’t have liked that place much. Death was one thing, but a place where only the undead could roam didn’t offer much perspective for murder.

He had a task to do however, and so he didn’t slow down until he felt the darkness grow too thick to pass through unharmed. And then he waited as instructed for a patrol to come for him. He waited, and waited. An hour must have passed, but it was hard to tell when there was no sun or stars to give any indication of the time, only cold quiet boredom. Then, finally, he heard a sound ahead, followed by light. A white, magic light, unlike anything he had seen before. It felt almost soothing. Of course, the  Urge within him sickened at the notion, and as the lantern and its bearer arrived, he had to resist destroying the cursed thing. Another time. 

The lantern bearer was, surprisingly, a drider. A drow cursed to take the body of a spider, only retaining a partially humanoid torso and head. Its long white hair was sticky with dirt and blood, and its eyes- More than two- blinked calmly as it observed The Dark Urge. Goblins accompanied the drider, their eyes shifting anxiously as they stared at the surrounding shadows.

“You. She sent us to you. Her servant. Her chosen. You must come to moonrise! Follow then, follow, stay in the light!” The drider ranted. It felt like it wasn’t even talking to him. The creature appeared to have quite the beautifully shattered mind on top of his grotesque body. “Lead the way.” The Dark Urge said. One of the goblins scoffed at his words, as if she thought herself above such a task. He made a mental note to teach the creatures to show proper respect eventually, but that would have to wait until they got to safety.

 

The deeper they got into the shadowlands, the heavier the shadows felt. It was strange to feel shadows, as they were usually just the absence of light, empty, weightless. But in that place, they felt heavy, alive even. Nothing in that place lived. Even the plants that grew in the cursed ground of these lands weren’t alive. They were dead, and their corpse had been animated to look like something that resembled life, but in a twisted, unrecognisable form. Rotten carcasses, skeletons whose bones had been picked clean by time and hungry shadows littered the paths through the long abandoned city. Buildings collapsed under their own weight,  mouldy wood and crumbling stones unable to keep them standing. The earth itself looked unable to keep itself together as it cracked to form large chasms, leading deep into the underdark, and perhaps even deeper. On the edge of the light, The Dark Urge could see shadows moving. At times, he was almost sure he saw a hand, something that attempted to reach through the light but shied away from it as it got too close. 

They eventually arrived in what must have been a bustling city once, if all the toppled carts and crates were any indicator. From there, The Dark Urge saw the tower looming right over them, vines climbing around it, as if trying to choke it, to bring it back into the ground. More armoured skeletons littered the ground as they approached, and as they crossed the threshold, The dragonborn felt the weight of the shadows lift just a bit. Guards waited at the entrance, and came up to greet him. “Welcome, chosen. General Thorm is waiting for you.”

 

He was led inside, and he was quite surprised by the variety of the people he saw there. Humans, elves, side by side with goblins and ogres. The stench was also quite something, but he couldn’t tell if it was the smell of death, or that of some of the creatures that roamed the tower. Then at last, he stood before the General. 

The man was imposing, standing confidently on a throne in the tower’s main hall. His armour was quite unlike anything The Dark Urge had seen before. It looked like ribs sticking out of the man’s body, and at the centre of his chest, like a heart, was a shining stone, much like Gortash wore on his gauntlet. The elven general arboured a look of contempt on his face, and when he spoke, his voice didn’t carry any emotion.

“So it’s you Gortash decided to send? I wonder why he feels the need to interfere in my business.”

Something inside of The Dark Urge’s chest boiled the moment he laid eyes on the general. Anger. Fury. The Urge hissed inside. Ketheric knows. He knows who you are, he knows what happened to you. 

The dragonborn took a deep breath, clenching his jaw and fists, lest he jumped the man and tried to tear his heart out. He had come to moonrise for a good reason- and it was to make sure that Ketheric did his job. It wouldn’t do to kill him yet .

“You are falling behind on your task, General. That’s why I’m here, to make sure you get the job done. Consider my presence as an encouragement.”

Ketheric scoffed. “It matters not. Things are proceeding as they should. We have merely encountered a bit of resistance.” He gestured to a half-orc woman in armour at his side. “Explain to him our current situation. I have more urgent matters to tend to.”

The Dark Urge glared at the blatant show of disrespect, but he didn’t prevent the general from leaving the throne room. He had to bear with the man’s insolence until his task was completed. His contempt was of no consequence- if anything, it did prove that Gortash was right to keep an eye on the general. He seemed quite full of himself in the face of his failure to achieve his task so far.

The Half-orc woman approached The Dark Urge. The way she carried herself with both confidence and discipline introduced her as a soldier even to the untrained eye. “I am disciple Z’rell. I supervise operations around Moonrise towers on The General’s behalf.” 

“The Dark Urge.” he answered. She blinked, as most people did when he introduced himself. He had to admit that it was quite the odd name, but one that fit him well. He had wondered before if he had always gone by that name, or if his broken brain had simply came up with a new name to fill in a blank.

“An interesting name. I wonder if you live up to it.” the woman said with a smirk. Before he could answer, he felt a presence push against his mind, looking for purchase. Then feelings that weren’t his washed over him. Lust, violence- Not the kind he was used to. Much more subdued, more focused. And then- Devotion. He hissed and pushed back against the presence in his mind, barely succeeding to push her out. The woman grinned. “This is the gift The Absolute gave me. I can impose my will on others.” 

“Try it again, and I’ll carve out your brain.” The Dark Urge growled. He had no need for anyone messing with his mind more than it had already been messed with. Far from being offended, the Half-orc chuckled. “Good, you’ve got spirit. Maybe the Absolute will eventually make you one of her True Souls.”

The dragonborn said nothing. He knew the truth behind that true soul hoax. Ilithid tadpoles, controlling the minds of those who had been infected. If given the order, they would turn the host into a mindflayer. The woman’s psychic powers made sense- Mindflayers could subdue other beings’ minds, allowing them to enslave entire worlds. 

“To business, then. General Thorm has been trying to retrieve the artefact from a group holed up at the  Last Light inn.”

“And what group would that be that you can’t storm the place and kill everyone standing?” The Dark Urge asked. 

“Harpers and Giths, mainly. They’re resisting assaults and they have found a way to sniff out true souls, so infiltration is also out of the question. We can’t exactly send goblins in there.”

It sounded to The Dark Urge that those were excuses. He had a hard time imagining that a couple of Harpers in an inn could pose any real threat. He let Disciple Z’rell continue her explanation without voicing his doubts, though. Those were best investigated quietly. “Moreover, they have made moves against the General. Another relic is hidden in these lands, and we’ve sent Balthazar to recover it. If the Harpers find it, they could pose an active threat. Our priority has shifted from recovering the artefact to securing the relic. But Balthazar hasn’t given any news in days. If you’re here to help, then go lend him a hand.”

Another servant who enjoyed stepping out of line and giving orders. The Dark Urge narrowed his eyes as he considered his next move. “Why has this Balthzar not given any news? Is he dead?”

The woman shrugged. “I don’t know. I doubt death would affect him for very long. But regardless, we need that relic, and we cannot afford to wait for him. I’m sure you understand that sentiment.” She smiled.

“Very well. Where is that Balthazar gone?”

“The Thorm family’s mausoleum. I’ll give you a map. You’ll need a moonlantern as well, you can find one in Balthazar’s quarters, upstairs. Don’t mess with his things though, or we’ll be scrapping you off the floors for days.”

The Dark Urge nodded, and left without another word. He would get that moonlantern, but his first stop wouldn’t be The mausoleum. First, he would check out that Last Light inn that gave them so much trouble.

 

The shadowlands were a dangerous place to explore, especially alone. Thankfully, The Last Light Inn wasn’t exactly difficult to find, as a large dome of light indicated its position even from a distance. The most difficult part was finding the way to go there between the chasms that split the land and areas infested with undeads and shadow beings of all sorts.

Eventually, The Dark Urge got close enough to see through the dome of light from the shadows. Inside, he saw both armed Harpers and Giths and what appeared to be civilians, unarmed and walking around. There were definitely more harpers than he had thought, but he still couldn’t imagine them posing too much of a threat. He needed to look around before he tried to go inside. The moonlantern was a rather inconvenient item at the moment, as it would be spotted from quite far away. He traded the lantern for a simple light spell, hiding the bright light inside a barrel, which he carefully marked with his dagger so he would find it later. On closer observation, the light could somewhat be seen through the rotting wood, but it would be safe enough to not be spotted from far away. And he doubted anyone from the inn would be sniffing around in the darkness.

 

After a thorough investigation of the perimeter around the inn however, he had to admit that the place was well guarded. Traps and barricades blocked the few accesses to the Inn that weren’t being guarded. The only safe path was the one from the main road. Which probably explained why the Harpers being able to spot the tadpoled true souls were such an issue. The Dark Urge hoped his tadpole wouldn’t trigger whatever alarm they had set up. It seemed to be fully dormant, otherwise he would have been hearing that “Absolute” they all talked about. As for the pretext for his appearance? He knew Harpers were insufferable do-gooders, who would help anyone who appeared in trouble. 

The Dark Urge found a place behind a tree not too far off the main road, but out of sight. Then, glancing to make sure shadows weren’t closing in, he seized his dagger, and placed the blade against his bare arm. With enough pressure, he sliced through the scales and skin. He gritted his teeth as he felt the burn of the cut with each movement. But he had to make it realistic- And what could be more realistic than pain? He then placed the point of the dagger on his abdomen, and sliced there as well, ripping the fabric of his black robes, staining it as blood dripped from the wound. Next, he stabbed the muscle of his hip, pushing the blade in a few centimetres deep, twisted it a little, and pulled it out immediately.  The wound would look more serious than it was to the untrained eye, and in a panic, it was easy to make mistakes. The pain had him tremble as he stabbed himself, but he held on. A few more scrapes on his scales, tearing through his robes in places he knew would be vulnerable in a fight. He had done it to enough people to know how it worked. And at last, he bit his tongue with his razor sharp teeth. Blood filled his mouth, and he spat it out, letting some of it drip on his chin. When he was done, he wiped it with his shaking hand, smearing it just right. His wounds burnt and he felt somewhat light headed from the self- inflicted mutilation. He hadn’t lost much blood, but coupled with the sharp pain he felt with each of his movements, it was enough to increase his heartbeat and breathing as his body worked on closing the wounds. 

He gritted his teeth and limped towards the main road, holding his bleeding hip. 

 

And as he had guessed, the harpers, who had first raised their weapons, were quick to help him inside.  “We have a wounded here! Get a healer!” One of them shouted.

As the other Harpers started to run towards the main building, a voice caused them to pause. “Harpers, stop! This could be a trap.” An older elf woman approached the dragonborn with a stern look in her eyes. She had long blond hair, and a frown that looked like it never quite left her face, as well as two very sharp sabres at her hips. Panting, clutching his wounds, The Dark Urge did his best confused expression. “T-trap?” He asked.  “Jaheira, these wounds look serious. I don’t think-” 

The woman, Jaheira, held up her hand. “It won’t last long.” She smiled at the dragonborn, but she couldn’t hide the suspicious look in her eyes. “Do try to stay still, and be patient. If you’re innocent, we’ll take care of those wounds soon enough.” She was interesting, to say the least. He hadn’t expected a Harper to be so pragmatic when faced with a heavily wounded innocent. She produced a glass bottle, inside which was resting a disgusting creature. It looked like a fat worm with small legs- and sharp teeth. The Dark Urge frowned. He recognised it as an illithid tadpole. He hadn’t thought the damned thing was so big. No wonder he regularly got killer headaches with it snuggled inside of his cranium. 

Jaheira approached the bottle from The Dark Urge’s face, who made a show of recoiling in fear. She shook the bottle a little, as if she expected something to happen. But as it didn’t, the look in her eyes softened as she shouted. “Bring a healer, quickly!” 

The Harpers immediately obeyed their leader’s orders, and soon, The Dark Urge was brought inside the inn and sat on a chair as a healer fussed about. A couple of healing spells and a disgusting potion later, the bleeding had stopped, and the wounds burnt far less. They would take perhaps another day to fully heal, but for the moment, it was enough. 

“My apologies for the callous welcome.” The Harper leader said with a smile. “Usually, the Harpers would rush to help one in need, but circumstances force us to stay on our guards.” 

“This place is cursed. I tried to run  from these absolutists- I guess I’m just glad for your help.” the dragonborn answered, putting on his best victim mask. It was easy to imitate, when he had observed as many preys as he had. 

“You were taken by the cult? How did you escape?” She asked. 

“They were taking me somewhere. When we arrived in this… place. I saw the shadows. I saw them throw another prisoner to them as an example. We didn’t want to be next. I know some magic- so, we fought and then, when the shadows started crawling, I-I ran. I don’t know what happened to the others. I didn’t look back. ” 

Jaheira frowned. She didn’t seem to suspect anything, but clearly didn’t carry any love in her heart for Ketheric and his people. “You’re lucky to have escaped. We have heard a lot of similar stories, very few end as well as yours.”

“I feel lucky, yes. When I saw light, I just ran for it, well- I tried to run. limped for it, maybe.” 

Jaheira chuckled at that. “In this place, light is one of the two things keeping us alive, that, and hope.”

Hope. The thing all of them clung to, in a vain hope to escape death. The Dark Urge remembered the hope in the eyes of that patriar’s son when he had believed the man before him was his parent’s saviour. And he remembered even better the moment it vanished from them; left his very body as a dagger pierced his skin. He got distracted by the memory for a moment, but snapped out of it eventually. “Is it safe from the cult here?” he asked.

“Much safer than outside anyway. With our Cleric’s protection, the harpers and… The giths - I think this is the safest place you can be.”

“Giths?” He looked around, pretending to only notice the Githyanki warriors keeping vigil around the place. “What are they doing here?”

“We have a common enemy. Apparently, Ketheric Thorm doesn’t have that many friends among the living.” the Harper answered, grimacing as she glanced at a group of her githyanki allies. She sighed. “We don’t have much to offer, but what little we have, we will share with those in need. You’re free to stay- or to leave, as ill advised as that would be.”

“Thank you.” he said. The woman smiled as she turned to leave . “Don’t thank me yet.”

 

With the Harper leader out of his scales, The Dark Urge relaxed a bit. He hated having to act like a mewling kitten, regardless of how sweet the promise of thrusting a knife into their back was. At least, he had gotten some information out of it. He knew how the Harpers sniffed out True souls- The tadpoles were the key. They shared a psionic presence and thus reacted to eachother. He also discovered the reason behind the Last Light Inn’s protection: A cleric. And it must have been a powerful one, at that. 

Questions remained, but for the moment, he decided to lay low. He would meddle with the refugees, and try to find out more without attracting the Harpers-Or the Giths’ attention. Recovering the artefact was of the utmost importance, and he had a feeling that doing Ketheric’s dirty work wouldn’t get him any closer to it. No, the general was hiding something. There was no way he couldn’t have breached The Last Light inn’s defense if he had really tried, and no reason why he would be so eager to postpone his main task for that relic of his. And as the saying went: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. There was no better place to look for information without alerting Ketheric than among enemy forces.

He only hoped he could leave that cursed place soon. He found that he was more of a living people person. You couldn’t murder the dead in any meaningful way.

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

Notes:

Big big warnings for violence and graphic murder scenes

It was always easy to hide among the hunted. Refugees, criminals, all these groups built community around the principle of need. As such, they preferred not to ask questions than risk being excluded and left to die. As he spent time chatting with some of the refugees, he was forced to recognise that most of them were tieflings- Others were flaming fist soldiers who mainly remained in their own area of the inn, in which The Dark Urge didn’t pry. Gortash had told him about Ulder Ravengard’s disappearance and the fact that the Flaming Fist soldiers were looking for him. It was better to not interfere with them unless he had a reason to. When he asked the children about their reason for being there, they were quite cooperative . They told him everything, Elturel, a druid grove- One that had run them off while they were chased by goblins. The Dark Urge had to conceal a smile when he heard the story. Was there anything funnier than druids deciding to send innocent people to their deaths?

More importantly, they told him about the nice cleric who protected them. “She let us stay, not like these druids back there.” One of the children said with a frown. Her friend chimed in with a smile . “She’s so nice, too! She caught me when I tried to steal one of her trinkets, and she let me go with it, and even gave me a pretty moon necklace!” 

“That’s an interesting way to deal with theft.” The Dark Urge mused. 

“Yeah, I thought she would kill me, like with  Arabella at the grove-” His friend punched his shoulder, interrupting him. “You don’t know she’s dead!” They both lowered their eyes, clearly saddened by the story. 

Apparently, there was something funnier than druids sending off innocents to their deaths: Druids killing a child over petty theft? That was hilarious.

A smile crept on his face before he realised it, but he forced himself to pass it off as a compassionate one. “I’m sure your friend is fine .” he lied. The two children nodded. “Thanks mister. You look strong, and you’re alright. Maybe you could help the cleric fight off the shadows so we can leave?” The other child rolled her eyes. 

“I’ll see what I can do. Where is that cleric?” The Dark Urge said. The children perked up just slightly, one still remained on her guards. “In the big room upstairs! You can’t miss her, she’s so pretty, and she makes lots of light like this!” The child agitated his hands, imitating spellcasting gestures- badly. With a nod, the dragonborn left the children and headed upstairs.

He pushed open the double doors leading to a large bedroom, and as he saw no one, he decided to head for the balcony. The moment he opened the door, he was bathed in a soft light, the same as the one surrounding the inn. He saw a white haired woman busy with her casting, gathering light as she looked like she danced before the altar. She was elegant but precise in her movements- and when she was done and turned around, The Dark Urge confirmed that she was indeed a beautiful woman. As she smiled at him, he felt something well up inside, tasting like bloody bile. He wanted to spit in her face, to erase that disgustingly kind smile of hers, then tear it off her face, and peel off her pearly-white skin off her carcass. Wouldn’t she be even more beautiful bathed in red instead of that weak, pale moonlight? Wouldn’t it be delightful to see her corpse so desecrated that even the worms wouldn’t touch her? His knife hand twitched, his heart accelerated and his body burnt up as the thought filled his mind. So many ways to make her prettier, uglier- He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist. He couldn’t. If she was the one keeping this place protected, he couldn’t kill her before he had learnt more. 

“Hello, stranger. I don’t believe we have met?” She said.

“We haven’t.” The Dark Urge managed, taking a deep breath as he finally managed to regain control of his own body.

“You’re the one who escaped the cult, is that right? I’m glad you made it.”

“You’ve heard of me?” She laughed a little at that. “It’s not a big inn. News travel fast, especially when the story is so unusual. You were exceptionally lucky. Or skilled.”

“Then you find me at a disadvantage. You know more about me than me about you, it seems.”

“Oh! I totally forgot to introduce myself, didn’t I? My name is Isobel. Faithful servant of the Moonmaiden.” 

Selûne. No wonder she was so sickeningly sweet. It also explained the moonlight-like glow surrounding the inn. Just as he was about to introduce himself, a thought occurred to him. If the woman could fight off the curse of these lands- Couldn’t a magic that powerful be used to help him with his memories? Sure, it was risky with the tadpole still lying in his brain, even if it was dormant, but could he get a better deal elsewhere? The healer Gortash had brought in was no powerful cleric of Selûne, and he had yet no proof that the man would do his best to help. It was one thing to dangle small trinkets in front of his face as rewards, another to offer sincere help. And if there was one thing these goodie-two-shoes Selûne worshippers were good at, it was honesty.

 He frowned a little before he answered the introduction. “A pleasure. I would like to have a name to give you, but my past appears to be lost to me.” 

The cleric’s brows furrowed at the word. Concern. Interest. “Your past is lost to you? Did the cult do this to you?”  He shook his head slowly, making sure to make himself look beaten and vulnerable. “Truth be told, I woke up with no recollection of who I was not far from there. I was trying to find my way to Baldur’s gate when I got caught by the cult. I know you all consider me lucky, but I don’t feel too lucky, truth be told.”

Isobel’s expression softened considerably, pity and compassion clear on her face. She was sorry for his story. As much as it disgusted him, The Dark Urge kept his urges in check. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to end up in such a place when you barely know yourself.”

He grimaced. In a way, what he was saying was true. He had barely any memories of his past beyond what Gortash had told him and the shattered pieces of memories that pierced his brain on occasion before vanishing. And yet, there he was, stalking in the cursed shadows of that place for the promise of knowledge and power. It had been his better offer so far, but if the cleric could do something, anything to help, he certainly wouldn’t spit on it, as much as his whole being recoiled at the idea of her magic touching him. “It’s a bit grim. All I know is that I’m not bad at magic. It comes very naturally.” The bait was in place, and he watched as the cleric eyed him, considering her course of actions. “I can’t promise you I can cure you, but maybe I can try to help.” She said.

“Can you really help?” He did his best to appear pleasantly surprised. She smiled in return. “I would feel bad not trying to, at least. Let’s go inside, I’ll take a good look at you.” 

And so inside they went. The room was quite large, and considerably cleaner than the rest of the inn. Isobel had him sit down on the large bed, and she sat next to him, extending her hand. “Give me your hand, I’ll take a look at what ails you.” He nodded, and carefully extended his hands towards her,  praying to all the gods that existed that the tadpole wouldn’t ruin it. She took his hand, and closed her eyes as soft moonlight surrounded them. Her face scrunched up as she looked in, as if she saw something unpleasant there. Then after a moment, she let go of his hand and opened her eyes. “Your brain- It’s been heavily damaged. But- Are you sure the cult didn’t catch you?”

Damn it. He tried to keep his cool and shrugged as convincingly as he could. “I have no memories of it if they did.”

“Do you get any other symptoms than memory loss?” 

He shook his head. “Headaches. Sometimes nausea .” Just like the nausea he felt at the moment, being in the presence of the cleric. “Why? Is there something-”

She smiled, but her smile couldn’t hide her concern. “ I thought I felt something inside your brain, but if Jaheira couldn’t sense it, I’m sure it’s nothing like what the absolutist have crawling around their brains.”

“You mean the… worms?”  She nodded. “Dreadful little creatures. But they have a very specific presence. I can’t feel that in you. But- I’m sorry to say, your brain has suffered heavy damage. I’m not even sure how you survived.”

the dragonborn put on his best distraught face. “Damaged? What do you mean? Can you help?”

Isobel frowned. “Physically damaged. Like someone crushed your brain, or removed pieces of it. I don’t know if I can help. I can try to heal a part of the damage, but … Some of it is beyond repair. I’m not sure you’ll be able to recover the biggest part of your memories, even if I heal what can still be healed..”

“So my memories cannot be recovered?” The cleric shook her head solemnly.

The Dark Urge’s expression grew sombre. He had known before that some of his memories might be forever lost. But “some” wasn’t the same as “most”. He was angry as he wondered just how much was hidden from him. And then he thought about the only man who claimed to want to help. If The Dark Urge’s memories were forever lost, Gortash could be lying, making things up to match the bribes of recollection he had. He could pretend to help just so that The Dark Urge would walk to his tune, while twisting the truth of the past to his own advantage.  How much of what he had said had been the truth? He gritted his teeth, and forced himself to remain calm. Those were stipulations, nothing more. That place had him too much on edge, and so did that cursed cleric.

“I’m sorry.” The cleric said. “I can’t imagine how you must feel. But I will try to heal what I can, perhaps it will at least take care of those headaches.” 

He only nodded silently. Isobel placed her hand on his chest, and warm light emerged from her palm, slowly spreading to The Dark Urge’s whole body. He felt a shiver down his spine, the earlier wounds closing definitely, and then, as the magic reached his brain, he felt a slight change, like a dull fog lifting. And just as that happened, a memory rushed back to him.

 

He was standing in a small cottage, simple, time-worn furniture decorated the otherwise plain room. The walls and floors bore the mark of the years, and the floorboard creaked as he shifted his weight on it . He realised that he was shorter, lighter- and then he remembered- He wasn’t an adult yet. Just a child, not yet a teenager. A familiar scent reached his nostrils, that of wet iron. He looked down at his feet and saw a puddle of blood. His eyes followed the flow until they fell on a corpse, the corpse of an adult. A human. One he knew well. A parent, someone who had cared for him like one anyway. They had tried to run for the door, but a firm stab in the thigh, and then brutal ripping through the muscle had caused them to fall. Behind him, he remembered the beds- He remembered them clean, but he knew that at that moment,  corpses lay in them. Throat slit in their sleep. Another adult. And a child, too. 

In his hand, he felt something light and comforting. A small dagger, stolen from the corpse of a criminal in the street. That kill hadn’t been his, but the dagger had called to him. And then, when he had felt its weight in his hand, he hadn’t been able to help but take a stab at the corpse. He remembered his weak child hand hesitating to pierce through the dead flesh at first. He wanted to, but he knew he shouldn’t have that sort of thought. He had been ashamed, hesitant as he placed the iron against the cold flesh. But then, the feeling of shame vanished as he sunk the blade in. A feeling of pure joy overtook him and he pushed the blade even deeper. His heart had beat so fast that day, as he engaged in that despicable act in broad daylight. And yet, he couldn’t stop trying to push deeper into the body, his weak and inexperienced hands struggling to push into the muscles that had already entered rigor mortis. Then the blade had scraped the bone, so he had pulled it out. He had tried so many things on that corpse- Stabbing, slicing, pulling things out. His hands were bloody, but dead corpses didn’t bleed as much as he had thought. He hadn’t stopped  until he had heard a noise that caused him to flee . 

 

After that, he remembered coming home, hands clean and the dagger safely hidden. He looked at the people surrounding him, his family, and he felt the dagger under his clothes. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to stab and slice and cut them like that corpse. For nights, he had lied there unable to sleep as his hand twitched and his mind raced. Until he looked at that other child- his sibling. Small, weak. He hadn’t been able to resist. 

The kill was messy, but the child didn’t realise what had happened. Its breathing stopped slowly as it gurgled, drowning in its own blood. The Dark Urge within soared. And he knew that he had no other option than to end the others. The first barely put up a fight-, but it was harder to kill an adult than a child, and it alerted the second, who screamed and ran- But not fast enough. A first burst of sorcerer magic, and they were stopped in their tracks, and that was enough to end them. 

The memories looped and bled into each other, and he relieved the elation of that first mass-murder over and over, remembering each detail, until a familiar voice reached his ears. “Young Master, precious fledgling, follow ever your heart. In time, your true family will find you.”

 

The real world rushed back at him without the familiar headache. He felt disoriented, and his vision swam for a couple of seconds before everything fell back into place in his mind. “Are you alright?” The cleric of Selûne asked. The Dark Urge felt sick, he felt enraged, he felt absolutely lost. He knew that if he didn’t leave immediately, the cleric wouldn’t live for much longer. He muttered a “thank you” as he got up clumsily and rushed towards the door. He got out of the building, breathing hard, and found an isolated place behind the inn. There, he let himself fall to his knees and his stomach lurched, bloody bile coming out as he refused his innermost need to kill and the fury inside  him had nowhere to go. And Gortash. The reason he resisted. The doubts inside him grew by the second, fuelled by the frustration of having his desires denied for someone else’s sake. What did he care for that artefact, after all? Gortash said that the whole plot  had been their doing, and sure, he remembered having known Gortash- But what told him that their alliance ended well? That he had agreed to help on everything? 

The Urge wouldn’t calm down, it wanted blood, it wanted death. It wouldn’t be denied, and if Gortash wanted to get in the way, he would be next.

He heard a noise nearby, and he spotted one of the Githyankis watching him from afar. A primal, feral growl built up in The Dark Urge's throat as he all but pounced on him, dagger at the ready, and stabbed the warrior through the eyeball, right into the brain. He stabbed, and stabbed again, twisting the dagger as if in revenge of what had been done to him. It lasted a few minutes, and then he dragged the corpse  and tossed it beyond the boundaries of the light dome. The shadows rushed at it almost immediately. So he killed it again, with magic that time. 

He was left breathing heavily, but his head felt lighter, clearer. The Urge within settled just enough for him to recover his calm. The cleric could wait just a little longer.

 

As he headed back towards the buildings, he crossed paths with another gith, who stopped him in his tracks. He was ready to jump. “You. Have you seen another Gith around here? Speak. Or I’ll decorate the ground with your innards.”

“I’ve seen a lot of other Giths around here.” He played dumb. The gith hissed. “You think yourself clever? One of our people was supposed to stand guard here. And they’re missing.”

The Dark Urge Shrugged. “How would I know? Maybe the shadows got them.”

The warrior scoffed in response, and that time they grabbed their sword. “You play the fool. You know something.”

He looked down at the excitable gith and smirked. “You draw your conclusions as fast as your swords. I haven’t seen your friend, and if I had, I couldn’t exactly have taken them on alone, could I?” 

The gith narrowed her eyes at The Dark Urge. The tension in her sword arm relaxed, but she didn’t sheath it. “Indeed. Even if your appearance is similar to that of the strong dragon kind, your species is too weak to face our warriors.”

“And yet you’re stuck in this place instead of running Ketheric through with those sharp swords of yours.”

“You think we chose to stay here? Ketheric Thorm is immortal . If it was as simple as running him through with a sword, cutting his head off and getting our artefact back, we would have done so long ago, instead of remaining stuck here with these weaklings.” 

“Artefact? Ketheric has something of yours?” He asked. He knew the Artefact had been stolen from the Gith. But Ketheric wasn’t supposed to have  retrieved it yet.

“Someone has stolen one of our Queen’s most prized artefact. We almost got it back, but then Ketheric stole it from under our noses. This is why we are stuck on this accursed plane.” She spat on the ground. “In Vlaakith’s name, we will find the source of his immortality, and deliver his head to our Queen. And you better not get in our way, or you will join him, ally or not.”

On these words, the warrior sheathed her sword and went on  to look for her missing comrade. The Dark Urge stood there for a moment as he realised what  he had just heard.

 

Ketheric already had the artefact.

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

As The Dark Urge came back inside the inn, he decided to approach Jaheira. She was talking with some of her Harpers, and they fell quiet as he approached. “I want to help.” He told her. The elf smiled, a sort of condescending air about her. “That’s kind of you, but I think we have things under control.”

“Your cleric, she helped me recover some of my past. And I’m not bad with magic, or I wouldn’t have survived out there.” He said.

Jaheira furrowed her brows. “Recover your past? Had you lost your memories? Why didn’t you say so?”

“You were close to letting me die on the spot when I got there, and you talked of a conflict. I didn’t want to risk being put to the sword.” 

The Harper sighed. “Fair enough. You say Isobel helped you? Let’s get upstairs.”

She walked off without waiting for the  dragonborn who cursed internally. Being near that  cleric felt like dipping his arm in urticants. The itch was too much to ignore. Nevertheless, having little choice, he followed the woman and both of them went to Isobel’s room. The cleric smiled at Jaheira first, then her brows furrowed in concern as her eyes fell on The Dark Urge. “Are you alright? I was afraid something had happened to you.”

Jaheira eyed them both with narrowed eyes. “What exactly happened?”

“This man told me about his plight. He has suffered a tremendous head injury, and cannot recall the smallest thing about his past. Not even his name. I tried to help, but he ran off looking even worse for wear.” Isobel explained, reaching for her moon necklace in guilt. She looked like she  was praying for forgiveness. Sickening .

“Head injury? Memory loss? Did you get any other symptoms?” Jaheira’s face hardened as she asked the questions. The Dark Urge merely let her friend answer. From the way they acted, it looked like the Harper leader would trust Isobel’s word above all.

“I checked him for a parasite and… I’m not sure how to put this. I felt something inside of his head- But  it felt.. inert..”

The Dark Urge startled at that. So she had felt the parasite? And she was only pointing it out afterwards? He could only hope that Jaheira wouldn’t try to kill him on the spot. 

The Harper’s shoulders tensed. He could see that she was getting ready to grab her weapons.”Is it alive?”

“I don’t believe it is.” 

Jaheira’s body language relaxed. She turned her body to stare at The Dark Urge. “Did you get the parasite killed?”

He shrugged. As far as he knew, it wasn’t dead. Merely sleeping. He didn’t know if it was even possible for Gortash to remove it entirely, or if he had kept it in place as a safety measure by choice. “I don’t remember much. I woke up without a single memory. And when I figured I should be heading for the nearest city for a healer, I was caught by the cultists.” 

The Harper hummed. “Perhaps you had the parasite killed before, and it caused your amnesia.” Isobel nodded. “It would explain the injury. Perhaps part of it was psychic in nature. Who knows what happens when you forcibly remove an illithid tadpole from its host?”

The Dark Urge remained silent. He had a feeling that the conversation could go terribly wrong at the smallest spark. It was safer to let the two women discuss their theories without interfering. He still kept a close eye on them, on their body language and their words. If they tried to turn on him, he would go at them first, Gortash’s artefact be damned.

 

“In conclusion, you are even luckier than we thought. Perhaps we can find some use to you.” The Harper declared with a wry smile. That didn’t seem to please Isobel. “He is still not well. I tried to heal his wound, but I don’t even know if that worked, from his reaction.”

The Dark Urge shook his head at the  cleric. “Your spell… It recovered  some of my memories. Of my childhood. ” The cleric’s face lit up. “Is that so? This is great news! Isn’t it?”

“The great news, is that my magic feels stronger. My past is… Still mostly a mystery.” He let sparks of lightning dance around his hand to illustrate his point. It felt effortless to cast simple spells with his brain fog and migraines gone. Isobel gave him a sympathetic smile, while Jaheira clapped him on the back. “Well, if our little magician  is so eager, I think we have something for you to do. Your tadpole corpse might even come in handy.”

 

Of course, the Harpers needed someone to infiltrate moonrise towers. It was a long shot to assume that the dead tadpole could be a convincing enough argument, and everyone considered him either brave or foolish to accept to go. The truth was, that Jaheira certainly wanted him gone. She probably  didn’t know what to make of the tadpole who could very well just be asleep, and if that wasn’t the case, the risk was still worth it, especially with a volunteer.

All he needed was to be able to come and go as he pleased from the inn without  being suspicious. If Ketheric indeed had the artefact, he had to try and  find out where. And if he couldn’t find it, his best bet would be to help the Harpers take down Ketheric and retrieve it from his corpse.

 

The Dark Urge was thus sent to moonrise with the Cleric’s lunar blessing. As he stepped out into the darkness without light, he felt his body was lighter than it had been before, walking through the dark without the moonlantern. That Cleric was really something, to be able to bestow such blessings.

He hadn’t walked very far from the main road leading to the inn that he felt observed. He stopped in his tracks and focused on the sounds around him. The  place was deadly quiet. It wasn’t just silence in the dark, but the absence of any sound. Which was why he had  heard the sound of very light footsteps as easily as he had at that moment right before he turned around and blasted the creature behind him to bits with his magic. 

Only then did he realise what he had hit. A grotesque being, barely bigger than a halfing. A crooked beak-like nose, sharp talon-like hands, dressed in a rather fancy black and red suit, with a tophat perched on top of its head. The creature slumped dead. The Dark Urge almost started laughing at how easy it had been to kill it. Until he heard the snap of bones as the corpse rose through the air and its members snapped back into place, like a puppet whose strings were being pulled taut once more.

“Boring.” He said aloud, as his butler came back to his cursed life.

“Oh, Master! I am so sorry if my  death was unsatisfactory! Perhaps you could do it again?”

The dragonborn clicked his tongue. “You snuck up on me.”

“A thousand apologies for my dreadful lack of manners, my darkest liege. The darkness in this place is easy to get lost in. It is quite beautiful, is it not?”

The Dark Urge ignored the creature’s blabbering. “Why are you here?”

“I have come, because I felt my master’s thirst for death call to me. And then the distress! Why,I expected to find you fully satisfied over the fine corpse of that selûnite, and instead, you are here in the dark swallowing back bile like a defeated dog after a hunt. This is so very beneath you.” Sceleritas said, sounding positively disappointed by the tragedy. The dragonborn understood what he meant. He was disappointed, and he was angry that he couldn’t indulge. But he had something to do. “I am merely keeping the cleric for later.” He answered, as he tried not to get distracted by the promising thoughts flowing through his mind, least he went back on his tracks and slaughtered the woman.

“Why later, sweet depraved lord? Do you not crave the taste of  her cleaned-peeled skin now? The feel of her pure blood inside your throat?” The butler asked, the butler tempted. The words sung to his parched soul.

The Dark Urge glared at him. “What I desire matters not. I have more important business to deal with.”

The creature’s beady red eye gleamed as he looked up at the dragonborn with a frown. “And whose business is it? Yours, or the Banite’s?” 

He hissed in answer. “Mind your tongue, creature. I may not have all my memories,  but I am no fool. I won’t  be insulted in such a way.”

Sceleritas all but prostrated himself on the ground. “Ah! What a poor butler I make! No master, my most disgustingly vile and beautiful master. Your humble, devoted butler never meant to insult! I meant to advise! It breaks my heart so, to find you lost, going against your own heart on someone else’s words.”

If the spineless wriggling of his servant didn’t manage to fully calm him down, it did change The Dark Urge’s idea of beheading him, for all the good it would do, since it appeared to be unkillable.

“Be assured, then, that I have not lost all sense. I will kill the cleric once her use has passed. As for you- You owe me explanations.”

Sceleritas looked up from his subservient position on the ground. “I will answer what I can, My Master.”

The Dark Urge recalled his earliest memory. The one of himself as a child. And he remembered the voice- The butler’s voice. “You know my family, don’t you. The day of my first kill.. You talked about a true family.”

The butler perked up. “Joyous day! Master, you recall your first kill? And you recall your worthless servant from that moment? Ah, I feel a tear in my eye.”

The dragonborn rolled his eyes. “Get up. And explain what you meant.” Sceleritas hesitantly got back to his feet, dusting his suit as best as he could. “Ahem. As you know my Lord, my lips are sealed on the matters of your past. You will recall, I hope, in time. You will recall your true family and your calling. And I may have another gift for you to help jog your memory… When you kill the cleric, I shall give it to you.”

“You really want that cleric dead.” The Dark Urge grumbled. The butler  grinned. “You are the one who wants her dead, sweet master of mine. And as your butler, I only want what’s best for you! Now, if you’ll excuse your butler, I have to clean up your domain. Keep it tidy for your return. Don’t forget, master- Follow ever your heart .” 

 

Before The Dark Urge could ask anything, the creature vanished into thin air. It made him wonder if that Sceleritas Fel was even real, or if he was a byproduct of his imagination gone wrong from a wound to the head. If he hadn’t received that cape the first time, at least, he would have come to that conclusion. As to whether that was better or worse than the butler being a hallucination, it remained to be seen.

Either way, The Dark Urge had to return to Moonrise. Kind Isobel could wait, her death would only be sweeter after having been denied for a time.

With Selûne’s blessing protecting him from the worst effects of the curse, The Dark Urge made his way back to the tower. He had no intention to raise alarms, so he would pretend to be in need of  more support to rat out Balthazar. 

No one questioned his presence in the tower, and he even noticed a few people nearly bowing as he passed by on his way to the throne room, where he found Z’rell having words with a drow. The Dark Urge approached and caught a few words. “Change” and “Prepare” . Perhaps his knowledge was affecting his perception, but he found the conversation suspicious. Z’rell sent her underling away as soon as she spotted the dragonborn, and furrowed her brow. “Back so soon?”

“You failed to mention I would need a little company to fetch your precious Balthazar without risking my own skin. It seems cleaning up behind him isn’t his forte.”

Z’rell frowned. “How bad could it be, that he could go in and you couldn’t.”

“I’m not dead. ” It didn’t take a genius to understand that Balthazar was probably not alive in the primary sense of the term. Between the undead crawling the place and the comment made by Z’rell about death not keeping him for long, The dark Urge was comfortable making this assumption. And should it prove wrong- He could still pretend the man was actually dead, and kill him later on.

The half-orc sighed, she looked almost disappointed that her taunting didn’t hurt the dragonborn’s pride enough that he stormed off on his own. “We don’t have a lot of manpower, as we are keeping the tower in case the Harpers attack, but I’ll see what I can do.” The dragonborn forced a sarcastic smile. “Much obliged.”

When she left, he loitered in the main hall for a few minutes, until he was sure she wasn’t going to come back too soon, and he went upstairs. 

If he wasn’t mistaken, the ground floor was occupied by thralls and underlings, and the prison was under the tower. He doubted he would find information on the artefact on either floor, which made the upper floors the best bet. 

Upstairs, he saw one Cleric guarding a large wooden door, and smaller doors leading to what appeared to be living quarters. The scrying eye watching the area was easily taken care of, and the guard patrolled outside of the rooms, so they were just as easily avoided. 

The first room The Dark Urge entered, he could smell before he even opened the door. The smell of rotting blood and innards, making the air moist and heavy. He felt something at the pit of his stomach as he entered and saw all the decay and gore that painted the floors and even walls of the chamber. But it wasn’t nausea, it wasn’t disgust or revulsion. On the contrary. It felt warm, and terribly familiar. He shook the feeling, as he had no time to focus on it. He had no idea when Z’rell would be back, or if someone would find him there. He got to searching the place. Rows upon rows of books and alchemical supplies littered the place, making it look more like some mad scientist’s laboratory than a bedroom. Finding anything of note would be hard, but he did find quite a few handwritten notes that told him who usually worked there. Balthazar. He found traps, and a vague mention of the relic he was sent to retrieve. But nothing about the artefact that Gortash was interested in.

Thus the dragonborn moved on. He had no keys, but a spell was enough to open the next locked door effortlessly. 

He was able to remain unspotted as no one came to check the bedrooms, it seemed. He was rather surprised at how easy it felt to break in as he entered a room with a large bed and maps sprawled about on a table. He spotted a desk on which letters had been left open, and he wasn’t sure why, but he felt that this was- or had been perhaps- Ketheric’s room. Hard to tell if the general still needed to sleep, but if he did, he mustn’t have minded the thick dust spread over the furniture, and the musty scent in the air, much like a mausoleum that never saw light.

The Dark Urge took a look at the plans. The General had been hard at work planning his assault on Baldur’s gate, at least on that point he hadn’t lied.

The letters he found were more interesting- Correspondence with Gortash, or rather bickering between the two men. Gortash wanted to know where the artefact was, and Ketheric all but told him to back off. How romantic , The Dark Urge thought sarcastically. 

As entertaining and informative their exchanges were, the most intriguing of the letters was one addressed to Balthazar. It hadn’t even been put in an envelope yet, as if the general hadn’t gone around to truly send it. The old general thanked Balthazar- and expressed his will to go on separate ways. A “better way”, it said. The letter wasn’t explicit on which way that was- But The Dark Urge had a feeling it wasn’t one that would be in their interest.

As he read the letter, he heard creaking behind him. The door. He put the letter down and turned around. He was faced with Ketheric, whose face was as unreadable as ever. The man bore the tranquil but stern look of the dead at all times, like he was incapable of feeling anything. But even as the general stood there, all but blocking the way out, he didn’t look threatening.

“I had a suspicion Gortash didn’t send you to help, but to put his nose in my business.” He said, calmly.

The Dark Urge squared his shoulders, standing tall faced with the immortal general. “Was he wrong? It seems you haven’t been very honest, Ketheric.”

“Are those your master’s words, or your own? You may have chosen to forget, but I didn’t- A chosen of Bane cannot ever be trusted. To him, we are nothing more than servants to do his bidding. And you? You’ve become his loyal little dog.”

The dragonborn glared, baring his teeth. “Careful, general. You may not be able to die, but you can still feel pain, I reckon.”

Ketheric approached. He hadn’t drawn his weapon, and he didn’t look like he had any intention of doing so. “You bark, but is there anything you can do about it, with Gortash holding your leash? There was a time where you wouldn’t have stood for it.”

As much as the general’s words angered him, The Dark Urge couldn’t help but feel the bitter taste of truth behind them. “So you know what I would have tolerated or not? Convenient. You speak of a leash, and yet you seem happy to accept the collar as well.” 

“You’re welcome to believe me or not. I will not claim that we were once friends. We were allies for convenience’s sake. This is the only bond people like us can trust.”

“Isn’t it the nature of all bonds? I don’t follow Gortash because I’m too weak to realise I’ve been cornered. I get something out of it, too.”

Ketheric hummed thoughtfully. “I wonder, what is it exactly that he promised? Power at his side? To share a dominated world?”

“Something much more practical. Memories.”

The general’s stern face barely twitched in recognition of the revelation. “Memories? I suppose this is a fair price. I did not expect you to have forgotten so much.”

The Dark Urge couldn’t help but grin at the word. “So much? How much did you hope I had forgotten, Ketheric Thorm? Because I remember. I remember this place, and I remember that you have much to do with it.”

The general scoffed and crossed his arms. Defensive. “If you mean to accuse me of doing this to you, you are mistaken. You were left for dead, and I treated you like any of the corpses that end on my doorstep. Death is my Lord’s domain, and Moonrise is mine.”

“And how did my corpse end on your doorstep?” 

Ketheric paused. He eyed The Dark Urge critically before he spoke. “Perhaps you should ask Gortash about this.”

“He wasn’t there, I’m sure of it. How would he know?”

The general hummed. “Perhaps he hides more from you than I thought. From both of us. Tell me, do you believe in this plan of his, or do you merely follow to recover what you have lost?”

That was an interesting question. Without his memories, The Dark Urge could barely form a sense of his identity. All he knew, and all he was, was the Urge. That Dark, festering blood within that pushed him to kill, that made him delight from the act. Everything else, he had no clue. Did he like anything other than killing? Did he even *like* killing? IT felt good, it felt like he was born for it . But he had no idea of his mind outside of the Urge. Did he believe Gortash could succeed? He did. His plan was sound, and he was ambitious enough to pull it off so far. 

Did he believe in his vision? He had never even considered it. Gortash had told him that they had been of one mind, but his mind was maimed and butchered since, and what was left… Didn’t know. He did admire Gortash’s skills and intelligence, but his vision felt like it was still clouded, hidden from him. 

No, what he did, he did for practicality’ sake. He had no way of knowing what the banite’s intentions were, and he couldn’t care less about world domination while so much of himself was lost. 

“I need him. And he needs me. It’s a transaction.”

The shadow of a smile formed on the general’s lip. “Then perhaps I can make a better offer.”

 

_

Days passed without news. Gortash was not one to let anxiety bother him- instead he chose to focus on his duties in the city. He had a political campaign to run, and propaganda required to sway both the masses and the Patriars. It was hard to tell which of these two was the most annoying. On the one hand,Patriars were easily swayed by material means, but that meant they were easily swayed in the other direction as well. The masses, on the other hand, were hard to predict and unite under an opinion. Propaganda and murders worked in creating a feeling of restlessness within the inhabitants of the city, but quite a few people came to the wrong conclusions even when they were pointed in the right direction. Rumours of absolutely inane nonsense regarding the absolutist murders would eventually surface and spiral in frankly ridiculous scenarios. 

Both were a specific kind of headache to deal with, but Gortash managed the situation well, and by Bane’s will, he would soon be made an Archduke. The First Archduke of Baldur’s Gate. 

 

Still, at times, Gortash did find himself looking out towards the sun and wondering what was going on in Moonrise. There were too many variables for comfort. He had  made a bold choice to trust The Dark Urge with that mission. He wasn’t the same man as he had been before, in spite of his willingness to help. The banite had to remind himself that The Dark Urge he had once  known was gone for good, and so was the predictability and surprise that came with the character. It was no easy task regardless, to look upon a familiar face and remain unaffected by former knowledge. He wondered if he had made a mistake, but he wanted to believe he hadn’t. 

Even as a week passed, He didn’t lose his faith. That plan had to work, and if it didn’t, he would take things into his own hands.

 

It was early in the evening when he heard a knock on the door. “Come in.” He called from his desk. He was still hard at work notifying his network of the actions to take  to keep the main players in the city ready for action.

He heard the heavy footsteps before he looked up to see a familiar dragonborn standing in the doorway. His eyebrow shot up in surprise- And then he glared as he noticed the blood on his gusest’s clothes and hands, dripping onto the banite helmet the dragonborn was holding..

“Your guard dogs wouldn’t let me in.” The dragonborn said with wide grin, dropping the helmet unceremoniously on the ground as he stalked towards Gortash’s desk. 

He let out a heavy sigh as the chosen of Bhaal stepped behind him, and he felt hands on his shoulder. “Did you miss me?” 

He put down his quill and slapped the hands away. “Enough, Orin. I don’t have time for your games.”

A giggle, and dust scattered as the shapeshifter returned to her original form. Gortash coughed lightly, and rolled his eyes as he felt a dagger on his throat. “You should learn how to have fun Lordling” Orin declared, as she dragged her dagger off Gortash’s neck, just barely grazing the skin. Then she waltzed back into view, grinning from ear to ear/ “What gave it away? Is it the outfit? My dearest brother always had a boring taste in dress.” She asked.

“Everything. From the killing to the energy in your step.” The banite said as he crossed his arms. 

Orin wouldn’t stop grinning. “Look at you, Bane’s favourite  little boy, who knows a child of bhaal better than his own blood!” The smile was replaced by a grimace of disgust as she planted her  dagger into the wood of Gortash’s desk. The chosen of Bane didn’t move a muscle. He was used to Orin’s antics.

“Or perhaps you’re getting too distracted with bothering me to act properly.” He retorted, before he rose from his chair. “Do you have a reason for being here, or were you just afraid I would forget about you?”

Orin growled, picking up her dagger once more to aim it at his face. “I can’t kill you, but maybe I can peel your flesh? Just a little, see you squirm, let it scar.” 

He didn’t move. He didn’t trust Orin, but the pact she had made prevented her from taking action. She wouldn’t lift a finger on him. 

Just as he thought, the woman dropped her arm to her side, a frown on her black lips. She turned around, her braided hair swinging over her shoulder as she did so. “My bloodkin is back. You should make him sing  the song of cruel death before I do. Or he makes you sing, lordling. My  blade is bound, but his isn’t. Either way- Father will have blood.”

With a twist on her ring, Orin disappeared.

She may have been a loose cannon, but the current chosen of Bhaal was no liar. Gortash sat back down and picked up where he had left off- Or he meant to, until he realised that Orin’s dagger had cut through his letter. He sighed, and decided to go out instead.

 

If he had doubted Orin’s words, they were quickly confirmed as he entered the safehouse and saw servants passing by with fresh food. It was getting late, and if the Dark Urge had indeed just gotten back, he was certainly starving.

As he stepped inside the dining room, one of the servants almost dropped his dish in surprise. “Lord Gortash! We didn’t know you were coming! We’ll add one more place setting!” He smiled at the  servant, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Be sure that you do. And bring my special wine.”

The dragonborn must have heard his  voice, because he raised his head as he chewed on his food. He was sitting at the end of the table. He stared right at him for a moment, before he returned to his food.

Gortash took a seat next to him, and waited as the servant hurried in to bring his serving and the wine. He hadn’t eaten yet either, so he decided to eat as well, although in a much less rushed manner than his ally. The Dark Urge had opted to eat his meat without using the cutlery at his disposal. Some things hadn’t changed. He must have been hungry after his time in the shadow cursed lands near Moonrise tower. Gortash had never stayed there for very long, the place was positively dreadful for the skin- and scales.

“How has your stay in Moonrise towers been? Ketheric has been a pleasant host, I hope?” 

The Dark Urge eyed him and took a moment before he answered. “That place is awful.” He concluded.

Gortash laughed. “Too much death even for you?”

“Not too much death. Too many dead, not enough actual deaths.” The dragonborn corrected, wiping his clawed fingers on a napkin in a decidedly delicate manner.

The banite hummed. “It’s true that most of them have been long dead. No wonder our dear General loves that place. It’s to wonder if he ever intends on moving forward with our plan, with all that delay.”

“He is held back by a group of Harpers, who are after whatever relic keeps him immortal.” The dragonborn explained. He wasn’t lying, but something was strange about his  tone. Orin wasn’t wrong- Gortash knew him well, and if his memories were gone, some things came naturally to the mind. How to breathe, how to speak, how to move.

“Is that why he sent you back? To ask for help?” The banite raised an eyebrow. It was quite unlike the general. “He insisted that it wasn’t to ask for help. He merely wanted to inform you. And for me to inform you that I have  found nothing… untoward , as he put it.”

Gortash hummed, taking time to take in the aroma of his wine before he took a sip of it. When he put his glass back, he had come to a decision on what to say next. “Good. I suppose he’s not too fond of you lurking around?” the dragonborn snorted at the words, amused. “”Not too fond is” a euphemism.” He took a sip of his wine as well, and frowned before he started coughing. His blood-red eyes were transfixed by the liquid for a moment, then he snapped out of it and his gaze shifted to Gortash, cold anger clear on his face.. “What is that?” He asked. “It tastes strange, doesn’t it? Don’t look at me like that, it’s not poison. Or even magic.” His companion  didn’t seem convinced. “What is it, Gortash ?”

The banite smiled a little at the tone in his voice when he had said his name. That too, hadn’t changed. “It’s a wine I procured from the Hells.” He said; as he took another sip of the quite frankly vile drink. The smell was strong, almost sickeningly sweet. In the mouth, the first thing to hit the tongue was the taste of overripe, almost rotting fruits, and as the liquid left the palate, it left a dry-bitter aftertaste, and burnt on the way down like the strongest of liqueurs. Devils loved that thing, and Gortash had made a habit of taking it out on special occasions, as a reminder. 

The Dark Urge grimaced, and quickly poured himself a glass of water. 

“Any memories resurfaced from your journey to the Towers?” He finally asked the dragonborn. “I just know I’ve been there before.” Gortash nodded. “You have, indeed. We found the brain, and Ketheric, in The shadowcursed lands. I figured it might help you recall some things.” The Dark Urge remained silent for a few seconds. And then, without so much as a preemptive muscle twitch as a warning, he threw himself at Gortash, sending them both crashing to the ground. Gortash found himself pinned under the  dragonborn’s body weight, a dagger to his throat. He kept the man’s arm away just enough to prevent the blade from pressing on the skin and  risk tearing. But he was strong. Much stronger than an average human, and even than your average dragonborn. 

“So this is why you’ve been looking gloomy all evening.” Gortash attempted a smile through gritted teeth, as it took him no small amount of effort to ward off The Dark Urge’s murderous rage.

“It’s time for answers, Enver Gortash.” The Dragonborn hissed.

Chapter 10: Chapter 10

Notes:

Extra points to the person who finds all the hints at Gortash and Durge's relationship in this fic.!

Gortash always preferred diplomacy over violence. Whenever he was faced with a tense situation, he did his best to resolve it with the least bloodshed possible. After all, there were many ways of breaking a foe’s mind without even touching their body. 

 

“If you want answers, you only need to ask, why the sudden outburst of violence?” He said, as he was keeping the dragonborn at bay, like one would keep a mad dog from trying to bite their face. It wasn’t quite night yet, and the light of the setting sun threw shadow over the dragonborn’s face, obscuring his eyes which still shone red without reflecting any light.

The Dark Urge growled menacingly. “The time for games is over, Gortash.”

He pushed hard, crushing  Gortash’s arm under his force, and the blade made a cut in the banite’s neck. “I quite agree.” He answered.

The moment he spoke, his hand was bathed in a dark blue smoke, and a magical force sent his assailant  flying back. The dragonborn’s body hit the table, which in turn was flipped over by the impact, followed by the sound of glass and porcelain shattering on the ground. The dragonborn ended up slouched against the table, laying among the scattered food bits and shards of broken porcelain and glass. He appeared stunned, and didn’t move as Gortash rose to his feet. The banite touched his neck and frowned as his fingers came back stained red by blood. It was a deeper cut than he had thought, but it wasn’t much worse than a shaving cut.

Servants rushed in the room to see what was happening, but a single look from the master of the house sent them scuttling back to where they had come from.

Gortash walked over to the still- stunned man on the ground. He wondered if he had overdone it, but he wasn’t about to get any closer to check. He knew how vicious bhaalists could be, especially that one . Even with his dagger out of his hand, he had claws, teeth and magic at this disposal. 

“Get up.” Gortash told him. The dragonborn slowly rose his head, hatred burning in those red eyes of his. “When I say  there’s no need for violence, I mean it. This is your last chance to get your answers. If you choose to oppose me again, I will not tolerate it. I am patient, to a limit.”

There was a small chance that The Dark Urge wouldn’t relent. As much as he would mourn their alliance, no ally at all was  better than a fickle one. He couldn’t blame the man for having questions and being confused regarding where his allegiance lied, especially if Ketheric Thorm proved treacherous  and had made a move. Perhaps it was time for a show of good faith.

The dragonborn huffed, and reluctantly got up. He showed no more signs of aggression, even if his red-hot stare still felt like it would melt through Gortash’s skull. He ignored it. “Good. I understand you have questions, and I am ready to answer them. You’ve become strong, and cannot be denied forever.” He looked around him, at the destroyed chairs and broken plates littering the floor. The large shadow cast by the western windows’ frames made it all look surreal. Red, orange and black like a long-forgotten dream or a dried out painting in the sun. Once beautiful, but it ended in disaster. He sighed. “Let’s go somewhere more comfortable and private, shall we?”

 

-

 

They moved from the ruined dining room to the sitting room. The Dark Urge followed wordlessly, still not entirely convinced that the night wouldn’t end in blood. It would entirely depend on Gortash’s answers. Night was slowly falling, and servants had lit up candles inside the room. 

Gortash took a sit, and gestured for his companion to sit across from him. With a moment of hesitation, The Dark Urge did as he was invited to do. His blood still ran hot, and he was still moments away from snapping and ripping theman’s throat out. But he had to admit that killing Gortash would be a waste. He was a powerful ally, after all. One would argue, far more powerful than Ketheric could be.

“Tell me, what questions plague your mind?” The banite asked, opening his arms as he spoke. The picture of honesty and openness. What a joke. Control. The Dark Urge took a deep breath.

“Tell me who did this to me.” The Dark Urge demanded. He pointed at his own head to make sure he was understood. Gortash let out a sigh. “Is that it? Very well- It was Orin The Red. A bloodthirsty killer, much like yourself- But less subdued.”

It was just as Ketheric had said. The bastard had known it all along, but he had kept it from him. The Dark Urge felt anger rise once more, a rope held taut, ready to tear. “I hope you have a good reason to have lied to me.”

He frowned. “Did I lie to you? I told you I didn’t know what had happened- And that is the truth. The only reason I know about it is because Orin herself came to brag about it to me.” 

“Don’t act the fool. You hid that from me. You could have told me this, and I can only assume many other things. But you didn’t. Is that not considered lying? Now speak banite, and think carefully about your next words, they might be your last.” 

 

Gortash glared in disdain. He had been keeping up appearances so far, concealing his annoyance and irritation, but it seemed even he had his limits. “I do wish your stubbornness wasn’t an innate trait. It’s hardly your best quality.  But very well- Tell me, what do you plan to do now that you know who tried to kill you?”

The answer was obvious. “Kill her. But I asked you a question, didn’t I?”

“ And just you answered it.” His face hardened, and he pointed at the dragonborn’s chest to reinforce his point.  “You have no idea how powerful Orin is. You were weakened, you had no memories and you have no clue what Orin is capable of anymore. So yes, I could have sent you after her, and come visit your corpse once it had been exposed for all to see in the city.” 

The Dark Urge clenched his fists. “You would stop me from having my revenge?”

“You have always been a skilled killer, my friend. And I have no doubt that at your peak, you would have easily disposed of her in a face to face confrontation- Which is why she resorted to assassination instead. But at the moment? You are no match for her. She knows everything about us, and you know nothing. When I told you our alliance was beneficial to us both- I wasn't lying. I will be taking down Orin with your help, but only when the time is right.” 

“Why would you do that? Out of kindness of your heart? If she is so dangerous, wouldn’t she make a fine ally?” Things just weren’t adding up yet. Too many blanks, too many unanswered questions and questions he didn’t even think of asking.

Gortash clicked his tongue. “She is unreliable- She thought herself better than you, and ruined everything because she cannot control herself. I need someone I can trust to lead our plan to completion. You were this person once, and you could  be again, if you can get past your fears and trust me again.”

The dragonborn wanted to be angry so desperately. To stick a knife in the man’s skull and be done with it. But every time he spoke, he couldn’t help but want to trust him. There was something easy and familiar in the idea, like it was the natural thing to do. Gortash was the only person to have helped him. He was the one who kept him the closest, and if it wasn’t for all the damned secrets, The Dark Urge could have trusted him. “Trust? You speak of trust, when you keep so much from me? When I still don’t know who I am, or what to believe? You expect trust ?” Anger again, frustration- Regardless of who he believed, he knew that he would be the losing party. 

“I understand your frustration. And if it were up to me, it would  be much simpler to tell you everything. But there are some things I cannot reveal, my Lord bid me not to. And I will not defy Lord Bane for yours, or anyone else’s sake”

The Dark Urge growled in frustration. He grabbed his dagger- and threw it at one of the tapestries, beheading one of the creatures on it as the blade cut through the fabric. He understood not being able to defy the Gods. But gods be damned, he needed to know. 

“How do you expect me to trust anything when I can’t trust my own damn mind!” 

 

For the first time since the cleric had healed him, The Dark Urge felt a nasty headache coming in, and he clutched his temples. It made him even angrier, to be that pathetic. He felt powerless, and all he wanted was to give in to his blood and do what he did best- Kill mindlessly. No need for alliances and plots, no need for thoughts. Just pure slaughter. But that wasn’t who he wanted to be, either. He didn’t want to be some rabid animal. He wanted to get his life back into his own hands, not someone else’s. 

“I don’t know what it is to forget one’s past, but I do know what happens to those who cling too hard to it. Your past doesn’t have to define you.” 

The tone in Gortash’s voice was unusual, to say the least. When The Dark Urge looked at him, He was staring at the torn tapestry with a distant look in his eyes. It was perhaps one of the first times the dragonborn didn’t feel like he was talking with a devil trying to take his soul, but to a person. But was that an act, or him dropping a mask to look vulnerable? 

“ I am thrown in a grand scheme without a clue of who I am, and who these people are. They all know me better than I know them, better than I know myself. I feel like my past is important.” 

Gortash hummed. “What did you think of the hellish wine from earlier?”

The change of topic gave him pause. He furrowed his brows but answered nonetheless. “It was disgusting.”

“What if I told you that it used to be your favourite wine?” 

“Is that true?” The dark Urge couldn’t imagine anyone liking that thing. He wouldn’t even call it wine.

“Regardless of the truth of it- If I told you that it was, for certain, your favourite drink- Would it change how you feel about it now?”

“No. It’s disgusting.” He said. He pretended to not think about the deeper meaning behind the words, but he knew where Gortash was getting at.

“I don’t think people know you that well. They think they do, but you are a new person. And this- Is your biggest strength, my friend.” He smiled a little at that. The Dark Urge merely hummed. His sour mood had yet to be gone.  Blood still ran hot and he was frustrated for not getting his kill. Gortash continued. “Whatever your past self did and wanted, what matters is what your present self wants. And what I’m offering you is but an option. You could kill me. You could take my head back to Ketheric. You could  leave and never come back. You could even take your own life, if your situation is so grim. So, why don’t you?”

 

Why, indeed. The truth was- He felt he had no good option, but he wanted to try anyway. What Gortash promised- The power he talked about, it was certainly enticing. But beyond that aspect, the true reason The Dark Urge stayed- He wasn’t sure he knew himself. Thinking about it made him feel strange, like he was swimming in dark waters. Instead, he decided to make light of the situation. “Will I find an ally like you anywhere else?”

Gortash’s eyes widened in surprise. He had clearly not been expecting this answer. He quickly recomposed himself though, but it was too late.  The dragonborn smirked. “If I had woken up anywhere else, murdered someone in cold blood before them, tried to kill them- I’m not sure they would have made me their bodyguard.” 

The banite chuckled awkwardly. “Yes, I suppose not everyone is as used to death as I am. But I’m sure there are a few cutthroat mercenary bands out there who would have you.” 

That much was true. Perhaps… It was simply easier to stay while he figured things out. To be guided and stumbling upon past memories. And he didn’t feel the hostility he felt for Ketheric around Gortash. On the contrary- He had come back determined to end the lies, and with just a few words, the anger he had felt, the doubts about his honesty, they were all gone. 

A chosen of Bane was expected to be charismatic and convincing. But it wasn’t so much how convincing he was, but more that The Dark Urge felt somewhere within that he wanted to trust him. Perhaps a lost part of himself who had once trusted Gortash, even liked him. “If your words can be trusted- Then we were close, and I respected you. I suppose this makes you a decent person to work with.”

“Interesting, but that’s your past self again. What does your present self think of me? What if I told you we were mortal enemies? Or the closest and nearest friends? Does it change anything?” He asked with just the hint of an amused smirk.

“It doesn’t. I still don’t feel like killing you- Not  Anymore. Not yet. You get the picture. You’re the best bet I have at the moment.” 

“Do you feel better then? No more murderous rage?”

The dragonborn frowned. “No, not anymore.” A part of him was almost disappointed it didn’t end in bloodshed- But it was for the best.

Gortash smiled and clasped his hands together as he got up. “Perfect. Now that it is settled- How about we talk about your time in Moonrise, and how to deal with our dear General?”

The Dark Urge couldn’t help but smile. Ketheric had made the wrong bet, and it was time to pay up. Perhaps he didn’t know Gortash as well as he thought… Or the Dark Urge. And thus, it was time for him to retire.

 

The two men spent the rest of the evening discussing their options. Gortash had to be informed of the whole situation, and they had to take into account the fact that KEtheric Thorm was still unkillable, and that they still had no idea where exactly the artefact was- Which meant he probably kept it close. The Harpers were another issue, although in their current situation, they could probably make use of them.

The Dark Urge’s idea was to use the Harpers to get to Thorm’s precious relic, get rid of it, and the moment he was vulnerable, get rid of the man. His banite ally agreed, but it would be difficult. The Dark Urge wouldn’t be able to return to Moonrise without a fight, as it was obvious he hadn’t betrayed Gortash. Last Light would be his only place of respite. But he didn’t intend on keeping it a safe haven. The cleric would die. As soon as the Harpers were set on the right track, he would make sure Isobel met her end. Those sent to retrieve the relic would suffice to keep Ketheric busy. The others were civilians, and lower ranking Harpers. They would all be consumed by the shadows. 

“Then it is set. You will go back to the Shadow cursed lands, help the Harpers get to the general’s relic. And I will stand at the ready. Together, we will bring Thorm back to heel, or we will dispose of him.” Gortash declared.

 

And so it would be done.

 

The Dark Urge was allowed a few days of rest in the city before he went back. He didn’t linger too long, but the rest was appreciated before undertaking such a daunting task.

As he saw the shadow cursed lands looming on the horizon that time, he knew exactly what to expect and where he was going, and he didn’t even slow down.

 

He was welcomed back to the Last Light Inn without nearly as much suspicion as he had before. And that time- He had information. He knew where the mausoleum was, and he had every intent on showing them the way. Jaheira was not one to rush into action without thinking though, and as she listened to his partially made-up tale of how he got the information, she kept a critical look in her eyes. She really was too clever for her own good. But her scrutiny would prove worthless in the end, as the story he had come up with made sense, and the information he was bringing was too good to pass up on. In the end, Jaheira declared: “I will got to the Mausoleum with you. When we know what we are up against, we’ll bring the other Harpers with us. We have to be careful to not overdo it, Isobel must be protected.”

A clever move, which spoke of years of experience as a leader- and a willingness to sacrifice herself to save her people. How sweet. “Aside from the shadows, the biggest risk is Balthazar. But I think we can pretend to be sent by Thorm to help, just long enough to properly assess the dangers we’re facing.”

“Agreed. As much as I hate the idea, I won’t let pride get in the way of our mission. Ketheric Thorm must die.” The Harper said, and the others cheered as she spoke. They were hopeful once more. They finally saw the light at the end of the tunnel, a possibility of respite.

For some of them, perhaps that hope would come true. But for the others- The shadows of that place would swallow them whole, body and mind, and hope wouldn’t save them.

The Dark Urge smiled along with the Harpers, but it wasn’t for the same reason. Not that they would ever know.

 

Jaheira didn’t lose any time. After she left her Harpers with clear instructions on what to do in her absence- Or should they not come back- She departed the Last Light inn, without so much as asking for The Dark Urge’s opinion on the matter. She was used to give orders and being followed, and clearly didn’t care much outside of her own objectives. Lucky for her, the dragonborn was not a straggler, and he followed with ease as she made her way towards the cemetery. Or former cemetery? From the numerous skeletons spread about and he overturned earth, it appeared not a lot of the dead remained inside their coffins in these parts.  And who would bother to bury the fallen? Most of the time, the curse took them before their bodies even hit the ground, and it was better to leave than risk knowing the same fate. What use was a cemetery with no dead to keep or bury? 

In the current state of things, its only use was to raise undead to fight at one’s side, which The Dark Urge did, just in case their plan went sideways. Jaheira didn’t comment on it. She hadn’t said much ever since they had left. All she did was look ahead with a determined look on her face, although occasionally, the dragonborn could have sworn she looked at him with those judgmental eyes of hers. He couldn’t tell if she was suspicious, or merely curious of his skills. 

Either way, he couldn’t wait to be rid of her.

 

They approached a Large structure which they had no issue identifying as the Thorm family Mausoleum. Its size, and the path of armoured corpses that littered the ground before it were strong giveaways. Dark Justiciars, and former Harpers and Druids had all perished in the fight against Ketheric and his horde a century ago. All that remained of their struggle was the brand of their failure- The Shadow Curse that held the lands in its grip and will keep holding on for as long as no one found a way to cast it away. Jaheira stopped as they stood before the gutted doors of the Mausoleum- Which had been forced from the inside, from the looks of it. She clenched her fists and closed her eyes in what could have been a silent prayer, or perhaps a curse. “It’s time we find a way to fix the failures of the past.” She said, And she stepped inside.

 

The Mausoleum was as it would have been expected- The air was damp, and the smell of dust and decay was heavy in the air. The Dark Urge’s face scrunched up at the smell. He didn’t mind the smell of blood and gore, but there was nothing of interest left on bones. As they walked around, trying to find anything of interest, they noticed bones everywhere, desecrated into totems or otherwise spilled on the ground. Jaheira furrowed her brows as they passed by a symbol- “Myrkul?” She laughed bitterly. “It seems Ketheric changes gods more often than I change blades.” The Dark Urge eyed a raised brow. She chuckled. “These things are too brittle for some creatures. Dragons, for example.” 

Eventually, they reached a tomb, at the centre of which an empty sarcophagus throned. The plaque read a familiar name- Isobel . 

“Isobel?” Jaheira quickly recovered from her surprise. “No wonder Thorm is after her.”

The Dark Urge kept quiet. The cleric, Isobel. The one he craved to end so dearly, whose life burnt bright, like a candle begging to be snuffed out- Was the Corpse- General’s daughter? He bit his tongue until he bled to not start cackling. How delicious. Perhaps he should bring her desecrated head to Ketheric once he was done with her. The reunion would bring tears to his eyes.

As he was lost in thought, Jaheira was busy looking around for anything of interest- and it seemed she had found hidden switches. She hit the last of them and a piece of the wall opened to reveal a passageway. As they stepped inside, the remnants of Sharran architecture welcomed them. A platform above the emptiness below was their only way forward. 

“Should we go back now that we’ve found the way in?” The Dark Urge asked. Jaheira hesitated. “We still haven’t seen Balthazar. Who knows what he’s doing down there, or where he is. Let’s go in discreetly. I don’t trust this place.”

Having no reason to oppose that choice, the dragonborn nodded, and they stepped on the platform which led them down, deeper into what looked more and more obviously like a Sharran temple. Effigies of the goddess watched over their every movement, and her voice even sounded in their ears. A shiver ran down The Dark Urge’s spine. He was well aware of how dangerous that place was. 

Sneaking in wasn’t hard- As they didn’t spot a single living soul- or even an undead one. The place was huge. The ceilings were metres upon metres highs, and they often found themselves staring into a chasm as they checked out every corner. 

Eventually, they heard fighting sounds not too far ahead, and discreetly approached. 

There, they found armoured sharrans fighting with undeads. Neither side was made of people- Only corpses and remnants of soldiers that had been discarded by the world and brought back as mindless weapons. The reason for the fight wasn’t clear, aside from the obvious disdain of the sharrans who referred to Balthazar as “Myrkul’s fat lapdog.”

Jaheira chuckled quietly. “It seems Shar isn’t so pleased of Thorm’s betrayal.” Her voice wasn’t above a whisper, and they remained unnoticed.

“We should go back. It seems that we could handle him with a couple of veterans at our sides.” The Dark Urge said. The druid nodded that time. As they turned on their heels to go back, the dragonborn kicked a stone with his feet. It flew into the broken shield of an armoured corpse. The sound, a loud CLANK, echoed in the whole room, perhaps even the whole temple, signalling their presence to everything around.

 “Fuck.” Jaheira said, drawing her sabres. The Dark Urge smirked at the swear word. She was quite an interesting character, for an old druid.

They would have to fight.

Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Notes:

Warning for this especially violent chapter- Graphic murder scene, and generally disturbing content due to Durge being Durge.

The undeads proved to be rather resilient. They fought each other, and occasionally a few ran at Jaheira and The Dark Urge. At first, it seemed almost manageable. Two against a dozen, which occasionally fought each other in turn. But as they felled the undeads, more justiciars  rose from seemingly nowhere. The waves didn’t  end- And it took The Dark Urge some time to notice Strange swirling masses of darkness all over the area, from which Dark Justiciars emerged, dark armours intact and ready to fight.

“We need to leave!” Jaheira called as she pushed away one of the justiciar. Their magic was starting to become quite dangerous, sapping their strength and making their aim weaker. Escaping would prove a difficulty as more and more enemies turned towards them. The only option they had, was to take out as many of them at the same time as they could. IT was risky in any underground setting, but the dragonborn figured that it was large enough to spare them the worst of the smoke. Focusing his magic with gestures and incantations, The Dark Urge cast a huge fireball, followed by another, which took out quite a few of them as the hall was drowned in flames.the smell of burnt metal and dust filled the air, and their eyes stung from the smoke. But it gave them just enough time to run. And run they did. Jaheira transformed into a panther and sent the enemy facing her flying by jumping on its chestplate- using the propulsion to escape out of the melee. The Dark Urge teleported to safety, towards the exit, and the two ran as fast as they could.

They killed off the last of the undead as they reached the platform and rose back to the surface, panting. Jaheira returned to her humanoid form, she looked quite tired, but she had a smile on her face. “You’re not half as bad. It’s a wonder the cult even got their claws on you in the first place.”

The Dark Urge took a deep breath, coughing a few times as the last bits of smoke clung to his nostrils and throat. “Not too hard if I have no magic left in me.”

The druid chuckled “Fair enough. At the end of the day, all we have is our teeth and claws.”

Thankfully, The Dark Urge had been gifted with particularly sharp teeth and claws, and he had learnt how to use them to his advantage. For example- It would have been easy to sink his claws in the druid’s neck and toss her down into the void below. But he needed her, so he didn’t. They would all die soon enough, but he had someone else in mind to go first.

 

Once back to surface level, they walked out of the Mausoleum in no rush. It was safe enough above ground. As they stepped outside, The dark Urge had almost forgotten how stale the air was in these lands. He wished he had been able to take a deep breath of fresh air to steel his resolve for the upcoming events. Instead, he had to settle on letting out a deep sigh.  “Let’s get back to the Inn. We need some help with  whatever  is going on down there.”

Thankfully, Isobel’s protection kept them from the shadow curse, and a daylight spell kept the shadows off them until they got back to the relative safety of Last Light. The Harpers swarmed them as they set foot in the courtyard. Their faces were grim, and a few of them expected bad news.

“We have found a Sharran temple underneath the Mausoleum. It seems the source of Thorm’s immortality is down there. So is his right hand- Balthazar, one of Myrkul’s followers.”

The Harpers remained  silent, waiting with baited breath for their leader’s next words.

“Harpers! It’s time we take up arms, and end Ketheric Thorm’s reign of terror, and the Absolute threat on the city!”

The Harpers cheered, weapons and fists raised. Jaheira’s lips curled up into a proud smile. She turned to one of her harpers. “Did you secure the item?”

The Harper nodded, and ran to look for something that The Dark Urge almost immediately recognised. A moon lantern. It seemed they had kept themselves busy while he had been away. Jaheira took the lantern, raising it. “This, is what the Absolute’s troops use to travel the darkness. With it, we will all make our way to the Mausoleum, and then to Moonrise.”

As the white light of the lantern bathed the small crowd gathered in the courtyard, smiles of hope blossomed on every face. The Urge within hissed, and then it boiled, thinking of the Cleric. Soon. Soon. 

Some of the Githyankis had gathered around as well, and one of them approached Jaheira. “If you are planning on taking the fight to Ketheric Thorm, we will join you- So long as you do not get in our way. Our priority is the artefact.”

The Harper leader smirked at them. “You’re welcome to join us, of course. Unless you feel like waiting here?”

The Githyanki scoffed. “You should  be begging for our help. But our tasks coincide. Count yourself lucky.” The Gith signalled to his companions. “Githyankis! With me! We ride!”

With that signal, Jaheira finally called: “Harpers! To arms!” 

Weapons and heads raised high, the Harpers started getting ready for the assault. They got armed, armoured and a few sharpened their blades a last time. Potions were distributed, and Isobel came down form her room to bestow her blessings. A few flaming fist soldiers joined the group, alerted by the commotion in the courtyard. None of them appeared high ranking enough to be taking that decision, so The Dark Urge assumed they were without leadership.

 

Jaheira went around and gave instructions to her Harpers, The Dark Urge in tow. He merely observed the scene without saying much. The Harper Leader asked a few of her people to remain behind, and once she was done with her rounds, she turned to the dragonborn.

“You should stay here as well.” She said.

The Dark Urge raised his brows. “Stay? Don’t you want my help down there?”

The woman smiled a little. “I’ll be honest with you- I don’t trust you. I expected you to try and stick a dagger in my back when we got to the Mausoleum. I even told my Harpers what to do if that happened.”

Realistically, she was right to remain careful. But still; The Dark Urge felt his pride hurt. Was he not a convincing hero? Perhaps the druid could smell the blood on his hands. “But I didn’t. So why so much suspicion?”

“It’s because you didn’t, that I need you to stay here. If you can be trusted, you will protect this place. If you can’t, then you won’t be laying a finger on  The relic. Surely you understand.”

Oh, he understood it well. He would be alone with a couple of Harpers, useless cattle and that Cleric keeping them all alive. “I don’t. But it’s your call, isn’t it? I won't be of any more use dead by sword than sitting uselessly here.”

She grinned. “You catch on quick. Keep up like that, and we might just become the best of friends.” On these words, she patted The Dark Urge’s arm and left.

 

The small army gathered in the courtyard, and they left, following the light of the moon lantern, with Isobel’s blessing on top of it.

They would certainly be gone for a while. But how long exactly? As they left, only the civilians, Isobel and some guards remained. It was just enough to keep intruders out until the biggest of the troops came back.

Silence fell again on the small inn, and it was even quieter than before, but somehow, the air felt even lighter. As The Dark Urge watched everyone get back to their occupations and duties, he noticed that they were smiling. They had the same tired look as before, the same shabby appearance, but they looked radiant . Hope. They thought they were out of the woods, or would be soon. The Urge coiled within, a snake getting ready to strike when its prey let its guard down. The moment had come.

Just as he swallowed back his saliva heavily, trying to calm down, a familiar, charming voice disturbed the dragonborn’s thoughts.

“I know you must feel frustrated, but I think Jaheira only wants what’s best for everyone.”

He slowly turned to look at the young cleric. His heartbeat accelerated, his hands clenched into fists as he kept his maw tightly shut. He wanted to rip her apart. No need for weapons. He could chew on her neck until she bled out, dig his fingers into her eyes and tear out her tongue. Not yet. Not yet. Not out there. 

“I understand.” He said. She smiled, tilting her head. “You still look down. Let me treat you to a drink.”

It was all he could do to nod and follow her back inside. The Inn didn’t have much else to drink than utter swill. The cleric was better off, as she only asked for water. The children poured the drinks. Even they looked excited. “Do you think we’ll reach Baldur’s Gate soon? Have you ever been there?” They asked incessant questions to the cleric, who smiled and answered each of them while The Dark Urge stared. He stared at the soft, barely perceptible pulse of her aorta. He could almost hear  her heartbeat, see each of her veins flowing with blood. He downed his mug and slammed it back down on the bar. The children were startled, which got Isobel’s attention. “Are you alright?” She asked.

“We need to talk in private. About the mausoleum.” The Dark Urge said. Isobel’s casual smile vanished, replaced by a grave look on her face. “I think I understand. Let’s go upstairs.”

The walk upstairs was too slow. Each step creaked under their weight and the sound frayed what little sanity The Dark Urge had left. Then the doors, opening, and then closing. And  the face as she turned to ask. “You saw my tomb, didn’t you?” She said, naively.

The dragonborn swallowed hard. It took all his energy to not start panting and drooling like an animal before his next meal. “You’re Ketheric’s daughter.”

“Yes. Please- There’s no need to tell the others. I don’t want them to worry.” The shadow of realisation fell on her face. “Jaheira- She knows.”

“Yes. Perhaps that’s why she left you here…” A grin crept up on the dragonborn’s face. He took a step forward.

The cleric furrowed her brow. “What do you…?”

“She left you here, alone with someone she doesn’t even trust. Maybe she really wants you and these people dead.” He took another step. 

Isobel, as sickeningly sweet as she was, was no fool. She stepped back. “Did my father send you?”

The Dark Urge chuckled. “Oh, no. Something much worse.”  

Without another word, he lunged at her. She shouted, but couldn’t fight off the heavy weight that slammed her onto the ground. 

Blood pounded in his ears, in his vision, everything around was consumed by the Urge. He sank his teeth deep into the Girl’s neck, but she moved and he got her ear instead. He managed to get a tasty piece of it before he felt a burn on his chest and hissed. She was using her acursed moon magic on him. But pain wouldn’t stop him. He smacked her across the face so hard he must have rattled a few teeth. And then he beat her skull again, and again. She shouted so he shoved his claws inside her mouth, and he scratched and pulled until she gurggled on her own blood; She couldn’t scream, she soon couldn’t even move. Every drop of warm blood on his scales made him shiver with ecstasy. Every sob, every strangled gurgle made him giggle, and he wouldn’t stop. Not until she had drawn her last breath. Not so long as her soul remained in that once pure body. He bit, he clawed and he crushed her flesh and bones. He felt her last breath leave her as he sank his teeth into her neck and pulled out the battered artery. She had already lost too much blood, her head was swollen and her mouth a bloody mess. Her eyes rolled back in her head as the light around fell. And then, screams. The Dark Urge rose to his feet to admire his handiwork.

Then he closed his eyes for a second and took a deep, shaky breath. He could smell blood and fear in the air. It wasn’t like the time he had killed that servant at all. No, he remembered it all. Every small detail was committed to memory. And he played the scene again in his head as the screams around turned to guttural groans. He shivered in delight. He hadn’t felt so good in a very long time, so complete. 

The sound of wings disturbed his celebration, and when he opened his eyes, an undead beast flew towards him- No- Towards Isobel’s corpse. He had been too distracted to notice, and by the time the creature took her in its claws, it was too late. He did try to shoot it down with a spell, but a single hit wasn’t enough, and the creature soon was out of reach. 

He cursed under his breath. It was probably that damn Ketheric. The creature was flying towards moonrise tower. Oh, well. The body was already in quite the state. More desecration would be more for his own personal pleasure than out of necessity.

 

As the shadows closed in, the cleric’s blessing lingered, unlike her soul. The Dark Urge was able to leave thanks to the effect of his cloak which had rendered him invisible upon the cleric’s death. All around  the inn, shambling shadow undeads roamed aimlessly. Pitiful things, they had been so close to salvation, only for it to be denied. And The Harpers- How they would rage for their mistake. How they would mourn. 

The dragonborn couldn’t help but smile, thinking of Jaheira’s face as she returned, victorious, only to be crushed under the weight of her own sins.

After all, wasn’t she the one responsible for letting a fox inside the hen house?

 

Once the seed of chaos sown, all that remained to do was to wait for it to bear fruits. The Dark Urge retrieved his moon lantern, which was surprisingly still functional after all that time stuffed in the darkness. He preferred to ignore the small creature inside, lest he was tempted to tear its wings off.

He found a nice elevated spot to watch the inn from, while having a view on Moonrise tower. Watching the surroundings would keep him at least somewhat busy, and if he grew bored, his memories could keep him plenty occupied… Of course, there was the matter of Sceleritas’ promise, the reward- And if he had been telling the truth, soon that reward would be his. He did wonder what it would be. He had been given a useful cloak for a single, unwilling kill, but surely the Cleric’s murder and the subsequent death were worth far more than a magical trinket.

 

After about an hour of deep contemplation, thinking of what he would have done if he had been given the opportunity to kill every inn inhabitant himself, a noise startled the dragonborn. He snarled at the intruder without even needing to see who it was. The damned Butler. “You’re late, and sneaking again.” 

Sceleritas bowed deeply in apology. “My unholy master, once again your servant fails you! I was busy trying to set order in your domain, it has recently been infested with a quite unpleasant parasite , making a mess in the piles of skulls and messing up the blood pools! Dreadful business.” He shook his head.

The Dark Urge rose to his feet. “I don’t care for your excuses. I want the reward you promised.”

The butler clapped his hands joyfully. “Of course master! I have had a glimpse at the girl’s mangled corpse! Such fine handiwork- You didn’t use any weapon, did you? You bestowed her with the most gruesome and intimate death. It brings a tear to my eye to see you back to yourself!” A single glare from his master cut short Sceleritas’ rambling. “Of course- Such an obscene act of cruelty deserves an equally obscene reward! Try on your new jim-jams. They’re a gift from your Father, it would be rude not to!” 

Before he could ask any questions, The butler started waving his hands, and a dark-red energy gathered from them. A magical seal appeared on the ground under the dragonborn’s feet- And he felt a seething, unholy rage rise in his chest, and his blood started to boil, and his skin felt like it was going to melt off- Until the feeling culminated in an explosion of unholy magic, tearing his bones and muscles apart. It pulled them, twisted them, ground them to ash until his original form was no more, and he stood as a behemoth, far above the ground. A being of pure rage, pure murder. He couldn’t speak- only snarl as he drank in his new body. Four arms with claws that could slice through metal, Hind legs strong enough to leap on any unsuspecting victim. His maw was built to  shred more than to bite, with its mandibles and several rows of razor-sharp teeth. Even his monstrous tail was sharp, spiked, such as a single hit from it could kill his weakest foes. And the tough, leathery hide covering his twisted body would make blades struggle to pierce through. He had become a perfect murder machine. It was glorious. 

Sceleritas stared upon him in adoration. “Look at how strapping you are, sweet, twisted master! This form is the slayer- A beast tailored to do what you do best- Slaughter!”

He looked at his servant, snarled, and swiped at him. Sceleritas only seemed to grow giddy. This considerably ruined his killing mood, so instead he turned back to his dragonborn form. The change was fast- and it left him feeling somewhat disappointed. He would need to baptise that Slayer form in blood soon, or it would be a waste.

“I cannot wait to see the Slayer in action, milord. But sadly, I cannot stay-”

“Wait.” He ordered his butler. The creature stopped in its tracks. “Yes Master?”

“I need you to deliver a message to Gortash.” 

Sceleritas didn’t hide his frown at the name. “Very well, I shall tell that banite whatever you need. Just for you.”

“You’re quite opinionated for a servant.” The Dark Urge remarked, which caused the butler to yelp. “You’re right, Milord, of course! I am but a servant, I just loathe to serve any other master than you- and the banite thinks himself suited to give me orders.” He shivered in disgust. The dragonborn rolled his eyes. “Do it however you wish- But tell Gortash that our plan is in motion. I’m waiting for the Harpers to do their part. They shouldn’t be long.”

“Very well, it shall be done, my wise, clever master. Your plan will surely be a resounding success! I need to prepare something to celebrate! Now, your servant will away. Do try to stay in trouble, yes?” The servant chuckled, and vanished.

The Dark Urge groaned. That servant of his must have been killed more than once in the past. He doubted that he could have stood its incessant blabbering and whining without flinching. 

 

More waiting. The Dark Urge decided to leave his current spot, even if it meant missing the moment the Harpers would arrive. He had a feeling that they would be done soon, and thus he decided to get closer to Moonrise tower. Gortash had told him about the mindflayer colony below. He had explained to him how to get in, and had established that they would meet there and wait for Ketheric to be forced to retreat. 

The hardest part would be to sneak inside- But the chaos caused by the Harpers would serve as a good cover.

In the meantime, he looked for a place to wait comfortably. There wasn’t much left in the ruins of the city, but out of the few buildings that remained, he spotted a tavern which looked mostly intact. he went inside, and took a seat upstairs, careful to steer clear of the fat undead monster that lurked lower. He simply didn’t know what it was or how it would react, but so long as he avoided it, it seemed to stay in its spot, drinking from a tankard of vile looking liquid. As for the other undeads, they seemed too busy shambling around mumbling to themselves to really care about anything.

The Dark Urge did wish he had a proper drink in hand, but even if he found a bottle of actual alcohol in that place, he wouldn’t dream of opening it. He could only wait. And wait he did, for hours. At some point he even dozed off, and to his surprise, no one and nothing came to disturb him. The undeads were still walking around aimlessly, the creature downstairs still drank from its tankard.

And then, all of a sudden, a flash lit up the sky. The Dark Urge jumped to his feet and went outside. Above, in the darkness, a single light lit up the starless dark of the sky, right above the mausoleum. Then, it rushed towards the city- Towards moonrise tower.  The Dark Urge followed, running to the entrance of the tower- and he saw holy fire rain down on the absolutists, the bright, soothing light swirling around the tower and dispensing justice upon Ketheric and his army. After The Last Light Inn, The Dark Urge recognised that light- Whatever it was, it was one of the Moonmaiden's servants. And it was his opportunity.

He cast an invisibility spell and rushed towards the tower as Z’rell and others ran out to see what was happening. They were too distracted to pay attention to potential invisible foes, and as he moved on to the throne room, he heard shouts and Z’rell ordering everyone to go back inside.

He didn’t care. He had somewhere to be.

 

The Dark Urge went underneath the tower. Beneath even the dungeon. As he climbed down into what could best be described as a tunnel of flesh; the smell of death surrounded him. He felt like he was getting digested in a creature’s stomach. The stench was a lot, but he couldn’t help but feel it was familiar. He had been in that place before. Gortash had told him he had. But he hadn’t expected for it to feel so sickeningly familiar. 

He finally set foot on firm ground- Firm was perhaps not the best way to describe it, as the flesh sank slightly under his weight, and the amount of corpses littered in the area made stepping around quite treacherous. That place had seen even more death than the Shadow cursed lands alone, he thought to himself. And the best part? Some of it was still fresh. 

From there, he wasn’t too sure where to go. Gortash’s instructions hadn’t prepared him for that kind of environment. He had been told to go lower once in the colony, so he would have to find a way to do just that.

He walked around and stumbled upon a room littered with pods. Inside, mindflayers and other prisoners were fast asleep. He approached one of the pods and he could hear a low mumbling inside, as if someone was talking in their sleep. The woman wore a Flaming Fist armour. All the dragonborn heard was “Ravengard.” The rest was nonsensical. 

He moved past the pods, crossing paths with scuttling little brain creatures. One of them stopped. It didn’t have eyes, a mouth or anything. Only a brain set upon large, clawed paws. But it felt like it was looking at him. He felt a psionic push into his thoughts as the creature tried to find purchase, but it only screeched and scuttled away. Perhaps it had something to do with the remnant of the parasite inside his brain?

He didn’t know, and he didn’t have time to care. He could only move forward through that strange place. He found yet another room with pods lined up near a pool of something that smelled acrid. Like a mix of potent vinegar and strong combustible. 

These pods were empty- But one of them stood out. It was covered in blood- and shattered. Most of the blood was inside of it, glued to the glass and slowly drying, the moisture in the air keeping it looking fresher than it must have been. As he approached, memories flooded back into his mind. He saw himself inside a similar pod. Hitting his head against the glass to the point he heard bones crack, slamming his fists and clawing until his fingers were raw and bloody. He remembered rage and someone’s laughter. 

He had been locked inside one of these before, of that he was sure. The memory made his blood boil. If Gortash could be trusted, the one to have put him there was Orin the red. Was it her laughter he had heard in his memory? 

He couldn’t wait to laugh in turn as he ripped her head off along with her spine. Perhaps  he would remove every other bone beforehand too, for good measure.

 

He kept moving, the smell of blood was particularly strong in one of the rooms, and he peered in to see a literal pile of corpse, and a strange looking-flesh pipe right above. A large man was busy chopping away at corpses, removing a brain from its cavity, and butchering the rest, as if to feed the growing flesh of that place. It was quite the picture, and The Dark Urge almost wanted to join in, butcher a few corpses, perhaps steal a bit out of particularly tender looking dwarven thigh- But he had to discard that thought. He had better things to do than to have fun. Perhaps later, he would come back and indulge. Or he would make his own little butcher shop in Baldur’s Gate. 

He moved on until he got to a platform which stood right above a precipice , and a large sphincter-door keeping that part of the colony sealed away from the rest. 

A strange looking device seemed to allow a user to operate the platfom- But no matter how he prodded it simply wouldn’t bulge. He sighed, and simply cast a spell to go down to the sphincter. As soon as he touched the flesh, the large “door” quivered and opened. Inside was a  large room, which stood before a vast pool of water. He also spotted a few dangerous creatures- standing around the rooms on platforms. A strategic positionning for guards. But they weren’t that many- A mindflayer and corpses. He didn’t wait for them to notice, and he attacked first. The slayer would be a fitting form for it- Even if undeads and a minflayer hardly counted as killing.

He turned, and leaped at the mindflayer first. With his razor sharp claws, he all but eviscerated the creature, cutting its tentacles clean. Black blood splattered everywhere and the Slayer Screeched in defiance and satisfaction. 

Next he leaped at the undeads, crushing one of them under his imposing weight. The others he smacked off the platforms with his tail, before jumping down and tearing them apart. He was fast, he was strong, and he had an unending fury burning through him. He was quick to dispatch the remaining resistance, a small group of those brain creatures- and when he stood alone, he finally turned back, letting the slayer rest. He was covered in black blood. Disgusting. It didn’t feel nearly as satisfying as any other living being’s blood. It was like shredding a puppet to pieces, instead of a living thing.

 

When the fury had settled, he noticed something on the central platform. Or rather- someone. And a familiar someone. He climbed and approached the limp form on the ground, and he couldn’t help but smile when he recognised Isobel. She wasn’t all bloody anymore- Her face bore countless scars but was not nearly in the state The Dark Urge had left her in. He knelt next to her, and he wondered if he should do it all over again as he traced one of the scars with his finger.

He hadn’t expected her to open her eyes. She wasn’t breathing at all, and her skin was as cold as death. And yet, she opened her eyes and stared at the dragonborn with empty eyes and a smile that was nothing like the one she used to have before. “It’s you.” She said.

The Dark Urge didn’t know if he should laugh or frown. It was somewhat satisfying to see her as a husk, but on the other hand, it wouldn’t be nearly as fun to ruin her again if she was a mindless undead.

He stepped back, decidedly disinterested. As he rose to his feet, Isobel did, too. “You’re the one who brought me back to father. Thank you.”

“ Thank you ?” The dragonborn chuckled. The cleric was oblivious to anything that pertained to the living. The mockery was lost on her. “Yes. I was foolishly resisting, but I am so glad to be back.” 

As she said that, The Dark Urge heard a noise before he saw anything. Behind the cleric, two individuals appeared. One, he easily recognised and was glad to see. Gortash, standing proud with an easy smile on his face, like a conqueror ready to get his prize.

The other, he didn’t recognise immediately. A woman, with a long, blond braid, pallid skin and skin-like clothes. Her eyes were as dead as her smile. He felt it before he could put a name on her- Rage, anger. The need for revenge. The slayer lurked right under the skin, ready to jump. Orin the red.

Before he could even move, Gortash approached, stepping right in his personal space. He grabbed his arm and leaned in to speak quietly. “Try to stay cordial. She is insufferable, but we need her for now.”

The Dark Urge glared at her, and then at Gortash. Their eyes met- He had a stern, determined look. They stared at each other for a moment,  the banite’s determination was contagious. The dragonborn felt himself relax. He was confident he would have his revenge. He nodded. Gortash grinned. “Excellent. I knew I could trust you.” He didn’t immediately let go of The Dark Urge’s arm, as if to make sure the words sunk in, and then he let go and turned to look at Isobel. “I suppose this is Ketheric’s daughter? What happened to her?” 

Orin looked at the cleric with a grin. “Did my bloodkin have fun with her, perhaps? I smell her blood on him.” 

Gortash hummed. “Well, it seems our good General brought her back. I wonder how many times he can do it?” He turned away from the undead and to his allies. “Anyway- I trust the Harpers have done their part, and Ketheric should be with us soon?”

The Dark Urge nodded. “They seem to have freed one of Selûne’s pet.” He said. 

“Perfect. Now- Me and Orin will be waiting here, with his lovely daughter. You, my friend, will wait in the shadows in case we require help. Hopefully, the General will see reason.” It didn’t look like he believed that. 

 

As for The Dark Urge- He hoped Ketheric wouldn’t cooperate…

Chapter 12: Chapter 12

Ketheric Thorm wasn’t long to appear. He was weakened, and carried a weakened Aasimar when he appeared in the room. The Dark Urge lurked in the shadows nearby, watching as the general realised he had guests. He dropped the Aasimar off and cast a spell, which appeared to bind her magically. She was unconscious for the moment, but the creatures healed up fast. It wouldn’t be long until she got up. 

While Ketheric approached his allies, The Dark Urge got closer to the Aasimar. He made himself invisible for that opportunity. A closer look at the magic told him that it would be easy to break. All he had to do was get her out of the circle on the ground, and she would be freed- And if his understanding was right, Ketheric would become mortal again. He did just that, pulling the unconscious Aasimar out of the circle just enough to break the bond between her and the general.

But for the moment, he waited and listened in on the conversation.

 

“We don’t need excuses, General. We need the prism. You were meant to deliver it, and instead you have been stalling.” Gortash said, while Orin remained behind, rather close to a dazed Isobel. 

“And if you listened, you would know that I am close to getting it. You’re only getting in the way.” Thorn declared, with his usual monotone voice. He wasn’t afraid of Gortash, and the two clearly had a different opinion of who led whom.

“I have offered you help, Ketheric. Help which you turned away. I wouldn’t have come here if you hadn’t refused the hand extended to you over and over.”

The General scoffed. “You are not offering help, only distractions.”

“The distractions have been yours, general. But perhaps it is time to remove them.” He glanced at Orin, who grabbed Isobel and pulled her against her, her dagger to the woman’s throat. She barely reacted. “Father?” She called. Even to defend herself, she needed orders. What a sweet father-daughter relationship. The Dark Urge smiled- but only briefly, as Ketheric lunged himself at Gortash, fist raised to hit. 

Blood rushed to the dragonborn’s head, and before he realised it- The Slayer lunged at Ketheric, Screeching and pinning the General to the ground. Gortash reached for his cut and bruised cheek and wiped the blood from it with a smirk. “It seems you haven’t lost your edge. Too bad you didn’t use it on the right person.”

The Dark Urge kept the General pinned under his form. Ketheric tried to push him off- he was strong, but he was at a disadvantage with claws dug deep into his shoulders and an assortment of sharp teeth centimetres away from his face.

 

“I’ll ask again, General. Where is the prism? And this time- Do try not to lie.”

Orin laughed. “How many pieces are missing from my blood-kin’s murder? Maybe I can try to remove some more, and we can see how many times she can be brought back to undeath! Cut and remove the innards, pick at the brain. Let’s see if Myrkul can save her!” 

Ketheric struggled again, lifting his torso up in spite of the claws piercing through his dead flesh. But it was in vain. “Enough!” He shouted. “I will give you what you ask, if you let my daughter go. She will not be sullied by your blade, Orin.”

“Very Well.” Gortash said. He didn’t give any order, though. The Dark Urge reluctantly freed the general from his hold, snarling at him one last time for good measure. Gortash smiled at him with eyebrows raised as he looked him up and down in what seemed to be admiration. 

Orin reluctantly pushed the hostage away, frowning deeply. She gave the darkest glare at The Dark Urge as well, who forced himself to ignore her. His blood boiled and he wanted nothing more than to shred her to pieces and teach his bloodkin her place. The insolence felt an even bigger slight than the attempted murder. He couldn’t remember her, or at least, he had no precise memory of her. But he knew her words were true when she called him bloodkin. She was a stray little sister, one in dire need of discipline- One that would end in death. But later. 

 

General Thorm was quick to get to his feet and take his daughter. Then- He pulled his sword and ran her through. A quick gesture, without an ounce of hesitation. “My Lord will bring her back. As he has before. I will not betray him. He wants that prism, and he shall have it. If you want it, you will have to get it yourself.”

The banite glared. The Dark Urge had rarely seen him so angry. He stepped forward, and just as he did, Ketheric threw himself into the water below.

A green flash, and then fumes rose up from where Ketheric had fallen. And soon, the ground was shaking, the waters grew agitated. Orin got into a fighting stance while Gortash backed up a little to watch as a gigantic skeleton torso rose to the Surface. ITs presence was crushing, it was freezing. Like feeling the cold hand of death seizing your heart and stopping its beating. Even the hot rage burning through the slayer couldn’t keep The Dark Urge from feeling that gutural cold in his bones. 

The Skeleton’s eyes had an eerie glow to them as it spoke, its voice made everything shake and tremble even as it seemed to speak in a whisper. “My Chosen’s life is not for you to take, servants of Murder- and nor yours to order, servant of Tyranny. I will rend your soul from your flesh, and take what is mine. I am the Lord of Bones. I am the last stop of your miserable existence. I am the End. You will not leave this place.”

“Come and be Murdered !” Orin hissed as she threw herself at the creature. Gortash smiled casually as he raised his fist, gauntlet cast in black shadows. “Once again, the Lord of Bones fails to see the bigger picture. No matter. I shall put you back in your place in My Lord’s name. The Black Hand will not be denied.”

As the two joined the fight, The Dark Urge shook the cold from his bones. The creature before him was none other than the Avatar of Myrkul, and facing it filled him with a thrill that couldn’t be explained rationally. It felt like an age- old rivalry reaching its climax, and his Slayer body trembled in excitation to lacerate the bones, to pry them one by one until it fell apart. He shrieked and jumped at the creature as it took a swipe at Orin- Who just barely dodged it, grinning all the while.

 

Soon, the Avatar of Myrkul wasn’t their only issue. Undeads started to emerge from the bloody halls of the illithid colony- It was the perfect place for the God of the dead to use his powers. A place literally built from corpses. A few came at Gortash who had no issues crushing them with a few hits. His versatility in combat never ceased to impress The Dark Urge- Who couldn’t waste time admiring as the undead rushed in large numbers. He lunged at a group of them, letting out a blood-curdling screech that left even the dead reeling, as well as his allies. He then swiped at the creature with his tail, sending them flying off the platform, before eviscerating another.

 

The three of them were skilled- But the sheer number of the dead rising made the fight tough. And the powers of the Avatar of Myrkul weakened them, making their bodies feel cold and stiff. Orin took a few hits of the Scythe, and Gortash almost got sliced in two if not for his gauntlet which allowed him to grab the scythe and stop it- not without sending him flying from the shock. He fell down from the platform, landing on his back below. The Slayer was a useful form- but as he jumped to rescue his ally from being overrun, he struggled to keep the creatures off his back. They swiped with their claws, they bit. The skeletons even targeted them with magic. Gortash eventually got back to his feet and joined the melee, but not before The Dark Urge had taken the brunt of the hits. Soon, he felt his rage simmer down and he couldn’t stay in his slayer form. 

It wasn’t much of a loss. He grabbed Gortash by the arm and teleported them both to the platform before he cast a devastating rain of ice shards over the battlefield.

“Nicely done.” The banite said. He was smiling in spite of his clear exhaustion. Blood ran down his temple and his coat was torn and bloody in places. “Get back in there. I’ll take care of the fodder.” The Dark Urge said. Gortash didn’t even hesitate, dark eyes fixed on the Avatar, intent on murder . “Let’s end this.” 

While Orin and Gortash threw everything they had at the Avatar- The Dark Urge got rid of the corpses with well aimed spells that decimated whole areas of the battlefield, preventing them from reaching the platform.

“This game is getting boring! Die already! ” Orin shouted as she gathered all her strength and split one of gigantic ribs in half. Another hit, and another one fell apart. She grinned widely as her daggers hit again and again, the weakened bones crumbling one by one. The Avatar swiped at them, Gortash dodged, and used the momentum to bring a decisive blow to the arm of the Avatar- Shattering it. The scythe fell heavily before it vanished. And from then on- The three of them ran down hell on their foe, until it all but crumbled to dust.

 

A lot of dust. It rose in the air- green like powder that filled their lungs and made them cough- until it settled, and nothing of the creature remained aside from Ketheric’s corpse.

Orin approached it, and kicked the general as she grinned. Then her smile faded. “I didn’t get to tear off the flesh from his bones. I wanted to see how he healed from that.” 

“I’m sure you’ll recover from this tragedy.” Gortash said, as he approached the corpse as well. The Dark Urge followed in tow. With the General gone, he had less distraction, and he couldn’t help but think that she would be next.

The banite knelt next to the corpse, and before he could do anything, Orin drew her daggers at him. “Tsk tsk, little Tyrant. Are you trying to take what isn’t yours?”

The Dark Urge drew his dagger as well. He didn’t need it- only to show he would not hesitate to answer in kind if Orin did anything unwise. Gortash had managed to convince him to let her live for the moment, but he wouldn’t spit on an opportunity to end it sooner.

Gortash sighed as he looked up at Orin. “Orin, my dear. You know you cannot harm me, nor I, you. Cease these childish distractions.”

Orin’s eternal grin vanished as she dropped her daggers. “Your blood is not mine to spill, lordling. But I will have my share. Or I will have him. ” She raised her dagger towards The Dark Urge. Gortash turned to look at him. “I won’t interfere in your family issues.” Gortash said, before he turned his back on him again. He picked up the prism, and started to dislodge the stone from The General’s armour. All the while, The Dark Urge kept glancing between Orin and the corpse, wondering if she would make a move on him or on Gortash.

But she didn’t move, she smiled though. “I see the worm hasn’t made you forget your calling, blood-kin. But you still turn from father, and accept the banite’s leash.”

“Father…” As he repeated the word, The Urge within soared with love and devotion. Father. The word brought to his mind a sea of blood and death. A lifetime of prayers and chanting and sacrifices. And a title- The Lord of murder. Bhaal. He was a scion of Bhaal. How could he have forgotten? How could he have not understood?

As the realisation sunk in, he lowered his dagger in confusion. He didn’t get a headache- but his vision blurred as everything he knew, everything he remembered and had learned was assembled into a large, bloody picture. He was the last and only remaining child of Bhaal, lord of murder. The Urge within was his father’s gift, and so was his talent for murder, the slayer- And Orin? She was kin, yes. But imperfect. That was why he had led her, led them- All the bhaalists- For years and years, until the little usurper thought herself good enough to try and take his place. His blood boiled, his nostrils flared as he bared his teeth.

“I will spill your blood in His name!” The dragonborn shouted, as he threw himself at Orin. She giggled, readying her weapons.

As The Dark Urge lunged at the woman, he saw red. He heard and saw nothing else than the traitor, the usurper, that unworthy servant who thought she could become a master. 

He slammed into something before he could lay his hands on her. He was seized around the waist as something pushed him back. He fought, clawed and snapped his teeth.

“Enough!” 

 

The voice felt like a punch through the gut, and like a bucket of ice on the head. The Dark Urge found himself frozen in place as his bloodlust was subdued. Only then did he realise that it was Gortash who had stepped between the two of them, and was holding him back physically. The dragonborn almost lost balance when the banite pushed him away. He glared at him, then at Orin. “Enough of this! Our plan is reaching its completion. Ketheric’s useless defiance almost cost us everything. We cannot commit the same mistake again. We have to work together, not against each other.” 

The two bhaalist glared at each other, but they said nothing. Gortash took Ketheric’s stone and handed it to The Dark Urge. “The General is dead, but balance must remain. I will give the stone to your sibling, Orin. And you will take Ketheric’s appearance to lead the army to the Gate. No need for extra diversion. We must fix this before it all goes to waste.”

Orin frowned. “I will lead the murder march? What about the temple? Do you want me to deliver it to your doorstep? Father will not stand for this. No, no.” 

Gortash sighed. “You only need to make an appearance when convenient as the fearsome General. Give the order to march, show up at the city gates- beyond that, you are free to proceed as usual.” 

Orin rolled her eyes. “Fine, little lordling. Perhaps it will be fun. Until I grow bored of that, too.”

“Excellent.” He turned to The Dark Urge. “As for you. We are going back to the Gate. Ravengard is secured there, and all that remains is to organise my coronation as Archduke. There, we will discuss the next steps.” 

“And I should follow you because…?” The dragonborn said. He didn’t like the tone in Gortash’s voice, he didn’t like that he couldn’t kill Orin, and he didn’t like that no one had told him of his heritage and walked him around like a puppy dog when he had a god’s blood coursing through his veins all along.

“Do you have anything better to do? Then if so, please be my guest.” The banite snapped.

Of course he had nothing better to do. He wanted to pretend that he did, just to contradict Gortash. But he wasn’t a child, and the Netherstone in his hand as he clutched his fists reminded him that he had power right at his fingertips. 

He bit his tongue and merely stepped down.

Orin giggled. “Good doggie.” Gortash didn’t even turn to look at her. “Orin. Keep to your part. We’ll see you in Baldur’s Gate.”

“What about the Aasimar? And the Harpers?” The Dark Urge asked. She was still unconscious, but had started to stir. “Leave her. If she and the Harpers make it, we’ll see them in Baldur’s Gate, won’t we?”

Gortash was clearly agitated, and eager to leave. “Now if we all agree on this, let us start the march on the Gate.” 

Both Orin and Gortash turned to face the water, netherstones raised. The Dark Urge joined them, and as the three netherstone shone, they started to resonate with something powerful underneath the surface. The ground shook once more, the water rippled and a colossal mass of fleas emerged from the depth. As it slowly emerged, water cascaded off its surface and the netherstones' lights intensified.

A  brain the size of a building eventually fully surfaced; a large crown resting on top of it.The Dark Urge  didn’t remember that. But as he looked at it, he felt something squirm behind his eye, in his skull. Was the parasite inside waking up? Or was it a comatose spasm? He didn’t know, but he shook the feeling and focused on the brain. A voice resounded in his mind, and he knew that every tadpoled creature heard it as well. “ Come- We march- “

The brain slowly turned, too heavy to efficiently move itself. It was terrifying. It was wonderful. The Urge within soared with prospect of murder. The Gate could be obliterated. But then it raged- Gortash wouldn’t let it. He would save it. He would prevent a slaughter to rule over the weak-willed.

Finally, with the order given, the three of them let the brain go to lead the army. Orin frowned as she lowered her dagger, and as she walked away, her body seemed to fray, skin and flesh burning and shifting into a new form- That of Ketheric. She was a shapeshifter. The Dark Urge had somehow forgotten about it. Then, she turned to smile at them and vanished. The dragonborn scowled. He wanted nothing more than to kill  her. Kill her, take back what was his. His very soul screamed for it. It demanded her blood, and it demanded control and destruction. “Let’s go back. I don’t want to stay in this place any longer than necessary. The smell sticks to you.” Gortash declared. 

The Dark Urge had no choice but to follow, even as something within told him that Gortash would have to go, too, so that he could rule. 

 

As soon as they got back to Baldur’s Gate, Gortash gathered his followers in their church. They had made a place of worship to Bane somewhere underneath the upper city, under the Watch’s nose. It was a surprisingly impressive place, clearly a requisition of some old temple to another divinity. As they gathered in the main hall, he  announced to his banite followers their success, and the last steps towards their domination.He was an impressive orator, that was for certain. Had the Dark Urge not been in a foul mood, he too would have  felt like rejoicing after listening to such a speech. As soon as Gortash was done speaking, he let his followers go. The banites had no time to celebrate, with the coronation happening in a few days. He tasked one of his high ranking banite secure the prism somewhere “as planned”. Of course The Dark Urge  wasn’t in the know. That was the church of Bane’s business, not his. 

He was a bhaalist, after all. And not just any bhaalist. A bhaalspawn. A leader. Or rather, he had been a leader, once. But as he stood in that place, he wasn’t a leader. He wasn’t even a follower. Perhaps he was a guest, or perhaps merely a dog. A Pet Gortash liked to keep around.

 

Gortash still had a meal prepared in the evening for the two of them, at the safe house. It had been The Dark Urge’s  home for the past months. And  yet, as he stepped inside, he felt nothing but contempt. Had it been a home, a safe haven? Or a prison? His true  home was somewhere else- The temple of his Lord father. W hen he closed his eyes, he could almost see the crimson pools amidst the cold, bloodied stones, almost hear the screams that echoed as someone was sacrificed  upon the altar, and almost smell the blood…

It was nothing like that stuffy place, which smelled of incense and firewood when the servants set up the table.

The dragonborn stared at the food placed before him on the table, but he had no appetite for it. Gortash took a sip of his wine and sighed in satisfaction. “In three days, we will dine in Wyrm’s rock fortress.” He said. The Dark Urge eyed him but didn’t comment. He put down his glass and joined his hands over the table. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think someone important died.” 

The dragonborn scoffed. “Someone important didn’t die.” 

“This is about Orin, isn’t it? I thought we had agreed-”

“She must die when you decide it? Tell me, Enver- “ The banite’s brows furrowed upon hearing his name spoken. “Who here should decided of Orin’s fate? You, the chosen of Bane, or me, Bhaal’s scion ? His chosen ?”

“ Orin is Bhaal’s chosen for now. It seems you remember enough to know better than me how the Lord of Murder chooses his favourite.” Gortash remained as calm as always, but there was something under his composure. He was irritated. And The Dark Urge intended on pushing him to make a mistake. 

“Murder. And yet, you got in the way of me reclaiming my place.” 

“I got in the way of you messing up our plan more than it is already messed up. Ketheric, in spite of his betrayal, was an essential piece of the puzzle. His name alone strikes fear in the hearts of the common folk. With him dead, Orin is our one way of keeping up appearances long enough for me to strike the fearsome general down.  You need to focus on what matters. This plan, we’ve worked on it for years . We cannot let petty vengeance get in the way, not when we’re so close-”

“ Petty vengeance ? The Dark Urge rose from his seat, growling. “This isn’t petty vengeance. This is my birthright. This is everything that was stolen for me. Everything you hid from me.” 

From the way Gortash leaned back in his seat and the nervous tapping of his fingers, the dragonborn could feel the tension rising in him. 

“I did not hide anything from you that I wasn’t forced to. I have told you that I was bound to keep your heritage strictly secret. It wasn’t negotiable.”

The Dark Urge laughed, as he approached the banite, towering over him. “But you took advantage of it, didn’t you? Was it fun to keep me around like a pet on a leash? Did you have fun parading the Lord of Murder’s child like your personnal guard dog?”

Gortash’s arm swiped everything on the table before him, sending everything flying across the room. Once again, the dining room was a mess of broken porcelain and spilled foodl. He got up, and if he was shorter than The Dark Urge, he was no less menacing when he was angry. His black eyes were colder than the void, and his aura was such that the bhaalist  almost took a step back. Almost. Instead he smirked. Finally, the facade fell. 

“I have always been honest with you. I have never done anything that got in the way of you getting back your power. If I  had wanted to keep you on a leash like a pet, you would be collared as we speak.” He grabbed a handkerchief to wipe his wine-stained gauntlet. Before he resumed. “ If you want to go after Orin on your own, be my guest. I can’t wait to see her scatter parts of your corpse all over the city.”

“I can take her. My Lord father has granted a great boon. You’ve seen it.”

“If you want to kill Orin, go. You can use that opportunity to drown yourself in the Chiontar, for all I care. Whatever you do- Get out of my sight . And only come back if you’ve decided to work with me, and not against me.”

They glared at each other for a moment. They were right in each other’s space, close enough that the dragonborn could see every detail on his face. The wrinkles between his brows as he glared, the ones around his narrowed eyes and the lines around his lips that underlined his scowl. And he could smell him, too. Smell the strong cologne, the lingering scent of something metallic and just the faintest whiff of alcohol from the spilled wine. He stared longer than he should have, seized by an impression of déjà vu. He shook the feeling off and merely stepped back to leave. 

He was ready. He would kill Orin, and take back what was his. He  wouldn’t suffer anymore distraction. Unlike before, he knew who he was. He knew his purpose, he knew his past and future. Everything he had been , everything he was meant to be, had been decided for him from his birth. He was a child of Bhaal, and he was born to rule in his name.

 

He didn’t look back.

 

Chapter 13: Chapter 13

Notes:

Trigger warning for graphic murder / and somewhat sexual content

The streets of the Lower city at night were never silent. From the outside, one could hear the shouts and cheers from the taverns and the occasional screaming from the poorest homes. Couples telling their loved one off for being drunk again, breaking pots, fighting. Parents yelling at children who sometimes ran out into the darkness, oblivious to the danger that lurked there. Or perhaps they knew, and they feared it less than the family whip. 

Outside, drunkards joked between friends, or mumbled and shouted to no one in particular. 

And yet, the streets felt quiet. The lack of crowd played a part, of course, but so did the lack of warmth in those shouts in the night. Those were the voices of people trying to forget their existence, trying to drown themselves in alcohol, violence or sex. 

The Dark Urge found these people made for  interesting victims. Their screams weren’t the screams of someone trying to call for help. They didn’t Thrash and claw and bite like people who wanted to live. No, murdering them felt like a mercy. It was giving them what they wanted but had never dared to do. Give them their ultimate peace, not the temporary one brought by alcohol, fights and sex. 

 

He wasn’t sure of his hunting ground for the night yet, but his feet ended up taking him to the Blushing Mermaid. The worst of them were there day in and day out, drinking themselves to a stupor and never coming out of their comatose states. At night, a lot more people drank and made merry. Sailors, mostly, but criminals, too. 

The floor was sticky with barely dried mead and the air smelt of alcohol, puke and a vague attempt at perfuming the area with something pleasant. That night, in spite of the rising chill, the upper deck of the Ship-like Tavern was occupied, and a waitress went between the tables, dodging grubby hands trying to get her attention. She barely looked at them, but as she passed in front of The Dark Urge, the human woman smiled. 

He didn’t smile back. He wasn’t in  the mood. Instead, he went to the bar directly to get a drink. The bartender gave him the usual speech, no fighting, no stealing, no pissing anywhere. He nodded and ordered a simple beer. He wasn’t fond of cheap alcohol, but he was in the mood for a hunt, and it required blending in.

 

The dragonborn took a seat at one of the tables and he watched. He watched the patrons, the staff, and even the street below. It was too dark to see the streets well, but he sometimes made out a few people passing by, coming in or leaving. The staff was of little interest to him, They had no peculiar quality that appealed to him at that moment. In his anger and annoyance, he found himself feeling rather calm as he eyed the cattle around him, and wondered who would have the honour of expiring by his hand that night. 

The patrons of the blushing mermaid were rarely the graceful sort. They were either hardened criminals or manual labourers, save for a half-elf who stood out with more refined clothing. They probably thought they blended in, as they casually attempted to sip on their drink while they wrote in their notebooks. The Dark Urge had no idea what they were writing, but he  imagined it to be bad poetry. He had no interest in them though, and as his eyes scanned the room, he did find his victim.

A dark haired, dark eyed middle aged man, playing die with a group of other sailors. They were all drinking and appeared to argue as the man won big. Baldur’s bone, probably. He had a strong physique, quite a few scars. The Dark Urge found himself wondering how many times he would have to stab that chest of his before he stopped struggling. As it turned out, the bhaalspawn was in the mood for a fight. Someone who would struggle, give him a hard time, perhaps a few hits before they fell to his skillful hands. 

 

It wasn’t a difficult target. If he looked suspicious when the dragonborn approached, a free mug of ale, a bit of help with his game- Soon he was treating him as an old friend, and he was even allowed to join in on the game. The hardest part was always to isolate the prey from the herd. But he had a natural instinct for these things. The Dark Urge waited until a large bet was made. The players were riled up, a lot of money was at stake. The perfect moment to strike. As his rey rolled his die, The Dark Urge used magic to roll them quite obviously in his favour. The other players rose to their feet, shouting. “You fucking cheated!” One halflin woman said. “What? I didn't do nothing!”

“The dice fucking jumped on its own then? It has to be magic!” A human man joined in. The last player only cracked her knuckles.

The Dark Urge intervened, pretending he  wanted to smooth over the conversation. “Let’s settle down. We don’t want to end the night by being thrown outside.”

“I’m getting my money back!” one shouted. Of course, the prey didn’t relent. “No you aren’t! I won fair and square! Not my fault Tymora’s on my side!”

“Tymora? The goddess wouldn’t bless your fucking face at birth, and you think she helped you tonight?” 

The man shouted and threw himself at the other human. A brawl ensued, The Dark Urge, helped by the bartender; broke the fight. They were all thrown outside, and the players scattered, clearly furious. The man had a bloody nose and a few bruises, but he was otherwise fine. “Eh, at least I got the money.” He said with a grin. “My lass’ not gonna complain about gambling tonight.”

“No, she sure won’t.” The Dark Urge said. “You.” The man started, wobbling slightly on his feet.”Are a true friend. Here, have some of this.” He handed a few gold pieces from his earnings. The dragonborn merely took them, smiling. “A friend, indeed. You are returning home?”

“Home! Yes! My wife is waiting, she doesn’t like me gambling.” 

Before The Dark Urge could answer, he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Excuse me, sir?”

He turned around and was faced with the half-elf he had noticed before. He was quite young, all things considered, and still clutched his notebook in one hand even as he held one of the pages out for the dragonborn to take with the other.

The Dark Urge blinked at the page. He saw words- and a drawing too. A drawing of himself, staring off in the distance. He was taken aback by the sudden gesture- And forgot about his hunt for the few seconds it took him to think of a way to react. He abruptly turned back around- And just as he feared, the man was gone. A mere second. He could still catch up- But he stopped in his tracks.

“Hells.” He mumbled. 

“Is your friend gone?” The artist asked.

The Dark Urge held back a sigh as he turned back around. He didn’t feel like running after that wretch.But that only meant the target had changed. And it wasn’t a bad one. The  half-elf was in his mid twenties, he had green eyes and short, curly dirt-blond hair. Definitely a nice looking young gent. “It seems so.” He answered. The artist frowned. “I’m sorry, I didn’t expect  him to run.”

“It’s fine. This is a good drawing.” The dragonborn said, waving the paper.

The artist’s eyes lit up. “You like it? I’m glad! I enjoy drawing people who stand out in a sea of common faces. And well, there is something about you.” He smiled, and suddenly remembered to introduce himself. “I’m Cieran, by the way.”

The Dark Urge smiled back. This one wouldn’t be hard to isolate. He saw something behind the smile, and the feigned surprise. That young man wasn’t nearly as innocent as he pretended to be. The Dark Urge answered with a fake name, and after a short exchange, they left together to find a nicer place to talk. Cieran’s place, of course. 

He lived closer to the Upper city, he said, and he wanted to show him his workshop. He was a painter, and he looked for a muse. The Dark Urge smiled all along. He had heard that song before, he recognised its hollow sound . The only thing he wasn’t sure of- Was the intent behind them. To seduce? To steal? To kill? The boring half-elf had suddenly become far more interesting. 

They did eventually get to the artist’s house. It was small, but quite nice. Flowers adorned the outside, which gave the small cottage a rather quaint look. Cieran entered first. He undressed his coat and turned to the dragonborn with a flirtatious smile as he gestured further inside the home; towards a door at the end of the living space. “Shall we?” 

The Dark Urge looked around before he stepped inside further. He spotted nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that rang alarm bells anyway. He considered killing the man right away just to be safe, but he also was too curious to refuse.

So he followed. And the door opened into a small workshop, with paintings spread about to dry. A couple of them were nude, as was to be expected. The dragonborn smirked. He had no memory of getting a painting of himself done. Perhaps he should. Then  he should cover it in the artist’s blood, for good measure.

“This is where the magic happens.” Cieran said, as he opened his arms wide. “It isn’t much, but an artist doesn’t need much to work with. Sometimes a piece of paper and a quill are enough. This time, I think a proper painting is in order.” He turned to face the dragonborn, waiting for a reaction. 

“You want to paint me. In the nude I presume?”

The artist sputtered in surprise. “W-well, I never said anything about nude, but now that you’re suggesting it, perhaps it would indeed look quite nice.”

“You mean to have me pose naked for you all night?” The Dark Urge asked, barely able to conceal his smirk. He wanted to see how good Cieran was at his own game.

“Of course not! I have a great memory, all I need is to see, and then draw a quick sketch. I’ll remember it all.” He recovered fast, reciting the sentence in a way that appeared entirely natural. How many times had he spoken these words? A fellow hunter, of sorts. 

One who didn’t realise when he was made a prey.

The Dark Urge didn’t pretend to hesitate. He figured  that the artist wasn’t used to willing subjects. The change set the half-elf on edge, and he had a hard time not to stare in stunned awe as the powerful dragonborn undressed before him. 

Cieran seemingly forgot what  the plan was, as he approached The Dark Urge, reaching with a trembling hand for the scales on his chest. The bhaalspawn looked down at him with an amused smirk. He gently cupped the artist’s cheek, forcing him to make eye contact. “Not used to a willing model? Do you prefer them to struggle?”

Cieran’s breathing hitched. He averted their eyes. “I- I don’t prefer. But they sometimes do. It’s better when they don’t, when I can touch their bodies as they stay still. But most of the time, they just don’t understand why it’s necessary for my work.”

“I  prefer when they struggle.” The Dark Urge said with a grin as the half-elf’s eyes widened.

“I knew you were special.” He  breathed. “Let me paint you. You will be my masterpiece…” As he said that, his hands traced the dragonborn’s chest. The Dark Urge felt a singular feeling rise inside him. His touch turned into a grip as he held the man’s face. The Urge wanted to take. To take and take.

And so he did. 

The artist wanted  to  touch, and touch he did. And he even kissed. He sighed in delight when he felt the dragonborn’s teeth against his skin, and his claws digging  into his flesh. The Dark Urge bit the man’s shoulder, and his claws ripped his clothes. He growled like an animal as his teeth sank deep into the artist’s smooth skin. And the sighs turned into a soft cry. 

The bhaalspawn pushed the weak man down, crushing him under his weight. His heart was beating fast, and his breathing was heavy. He stared down at the man the same way a starving wolf would look at a lost lamb. He tasted his prey’s flesh, and dug into it with his claws. It was soft, tender and warm. Full of life and so eager. He kept the flesh into his maw, biting over and over, and he shivered as the first drop of blood touched his tongue.

The man underneath whimpered, and then he cried out, breathing ragged. The Dark Urge felt the warmth within him rise and rise as their bodies seemed to melt into one. 

The whimpers turned into cries, and their ragged breathings grew erratic. More blood ran down the Dark Urge’s throat, and pieces of flesh teared up under his claws and teeth.

The artist’s breath  grew increasingly frantic between the cries and whimpers. He pushed  hard against the dragonborn’s body, and he begged, again and again. 

The Dark Urge couldn’t hear any of it as the heat suffused his body. The ecstasy he felt as he sank deep inside the other man’s body, feeling the warmth of it all around him- It was everything he had wanted from the night’s hunt. So he went deeper,  clawing, biting- Until the man’s breathing caught in his throat- And he expired one last, ecstatic time.

 

As he grew still, The Dark Urge’s heart and breathing eventually eased as well. He opened his maw, letting go of the man’s neck as he removed his hand from his entrails. The blood was still warm on his skin and inside his mouth. He felt satiated. As he relished in the afterglow of his kill, he couldn’t help but think of Gortash. He wondered how the banite would taste and if his cries would be as sweet as Cieran’s. 

He shook those thoughts away with a frown, and got up. He admired his work- The man, lying down dead in his own workshop, the hunter turned to butchered meat. 

Then he looked around, and noted with satisfaction that he had ended up finding a place to stay rather easily.  

He would have a good night of rest, then he would find Orin, and take back his rightful place as his Father’s chosen.

 

_

Two days remained until the coronation. Preparations were going rather smoothly, while the word of an army marching on the Gate spread like wildfire. The murders within the city only added to the general anxiety, and conflicts arose frequently in the Gate, which the growing Steelwatch was only too zealous to reprimand. It was a good day, the sun was shining, and the seagulls sang over the Chiontar. All was well, and soon Gortash would be made the first Archduke of Baldur’s Gate. 

Everything had to be perfect. He would tolerate no less. His underlings were all too aware of that, and they scarce dared to disturb him while he was working to report any issue.

And yet, they still sometimes did, as duty always came first than pride, as any Banite should know. 

Gortash was working on plans for a new Steelwatcher prototype, when a black fang- a lower ranking banite- stepped inside. He immediately knelt, and Gortash eyed him just long enough to make out the rank and returned to his task. Working on schematics and prototypes always kept him focused during particularly crucial events for the church. 

“My Lord, I am sorry to interrupt your work, but your, ah, expertise is required on a matter.”

Gortash drew a line to connect the new steelwatcher’s leg parts. Their current movement were clumsy with their weight, and sometimes caused imbalance. He wanted to remediate the issue for the newest models. The Gondians had come up with a few ideas, and he was working on adapting them with the materials and means that were accessible to them.

“Go on, or do you mean to waste my time, brother?” 

“Yes, my apologies, my Lord. The latest orders you’ve issued- We’ve moved Our siblings from The upper city, as requested, but-” He stopped.

Gortash let out a sigh. He felt his right hand tingle. Would that the junior members of the Church had the wisdom to speak coherently instead of incessantly stammering when they gave reports.

“-We wondered if you truly  meant all the members . Or if we should keep the Temple protected.”

The banite leader put his quill down and looked at his underling. “You need my opinion on how to follow my orders?”

The banite didn’t even dare look up, putting his other knee to the ground. “Of course not, My Lord! The Vigilator ordered to keep the Temple protected, but the dreadmasters think we need to follow your order to the letter-”

Gortash glared. “And why exactly are you here?”

“The dreadmasters sent me, my Lord. They didn’t want to risk contradicting your orders…”

The chosen of Bane tapped his desk rhythmically, the clicking sound of the metal against the polished wood made the underling prostrate himself even further. He wondered just which way he needed to punish them. Nyra was a remarkably smart woman, and she had risen through the ranks rather fast, but sadly, a few of the lesser ranking men still questioned her orders out of sheer spite. That simply wouldn’t do.

“Tell me, black fang. Who do you think I should punish? The Vigilator, for interpreting my orders, or the dreadmasters, for questioning hers?”

The banite raised his head. “The Church is clear that we should not question a superior’s orders, my Lord. As for interpretation, unless it goes against what you desire… I don’t think it counts as disobeying?”

Gortash hummed approvingly. “Excellent. It seems you know our Lord’s ways more than your superiors. Then tell them this: They’re to report to the temple for punishment. And you will be the one dispensing the punishment.” 

The underling’s eyes widened. “I am to punish my superiors? Isn’t that…”

“Your superiors? Ah, I forgot. They just got demoted for trying to interfere in our grand plan with their petty squabbles. You get a promotion to the rank of dreadmaster. Congratulations.”

It was a lot for the banite to take in, but he eventually bowed his head in deep reverence. “Thank you my Lord, I shall relay your orders.” 

“See that you do, Dreadmaster.”

The banite rose to his feet, saluted, and departed with a spring in his step.

Gortash sighed, and picked up his quill. As he dipped it in ink, he accidentally stained the paper he had been working on. He cursed, and taken by a sudden outburst of frustration, he grabbed the paper and crushed it into a ball, which he tossed at the wall on his right.

He took a deep, shaky breath, inhaling through his nose and sighing as he breathed out. 

What was it with people being petty at the most crucial of times? His people, and his allies. All seemed to care very little for what was at stake, staring instead at their own navel for guidance. How could they fail to see what was about to be achieved? A changed world, under Bane’s unyielding law. A world in which they would be privileged. A world where they would rule. 

Even The Dark Urge didn’t seem to understand that vision, preferring to focus on blood feuds. Back then, he understood what was at stake. He wanted that new world just as much as Gortash. He wanted to be a King among men, not a mere beast, like his sister. He let out a frustrated sigh and shook his head. The amnesia had him confused. It was to be expected. But The Chosen of Bane couldn’t hide the tinge of disappointment he felt at the idea that The Bhaalspawn hadn’t yet come back. It had been a day. If he didn’t come back before coronation with a clear mind, Gortash would have failed.

He stared at the door, as if it could conjure up the dragonborn to his doorstep, but of course, things weren’t as simple with the mind. Especially when said mind was under the chaotic influence of the Lord of Murder. 

Gortash got up to fetch a new piece of paper. He needed to start over. Perhaps it would calm him down some. 

 

The next day was the day before the coronation. Everything was in place, and all that remained to do was wait for the big day. Ravengard was still tadpoled, the army was still marching on the Gate, and the Patriars were still determined to make Gortash the first Archduke of the city. 

The Dark Urge was still missing. Gods only knew what he was up to. Gortash wasn’t about to spend resources on getting him tracked. He had to focus on the plan. 

...And on not moving for that damned portrait. As much as he enjoyed seeing his face plastered everywhere around the city, he did lament the time it took to get a single painting done. So much time wasted for a picture.

Just as he was growing bored of his own thoughts, a Flaming Fist sergeant walked in. Gortash could feel a headache coming. Unlike banites, members of the Flaming Fists lacked discipline. They were a glorified order of mercenaries, so it was to be expected. Still, that meant even the simpler tasks required an unusual amount of details and correction for when they inevitably messed something up.

“Is everything in order, Sergeant?” Gortash asked.

“We have a problem, sir. The news of an army marching on the Gate is setting people on edge, we’ve had crowd gatherings several times over the past two days. We fear an uprising if we don’t act soon to address the threat.”

Gortash sighed, but remained motionless to not disturb the artist. “And what exactly do you expect me to do, Sergeant? I can’t very well order the crowds to stop in order to make your job easier.”

“You could give the order to kill.” 

Gortash furrowed his brows. The flaming fist sergeant grinned as she stepped closer. “Kill them all, put them to the sword, raze the city before the army gets to it.” She laughed. And as she moved closer, the disguise fell as Orin shapeshifted back into herself. She placed her hand on Gortash’s shoulder. “Perhaps you could ask your pet to do it.”

The banite remained stoic. “Good morning, Orin.” The shapeshifter grinned. “Oh, but it isn’t here. Did the dog miss the taste of blood? Did the master send him sniffing after prey?” She giggled as she pulled out her dagger, placing the tip on Gortash’s chest. The painter had frozen in horror. The banite looked at him and nodded towards the door. The artist ran as fast as he could out of the room, leaving the two of them alone. 

“I didn’t send him sniffing anywhere, Orin. Your brother simply remembered your attempt to end his life. If you didn’t want him to come after you, you should have finished the job properly.” He declared, pushing the woman away with his cane. She stood her ground at first, but eventually lowered her dagger with a frown. “My blade calls for the beating heart inside your chest, little Tyrant. It calls and calls-Would that it wasn’t bound, I would be bathing in your blood.” She sighed longingly and then threw her dagger at the painting in a fit of rage. Gortash frowned. He would have to start over. “Which is precisely why we made that pact, Orin.” He reminded her, calmly.

“But have you made the same with my blood kin? I wonder, does he crave after your heart?- I’m sure he would eat it right up.” She laughed at that, clenching her fist in a crushing motion while Gortash furrowed his brows, but remained silent. Orin circled around him, like a tiger circling her prey. She stopped behind the banite and he felt a nail against his neck, just on his artery. He didn’t move. “You shouldn’t have interfered. Shouldn’t have put a collar on a wolf, expecting it to turn into a puppy. I can’t have your blood, but I will watch when my blood kin tears you apart in our Father’s name.”  The thought made her giggle excitedly. She removed her fingers, and The banite could hear the frown in her voice. “A pity I can’t feed you to your dog yet. But soon.” She walked over to the easel and pried her blade from the ruined canvas. “I look forward to it.” She said, before turning her ring and vanishing in a cloud of dust.

Gortash coughed a little and reached for his neck with a grimace of disgust. Being touched by that rabid woman always made his skin crawl. 

He had to give it to her- She was quite cunning, if she planned on using her brother to get to him. But he wasn’t worried. If the Bhaalspawn drew his blade against him, he would either face him and win, or change his mind, as he had already done before.

He turned to look at the ruined canvas and clicked his tongue. He would have to find a new artist altogether. He couldn’t let that one live after what he had seen.

As for The Dark Urge, he was ready to face any and all eventuality. He had known it when he chose to bring him back. There was no guarantee that he would remain loyal to their plan, or that he would stay as an ally. It was a risk he had been willing to take, for the best of outcomes would please his Lord immensely. 

 

After making sure everything was in order for the coronation the next day, Gortash decided to retire to his quarters. He had moved into the penthouse above the Hall in Wyrm's rock Fortress a few days back, and he did love watching the city from the seat of its military power. Once he would have become Archduke, he would work towards removing the laws banning the worship of the dead three in the city. And then the ducal palace, heart of the city; would become a Black Keep, Arbouring the Black Hand’s colours openly, with His church leading the city, instead of those cheap mercenaries.

For the moment, though, he was alone watching the sun set on the streets of Baldur’s Gate. The last ship entered the harbour on the waters of the Chiontar, which was slowly taking on a red hue. His eyes turned to the horizon, to the cities well beyond. One day, he would rule it all in his God’s name, and order and glory would be brought to the wretched world.

 

He turned around and went back inside his quarters, carefully closing the side door behind him. He took a few steps and stopped dead in his tracks as he noticed someone waiting  inside. He steeled himself and approached.

The Dark Urge turned around. He didn’t smile, nor did  he glare. They ended up facing each other, but none of them said a word. It seemed there was much to say, but neither of them was willing to start.

 

Chapter 14: Chapter 14

Notes:

Warning: major canon divergence within a major canon divergence: Gortash has a BED in this AU. The man needs some REST

To admit one’s wrong was no easy task. One which The Dark Urge thankfully didn’t have to undertake as he had been well within his right to be upset at the time. After a few days of reflection and a particularly insightful murder, he had simply changed perspective on the issue. 

As Gortash approached and stopped right before him, the dragonborn was surprised to see how calm he was. They stared at each other a moment, until The Dark Urge finally broke the silence.

“I’ve found the Temple.” He said.

Gortash pretended to adjust the golden rings on his hands, his dark eyes obscured by the light of dusk, which bathed his face in warm; orange light. “And?”

The Dark Urge bit his tongue. He was sure the man would rub it in his face as soon as he spoke his next words. “Her death can wait.”

The banite immediately looked up, eyebrows arched. “Oh? What could have possibly changed your mind?”

“Murder. It helped me realise a few things.” The Dark  Urge said, as he unsheathed the dagger attached to his hip. A new purchase, to replace the old one.

Gortash eyed the dagger, but if he was afraid, it didn’t show. “The suspense is killing me.” 

The Dark Urge grinned at the joke. A toothy, threatening grin, some would say. He pointed the blade at Gortash, just to observe his reaction. The man didn’t so much as flinch. Satisfied, he dropped his arm. “I’m not an animal-” The Dark Urge started. “- If I can’t keep a cool head when it matters, what sort of leader does that make me?”

It occurred to him as he tracked Orin’s trail throughout the city. He had found out about the murder tribunal, and had slaughtered the one who aimed to become one of Bhaal’s assassins. But not before he watched him work. He was a good killer, but that hadn’t been enough to save him. And it got the bhaalspawn to think- If all there is to being Bhaal’s chosen was to kill the previous one, surely everyone would be in a hurry to dispose of the current leader.

Yet, The Dark Urge was under the impression that only Orin had ever dared to move against him. It wasn’t because they were afraid of death- most bhaalist would welcome it with open arms- But because they expected their leader to show them the way forward. To bring them to greatness. A leader should be ready to make sacrifices to do great things. To let one’s personal feuds get in the way of world domination wasn’t the behaviour of someone who would achieve anything worthy of note. And so, he understood what Gortash had meant. If The Dark Urge was so whimsical, so unreliable, how could he ever be his equal? It was the very reason Gortash couldn’t work with Orin.

As he heard those words, the chosen of Bane smiled. “Good. I knew you would eventually come to your senses. Your amnesia has taken a  toll on you, but it hasn’t taken away your good sense. In the past, our alliance scared our allies. We were unstoppable, because we trusted each other. This is what made us strong,  made Ketheric vulnerable- And will eventually spell Orin’s downfall.” He spoke like a politician, someone who was only presenting facts with no emotions attached. That was his whole thing, wasn’t it? To be cool and detached. But The Dark Urge had seen underneath the mask before- The banite could be vulnerable. Which led him to think of another murder. An artistic murder, just a few days ago.

“Before you get carried away, however- I still need to know one thing.” The bhaalspawn said with a smirk. Gortash smiled in turn, opening his arms wide. “I’m an open book, as you know.”

The dragonborn stepped closer, and before the banite could react, he raised his dagger and made a cut across Gortash’s exposed neck. It was a light cut, enough to draw blood, but not enough to do any sort of serious damage. The man obviously staggered back in surprise and reached for his wounded neck. He applied pressure and looked at his hand. He wasn’t happy to see blood. “What exactly-”  Before he could say anything, The bhaalspawn eyed his dagger. Fresh blood was running down the pristine metal. He licked it. The taste made him shiver. “-Why do I know the taste of your blood, Enver Gortash?” He asked, eyes half-closed as he observed the  expression on the other man’s face. The anger gave way to surprise, which in turn became annoyance. “And you couldn’t have asked the question without drawing blood?” He sighed, and the tension in his body vanished.

The dragonborn chuckled. “I wasn’t sure yet. I needed to confirm.” A plain lie. If he seemed used to consuming blood and flesh, he couldn’t tell individuals apart just from it. 

The banite sighed. “You have indeed taken a few  bites at me in the past. I suppose this explains the feeling of déjà vu. What I don’t understand is; how is it  relevant?” He took out a handkerchief and pressed it on the wound on his neck. It bled a little more than the dragonborn had expected. “It’s relevant because I want to take a few more bites at you.”

Gortash raised  an  eyebrow as he  smiled, definitely amused. “And yet another thing that hasn’t changed. You remain as tactful as ever.”

“And you are dodging the question.”

They stared at each other for a moment. It only made the bhaalspawn grow even more impatient. Killing that artist had made him realise a few things about himself. The first, was that he made very little difference between his desires. His desire to kill, and his desire for carnal pleasures  overlapped more than your average individual would care to admit. 

The second was that his frustration with Gortash made a lot more sense when interpreted not under the prism of violence, but under that of desire. He saw in him a fellow hunter, one who wouldn’t be made into prey by anyone, who stood above the  whole world and took whatever he wanted. A man like The Dark Urge had been- A man such as he  wanted to be again. People like them were bound to attract each other, and they were bound to want to dominate the other. 

It was simply frustrating to be next to  him, who towered over all else. And yet, that man considered them both to be equals. He had helped The Dark Urge  and in spite of his tricks, he had been mostly honest when confronted. He was an  ally, and equal, someone worthy of respect, and yet he could, on a whim, take it all and leave his  “ally” with nothing. Such was his power. Such was the power the Bhaalspawn craved, as much as he craved for the banite leader’s blood and flesh. 

 

Even as a few seconds passed, Gortash didn’t move. He didn’t say a word. He only observed. The dragonborn stepped even closer. If he didn’t say anything, then he would simply take what he wanted. He reached for the banite’s shoulder, and his hand was immediately intercepted, with a strength one wouldn’t suspect upon just seeing the banite leader.

“You may not remember how this works, so let me remind you  of something essential: You will only take what I’m willing to share. Try to overstep, and I will be forced to answer in kind.”

The Dark Urge smiled, the words were exactly what he needed to hear. He needed someone who would fight back instead of just rolling over and be consumed. He leaned in closer, close enough  that he could breathe in the other man’s scent. Always that same perfume, coupled with the faint smell of ink and paper. He had been working in his office all day. “I will do my best to behave.” The Dark Urge said, as he nuzzled Gortash’s cheek with his snout. It took all his self control to not sink his teeth into the other man’s flesh. His patience was rewarded. Gortash guided The Dark Urge’s hand to his chest, finally allowing him to touch. The bhaalspawn kept himself in check. No clawing just yet. Only light touches. The banite kissed his jaw. “Very good.” He said. He was used to it, wasn’t he? To deal with The Dark Urge’s impulses and violent nature with such confidence was no small feat. And that it worked was even more impressive. The desire to take, to claw through  Gortash’s chest and rest inside of his bloodied body, to feel his heart beat in his hand instead of feeling it through his  chest- It was not gone, it merely came second after the need to please him. Was that his God’s influence? Or was it simply a force of habit, grown between the two of them over time? 

The answer didn’t matter. It felt just as good to feel his warm skin against his scales, to smell and touch, to be touched in a gentle but firm way; to know that either of them could, at any moment, break the carefully crafted balance between carnal pleasure and violence. 

The Dark Urge was very aware of how deep his claws and teeth sunk in, just enough for his partner to feel the pressure, to leave a mark or draw a little blood- But never to seriously maim. In turn, Gortash remained harsh enough to keep the bloodlust in check, but he didn’t crush, didn’t let the frustration of being held back grow. 

That too, was art. 

And of course, it was very pleasurable.

 

As The Dark Urge came down from his own high, Enver  collapsed next to him onto the bed, breathing hard. He had the look of a man who had just drunk from a well in the middle of the desert. The Bhaalspawn wondered how long they had been doing that for, before  he went missing? And he wondered just how deep it went, beyond the need for sexual gratification. 

“You look like you   haven’t done that in a while.” The Dark Urge said, as bluntly as possible. It was as his partner said-  He had no time for propriety. 

Enver didn’t open his eyes even as he spoke. He looked tired, and about ready to fall asleep. “I rarely have time for such distractions. Nor the right partner for them.”

“You had time only now?” The dragonborn teased. 

“Tomorrow is my coronation. There isn’t anything left to do but wait.” As he  said that, he opened his eyes, and turned his head to look at The Dark Urge. “It’s a good thing you will be there. I have prepared a reward for you.”

The Bhaalspawn flipped on his side to face him, intrigued. “A reward? What kind of reward?”

“It wouldn’t be fun to spoil the surprise. You will have to wait and see.”

He frowned. “I don’t like waiting.” Enver chuckled at that, closing his eyes again. “I know you don’t.”

Any question The Dark Urge might have wanted to ask never came to be, as his partner’s breathing grew slow and steady, indicating that he had abruptly fallen asleep. Soon after, Enver was snoring softly, which made the Bhaalspawn chuckle. He had no recollection  of him being a snorer, but it made sense to him.

He considered getting out of bed, and going to sleep somewhere else, but  he decided against it as a yawn forced its way out. He was too tired to move. Or too lazy. Either way, he fell asleep not long after.

 

The next morning, the final preparations were in progress. Servants came and went carrying platters of food and cleaning the main Hall thoroughly. Flowers were brought to decorate the place further, and armed Banites were called to the keep to stand watch nearby. They were of course forbidden to show themselves until the end of the ceremony. Ulder Ravengard was eventually brought out of his prison. He was fully under the Elder Brain’s influence, and gave orders to the fists to close off Wyrm’s way until the end of the coronation. Gortash observed it all with a hint of pride in his eyes, and The Dark Urge stood next to him, watching the comings and goings, a bit like he used to do when he had been working as Gortash’s bodyguard. Eventually, a servant came up to Gortash, carrying a large box. “My Lord, the clothes you ordered have arrived.” They said, head bowed in reverence. Gortash was yet to be named archduke, but the way everyone talked to him made it evident that it was but a formality.

The banite smiled. “Bring it upstairs.” The servant nodded and left. 

The Dark Urge barely paid it any mind, until Gortash touched his arm to get his attention. “Let’s get you dressed up properly.” He said. The dragonborn frowned, and looked down at his outfit. He was wearing a decent robe, and it was black, so the blood stains didn’t stand out too much. “What for?”

“My dear, if you are to stand at my side during the coronation, you have to look your best.”

“You want me to stand with you at the coronation?” That, the Bhaalspawn hadn’t expected. No one really knew who he was, so he had expected to be waiting with the other banites or perhaps watch from the sidelines. Gortash smiled. “Well of course! I did say we would rule together. I might be the one who is getting the title, but it would simply not do to leave you out of it entirely. It’s time to stand together, and show to all of these Patriars who’s going to rule over them, whether they realise it or not.”

Perhaps the gesture shouldn’t have been so surprising. Gortash had insisted that they would be ruling as equal, it only made sense that he would want his equal to stand with him as he became the official leader of the city. The Dark Urge wasn’t sure he was comfortable with his face being revealed to so many people, but on the other hand, they wouldn’t know who he was either. “I hope these clothes you ordered aren’t white.” He smirked. 

“You’ll see for yourself. After you.”  The banite gestured towards the door. They both went upstairs to get changed.

 

The clothes weren’t bad. Black robes, with golden embroideries over them, and a long, black leather overcoat that would certainly compliment The Dark Urge’s large frame well, and would leave his arms exposed. A servant started to dress him up while Gortash watched with a critical eye. Once the clothes were on, The dragonborn noticed that a large golden belt, much like Gortash’s own, sat at the bottom of the box. The patterns on it were not of devils, but of skulls and draconic shapes. It was a bit much, but definitely not bad either. The servant reached for them but Gortash stopped them. “You can leave.” He said. The servant didn’t argue, and immediately left the room. It was Gortash who picked up the belt and carefully fitted it around The Dark Urge’s waist. He was focused on his task, but the Bhaalspawn wasn’t really looking at the belt. He was looking at the other man. Gazing would be a more fitting description. It reminded him of the previous night, but at that time, Gortash had been removing his clothes, not putting them on. The dragonborn chased the thoughts away. He was getting distracted. A mechanism clicked as the belt closed. Gortash stepped back and went to get assorted golden bracers from the box. Once again, The Dark Urge let him wrap them around his forearms without moving. Once that was done, the banite took a few steps back and looked his ally up and down with narrowed eyes. The dragonborn grinned. “Should I do a little spin?” Gortash raised an eyebrow, as if he didn’t believe he would do it. So he did spin around, arms open, to display his outfit in a quite dramatic fashion. That actually made his partner chuckle. “A perfect fit.” 

“Should I ask how you know my measurements?” 

“This isn’t the first time I get an outfit made for you. The first time, it was a gift for a service rendered. A service which cost you your best outfit, if your words were to be believed.” He smirked as he rubbed his chin. “Although, I think it was most likely your only outfit. You never struck me as one who bothered with your appearance.”

The dragonborn shrugged. “What point is there, when it’s all going to get bloody in the end?”

“I can imagine. That’s why I asked for fabric that would be easy to wash. It will be sorely needed.” 

“You really do know me well.” The Dark Urge grinned. He felt the leather with his fingers, then the cloth and nodded to himself. Beyond the practicality of the fabric, it felt rather nice to the touch, and was definitely comfortable to wear. He couldn’t wait to test its resilience to blood stains.

Guests started to arrive an hour later that morning. The coronation was to take place a bit before midday, and consequently the guests were asked to come thirty minutes earlier, to give them time to mingle, take their seats and arrive fashionably late. Gorash watched them come in from upstairs. As the main guest, he was to arrive last, while Ulder Ravengard greeted all the guests, acting as he always did, blissfully unaware of the worm chewing at his brain even as he sang the praise of a man he had once looked down upon. When the time had come for his grand entrance, The Chosen of Bane gave his last instructions to his underlings. They knew what had to be done as soon as the ceremony ended. One of them would be disguised as a servant to tell the others to come down. The Dark Urge had yet to be made aware of it, but Gortash had no doubt it would please the Bhaalspawn, it was a well deserved reward for his patience regarding Orin. 

He gestured for his ally to follow him downstairs, and as the doors opened, all eyes were on him as he walked up confidently towards Ulder Ravengard, who stood before the throne. He nodded to The Dark Urge to stand a bit to the side as he turned to the crowd. “Dear guests, it’s an immense honour for me to stand here on this day, and I thank you wholeheartedly for coming here on such short notice, and in such dire circumstances. The threat of the absolute weighs heavily on the city, and I am confident that you made the right call by entrusting me with the task of protecting you, and our beloved city from it. I will bring Baldur’s Gate back to its former glory, the city dreamt of by Balduran when he founded it. A thriving city, an example for  all of Faerûn.”

The room erupted in applause. The Patriars smiled, some looked determined. All had an interest in having Gortash become Archduke. He had made promises and threats, to get their support, their vote. None of them would either want or dare oppose his ascension to power. Ravengard clapped, too. But he didn’t have much of a choice, did he? The tadpole in his brain had rendered him totally subservient to Bane’s will. He would serve the Black Hand’s design willingly, until it was safe to dispose of him entirely.

“Esteemed guests.” Ravengard spoke. “We are gathered here because our city faces an unprecedented threat.  A threat which brings us to take unprecedented measures.” He turned to Gortash. “ Enver Gortash, you may kneel.”

Gortash bowed his head and got on one knee before Ulder Ravengard, who raised his ceremonial sword, placing it on his left shoulder.

“Enver Gortash. Swearest thou, by Balduran’s blade, to defend the citizens of Baldur’s gate from enemies within and without?”

Gortash kept his head bowed, but he couldn’t hide the smirk on his face as he answered. “I swear.”

“Swearest thou true faith and fealty to the same, by word, deed, and decree, so that none may suffer?”

He looked up at Ravengard who pronounced those words even as in the past, he would have rather died than say them. And his smirk turned to a victirious grin.  For years he had toiled to get there, from the city’s gutter to its throne, a street rat to an Archuduke. After all the obstacles he had to overcome, the enemies he had cut down; There was no one left to oppose him. He couldn’t be stopped. “I swear.” He answered.

Ravengard raised his sword and looked at the assembly of prestigious guests gathered to witness that historical moment. The moment the name Enver Gortash entered history. “Gathered guests, grant ye consent?”

“Aye!” The room roared in unison. 

“Enver Gortash. The Council appoints you Archduke of Baldur’s Gate.”

He rose to his feet, and turned to the crowd, subduing his grin to only show a relaxed smile. “My friends. The Steel Watch stands ready. Let its blade fall on any who would diminish our city!” 

Applause and cheers. Those who were convinced smiled and nodded to each other, while those whose hand was forced clapped quietly, a grave air about them.

It didn’t matter. Gortash turned to his ally, who stood proudly at his side. 

The Council members rose from their seats as the time had come for festivities. Foods and drinks were ready for the guests, and servants started to swarm into the rooms with platters of glasses and delicacies. They better  enjoy, it would be the last thing they would taste. One of the servants inconspicuously left the room, and no one paid it any mind, as they were too busy chattering. Gortash exchanged a few words with patriars who had come to give him their congratulation, before he left them in Ravengard’s care, and joined his dragonborn companion. 

“How did you like the speech?” He asked The Dark Urge.

“Very moving.” The man answered, as he hailed one of the servants to grab a pastry. Gortash wondered if he had developped a sweet tooth, against all odds. The dragonborn made a face as he chewed on his food. “Not to your taste?” 

“Not sweet enough.” He answered with a frown. 

“I’ll be sure to relay your feedback to the chef. Don’t get too distracted by the food. The main entertainment is about to start.”

As Gortash said that, Ravengard waved over a flaming fist soldier, and asked to be accompanied out. The few flaming fists soldiers that remained to stand watch inexplicably left, along with the servants. Just as the last of them deserted the room, Banites, wearing armours harbouring the Black Hand of Bane, stepped inside the room, cutting off all exits. 

The Dark Urge rose to attention  as he noticed them, much before the guests did. Gortash held up his hand to stop his underlings, letting the guest realise what was happening. Then he turned to his ally with a smile. “This is your reward. No one in this room is to leave alive. Enjoy yourself.”

The dragonborn’s eyes first widened in surprise, and then he started to grin. Gortash lowered his hand, and the screams of terror started as the guests ran towards the exits. But there was nowhere to run, unless they wanted to throw themselves off the balcony onto the cliffs below. They ran around, eyes wide with fear as Banites struck them down one by one, making sure to make the chase last a little. They had to be afraid, as was Lord Bane’s will.

The Dark Urge didn’t lose time either, rushing into the room with  his dagger drawn. He slashed and stabbed anyone not wearing a banite armour, be they servants or Patriars, wealthy or poor. Gortash watched on with a casual smile. One of the Patriars threw himself at him. “You- You will not get away with this!” Gortash rolled his eyes and seized the man by the throat, choking the life out  of him as he smiled. “Of course I will. In fact, I already have.”

The man’s eyes rolled back in their sockets. He went limp, and his legs threatened to give out. The Chosen of Bane kept a good hold on the man’s throat to make sure he wouldn’t get back up, and then released him, letting him fall limp at his feet. He grimaced, and dusted his coat, which had been rudely seized. 

In a matter of minutes, the whole room fell silent, and Banites fell in line before Gortash, and then took a knee, awaiting their next order. The Dark Urge came back a bit later, blood splattered all over his clothes and white scales.

“Clean that up. Make sure the corpses won’t be found. Then take your posts around the keep as planned. Let no one but me and the Bhaalspawn get upstairs.” Gortash ordered. 

The banites rose to their feet, saluted and left to execute their orders.

The Bhaalspawn wiped his chin, only managing to smear the blood further. “I’m starting to think that I’m too predictable.” He said, with a smile.

“Was it not satisfying?” The banite asked. The Dark Urge’s smile turned into a toothy grin. “It was. I feel happy. A good massacre, food and-” The dragonborn didn’t finish his sentence. “-This was a good reward. Even if it doesn’t quite match the satisfaction of shoving a dagger through Orin’s skull.”

“I haven’t forgotten. It will be my honour to help you reclaim your birthright, when the time is right.” Gortash said. He narrowed his eyes as he observed The Dark Urge’s reaction. The dragonborn took a few seconds to consider. “We have need of her as the fearsome General. Once that need has passed…”

The banite smiled. He had to admit that he was relieved his companion’s time alone had been productive. Whatever had happened, he felt a bit more like his old self ever since he had come back. Calmer, less impulsive. A shame he was sworn to Bhaal.

But that could yet change. After all, The Dark Urge’s amnesia had been beneficial in that aspect. With all former allegiance to Bhaal far from his mind, he could yet be swayed. Although, it would take some more convincing. 

 

Fortunately, Gortash was nothing if not convincing…

“Once the Absolute’s army is defeated, we will get to the business of cleaning up loose ends.” 

Chapter 15: Chapter 15

Notes:

I advise listening to "The only exception" by paramore as you get to the end because spotify played that while I was writing it and it had me weeping.

The night was quiet in Wyrm's rock fortress. The only sounds to disturb it were the occasional cry of a bird of prey, and the rhythmic stomping of the Steel watchers outside. The large penthouse tended to be somewhat cold, but with another body in bed, it felt as warm as a day under the sun. And in spite of it, The Dark Urge woke up in cold sweat. A nightmare he couldn’t remember, but he still felt the dread in his bones. As he sat up in bed, he shivered, the darkness around him felt like it was trying to swallow him whole. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and focused on his senses. He hear the stomping outside, thump. Thump. Thump. Just as he listened, he realised it almost sounded like a heartbeat. As he thought that, his thoughts drifted to the man sleeping next to him. He heard his soft snoring, felt the warmth of the blood inside of his body, and he imagined his beating heart, keeping his organ alive as it pumped away.-

He got out of bed. He put on some clothes as he decided to go for a walk around the keep to cool his head. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he did his best not to step on anything as he stepped outside. 

 

He couldn’t see the moon or the stars. Dark, rainy clouds were obscuring their light. Only torches brought light to the fortress, and down below, to the city. He had no idea how late it was, but he expected dawn was still a long time away. 

He felt the presence before it made itself known, and sighed as he turned around to see his butler. The creature’s nasty little eyes glowed red in the lights of the torches. He bowed deeply before he spoke. “Enjoying a little evening stroll, Master? You always did like your nighttime musings.” 

The Dark Urge frowned. “If I’ve always slept so badly, it’s no wonder.” He remarked.

“You have always been prone to nightmares, ‘Tis true. Although sometimes you would wake up inspired by them, and you would go straight outside for a good kill!”

He hummed. He had had violent dreams of late that did make him feel rather inspired, if it was the right word. But that night, he  couldn’t even remember it. Only the bone-deep dread of something awful coming. And it made him wonder: What sort of dream could scare someone like him? “I don’t feel inspired, nor in the mood for killing.” 

Sceleritas’s eyes went wide, and he dramatically placed his hands over his certainly absent heart. “Master! Whatever could have you feeling so low? Not in the mood for killing? This is a grave situation indeed! Perhaps stabbing your lowly servant a few time would make you feel better?” The dragonborn grimaced. He was very stabbable, but he doubted it would relieve the feeling of dread. “I don’t think it would help. I  have a feeling something… awful is haunting me.” 

The butler scratched his chin. “Perhaps you haven’t been feeling yourself these days. You often get in a bad mood if you aren’t allowed to kill for too long. Perhaps you crave a murder that isn’t being given to you?”

The Dark Urge eyed the creature. He always acted like he was less than nothing, as if he was but a messenger of no import.  But he saw it in Scelerias’ eyes: Pure, intentional malice. He knew what was going on, and he was there to push him back on his Father’s desired path. 

And the butler wasn’t wrong. He  had been craving Orin’s death. He wanted to take back his throne, and to dominate the world. The Urge within howled every second spent denying it its due. He didn’t like it. Sure, killing was in his nature, and he loved it dearly. But he hated being governed by that feeling inside, constantly dictating how he should feel and behave. Who to kill, and when. He should  be in control of these things. Before, he had been mad at Gortash for keeping him on a leash, but the Urge inside- He was starting to realise what its true purpose was.

“It’s for the best. Her death will only be sweeter from the wait.” He told himself aloud.

“Of course! Her death will feel like a banquet to the starving. It will be so glorious! But how long will you wait, darling Master? I am concerned for you, you are hurting  your spirit following that banite’s words.” He spit on the ground as he said that last part.

“Just because he is a banite, doesn’t mean everything he says is void of sense. For now, Orin is useful. She will help deliver the city into our hands, and once she has done her part, I will take her head. What use am I as Bhaal’s scion if I think like a common wild beast? Father wants me to lead this city to its ruin. And I cannot make the mistake of rushing things for something that can wait.”

Sceleritas bowed his head. “You have always been so wise, Master. Always much, much ahead than this impatient butler of yours. I am so touched by the sacrifice you make for your Lord Father’s sake! You have always been a very filial son. Orin cannot brag of the same.”

“Orin is childish. She’s too busy with her games to lead. This is why I will prevail.”  The dragonborn said  as he  looked towards the black horizon. 

“You will prevail Master! I have no doubt about this. And once you do, you will have no need of the banite’s silly little plans. With the brain under your sole command, you will bring the world to its knees!”

It was the plan, wasn’t it? To rule. To lead the world to its ruin in Bhaal’s name. That was what he was born to do. The Urge within purred at the thought of a dead world all around, corpses as far as the eye could see, and himself as the sole survivor. As he blinked, he found himself standing there, and at his feet, the fresh corpse of the man who had once been his ally.

 

A drop of rain fell on him. Then another. And all of a sudden, rain started to pour down. He blinked the water away, and when he looked back to the spot next to him, the butler was gone. The dread was gone, too. The Urge was still  there, but he was still in control. 

In two days, there would be a battle. A battle they would win. Many would die, just for the sake of their grand play. And then, it would be Orin’s turn to take her part, to go up on the stage and let herself die as she was meant to. Then, it  would just be The chosen of Bhaal and the chosen of Bane on stage. 

But the ending wasn’t there yet. No use thinking too long about it.

 

He opened his eyes again.

By the time the dragonborn went back inside to take refuge from the rain, he was completely soaked. He had spaced out for longer than he had thought, and he felt sleep gnaw on  his consciousness. He undressed and went back to bed. 

 

It was  the middle of the afternoon the next day when the bell towers of the city started sounding the alarm.

Gortash and The Dark Urge had  been planning the next day’s plans for after  the battle would be  won, and The Steel Watchers were being gathered  for defence. There was no rush, as the army wouldn’t be there until the following day.

Or at least, it had been the plan.

A flaming fist officer rushed in. She looked panicked, unsurprising for the Fist. A bunch of spineless mercenaries. And very easy to corrupt, too. The Dark Urge liked how useful they were in covering his tracks, he liked less their blatant cowardice in the face of danger when they were  supposed to fight soon. The look on Gortash’s face told him he was probably thinking alike.

“My Lord, the Absolute’s army! It’s approaching!” 

The  banite looked up from his battle plans with no breach in his countenance. “And? Do you expect me to give you the order to run?”

“I mean- Of course not, My Lord! But-”

“But ? Get the defences ready! Or do you need someone to hold your hand through that, too?” His tone was ice cold. He truly wasn’t used to ordering around cowards. Banites were much more disciplined than the Fists. 

The officer looked down at his feet. “My apologies, my Lord. But most of the fists here haven’t yet taken part in a real battle- we don’t really know what to do. ”

“Tell them to imagine it’s a riot with extra weapons. They do know how to stop those, don’t they?”

“...Yes.”

“And do try to keep a cool head  until you receive your  next orders. If officers start  panicking, the city will be theirs before I have time to put my Steel Watch to use.” Gortash smiled proudly at that, and the officer seemingly regained his composure. Perhaps he had remembered that Gortash’s inventions would be the ones to fight most of the battle for them.

The officer saluted. “We’ll get the defences ready, my Lord. No one will take our city.”

Gortash  waved him off  dismissively. Once the  soldier was gone, he clapped his hands together, grinning. “Finally. Time to wrap this up.”

The dragonborn eyed the plans. “I thought they were meant to arrive tomorrow.”

“They were. I’m thinking Orin gave them a little boost, just to keep us on our toes. But this changes nothing. The Steel watch is ready. We’ll send the Fists to hold the army off long enough until our own army comes to the rescue. After that, I will not only be The Archduke of Baldur’s Gate, but its hero. And there is very little the people will not accept from a hero.” 

The Dark Urge smiled. He was  right. It was always satisfying to watch a mouse willingly walk into the  cat’s mouth. “Are you going on the battlefield?” He asked his companion.

“I wouldn’t be much of a hero if I stayed back while battle rages on. I suppose  you will be attending too?”

Attending. That was the word for it. They would be attending a slaughter. The Absolute’s army wouldn’t  put up much of a resistance  with the Steel Watch’s full force thrown at them. Most of them were mind-controlled thralls, fighting for a god they would have never cared about. They had abandoned  it all: Their desires, their hopes, their past lives and even their loved ones. Would-have-been heroes, careless commoners, stupid goblins, all would perish in the name of a made up god, in THEIR names.  A slaughter of puppets, or rather, the cutting of their strings after the curtain call. Snip snip.

The thought made the dragonborn chuckle. “I never miss a good show.” He answered.

 

The Flaming Fist and the Watch were sent to defend  Rivington. A first battle would try to prevent the army from reaching the village and traversing Wyrm’s crossing. Should that fail, they would be closing down the fortress to try to push the enemy back with the defences on the walls. Rivington had been completely deserted as its citizens gave everything up to seek refuge closer to the city. In the Outer city, panic was setting in. Crowds gathered at the basilisk gate to seek refuge behind the walls, pushing,  screaming. The  soldiers sent to maintain order struggled to not get swept up by the crowd. From Wyrm's rock fortress, they could see it all. The frantic crowd, the fists that gathered in defence of the city, waiting for the approaching army  that would soon reach Rivington and start to destroy everything in its path. 

For that occasion, Gortash actually decided to wear armour. It was  black, of course, as any Banite armour would be. But it had his personal golden touch- The man did like gold patterns, even if it was only on the gauntlets and boots. The Dark Urge helped him with it. It wasn't a heavy plate, but it was still annoying to put on, and he felt like lending a hand, just like Gortash had before the Coronation. He stepped back to take a look, smirking. “Are you so surprised to see me in armour?” the banite asked. “Just a little. You usually look so fancy, and you like to show off. That armour is relatively sober.” Far from being offended, the banite smiled innocently. “I don’t like showing  off, I just naturally stand out in a crowd. My clothes only serve to highlight that trait. I used to  be a mercenary once, I only ever wore cheap armour. It never hampered my natural charm.” He made a demonstration of it as he pulled his most charming smile, casually fixing his armour. 

“I could almost mistake you for a cleric of Sharess.” The Dark Urge mocked. Gortash grimaced and clicked his tongue. “Do not take your fantasies too seriously, Bhaalspawn, or you’re in for a rude awakening. Bane is a much less frivolous god.” 

“And his chosen should learn to take a break.” He smirked. 

“I’ll rest when I’m dead. One should always strive to better himself.” A fine, but exhausting philosophy, in The Dark Urge’s opinion, he frowned. The banite rolled his shoulders. “Time to go to war, then?”

“After you.” 

 

The first assault had started when Gortash and The Dark Urge passed the gate leading out of the fortress. Ahead, they heard the sounds of battle. The horses grew agitated as a crashing sound  was heard from afar. Apparently, the enemy was gaining way, and the fight had reached the village. Gortash waited a moment before he raised his hand and ordered his people to follow- And his Steel Watch.

Looming in their wake were the Steel giants, steam and metal hissing at each step they took. There was at least a hundred of them, gathered in a hurry to hold off the invaders. The soldiers with them were the city’s mortal defenders, and a couple of loyal banites that flanked Gortash’s sides. 

As they approached, the sound of battle became louder and louder. So did the smell of smoke and blood. Archers and casters  were setting fire to the buildings in the village, hoping to cut off the Gate’s soldier’s retreat. They wanted it to be a massacre.

And it was. When they got close enough to see, the flaming fists and the watch were barely holding the line, forced to step back ever so slightly, trying to hold the ranks even as the enemy’s onslaught tried to push them back into the village proper to force them to scatter.

The Dark Urge looked at the corpses all around. Goblins, humans, elves, gnolls- All those creatures whose lifeless, broken body was getting stepped over to make way for those who yet lived, eager to join the carpet of dead flesh and blood that covered the ground. His heartbeat picked up as he saw the scene, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. It was beautiful. 

The soldiers fought to the best of their abilities, and it wasn’t enough. If left any longer, they would all but lay down their weapons and wait for death to take them. Gortash’s timing was, as always, perfect, even in spite of the slightly rushed planning. It was almost a shame that he wouldn’t be able to witness utter annihilation. If only they had let them reach the city, the carnage would have been even more glorious. 

Eventually, the Gate’s brave defenders noticed the reinforcements. Someone shouted, a horn was sounded.

Gortash nodded at one of his banite officers, who answered with the same sound of the horn.

And the Steel Watch marched. They marched in unison towards the crawling mass of the army of the absolute. Their sheer numbers were overwhelming, but a single steel watcher  could take down at least ten goblins in one fell sweep of their weapons. Next to the Steel Watch, soldiers marched forward as well. It looked like the rhythm of their steps started to match those of the giants next to them. The Dark Urge turned to look at his ally, who watched with an intensity he had rarely seen on the man’s face before. “Isn’t it just beautiful?” Gortash spoke, his eyes never moving from the battlefield.

The Dark Urge followed his gaze, back to the scene of blood and death. It was. But he suspected Gortash didn’t see the same thing as he did. “War is the ultimate culling of the weak. Those strong enough will live to enjoy the spoils of victory and lead on to conquer even more. Weak leaders fall, and strong one rise as heroes, to lead their countrymen to glory. This- This is how you bring order and law to the masses.” The banite smiled, deep in thoughts. The dragonborn looked at the battlefield again. He saw the soldiers whose eyes burnt with determination cut down enemies without ever faltering. And then he saw those whose eyes were filled with fear, eyes darting around,  worried about where the fatal blow would come from, until an arrow lodged itself right into their brains. He saw the Steel Watchers’ presence emboldening the soldiers that had been exhausted earlier. And soon the tide of the battlefield turned. The city’s defenders were pushing the horde back slowly but steadily. Gortash looked over the scene with a conqueror’s gaze turned on the  horizon, and The Dark Urge knew that his mind was already on his next conquest. Then, the banite  turned towards him. “Shall we?”

He didn’t need to ask twice. The two of them joined the battle with the strength of their Gods as their side. Gortash was as talented in melee combat as in distance combat, but of course that time, he was eager to join the battle. When he jumped in the fray, he had the same effect on soldiers as the Steel watch. 

The Dark Urge kept an eye on him, even as he obliterated the absolute forces with his spells. Whenever an unfortunate soul broke the ranks to try and get to him, he showed them to be more wary of sorcerers even in melee with a good gut-stabbing. 

Eventually, his eyes fell onto the leading force behind the onslaught. To all, it was the General Ketheric Thorm. But he knew better. Even from a distance, he could imagine Orin’s smile twisting the General’s features, before vanishing, her job done.

 

The battle ended swiftly with steel watchers taking down absolutist after absolutist- And the occasional explosion of one took even more souls with it. Before long, the Absolutist army was routed, and they slaughtered every subjugated soul that couldn’t run for its life, because the brain ordered it to fight. The Dark Urge realised that he had lost sight of Enver somewhere during the battle, as busy as he had been with killing and the sight of his sibling. His eyes scanned the battlefield, and he found himself in a daze as the adrenaline crashed and he took in the scent of blood, and the tapestry of mangled and trampled corpses littered in the mud. He heard the cries of crows above, and he felt a shiver down his spine. Suddenly he felt hungry. Hungry for all that wasted flesh, much like the birds circling above, waiting for their share.

He was snapped out of his thoughts as someone familiar stepped into his field of vision. He blinked, and his eyes came back into focus to see Enver Gortash stepping towards him in his black armour. He was covered in blood, the gold of his armour had turned red, his face was splattered with fresh blood and his hair was matted in places. And he was smiling, victorious. 

The Dark Urge felt another type of hunger gnaw at him, the blood in his veins growing hotter as the banite  got closer. He looked glorious. He found himself wishing Gortash to pull a dagger and stab him with it- And he would do the same. And then they would make love even as they drowned in each other’s blood. Wouldn’t that be beautiful ?

It wasn’t to be. Such death would be a waste of their potential. But how nice it was to contemplate. Perhaps light cuts would have to suffice, later, when it would be just the two of them.

Gortash tilted his head and snapped his fingers in front of The Dark Urge’s face, who was torn away from his reverie. “You look stunned. Are you alright? Did you get hurt?” He quickly looked at The Dark Urge’s body, but he didn’t seem to truly believe that  he was hurt. The dragonborn only reached for the other man’s cheek, wiping the blood from it- or rather smearing it, as he realised his own hands were bloodied. “You look gorgeous.” He told him. Gortash’s eyes  widened in surprise. His brows furrowed, then he relaxed again, gently removing the dragonborn’s hand from his cheek. “I appreciate it, but let’s keep this sort of thing for later.” He glanced at the soldiers standing not far off, and The Dark Urge couldn’t help but glare at  them for being in the way. His  blood was still running hot, and he wasn’t in a patient or reasonable mood. He needed to calm down. So he did the only thing he could- He left to cool down. But he didn’t  head towards the city, no, he went towards the battlefield, maybe he could find a quiet place to satisfy  at least one of his cravings. 

 

Wading through a sea of corpses, The Dark Urge couldn’t help but feel at home. The wet sound of flesh under his boots, the cracking of bones- It reminded him of stepping over dead leaves, when the world was slowly trading life for death. It was perhaps his favourite time of the year, the time of blooming corpses and rotting nature. 

It got him to think about the future. About what he would do once he had taken  back his rightful place as bhaal’s chosen. His whole existence was meant to be a scourge on the prime material plane. He was meant to rule and kill. But ruling was perhaps not the right word. “Conquer and exterminate” Would be a more apt description. For there would not be a soul left if The Urge could  have its way. The whole of Faerun; of Toril, of the planes would bleed. He would seize it in his deathly grip and squeeze until the last drop of life left it, and then chew its marrow. And once he would be done, he, too, would have to die. Bhaal demanded death. And he wouldn’t rest until he had deprived every other god of  their power, until he had claimed every last soul. 

And that, was his destiny. To end it all. 

 

As  he stood over the corpse of a stout dwarf, The Dark Urge found himself rather contemplative. The corpse before him was an empty husk, meant to be consumed by carrion. So would the world once he was done with it. But then he considered- what was the point?

To feed his God countless souls was certainly a glorious objective, to come into his birthright- But where was the reward? Was it death? Would his own soul not be returned to his Father and consumed, just as he was about to consume the vanquished for no other reason than he could? That the dead had no power over their own end?

Or would his father truly reward him with a place at his side? It felt like a gamble.

Perhaps, once upon a time, before Orin scrambled his brain, he wouldn’t have doubted. Perhaps it had been his only objective, his only aspiration. If the Urge had defined his every thought, he would have had no time for doubts. But things had changed, hadn’t they? He had lost his Father’s favour, he had become a nobody for a time, and he had  had time to think on his own, without feeling the weight of his purpose pushing him in a single direction.

And at that moment, as he stood in the midst of the sea of corpses, after he was close to victory- He felt that he stood at a crossroad. A crossroad to determine what the Urge, the leash pulling at his heart, making him yearn for his Father’s love,  wanted and what he himself wanted. 

But then, What did he want? Did he want what Gortash wanted? 

Was there even a self outside of the Urge? Or  was he simply the Urge, and the question plaguing him were a byproduct of the brain damage, splitting his skull and his soul in two? Or perhaps a consequence of the banite’s meddling, insidiously sneaking into his every thought, making him turn away from his Lord Father, twisting his heart to beat for him?

He frowned as he looked down at the corpse under his feet; whose skull he had been mindlessly crushing under his foot. He had lost his appetite, all of a sudden. 

 

He turned around and went back towards the city. He saw soldiers picking up the corpses into piles to be identified and retrieved. He had no idea for how long he had been walking around aimlessly, but it seemed that the officers, the Steel Watch- And Gortash himself- Had gone back to the fortress. He looked up at the walls of Baldur’s  Gate on the horizon, and he frowned. He wondered if one day he would  be able to tell himself that he was coming home, wherever that home would be. The Temple of Bhaal, or… Somewhere else. 

He chased the thought away and moved on towards Wyrm’s rock fortress. Gortash was probably going to hold  a meeting.

 

When The Dark Urge arrived in the main Hall, Gortash was indeed talking with a few of the Flaming fist officers, and with the Watch’s leadership. The Dark Urge  didn’t interrupt, and instead he slipped into the shadows  to listen without having to take part. Diplomacy was Gortash’s forte, not his own. As they talked, new people arrived. Patriars and other influential souls, who were in a hurry to lavish their praise upon the banite. There were talks of celebration, a few mentioned dark times and the disappearances of loved ones- But most were too relieved to have avoided a siege to pay it any mind. They would remember the day as a day of victory, and they all had Enver Gortash to thank for it. Even Ravengard was taken out of his holding cell to praise Gortash. He looked weaker than he had before- Certainly to the dosage of poison he was given regularly to feign an illness taking him. His death would have to look natural. 

Once the council members assembled, they discussed the next step. The absolutist army was defeated, but the threat remained. Gortash of course demanded the power to root out traitors and have them executed. He wanted martial law until things finally cooled down. With how riled up everyone was, they were far too quick to hand it to him. The Gate would even be on lockdown for a short while, with strong restrictions on comings and goings in the city. Refugees wouldn’t be allowed in and forced to participate in “civil” actions, to help the citizens of Baldur’s Gate victims of the cult of the absolute, before they were considered to audition for a proper entry into the city. 

The meeting lasted for hours as a few addendums were brought up and discussed. Meanwhile The Dark Urge had found a comfortable spot to wait, eating absentmindedly at fruits left from the coronation day. He even found a couple splattered with blood. Yum.

 

Finally, the meeting ended and The Dark Urge heard the assembled people rise from their seats and slowly make their way outside, still chattering away about the decisions taken. When the room fell silent again, he heard footsteps coming towards him. Of course, he had no doubt of who was coming. Gortash stopped right in front of him, hands behind his back.

“You could have joined us.” He said. The Dark Urge snorted and rose to his feet, towering over the  banite. “I wasn’t interested. You know what I’m waiting for.”

Gortash nodded. “Of course. Now we can  discuss Orin, as promised.”

Once again, the bhaalspawn was startled. Even if his companion had given him his word, he still always expected treachery. A treachery which never came, in Gortash’s case. The banite smirked. “Don’t look so surprised. When have I ever let you down, my friend?”

He had to admit that  the answer was  quite simple. “Never.”

Enver took his arm to guide him towards the stairs, and he followed willingly. “I know you’re going through  some difficult times. You’ve been betrayed, your memories and birthright were stripped from you. And I truly empathise. But you must understand that it is within my best interest that you get back what you lost. I need a strong ally. A reliable ally. Someone I can trust..  And you fit  this description. That, and I actually like you. I couldn’t say the same of Ketheric and Orin.” 

The Dark Urge stopped right before the door. Gortash turned to face him. “I’m not the man you used to know. Perhaps you’re too quick to place your trust in me.” He said, staring intently at the man before him, observing each of his micro expressions. The quirk of his brow, the twitching at the corner of his mouth, the slight narrowing of the eye. 

“What do you mean?” 

There was a pause as The Bhaalspawn carefully considered his next words. He had  to decide. Did he fully trust the  man before him, or not? And how would he react? Was he truly honest, or was he, too, only interested in manipulating him? He clenched his jaw before he forced the words out. “What if I don’t want to be Bhaal’s chosen anymore?”

Gortash hummed. “Why wouldn’t you? You are the child  of  the Lord of murder. The power he offers you must be far greater than any mortal could ever hope for.” 

It was true. The slayer, his strength, his magic, a lot of it was improved by his God. And yet.

“Maybe I don’t want the same thing as my Lord Father. Maybe… I want something else than what he wants me to do.” It was hard to voice these doubts, especially to one for whom his God was everything. And yet, the banite’s eyes didn’t harden. Instead, he frowned and squeezed his arm in a comforting gesture. “I don’t think I can understand what you’re going through. I have, after all, chosen my God. Yours was forced upon you by the conditions of your birth. My only advice would be to think carefully before you do anything. Bhaal will not let you off easily… If at all.”

“I know.” It was all he could say. He knew well that Bhaal would kill him before he let him go. But was it really worth it? To kill and kill until nothing and no one remained, to finally die and be consumed? Could he not get better? He looked at Enver’s hand on his arm, and the gauntlet that adorned it. He took the hand  in his, and brought it to his mouth. He gently rubbed them against his face before biting them softly. He felt the Urge inside him rise and rise, and with it bile- disgust at the doubts, at the uncertainty, and at the impulse that drove him to seek comfort in something other than death and blood. 

“If it is of any reassurance- I have faith you will find your  way. And regardless of what  it is, so long as you are willing to remain my ally, I am willing to remain yours.”

 

It wasn’t much, but it was more  than he could hope for. For that, he was thankful. And he fully intended to show how thankful he was. He gazed at Enver, whose dark eyes were focused on the fingers the dragonborn was holding in his mouth, between his  teeth. When they made eye contact, the bhaalspawn changed bites for licks, and he knew that he had been understood when Gortash freed  his own hand, holding his instead to lead him upstairs. 

 

Chapter 16: Chapter 16

Gortash was barely done dressing up that he moved on to business. No time to lose. The Dark Urge wanted to get rid of his rival? They needed a solid plan.

"Out of habit, I would suggest dragging her out of her lair, ambushing her- But I doubt that can be done."

The dragonborn was still lying on the bed, and gave no sign of moving out of it. When the banite turned around, two red eyes were following his every step. 

"There is only one way to finish this. And it will be in the temple of Bhaal." The Dark Urge said. 

Gortash frowned, walking around as he thought aloud. "You said you had tracked it down, didn’t you? But as intrigued as I am- I will not do you the offence of asking to be taken there. Surely there is another way to-."

"You aren’t needed. This is between me and her." 

He stopped dead in his tracks. "Between you, her- and the Hells know how many bhaalists. You are not seriously considering going alone ?"

"Our Father will only accept a duel." He sat up on the bed, casually picking up the discarded clothing at his feet.

Gortash pinched the bridge of his nose as he did his best to remain calm. It wasn't like him to lose his temper, but perhaps the day's elation had gotten him a bit oversensitive. "Who says she won't try to have you killed before you set foot inside the temple? If her underlings swarm and kill you, I think Bhaal will see it as fair game." 

That gave The Dark Urge at least some pause as he put his underwear back on. " -Then what do you suggest? I cannot take the chosen of Bane to my Father's temple. Not without some precautions."

"Well then don't keep me waiting-  What sort of precautions ?" Gortash asked.

The Dark Urge smirked as he stepped towards the banite. With no warning, he harshly grabbed his face with one hand, his claw right in front of Gortash's eye. "I could remove your eyes to make sure you won't see where the temple is." 

Enver swatted his hand away. "You could at least pretend to take this seriously. I am trying to help you."

The bhaalspwan shrugged. "I am serious. We need to get rid of your sight. Perhaps without touching your eyes. You may yet have use for them." 

Gortash sighed. "So long as it is temporary. Perhaps spells - or potions, depending on how long this needs to last…" He paused to think a moment, until he remembered a very useful connection of his. He snapped his fingers. " I know who can take care of this."

Gortash went to sit at his desk and picked up his quill and some paper. It wasn’t a long message. The bare minimum to get his instructions across. Once done, he sealed the letter and went outside to hand it to one of the banites keeping watch. A few words were exchanged,  and the banite was on his way to get the message delivered. Payment shouldn't be an issue- That was the advantage of favours owned. 

 

Gortash couldn't even remember all of their names- But whenever he needed something, suddenly it came back to him. Who owed what and for which reason. Some he simply blackmailed- Others he had helped in the past. Both certainly would sooner be done with that debt than later. 

When he stepped back inside, The Dark Urge was mostly dressed, if still looking a bit unkempt. Wrinkled clothes, some of his buttons were mismatched, and he had some dark spots on the soft red skin of his neck- But he didn’t seem concerned by any of it. 

It did occur to the banite that his ally didn’t have to bother keeping up appearances. He was no one to the public eye. The Archduke's bodyguard, his right hand man- None of that required any decorum. He only had to be there.

Gortash on the other hand, couldn’t remember the last time he had been able to leave without checking himself twice.

"When will you get what you need?" The Dragonborn asked.

"In the evening, if they have what they need at hand. Two to three days if they don't, I presume. I will also have some flaming fists accompany us, just in case. We can kill them once Orin is disposed of."

The bhaalspawn nodded approvingly. "I will use them as a sacrifice for my Lord."

"You will do with them as you please." The banite said, as he walked over to his partner and fixed the mismatched buttons of his robes. "But we aren’t in a hurry." 

"We aren’t ?" 

"We just saved the city, dear. They're holding a ball tomorrow evening to celebrate. In the ducal palace, no less." He eyed the bhaalspawn's outfit closely, making sure his outfit looked decent before letting him go. The dragonborn was surprisingly unbothered by it. He eyed his own outfit afterwards and rolled his shoulders in satisfaction.

"And of course I have to attend?" 

 "Of course you have to. This is a celebration of our achievements. We need to have a talk about your outfit for the night." He smirked, and the dragonborn's grimace said it all. He wasn’t too fond of the public eye- As would be expected of a killer on his scale. It always amused Gortash, especially considering how natural he was at mingling with any type of crowd. He would make a charismatic leader of his own, if Bhaal didn't waste so much of his potential with the serial murder business.

A thought his companion seemed to share, at least in some aspects, from the doubts he had expressed earlier.

A step in the right direction. So long as The Dark Urge didn’t rush it. Impulsivity never bode well for any plan.

 

The Ducal Palace was the siege of all the most grandiose social events in the Upper City. Once upon a time, it had belonged to the first Grand Duke of Baldur’s Gate- Duke Eltan. But a century had passed since that time, and the Duke's family had borne no heir to take up the mantle of the Flaming Fist leader. The role had fallen, funnily enough, on a Bhaalspawn, before being passed to Ravengard- And it was Gortash who would be the next leader of the city. The first Archduke, and the first banite- accompanied by a Bhaalspawn as well. 

The irony wasn’t lost on the Archduke as he stepped onto the propriety of the palace. He stopped a while to wait for his companion, who stopped next to him and looked up. Gortash wondered how much he knew about the history of the building, with the amnesia. Before, The Dark Urge had been quite attached to bhaalist history. It was strong within the city, and was treated as long past. 

Gortash turned to him and smiled. "Yet another Bhaalspawn's deeds are celebrated tonight."

The Dark Urge smiled a little. He looked quite fetching in his blood red and gold suit. It wasn’t recent, Gortash had it made a year ago or so for a less mundane event. "Unofficially, only. It’s you whom they celebrate."

"Every leader has another strong ally in the shadows to pull the right strings." 

The bhaalspawn hummed. "Don't they say this about wives?"

Of course they did. The banite however, only grinned and stepped through the gate of the palace. The front gardens were adorned with ageing fountains and trees shaped in geometric shapes. The palace itself was larger than most properties in The city. Several stories with grand bedrooms, and on the first floor, a large ballroom, in which celebrations were held. In normal circumstances- That was also where coronations were meant to happen. However Gortash had insisted it happened rather in a military relevant place in the city as a symbol. It would be an even stronger symbol once Gortash had turned the Wyrm's rock fortress into a Black Keep. Or perhaps the Palace itself. Bith would make suitable places of rule and worship of his Lord. But that wasn't quite the time for that. 

 

The night was still a time for deceit. He was the hero who saved Baldur’s Gate from the Absolutist threat. Dangerous cultists, even more feared than the dead three.

As he stepped inside the grand ballroom, the assembled crowd turned and he was welcomed by a grand ovation in the room. People clapped and cheered. "Long live The Archduke ! The hero of Baldur’s Gate !"

He waved and bowed his head slightly at the assembly wearing his warmest smile as a mask. He wore a suit for the occasion, as always he had made his trademark of wearing black and gold. Black to honour his master, Gold for his own taste and propriety. One couldn’t wear only black without looking a little bit suspicious.

The Archduke stood at the end of the room, and was brought a glass of champagne. He faced the crowd for a moment in silence before he spoke, taking in his surroundings, bathing in the glory of the moment. They were all hanging onto his lips, waiting for him to speak. 

"Dear Baldurans. Only a few days ago, you made the difficult choice of trusting me with the security and the future of our City. The title of Archduke had never before been bestowed upon anyone- And it was a great honour that I accepted it." He placed his free hand over his heart. "I stood before you humbled by your display of faith, and the courage you displayed in the face of adversity. I have never been so proud to be a born and raised Balduran. The Absolutist army has been vanquished, but it was only the first step towards bringing Baldur’s Gate to glory. I will root out the absolutist cult, bring our enemies before justice- And our city will soon be knowing a new age of prosperity and peace. This wouldn’t be possible without your support and wisdom, dear citizens. And so I raise my glass to you all- This victory is your victory! Glory to Baldur’s Gate and its people!" The banite raised his glass and people echoed his words in cheers, before taking a drink. 

The festivities started the moment he finished speaking. An orchestra played music in a corner of the room, and chatter rose, accompanying the clinking of glasses.

Gortash turned towards The Dark Urge. He hailed a servant and handed him a drink, smiling. "To our victory. And the next that will surely come." The dragonborn smiled, and clinked his glass with the banite’s. "Hopefully, our next toast will be to my dear sister's death."

“I’m sure it will be. Your sister’s death, and your second ascension as your Father’s favourite.” He carefully avoided the names of their Gods. In places such as these, the walls had ears, and it was better to avoid bleeding when swimming with sharks.

As he talked, he saw a group of older nobles, accompanied with younger ladies. All were dressed in gorgeous and extravagant dresses, and all looked at Gortash with stars in their eyes. “Try to have fun. Duty calls.” The banite whispered to his companion, before he turned to the group. He didn’t need to listen to them speak to know why they were here. “Good evening.” He said with his most charming smile. The nobles bowed and curtsied politely. Then after presenting their respect, the guests introduced their daughters to him. He of course knew about them, he knew about every family of significance in the city, from the oldest to the youngest living member of them. He knew their weaknesses and their strengths, and had already carefully calculated the ones he was interested in working with, and those he wanted to keep in check.

Every time one of the young ladies introduced herself, he made a point of looking them up and down just to see their reactions. Most shyly averted their eyes, to the exception of two who looked simply bored to be there. They were young enough that they could have been his own daughters. The youngest must have been sixteen, and the oldest couldn’t be more than twenty-five. He, of course, wasn’t interested in any of them. A marriage would be beneficial with the right person. But these patriar and noble families were of no interest to him. The city was already his, if he wanted an arranged marriage, he would turn his gaze beyond the city.

Still, he smiled and exchanged a few words with them. He had to admit that he found some satisfaction from the interaction. There had been a time where he had been forced to bow to these families and their whims, and years later, they were the one throwing themselves at his feet in hope of gaining a favour. He enjoyed making them squirm, watching them get embarrassed and bite their tongues as he toyed with them. 

 

When that group left, he was approached by others, who were interested in talking business. So he talked business with them. It wasn’t exactly riveting, and as two of them debated at length of the benefits and disadvantages of using refugees as a cheap workforce, Gortash’s eyes wandered around the ballroom. It was too large to be able to make out a face from another, and the reflections of the lights on the marble floorings and golden decorations didn’t help the eyes. Thankfully, the man he was looking for stood out in such an assembly. A large, imposing white dragonborn tended to be easy to see in most crowds. For one, he was at least one head taller than everyone present in the room. He wasn’t too far, either, holding his drink and humouring a crowd of men and women, who were far too eager to grab his arms and touch him like some sort of entertaining pet. The Archduke found himself furrowing his brows at the sight. It reminded him of his own past. Back when he had been just an ambitious mercenary, trying to climb up the social ladder. All sorts of people crowded him, touched him, asked him all sorts of humiliating questions. Such was the privilege of those who were born into power. The privilege of thinking the world around was theirs to own, even as they did nothing to deserve the power they held. They would treat a king like an animal without realising who was standing before them, because they were fools who didn’t recognise true power even if it hit them in the face. 

The Dark Urge humoured them. He smiled, even. 

“What do you think, my Lord?” One of the people he was meant to be talking to asked. The banite waved his hand. “I think we need to discuss this on the next council. Labour conditions of refugees have to be addressed eventually, but I don’t think tonight is the right time. You should be enjoying the evening.” He told them. Of course, they all agreed with him. He could have told them to fuck off that they would have apologised for existing. They were nothing to him. Still, Gortash preferred to remain polite in all circumstances, and so he excused himself and went to join his partner’s side. 

As he got closer, he heard the remarks he had heard told about him before. “You look so strong, I bet you could easily defeat my own bodyguard.” One cooed.

“And lift ladies up like they’re feathers!” An older lady touched Dark Urge’s biceps as she laughed. “You’re right, those are massive~ I wish my Husband was half as strong, but his fighting days are long past.” 

An older gentleman eyed the dragonborn’s body. “I’m sure you would make a fine fighter, have you considered selling your services ?”

The Archduke’s arrival didn’t remain unnoticed. As soon as he approached, they all turned to him, bowing their heads respectfully. His face must have communicated his displeasure, because they all averted their eyes, acting like children caught pulling on a cat’s tail. 

“I see you’re enjoying the evening.” Gortash remarked with a forced smile. The guests answered with awkward half-smiles and chuckles. “Ah, yes my Lord. We’re celebrating! We thought to have a word with your servant.”

If they could see the shift in the Bhaalspawn’s eyes as aptly as Gortash could, they would have run away already. Instead they foolishly remained there, unaware of the murderous gaze placed upon them.

“... Not my servant, no. My right hand and trusted friend.” The banite placed his hand on The Dark Urge’s shoulder as he smiled at the embarrassed guests, whose ears and faces had turned slightly red from realising their mistake. Then he turned towards the dragonborn, still with the same, forced smile. “I need a word, if I may take you away from these esteemed guests .” He nodded, and Gortash took his arm and gently nudged him away from the group of vultures. His smile vanished as they got to a quieter part of the room.”I know we can’t yet introduce you officially, but it doesn’t mean you have to tolerate this.”

The Bhaalspawn shrugged his shoulders, and he smirked. “Maybe I like the attention. It’s entertaining, at least.”

Gortash frowned. “It’s demeaning. If you let them act that way, they’ll treat you as a servant, nothing more.”

“It’s fine. I have a good memory of faces.” The dragonborn said, as he looked in the direction of the man who had previously called him Gortash’s servant. He was some wealthy merchant. He had a decent amount of influence within the city, and he had tried to earn the title of Lord for years. But no amount of machination could turn a mediocre man into anyone of importance, and so her remained in the shadows of the great- While treating anyone below him as dirt beneath his feet. Even as the banite looked in his direction, he turned around as if he hadn’t been staring at them. Disposable was too nice of a word to describe him.

Gortash lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ll give you his personal information later, if you wish. No hunting tonight. Not here, anyway.”

The bhaalspawn frowned. “I can’t do anything fun here, can I?”

“Unless your definition of fun is dancing and socialising, I’m afraid not, dear friend.” Although there was something else The Dark Urge could do to keep himself busy… It was work, but surely it was preferable to a public bloodbath. “-If you are truly that bored, there’s something you can do. You say you’re good with faces?”

The Dark Urge nodded. “I never forget a face.” He paused. “- Unless someone sticks a dagger in my brain in between.” The banite did chuckle at that joke. 

“Daggers aside, can you recognise some of my men?”

The dragonborn eyed the crowd for a moment before answering. “I spotted a few earlier. It should not be too hard to find them.” 

“Do you remember the code I gave you? If you speak it to them, they’ll slip you a report. You read and destroy them. You’re free to tackle threats immediately if need be. I trust you to be smart about it.” 

The Dark Urge nodded. Clearly he preferred that sort of entertainment to all that agitation. “And if nothing of import comes up?”

Gortash grinned and did a flourish as he bowed. “Well, you can still dance.” The dragonborn rolled his eyes. “If no assassin comes for you, I’ll take care of it myself.” And just like that, he was off. The banite let out a sigh as he watched him sink into the crowd. He didn’t really know why he had sighed, and he chose not to linger on it. The night would be long.

 

As entertained as everyone was by the champagne and the chattering, the celebration was a ball, first and foremost. Which meant that when more musician joined in the orchestra, and the music picked up, the whole room gathered to the sides to leave some space for the actual dancing. Gortash was meant to open the dance, of course. He chose among the young women from the Patriar familieswho had been introduced to him. Mostly out of necessity, as he didn’t exactly have another fitting dance partner to inaugurate the evening. The young lady was quiet, and she curtsied gracefully before the dance as Gortash bowed to her. Then he took her hand, and they both danced skillfully to the music, while the room watched. Gortash smiled at his dance partner, as if it was part of the dance itself. The young woman did blush but she didn’t let herself be confounded, and her dancing remained flawless. If there was one thing people of high birth could do well, it was dancing. They learned every type of dance under the sun from a young age, and it was apparent that Gortash had chosen his partner well. She was graceful and skilled, in spite of her shy temperament. 

Soon, other dancers joined them, until most of the room was dancing. As etiquette demanded, Gortash had to change partners after a few minutes. And when he did,  he used that opportunity to check the room after greeting his new partner. Another young woman, older than the previous one. His eyes quickly found someone of interest, watching from the sidelines, arms crossed, and fiery red eyes fixed on the dancers. On one dancer in particular. Gortash reminded himself to smile and focus on making small talk with his dance partner. He had to be agreeable. 

When he changed partners again; the music was getting to a softer part. It reminded Gortash of winter, though he could not explain why. Perhaps the melody was cold or dragged on like cold winter wind, or perhaps it was the notes falling quietly like snowflakes on frozen ground. His new partner was an older woman. Gortash greeted her politely before turning his attention to the spot where he had spotted the dragonborn before- But he had gone.

He looked around some more between two sentences and flattery of the older woman, and his  eyes eventually found purchase among the dancers. There he was, dancing with a young man quite skillfully. The young man was transfixed by the imposing dragonborn he danced with, and who only looked ahead, seemingly enjoying the music. However, Gortash knew the reason he was looking over his partner’s shoulder and not at him the moment their  eyes met. They had the same cold and quiet intensity as the music. No one could tell what was possibly going on behind that cold gaze, and even if the banite was rather skilled at reading people, he had always found the Bhaalspawn delightfully hard to read. Not because he was whimsical, like his sister, but because you could see that everything he did, he thought of beforehand- even if to the untrained eye, it might have looked impulsive. Looking into the patterns of his kills, into his words and actions when they had first met;  It had felt like retracing the steps of a well crafted plan. Of course, he had his moments of impulsive decision making, careless words and acts, even long before his disappearance. Moments which The banite both enjoyed and feared. They could be a welcome, creative addition to the situation at hand, or a most unwelcome loss of countenance that cost them much.

He was delightfully hard to predict. Infuriatingly so. 

The music picked up into something harsher, low  notes followed by high ones, banging like drums of war. The dancers  changed their movements to match the melody, and momentarily turned into soldiers. Their movements felt more like moves to attack and defend in comparison to the slow, languid dancing from before.

Gortash returned his attention to his partner as she laughed and remarked she hadn’t danced something like that in a very long age. He chuckled politely and assured her she was most assuredly not old. She giggled at the flattery. He returned his attention to The Dark Urge, whose strong body was definitely more fit for a more erratic type of dancing, one that flattered the power of his form, the sheer strength of him. A style of dancing the banite personally favoured. The dragonborn’s partner tripped and went red in the face, and he smiled kindly to him. Such a smile, Gortash had rarely seen on his ally’s face, and he doubted it to be sincere. Not to such a simple minded,  scrawny young boy. A boy yes, because he barely looked old enough to be considered a man. He was human but his skin was smooth still, and he had the muscle mass of a child. How old must he have been? Twenty, at most. A child, hardly relevant enough to pay him no mind. He realised he was clenching his jaw and relaxed a little, trying to focus on the music itself to keep his dancing right.

He changed partners twice more, and all the while, the Bhaalspawn danced, too. When he stepped to the side, the dragonborn was still dancing. Every time, he appeared to pick the most boring of partners- It had to be the reason why he looked so damn glorious even as his dancing was far from polished. And yet- It was hard to look away. And The Archduke almost didn’t look away. He had a drink, then another as he watched the dancing and listened to the music. He humoured those who wished to exchange pleasantries, but he didn’t give them his full attention. 

There was a break in the music, and The Dark Urge bowed to his last dance partner as he excused himself. As he did, the younger man from earlier chanced a talk with him, attracting his attention to give him a drink and talk. The bhaalspawn smiled as he drank and exchanged pleasantries. It seemed he didn’t hate it as much as he had pretended to. 

 

The evening continued, and Gortash danced a lot more before it was considered polite to leave. The music was enjoyable, so was the dancing, but the pointless small talk frayed his nerves bit by bit, even as it seemed that his partner was having a better time with each passing second. If it kept up, he would be receiving marriage proposals before the night’s end.

It was time for the Archduke to leave. He casually walked up to The Dark Urge and grabbed his attention, ignoring the respectful greetings from his admirers. “I’m leaving. I still have much to do tomorrow. The City won’t save itself.” He smiled at those words, and the people around them laughed. “My Lord, you should stay longer, surely the City can wait a little longer!” A woman said. Others agreed. He turned to them feigning a good hearted chuckle. “My friends, I have always been too absorbed by my work for my own good. I’m afraid this is as much entertainment as I can take before I grow ill.” They laughed some more, and Gortash bid them a good night as he walked off, Bhaalspawn in tow. He had followed. Of course he had. Why wouldn’t he? 

 

As they stepped outside, Gortash closed his  eyes to take in the quiet, and the fresh air on his face. It occurred to him that he may have had one drink too many. He wasn’t nearly close to being drunk, but  he still felt his face was hot in spite of the cold, and his thoughts were a  lot less organised than usual. “Come back with me to the safe house.” He ordered.

“Are  you drunk, Archduke?” The bhaalspawn teased. 

The banited waved his hand dismissively. “I’m only a bit tipsy. Nothing serious.”

“Why do you ask me to come with you, then?”

“In case you have other plans. You’re a free man. You’re allowed to.” 

“But not tonight?” The dragonborn inquired. “No, not tonight.” He had had plenty of freedom for the evening, Gortash thought. Oddly enough, his companion didn’t seem to oppose it. And so they walked all the way from the palace to the safehouse in the lower city. The servants were actually surprised by their coming, even more surprised when Gortash told them to prepare the bedroom, light up the fireplaces and scram.

He went to the parlour and removed his jacket, which he tossed on one of the seats. Then he unbuttoned the shirt underneath  just enough to be comfortable, revealing his chest, much like he was used to in his everyday clothing. 

Then he stood by the fire, his back on the dragonborn who was silently watching him. “How did you enjoy your evening?” Gortash asked. “It was alright.”

The banite grimaced. “Alright? Is that all?”

“It’s all very fake, isn’t it? The smiles, the dancing, everything. That- And it would benefit from a bit more bloodletting.” 

That time, he turned away from the flames to glance at The Dark Urge. He was standing a few metres away, his face obscured in the darkness cast by Gortash’s shadow as he stood in front of the fire. “You seemed to enjoy the dancing quite a bit, for someone who pretends he didn’t enjoy himself.” He remarked. 

“What was I supposed to do? Watch you dance from afar and do nothing?”

“Yes.” It came out like bile- A gut reaction more than a word. “You’re not supposed to dance with any of them. They’re barely more than cattle.”

“With whom am I supposed to dance, then?” The Dark Urge asked as he stepped closer. 

“With me. Or is your brain so scrambled that you cannot tell where I am getting at?”

Another step, and they stood face to face, close enough that Gortash had to look up to see his eyes. “I wanted to see if you were drunk enough to answer.” 

The banite rolled his eyes. “I’m not drunk. Yes, I am a bit tipsy. But it doesn’t make any difference. I’m the Chosen of Bane, the fucking Archduke of Baldur’s Gate, and you are going to dance with me.”

The bhaalspawn grinned. “It’s the first time I hear you use that word. Didn’t know you had  it in you.” 

 

Gortash took the dragonborn’s hand and gave a determined kick into one of the seats, moving it away to make some place to dance. Then he placed his hand on his partner’s waist, and pulled their bodies close, ready for a dance. “It’s not the first time you hear that word from my mouth, and it will not be the last.” He said. “Now, let us dance.”

There was no place for argument, and so The Dark Urge did as he was told. There was no music to guide them, and with the limited  space, Gortash led a dance that involved a lot of contact, and very little spinning. It was slow, too, enough to allow the partners to talk comfortably. The  Dark Urge first held Gortash’s hand and followed without really knowing where he wanted to go. Once the pace set in, he got more comfortable, and much to the banite’s surprise, he moved his hand to interlock their fingers. Gortash said nothing, he kept holding onto his waist, keeping him  perhaps a little closer  than was usually the case in a public setting. He wasn’t a bad dancer, as he had thought. Perhaps that kind of slow pace was difficult for a  man his size, but he didn’t let any of it show. 

 

“Is this the first time we dance?” The bhaalspawn asked.

Was it? In a way, it was perhaps the first time they danced. Just as a few days ago, it had been the first time they kissed, the first time they had sex- A lot of first times to replace the ones Gortash remembered. How many years since they had first met? Four? And when had been their first kiss? Perhaps Three years ago, or three and a half. 

“There aren’t a lot of first times between us. We danced before. Not often, as we usually had more intimate activities when we had the opportunity to spend time alone.” The Dark Urge arched a brow, but he seemed to find that it was certainly true.

“You never told me we  had been so… involved.” 

“Too involved would be more accurate. You’re not without knowing that neither of our followers would look kindly on our nighttime activities. Or the daytime ones either, for that matter.” Truth be told, Gortash figured some of the banites knew of his affair with the chosen of bhaal back then, but  neither of them had had any reason to doubt their leader’s dedication to Bane. So they didn’t meddle. The dragonborn hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps it would  have been wiser to  stop before I got a knife through the brain.”

“Orin had been coveting your place for a long time. She is a child pining for the love of her Father, and she would have done anything to get it. She is a fool. And you were even more of a fool to keep coming back to me so brazenly.” Even as he admonished him, the banite chuckled. For all his cold-blooded brutality, The Dark Urge had never bothered with  the concept of subtlety. 

“I’m a child of the Lord of murder. I take what I want, there is no shame in it.”

“Even when what you want is the chosen of your God’s enemy?” Gortash took a step back, letting go of his partner’s waist just long enough for a few elegant steps, and  then they were brought together again. 

 

“My Lord Father doesn’t care, so long as it doesn’t cloud my judgement. His will is my purpose, and it must  not change.” As he said that, the dragonborn looked  down. Guilt. It wasn’t the first time he saw that look on his face, either. 

“It was never  going to end well, was it? But I was given  a chance to fix it. And I still can.” The bhaalspawn clenched his jaw, his hold on Gortash’s shoulder tightened dangerously.

“We both have a taste for the forbidden and the cruel.” He reached for the hand on his shoulder, gently soothing it, lest the claws dug too deep into the skin. “ I expected us to fight to the  death at the end of it all. A cruel, but fitting end. We agreed on this. I never expected you to simply disappear.” He still remembered the dull shock of seeing Orin step inside his office, that insufferable grin on her face  as  she said she would be representing the temple of Bhaal from then on. He hadn’t been able to hide it well enough- The shock of it. How could Bhaal’s scion, his bhaalspawn, simply disappear? Murdered by a second in command, just like that. It wasn’t the end he was supposed to have. He deserved better. Death at the hands of  an equal, or by his own hand. Those had been his words. And Gortash had never once doubted the truth of them. He was a force of nature, nothing else could ever stop him. 

Certainly not Orin.

The dragonborn’s grip on his shoulder relaxed. “Is that why you brought me back? Sentimentality?”

Gortash stopped dancing. “I do not do things out of sentimentality. You of all people should know that. I brought you back for the same reason Orin and Ketheric conspired to take you away. We work well together. We trust and know each other better than anyone else around us. That made us strong then, and I needed that back, or the two of them would have ruined everything we had worked so hard for. I told you before, and me being tipsy doesn’t change the answer.” Although… “And I genuinely liked you. My underlings are weak, Orin is insufferable, Ketheric  is a traitor obsessed with his daughter to the point of being ridiculous. You- You are my only equal. We understood each other. It had to be us. Only we could  put aside our God’s differences long enough to succeed. It has to be us. ”

 

The Dark Urge murmured something under  his  breath. Gortash didn’t have time to wonder what it was as two strong arms wrapped around him. He blinked, frozen for a second at the gesture. He hadn’t been expecting a hug, of all things. But it wasn’t bad- Especially as he felt the dragonborn’s cold snout nuzzling against his  neck, then rubbing his cheek. He pushed the man off  him just  enough to be able to kiss him back. 

“We will conquer, we will celebrate, and only then will we bleed.” The banite said. Those words, he hadn’t been the one to say them first. And he hoped to prove them wrong. They wouldn’t have to bleed- If only Bhaal was out of the equation. With a bhaalspawn at his side, with their minds as one in faith, they would be unstoppable. 

If only-

 

Clapping, and then laughter. A woman’s laughter, precisely. The two men turned towards the door, to see one of the servants there, grinning from ear to ear, clapping slowly and wiping a tear from her eye. “Encore! What a show!” 

She took a few more steps, and took on her real form- that of Orin the Red. Gortash glared. He had let down his guard.

 

Chapter 17: Chapter 17

Notes:

I hope you're having a nice day!
I'm saying that for no reason at all.

“Orin. Come to make my work easier?” The Dark Urge said with a smile.

She burst into laughter. “Easier? You have grown so soft, brother, that I almost wonder if father would want your blood as an offering. Perhaps I should end this now.” She drew her dagger, and threw it at the dragonborn’s head. He dodged it easily. And  in a blink, he was behind her, holding a dagger to her throat. She laughed, and Her body shifted form again. “Go ahead. Cut my throat out. Drink my blood, feast on my flesh.” Said Gortash’s voice. The Dark Urge saw Gortash in front of him, he hadn’t moved. He knew that the person whose throat was under his blade wasn’t the banite. But he saw it nonetheless. A vision of blood, Gortash’s throat a bloody gash that gurgled blood, his eyes wide in fear as he faced his untimely death at the hand of one he trusted.

He hesitated. Of course he did. Orin slipped free of his hold with an amused laugh, then joined Gortash’s side, placing her dagger on his chest. “Look at what you did, little Lordling. My brother has become meek." Gortash didn’t deign to answer her. He barely even glanced in her direction, instead he stared at the dragonborn silently. Was it disappointment on his face? Judgement? Or mere annoyance at Orin’s untimely appearance?

The Dark Urge growled and threw an ice spike at his sister’s face- which still looked like Gortash- It found its mark, and Orin hissed before turning back to her default form, with an ice spike lodged in her shoulder. She removed it and tossed it to the ground, glaring, teeth clenched. She was furious to have been caught off guard. 

“You don’t know me nearly as well as you think you do, little sister.” The Bhaalspawn said.

Orin howled in rage. “Enough games! Father demands death- He demands a sacrifice! And I will give it to him!” She seemed ready to lunge herself at The Dark Urge, but she closed her eyes, took a deep breath and dropped her arm. “Your death has to be a sacrifice. This isn’t the right place.” She straightened up, and a grin crawled back on her features. “You will come to the Temple. And I will kill you. I will show Father that you are unworthy.”

The bhaalspawn snorted. “You came all this way just for this? Perhaps I’m not the one who’s soft.” 

The woman’s features twisted in anger again. “Wag your tongue while you can, blood-kin. When I kill you, I’ll tear it  out all the way and choke you with it.”

“I can’t wait.” 

Orin twisted the ring on her finger, and disappeared, leaving dust particles behind her as she did.

“Charming, as always.” Gortash grimaced as he dusted himself off.

“I hope your contact will bring what we need soon, because Orin will not wait forever.” The Dark Urge  said. A duel had been issued, and if it wasn’t accepted, she wouldn’t hesitate to slip into the dead of the night to slit his throat while he slept. The time had come to face his heritage.

The banite nodded. “I’m sure they won’t be long. I'd hate to keep your Father waiting.”

“So would I.”

The mood had turned sour from Orin’s interference. The Dark Urge was left pensive from the event. He remembered how vivid the vision of Gortash bleeding out had been, and how elated he had felt from it. The Urge rejoiced from such things- And it wouldn’t have been an issue if he hadn’t felt  sick from it. He didn’t want to kill Gortash. It wasn’t his will, his desire. Yet, the compulsion was there, the leash reminding him that his Father’s will would be done, regardless of his own wishes.

 

That night, The Dark Urge fell into a deep sleep rather easily, much to his surprise. He hadn’t expected to sleep at all, but as soon as he lied down, his eyelids felt heavy, and his  mind grew foggy. 

And all of a sudden, he  was walking through a battlefield, or at least he thought that was what it was, as corpses littered the ground as far as the eye could see. There wasn’t a single sound beyond the sound of bones, flesh and metal under his feet. He walked ahead for what felt like hours, and as he did, not a single thing seemed to change. Just death everywhere, and the satisfaction of a work well done. Even the carrions and vultures had died, leaving no one but him to feast  on the corpses of the dead.

 

Eventually, he spotted a pile of corpses. Or a mound would be more accurate, as its size cast a looming shadow over him. He did the only logical thing he thought of: He climbed. He climbed and climbed, gripping arms, legs, faces as he went, sometimes tearing through flesh to find purchase. The mound was much taller than it had appeared from below, and it took a few minutes to finally reach the top. At the top was an obsidian room, blood flowed from the walls into gutters which cascaded from the platform into darkness, the battlefield nowhere to be seen. At the end of the room, right ahead, a throne sat under A grinning skull, surrounded by droplets of blood. Bhaal’s symbol, his domain. The Dark Urge knew the throne was meant for him. And so he stepped forward towards it, and stopped right in front of it as he noticed Orin standing in his way. She smiled, of course she did. When didn’t she? 

“You’re forgetting something, blood-kin.” She said, handing him her dagger. He took the blade, and without a moment of hesitation, he pushed the blade into Orin’s belly and gutted her. She slumped to the ground, her blood joining the gutters. 

He stepped forward, eager to take his throne- Only to realise someone else was already sitting there. He wore a fully black armour save for a white circle on the chest plate, on which the Black Hand had been painted. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, a smile reserved to the closest of friends. “You’re late.” Enver Gortash spoke, rising from the Throne with the confidence of someone who owned the place. The Dark Urge blinked, and suddenly the room had changed. It was still obsidian- But the blood was gone, replaced by elegant braziers which burnt with blue flames. The dragonborn looked above the throne, and Bhaal’s symbole had turned into that of a black handprint. 

 

In his hand, the dagger he had used to gut Orin still dripped with  fresh blood. He felt a pressure  on his shoulders, and a whisper in his ears. “Kill him. Take your due.” Orin’s voice. He turned around, and saw no one. When he turned back to face Gortash, he was still standing there. “I know why you’ve come.” The chosen of Bane said, as he stepped closer. 

The Dark Urge took an hesitant step back, but it didn’t  deter the banite, who stepped close enough to take The bhaalspawn’s right hand in his- The hand holding the dagger.

“We both knew this would end that way, didn’t we? The Scion of Bhaal, murder incarnate. Your blood was always going to call for my death.” As he said that, he brought The Dark Urge’s hand up, to rest the dagger on his throat.

“Gortash-” The dragonborn’s hand didn’t move. But just seeing the blade on the man’s neck made his blood grow  hot, his heart race and his breathing grow short. 

“This  is what you want. You want to bleed the world dry. You want to take every last life until yours is the only one left to take. And you’re almost there. One more death, before it’s your turn to join your Father.”

“This doesn’t have to end like this.” The Dark Urge said. His voice was shaking, and so did his hand. It took all his willpower to hold himself back- But he didn’t want to pull the dagger away either. What harm would there be to killing him? It would be so satisfying. Perhaps it would even come true by morning, and  then, he wouldn’t be guilty of it, not really. Plausible deniability. And then- There would be no more doubt. He would only have to follow his Father’s will, just as he had done in the past.

The Banite smiled, squeezing The dragonborn’s hand, trying to dig the blade deeper into the skin.

“It has to end like this. Or would you rather become my servant? Did you like it, being paraded like my guard dog all over the city? Being showcased as a good little pet at the ball?”

“This isn’t how it is. We can be equals.” Enver reached for the bhaalspawn’s face with his free hand. His smile turned sad.  “My dear, foolish bhaalspawn- There are no equals under Bane’s rule.”

The Dark Urge’s let out a frustrated growl. He didn’t want to be Gortash’s pet. But he didn’t want to be his Father’s pet either. He wanted  to have his  own thoughts, his own wants, his own beliefs. He wanted to be in control. He wanted to lead his own existence,not be dragged around by The Urge, Bhaal’s carefully crafted leash. Following the Lord of Murder would only bring  him a  meaningless death, and for what? What would  he get in turn? His Lord Father was not merciful, nor was he  known to be grateful. He could very well take back the essence he had given once it had lost its usefulness. Or  perhaps he would value his scion as a useful, loyal tool of death, and allow him a place at his side. And what could be more pleasant than to kill forevermore? To see  an endless sea of souls delivered into his hand to maim?

 

Then What about Gortash? Would killing him truly solve it all? He wasn’t lying, Bane operated by a simple rule: To dominate or be subjugated. Regardless of how Gortash put it, they would never be true equals. Gortash would rule, he was The Archduke of Baldur's Gate, and one day he would be much more. And what would that entail for The Dark Urge? A trusted right hand? An advisor from the shadows? A ruler in a part of Gortash’s empire? Or was that all also a lie?

The bhaalspawn looked into the banite’s dark eyes. He looked at  his smile, at the wrinkles on his face and every single detail that could tell him what that man possibly meant to do with him, once he was on top of the world. But that  dream Gortash wasn’t the real one. He closed his eyes, seeking the answer from his recent memories. He had smiled in that way on many occasions. It was the smile of a conqueror, of a politician- But there were other moments when he had worn far more honest expressions. Anger, frustration, jealousy-  so many cracks in the well-crafted mask that was his face.

 

The Dark Urge couldn’t stop thinking it over in his head. He heard Gortash sigh, and the hand that had been holding his, seized the dagger from his trembling grip, and without a moment of hesitation, stuck it into The Dark Urge’s chest, piercing his heart.

The bhaalspawn looked at his own chest, blood slowly staining the black cloth of his robes as he felt a sharp pain spread from the wound to his whole chest. Blood sipped into his lungs, until he was choking on it. Then he looked up at the man before him- A man whose face was all torn flesh and bone, but whom he instinctively recognised. “A dull blade is useless to me.” A deep, guttural voice said. The Dark Urge retched up blood as he fell to his knees. “F-Forgive me, Father-”

 

He woke up with a sharp pain in his chest and the taste of metal at the back of his throat. He felt like he couldn’t breathe; and when he reached for his heart, he didn’t feel his own pulse. 

The bhaalspawn threw himself to the ground, hand on his chest, trying in vain to escape the pain. He forced himself to breathe, too fast, too hard, and his mind grew foggier as he tried to crawl on the ground, to find something, anything to help.

He felt hands on his shoulders and he was flipped onto his back. In his panic, he hadn’t heard the footsteps or the voice calling him. He felt himself on the brink of oblivion.

Enver stood over him, he checked his pulse, then placed one hand on his face, and the other on his chest, palm open. “-Deep breaths. You’re fine- Breathe.” 

Fine? The Dark Urge  didn’t feel fine. He reached for his own chest to feel his heartbeat- And took a deep, relieved breath as he felt the heart beat rapidly under his scales and ribs. As he took another deep breath, Gortash gently tapped his cheek in encouragement. “Good. You’re coming back.” 

Just as he said that, the dragonborn felt bile rise up in his throat. He only  had time to turn to his side as he retched- and blood came out of  his maw, through his nose, staining the carpet under his body.

“What in the hells…” The banite cursed under his breath as he rubbed his companion’s back. 

Eventually, The Dark Urge  managed to get back into a sitting position. His mind was in a haze. All he could remember was that he thought he had been stabbed, right  in the chest- And yet not a trace of a wound on his him. Enver helped him to his feet and  sat him back on the bed. They were in the safehouse’s bedroom, from the looks of it. Yet, The Dark Urge didn’t remember going to sleep. He was still confused and dizzy from whatever had just happened.  “What happened?” He asked Gortash. He realised that the man was only wearing pants and that his hair was sticking out in places. He didn’t answer immediately, as he went to light a candle and get some water from a pitcher on the table. He handed a cup of water to the bhaalspawn, who hesitated before taking a sip. “You’re asking me what happened? Don’t you remember what caused this?”

“I remember being stabbed in the chest.” The dragonborn said quietly. He checked his chest again, but there was nothing but a bit of dried blood from what he had thrown up earlier.

“I see. You’ve never had the most restorative sleep, but this is the first time you throw up blood from it.” The banite grimaced as he stared at the pool of drying blood and bile on the carpet. “You have a habit of ruining my carpets.” He said.

The Dark Urge smiled weakly at the joke. He was exhausted all of a sudden. Had it really been a dream? He sipped on the water quietly, the taste of his own blood in his mouth made it taste like iron. He glanced at Gortash and he suddenly remembered more from his dream. The corpses. The blade. His Father. 

Soon, he would have to make his choice. And there would be no waking up from it. No way to go back. 

He put the cup on the bedside table and lied back down, quietly watching the ceiling. After a moment, Gortash blew out the candle and joined him on the bed. He stared ahead into the darkness of the room, and he played the events differently in his mind. What if he had slit Gortash’s throat in his dream? Would he have woken up to a corpse at his side? Would Bhaal have praised him?

He turned to face the other man in the bed, and he watched him for a moment, until the banite opened his eyes and turned to look at him back. The bhaalspawn scooted closer. He placed a hand on Gortash’s chest, feeling it rise and fall with each breath he took. Then he slowly brought his hand up to his partner’s neck. He felt the pulse beating under his finger, calm and steady. He squeezed just lightly- and he felt the muscles tense under his finger. Enver grunted. “What are you doing?” 

“What would happen if I killed you now?” The Dark Urge mused aloud. He didn’t even think about it until the words came out.

Gortash didn’t show any signs of agitation. His breathing and heartbeat remained steady. “You would have to fight first. But afterwards- I wouldn’t know. You would kill Orin, get your birthright back. Gather all three netherstones and do whatever Bhaal wants you to do with that power.”

“Then why don’t I just do that?”  That time, he squeezed Gortash’s throat harder, placing his thumb over the aorta. His heartbeat increased, a physiological reaction he had no control over. “Enough.” The banite ordered, his voice hoarse but surprisingly authoritative in spite of getting choked. The dragonborn released him and he coughed a little. “You don’t want to kill me just yet, or you would have done it already.”

He was right, of course. He seemed to know The Dark Urge almost better than he did himself. “You’re not worried I’ll turn on you once I get rid of Orin?”

“We’ll have to burn that bridge when we get to it, won’t we?” The banite said. Then he placed his hand over the dragonborn’s own, bringing it lower, on his chest, and patting it. “Now, if we could go back to sleep?”

The bhaalspawn hummed, having no real opposition to the idea. He was indeed tired, and his thoughts went around in circles. So he laid his head down, closed his eyes and focused on the heartbeat beneath his hand. He counted each beat to empty his mind, until he finally managed to fall asleep.

Half a day later, Gortash was busy reviewing reports when a banite came in with a small package. The Dark Urge, who had been patiently waiting for news while reading a book on diseases, looked up from where he was sitting and saw Gortash open the package to reveal a small vial of amber liquid. He rose from his seat, putting his book aside and went to stand  right behind his banite ally. There was a small message attached to it, which Gortash read quickly before tossing it aside. “This little vial should make someone entirely blind for a whole hour. No side effects.” He hummed, and signed to the banite who had given the delivery to come closer. 

“Drink a drop of it.” He told the woman. She nodded, and did as told. A single drop on her tongue, and she gave Gortash the vial back. In a matter of minutes, she groaned, holding her head, and then blinked several times. “I-I can’t see anything.” She said.

“Good. Stay here, and tell me when your vision comes back.” 

The banite nodded to her superior’s order, and she waited, calmly for a couple of minutes before she blinked again, and looked around her. “My vision has come back, my Lord.”

“Perfect. Thank you for your help. You may go back to your duties.” He told her. She saluted and departed without another word. The Dark Urge had to admit that he was impressed at how she hadn’t even hesitated to drink from that vial. “Are all your underlings so eager to die?” The dragonborn asked.

Gortash toyed with the vial a little before he pocketed it and rose from his seat. “They’re fully devoted to The Black Hand, and consequently to me. They trust my orders to be meaningful in bringing about our Lord’s domination, and so they follow them without question. Had she hesitated, I would have had her tortured for a tenday.”

“Not killed?” The Chosen of Bane smiled. “Of course not. Now, had she refused altogether, death would have been a small mercy.”

The bhaalspawn grinned. “A man after my own heart. I’m glad to be on your good side.”

“I did not become Bane’s Chosen just because of my natural charisma. Sometimes, discipline is required.” He smirked, displaying his right gauntlet and clenching his fist in a crushing motion to make his point. 

“Are we ready to go and discipline my traitor sister, then?”

Gortash lowered his fist and instead made a wide gesture with his hand. “Anytime now. All I need is a few flaming fists and some time to get changed. I am not trekking through the sewers in my fine clothes.”

The Dark Urge looked down at his own robes and shrugged. He could wash them. The worst part would be the boots. He didn’t argue with it, however. So long as they went to get Orin, Gortash could wear whatever he damn wished. Even nothing. But that wasn’t the time for such thoughts. 

 

Gortash sent orders to get four soldiers to accompany him on a hunt for absolutists. He didn’t even need to justify himself further; Such were the privileges of the Hero of Baldur’s Gate. He of course didn’t tell them about the few drops of elixir he drank just as  they went down into the sewers. To them, it wasn’t something they needed to question. They didn’t seem to notice that he had become entirely blind. Gortash couldn’t see a thing, but his eyes still appeared to track movements, so long as you didn’t look too close into it. Of course, he had to rely on The Dark Urge for direction. There was always the impulse to make him trip or walk into a wall, but the bhaalspawn decided against it. Had the mission been different, maybe he would have indulged, but down there, heading to the temple, he preferred to keep his focus. He gave directions aloud, warning about obstacles as naturally as he could, and made sure to be close enough to the banite that his arm could brush against him if he ever needed further help finding his way around.

All the while, he kept his eyes peeled for threats- and his vigilance paid off. He grabbed Gortash’s arm, pulling him back just hard enough that the banite understood he had to stop.

“Grease.” The Dark Urge said. Behind him, The flaming fists quietly drew their weapon.

“Grease?” Gortash whispered, confused. “Elementals. A lot of them.”

“Do you see a way around?” Gortash’s eyes scanned the area several times, and he blinked, clearly frustrated to not see anything at that moment. 

The Dark Urge scanned the area. They could take a detour, but it could involve trudging in dirty water. “We can. But we have to stay low. I hope your boots are waterproof.” 

 

The flaming fists grimaced as they set foot into the dirty water, a distance off from the elementals that appeared to be patrolling an area around the sewers. Gortash and The Dark Urge lead the way through, trying to be careful as they trudged through the muddy, foul smelling water. As soon as he spotted a place to emerge, The Dark Urge took it, helping Gortash up onto solid ground. He had no issue following The Dark Urge’s instructions of where to place his feet and in spite of the wet and slippery stone they climbed onto, he didn’t lose his footing until the very last moment. The dragonborn caught him by the arm, pulling the man toward him, against his chest. Far from being destabilised, Gortash thanked him and immediately put distance between them. The bhaalspawn looked at the soldiers behind him, who didn’t say a word, but one of them was particularly bad at concealing the fact that  he was biting his cheek not to laugh. He ignored that. They would all be dead soon enough. They resumed their excursion through the sewers, still keeping an eye open for any sign of hostile lifeforms. But after a dozen more minutes of turning through tunnels and brushing past rats, they arrived at a dead end, cave-ins having blocked the path to other parts of the sewers. The Dark Urge stopped in front of a large door. The door that would lead him to his home. The flaming fists looked around, at the door and at their feet. “What the hell is this place?” one of them whispered. Gortash was standing right next to him. “I suppose we have arrived?” He asked. 

“Not yet. We’re about to enter the labyrinth.” Just as the bhaalspawn said that, he raised the amulet he had earned days ago from following Orin’s tracks. He  had found the murder tribunal, he had been made one of Bhaal’s unholy assassins, and that was the proof of it. The door spoke to him. “Welcome, unholy assassin. Walk in death.”

The soldiers grew agitated. Gortash heard their whispering apparently, as he spoke up. “This, soldiers, is where the enemy hides. We are only here to assess the situation. We will not engage in combat unless necessary, is that clear?” He told them. The Dark Urge glanced at them from over his shoulder. 

“Yes, my Lord.” They answered in unison. They looked relieved. They truly would not be missed. But what else to expect from the Flaming Fist, who only went after those too weak to defend themselves, and took so much bribes it was almost  more than their salary?

As the door opened, The Dark Urge stepped past the threshold confidently. 

They entered a deep cavern, the skeleton of a once grand construction lay crumbled before them, a large stoney path leading down to a chasm, with a single column allowing access to the other side, and a beat-down building with a closed door. 

The Dark Urge felt that he was being watched. And yet, he didn’t want to hide. That was his domain- He would enter with a confident step, or not at all. 

And so he stepped forward- and just as he had expected, arrows brushed past him, and exploded in flames as they hit the ground. He pulled Gortash back just in time. “What the hells-” 

“We’re under attack! Protect the Archduke!” The flaming fists yelled. 

The Dark Urge saw the assassins on a cliff on the other side of the chasm, but that wasn’t what interested him. He heard chanting from the top of the ruined building, and he felt the power in these words. That chanter had to be taken down. “You need to stay back.” The Dark Urge told Gortash, as they both crouched to try and find cover. He was still blind, and not of much use at the moment. “I will have to agree with you. But I’m not sure it’s a possibility.” Another arrow lodged itself in the wall next to them. The bhaalspawn growled at the assassins perched on the cliff. The Four fists were trying to aim at them, but they weren’t very good at it. An arrow lodged itself into one of the soldiers’ skull, and he fell. 

At that moment, The Dark Urge figured he didn’t have a lot of choices. He turned his back to Gortash. “Hang onto my back.” He told him. 

“I’m sorry, you want me to do what?” He sounded genuinely confused. “You’re the one always talking about trust. Now’s the time to act on it.” “Very well, have it your way.” Gortash placed his hand onto his back, making his way up until he found his shoulders, and he wrapped his arms around him. “Hold on very tight, this is going to be unpleasant.” 

Before the banite could ask any question, The Dark Urge called unto the rage within his body. His blood boiled, the need to murder and bathe in blood reached a crescendo that exploded inside of him. He howled and his bones and flesh cracked open, blood spattered everywhere- And the Slayer came forth. He felt Gortash struggling to keep balance on his back, and left him enough time to hang on before he leapt onto the cliff, landing among the assassins there. With a swift movement of his tail, he sent two of them falling into the chasm below, and ripped out the head of the last one. He paid no mind to the flaming fists and ran full speed at the chanter, who saw him coming and ran away, descending a ladder to join yet more assassins. He leapt again, and he felt Gortash cling tight onto him. “Are you trying to throw  me off?” He called. The Dark Urge couldn’t answer, he only growled in response as he landed right on top of an assassin. An arrow lodged itself in his shoulder, and an assassin came out of the shadows to stab him. He howled and swiped at the unfortunate soul with all the rage his form contained, reducing him to a pile of gore. Then he rushed the chanter, shrieked in fury and ripped out his innards.

The chanter slumped to the ground, spitting blood. “Trial… passed…” He gurgled, right before he expired.

One by one, the assassins vanished. The Dark Urge saw the two remaining flaming fists rushing towards the make-shift bridge, holding their swords up shakily. “Let the Archduke go, f-fiend.” 

Gortash let out an amused chuckle in spite of his predicament, barely holding onto the Slayer’s leathery back. “Come now, you were cowering in your boots earlier, and now you want to fight him? Let me down.” The Dark Urge made a noise between a growl and a crocodile purr, and lowered his body down as much as he could, easing Gortash’s descent. The blinded banite reached  hesitantly for the ground with his feet, and when he found purchase, he hopped down with as much grace as possible in his situation.

“Now, I don’t have to tell you what has to happen?” He didn’t. The Slayer screeched, raising one clawed paw to tear through one of the flaming fists, and grabbed the other, finishing the work by bashing them together against the ground repeatedly, before tossing the lot into the chasm below. 

“I take it from the screaming that it’s done?” The bhaalspawn growled. “Be a dear and turn back, if you’re mute and I’m blind, we’re not gonna go very far.”

Point taken. The Dark Urge turned back into his mortal form, rolling his shoulders. He felt sore from the rapid change from one form to the other. 

“How long until your sight comes back?” He asked,  approaching the banite, who grabbed for him, as if to check his form. “Ten minutes, if my estimate of the dosage isn’t wrong.”

There was no way it was wrong. “Then we should wait until your sight comes back. Without the fists as human shields, you’re just a sitting duck.”

“Couldn’t agree more. I don’t particularly appreciate being useless or lugged around like a potato sack.” He grimaced. 

“Next time I’ll let you take a few arrows. You won’t realise what’s happening if you’re bleeding out.” The Dark Urge grinned, straightening out the banite’s clothes for him.

“There will not be a next time.” Gortash insisted. The dragonborn chuckled. He took the opportunity to stare at the banite’s face for longer than he usually did before looking away. Then he took a step back, and looked around at the large cave they were in. That wasn’t the sewers. That was the undercity. Hundreds of years ago, a full city had stood there. It had long since rotted away, and only its bones poked out of the ground in the form of decrepit walls. The Bhaalist had made it into a hidden sanctuary for their murderous debauchery, and The Dark Urge had called it his home for many years.

It was time to do some cleaning.

 

A dozen minutes later, Gortash let out a relieved sigh. “Finally.” The Dark Urge turned to see him blinking away. There wasn’t much light in that place, but after being in complete darkness for a while, he probably needed time to adjust. “How many corpses  do you see?” The Dark Urge asked. Gortash scanned the area and his eyes stopped on the corpses near them. “That’s three.” He answered, playing along.

“Wrong.” The Dark Urge pointed at a skeleton hanging from a hook on the facade of one of the buildings. “Four…” He pointed to another, slumped in a corner. “...Five…” Before he could point at another, Gortash grabbed his wrist hard, yanking it down. The Dark Urge grimaced in pain. The banite let go, frowning. “Oh sorry, I thought we were in a playful mood.” 

The dragonborn huffed. “Sore loser.” 

Gortash gave him a smug look, and turned around to try and find their next step. The Dark Urge stepped forward towards one of the buildings. “I think that’s where we need  to go.” 

“Are your memories coming back?” his companion asked, following him closely.

“It’s more like a reflex. I feel it’s that way, like a habit.” he said. 

And he was right. They passed through the building, which was littered in fresh and less fresh corpses. Innards decorated the walls and remains hung from hooks in the walls or burnt in braziers. The smell of rotting and burning flesh filled their nostrils. And it smelled sweet. Like home. The Dark Urge couldn’t help but take a good whiff of the familiar air. Gortash however, grimaced just slightly as they passed next to a pile of decaying corpses. 

They found a way out which lead them to a door. When they opened it, they stepped into the darkness of the slumbering undercity below. The caves went  on and on, paths criss-crossing among the beaten down buildings, leading down to the temple, its door closed, waiting at the end of a bridge. As They took a step onto the path, they jumped as a statue whispered in their ear. “The Lord of Murder shall perish…” the voice hushered. 

They kept on heading ahead, more statues  spoke to them. The Dark Urge recognised the words from deep within his mangled brain. Alaundo’s prophecy. It spoke of the Bhaalspawns of old, his siblings whose only purpose had been to die so that their father could rise. They had struggled so much, but in the end, their  soul was taken just the same, and Bhaal was brought back. A part of him sneered at these inferior beings, half mortal bastards. He wasn’t like that. He knew it. He was a pure offspring of the Lord of Murder.

Another part of him wondered if he too, would be taken as they had, to fuel his Father’s power.

All along the way, corpses. Old and new, hanging from the walls, littering the floor. If they had any doubt they had found the right place before, they certainly didn’t anymore.

They crossed the bridge and blood puddles appeared under their  feet. The blood smelled acrid, like it had been mixed with something else. Something potentially dangerous. Still, they walked ever on, only stopping before the colossal doors of the temple. 

 

Sceleritas appeared right in front of them, bowing deeply. “My Lord! Welcome home! I cleaned up the temple for your return. I meant to open the door for you, but you went about your own way, so I didn’t want to interfere with your fun!”

The Dark Urge eyed the creature with narrowed eyes. “You mean to tell me that you could have just let me in?”

The Butler squeaked. “Ah, yes, of course I could have! But you never asked, and I assumed you wanted to make the homecoming even grander!” With that said, the butler lowered his voice. “Did you have to bring the banite here, master? I doubt your Lord Father would be pleased.”

“I can  hear you just fine, you can speak up.” Gortash said. 

Sceleritas made a face. “Well, there’s nothing to be done since he’s there already. Come on, dearest, foulest master! Come in, get rid of the usurper- She’s been desecrating your Temple long enough! ”

“On that, we agree. Move aside.” The bhaalspawn said. Sceleritas bowed and moved to the side as the doors to the temple opened to its former master. “Ah, do be careful, there’s a blood puddle right at the entrance- Don’t slip!”

The Dark Urge stepped inside the Temple. The first sight that greeted him was the gigantic effigy of Bhaal, carved into the stone of the cave. Its eyes were crying blood, and its grin sent a chill down his spine. Right below it, the altar. Stairs lead lower to a central platform where Orin was waiting, surrounded by other Bhaalists. The smell of blood filled his nostrils as he passed by two deep pools of blood. It was everywhere, blood. On the floors, on the walls, on the bhaalists’ faces and clothes. They stared at him as he walked by, silent. Then they glared at Gortash, an enemy in their sanctuary. But they didn’t do anything. They knew they couldn’t. Whoever came out victorious of that fight, they would not live for disobeying their leader. So they just watched as The Dark Urge walked down the ruined stairs that lead to the altar. 

 

Orin waited. She grinned. “Blood-kin. You almost made us wait.” She grimaced as  she noticed Gortash. “You brought the lordling? Is it an offering? Father will not care for his blood until yours is spilled.” 

“Or yours. Let’s cut the chase, little sister. We have a score to settle.” The dragonborn said.

She giggled. “A score?” She shifted her face, her body, into a familiar looking one indeed. “You talk about that time I stuck my dagger in your juicy little brain?” She said, with The Dark Urge’s voice as she approached him. “I remember how you screamed as I dug and scooped around your head.I made a hole just big enough for the worm. The bhaalspawn turned into an obedient puppet. You crawled around in the muck, brain matter dripping from your skull. You are unworthy of calling yourself His chosen.” 

The bhaalspawn ignored her even as she circled him, trying to find a crack in his facade. But he wasn’t interested. “Enough playing around, Orin. Father cares not for your theatrics. He never did, and never will. You think yourself worthy? You’re nothing but an unwanted child. Your own grandfather  conspired to have you killed. Or did you not know? The reason your mother tried to murder you in your cradle?”

Orin’s eyes went wide, She held her head with trembling hands as she howled. “Shut up! Grandfather would not- He loves me. Grandfather loves me.”

The dragonborn smirked. The things he had learned at the murder tribunal, about Orin, her mother, her father- and grandfather, Sarevok. They had tried to kill her. They wouldn’t have suffered competition. And yet there she was, the unwanted child of an incestuous union. “He doesn’t. There is no place for love in Father’s heart. Only death. It’s a tragedy you will only learn this lesson the day of your death.”

The shapeshifter cried out in fury. “I will bleed you dry on Father’s altar! I will offer him your wretched, bloody corpse and He will see me as his rightful chosen!” She turned to the bhaalist around them. “Don’t interfere. Bhaal demands a duel!”

The Dark Urge grinned. He turned to Gortash and nodded. The banite took a few steps back, keeping clear of the altar area. The bhaalspawn took out his dagger, just as Orin did. 

She was the first to act, rushing at him, dagger drawn, slashing with a fury worthy of the Slayer. He felt the sharp blade cut into his skin, and he  couldn't help but smile at his little sister. He felt his own fury rise. Finally, he would be putting an end to all of that  treachery. He would have his revenge. 

 

He disappeared and reappeared on the other side of the arena, in Orin’s back. She didn’t have time to turn around when an explosion hit her. Fire licked at her skin, and she howled in fury and pain, ready to rush at him once more. But as she tried to move forward, a black mass of tentacles took hold of her. The Dark Urge watched her struggle, drawing her daggers to cut at the tentacles to set herself free. In the time it took her to do that, he had time to summon forth yet another fireball, which burnt at her just like the last. She gritted her teeth, refusing to scream even as her face contorted in pain and fury. Then She leapt like a furious animal, rushing at him, daggers drawn, and she slashed and stabbed like a whirlwind. The Dark Urge stumbled backward, bleeding profusely. He was breathing hard, trying to keep one of the worst wounds closed. He saw his sister’s manic grin, her daggers ready to strike again. If she did- He knew that he would not survive it. But all he needed was one last spell.

She moved to attack, but her body was instantly stopped, like held in time, in the moment when she could have won, but instead, she had failed. 

The Dark Urge seized his dagger and approached  her. He smiled, too, as he brought the dagger to her chest, and thrust it deep. Once. Then again. And again. Over and over and over, until the spell wore out, and she collapsed, vomiting blood, trying to hold her bleeding chest. “N-no… No…” She tried to crawl away, to escape her own death, but as she did, her body seemed to liquefy. The blood flowing from her chest all but melted her skin. She cried, she screamed- And she vanished, leaving  behind only her daggers and a bloody lump of entrails. 

 

The Dark Urge stood over her remains, breathing heavily, holding his wounds. He closed his eyes and he felt satisfied. A deep seated satisfaction of having gotten back everything that had been stolen from him. His memories were mostly gone, but he had what mattered. He opened his eyes and turned around to look at Gortash, who stood there with his hands behind his back, a proud smile on his face. He felt something at that moment, something pulling at his heart, but he didn’t have time to tell what it was.

Sceleritas called to him from the altar. “Master! You are the chosen one!”

He was about to answer when the butler’s eyes widened. “He is near… He comes for you-” 

A dagger pierced the little creature’s chest. Then another. Another. Dozens of sharp blades pierced the butler’s weak body as it was lifted off the ground. Blood poured down onto the altar, then onto the ground. As the eyes of the skull above the altar started to glow. The Dark Urge stepped closer, he felt the blood calling to him. As the butler hung in midair, his limp body moved towards him, more blood poured from the wounds. The Dark Urge watched the puddle of blood grow, and he saw the  butler’s reflection in the blood move. It cracked and settled its bones back in place, and set foot upon the ground. He was looking at the bhaalspawn, The feeling of dread he had felt so many times came back to him. A sign of his Father’s presence. “Father.” He whispered.

“Child of Slaughter. I come to give you your inheritance.” A deep, guttural voice spoke with the form of the butler. The bhaalspawn remained silent in awe. “I have a gift for you child, you will use it to lacerate this world.”

 

The Dark Urge remembered his father’s gifts. The Urge. The butler. The Slayer. They were as much signs of his twisted love as they were a leash and collar tightly fitted around his neck, reminding him who owned him, body and soul. 

“When the time comes, child, you will use this gift to take control of the world in my name. You will bleed the world dry.”

The dragonborn’s head was spinning. It was time, wasn’t it? Time to decide. Time to seal  his fate, once and for all. To decide whether to serve his Father forevermore, to kill and slaughter all that lived until it was time to die- Or… He remembered when he woke up in that dark cell, with no memories of his own and just his name. He remembered being offered a chance to get back what he had lost. And then he remembered being given a chance to change, to grow into something similar yet  different. To realise The Urge wasn’t all he was. That it wasn’t the only path. 

What happened to birds without wings when you threw them into the air? To fish taken out of a bottle too small into the fresh air?

“I refuse your gift, Father.” the word burnt his mouth even as he said them.

“You were made to conquer. To devour.” The Dark Urge felt something inside of him stop. His heart, he realised, before pain started to spread through his body. He clutched his chest, falling to his knees. And he remembered his dream. It did feel like a dagger was piercing his heart. And he couldn’t breathe. “You refuse my blood, and so I will reclaim it.”

As Bhaal spoke those words, he felt his body lift up from the ground. He was suffocating, trying to breathe in vain. “I will make another who is worthy.”

 

His back hit the ground. And then he lay there, staring at the ceiling of the cave, the darkness that seemed to grow, and grow, swallowing his vision. He couldn’t feel his heartbeat anymore, and his futile attempt at breathing would soon stop. He saw a familiar face come into his blurring vision. He felt a hand on his neck, just barely. 

And all of a sudden he knew what he had felt, earlier. That strange feeling in his chest as he stared at Enver’s  face. It was sorrow. “It’s your fault, you know.” He told him, even though he couldn’t hear his answer. Perhaps the words hadn’t even left his mouth. This is my gift to you. To your world. He thought. His breathing stopped. There was no use for it anymore. His vision grew dark, and his whole body grew cold. There was barely time for one  last thought, and then peace, at last. No more leash, no more Urge. 

 

No more guilt.  

Chapter 18: Chapter 18

Notes:

Big warning for explicit, detailed, torture scene.
You should watch out for mentions of Mystra if you want to avoid it.

“I refuse your gift, Father.” 

The words had the effect of ice-cold water. Gortash didn’t even have time to say a word before The Dark Urge collapsed to the ground, and Bhaal recovered his essence. He couldn’t move until the God’s avatar was gone- There was no use incurring his wrath further. And so only when he had vanished did the Banite rush to the dragonborn’s side. His eyes were still open, he was still trying to breathe. But when Gortash placed his fingers on his neck to try and find a pulse, there was nothing. He wouldn’t last much longer. The Dark Urge’s eyes were fixed on him, and even as he struggled to stay conscious a little longer, he forced a smile. “This- your fault-” He managed a few words only, and then his head dropped to the side, like it was too heavy for the body it rested on. He expired, flame-red eyes turning a dull blood red. 

There wasn’t much time to think, only time to act. Gortash was still in the temple of Bhaal, surrounded by Bhaalist. They had no leader anymore, but they would still not hesitate to jump him as soon as the confusion cleared. He glanced at the gore-pile that once was Orin, and spotted her dagger with the Netherstone. He rushed over to recover it, and after a bit of digging, he also found her ring. The one she used to move around the city unnoticed. He didn’t know how it worked beyond the fact that she only had to twist it and she would appear somewhere else. Having very little choice, he went back to the dragonborn and touched him right as he twisted the ring, wishing to be anywhere else than right there.

It felt like being propelled through the Astral plane at the speed of light- and in the blink of an eye, he was in a familiar house in the lower city, right in the middle of the parlour. He felt something under his hand, and when he looked down, he was relieved to see both Orin’s dagger and the dragonborn had been transported with him. He hooked the dagger to his belt. Then his gaze moved to the body he was kneeling next to. As he looked at the dragonborn, he couldn’t help but feel unsettled. His open eyes had turned dark, like the light had been drained from them. His jaw hung slightly open, revealing the sharp teeth that had once been capable of tearing flesh from bones. His whole body was still, and Gortash knew that if he were to lift his arm, it would just hang limply, like a broken doll. He had seen his fair share of bodies, both in better and worse states than the one he was staring at. He wasn’t shocked. He just couldn’t help but stare. He hadn’t expected The Dark Urge’s death to be so… quiet. He went almost peacefully, smiling, even as he blamed the banite for it. 

 

This is your fault. The words he had spoken as his last breath left him. Gortash clenched his fists. He had never asked him to defy Bhaal. He had never asked him to kill himself.

As he felt himself grow too restless, the Banite took a deep breath and stilled his mind. There was something he needed. He reached for the dragonborn’s collar, pushing aside the clothes to reveal a chain from which the netherstone was hanging, like a pendant. The moment he reached for it, his fingers brushed against lukewarm skin. The soft part of the dragonborn’s neck was usually boiling hot- it had no scales to cover it. He had wrapped his hands around it so many times, felt his pulse accelerate or slow. But there was no pulse anymore, no warmth. Soon, it would be cold and stiff. Rigor mortis didn’t take that long to set it. He knew that well, better than most. Not as well as his former companion did. He had known death better than most. He had known how to bring it about in all sorts of ways, and how to dispose of the leftovers. They had talked about it many times. And as he stared at the empty husk before him, Gortash wondered if he should dispose of it. Perhaps he ought to burn it, make the offensive sight disappear. 

But instead, he let go of the chain around The Dark Urge’s neck. He placed his hand on his face, wishing he could close these dead eyes forever, instead of being made to stare into the emptiness of them. “Who asked you to reject your Father? You should have waited, you damned fool. ”  He clenched his teeth as he felt anger rise again, making his blood boil and his hand tremble as he forced it away from the dragonborn’s face. He was dead, and it was his own doing. It was his impulsivity that led him to that end. Had he waited, he could have earned a better death. One that would have made him worthy of Bhaal. Instead he died a traitor to his own God, and he had gotten nothing to show for the years spent in worship, or for the work put into their plot. Nothing. 

 

Gortash wouldn’t make the same mistake. He ripped off the pendant from the corpse. The three netherstones were his, and his only. The Dark Urge’s death had made it all so simple. He looked at those eyes again, and his anger waned. Part of him did know that it was his efforts that had made that end possible. It had been what he had worked towards: For the Bhaalspawn to give up on Bhaal, to turn to Bane, to see the world as Gortash did. He had hoped to make him into a gift to his God, the Chosen of his enemy, turned to his cause. 

 

But he hadn’t expected it to turn out that way.

 

It didn’t matter. The Dark Urge’s death had been useful, and with all three netherstones, Gortash’s plan could move forward. Baldur’s Gate was pretty much his, and all that was left was to make it official before turning his sight to the rest of Toril. He would hand it all to his Lord, make him the most powerful of Gods. 

He rose to his feet, staring down at the corpse at his feet. There would have to be a proper burial. He couldn’t just dispose of the body like one would do with a dead pet. Not after years of partnership, not after everything he had done to get them both to that moment. With a heavy sigh, he turned his back on him.  He needed to have the body moved to Wyrm’s rock. He would keep him there until the burial. 

There was a heavy silence as Banites moved the body inside Wyrm’s rock. Gortash followed them and watched as they carried the dragonborn upstairs, where they lay him down on a table, covered with a white sheet. He wouldn’t stay there long, just enough time to get him sent and prepared for burial. 

Gortash didn’t even look at the body again. He found himself carefully averting his eyes whenever that white sheet came into his vision. And yet, when a Banite offered to have the body sent to the hospital to be prepared right away with the proper incentive to get the process sped up, he refused. He wouldn’t give The Dark Urge a pauper’s funeral.

Later, he had one of the priests of Bane hold a service. He might not have been a Banite himself, but he had had a key role in Bane’s rise to power. And it wasn’t like Bhaalists would be the ones to offer him the final rites. In another universe, The Archduke of Baldur’s Gate would have rewarded him differently. They would have ruled together. But since it wasn’t to be, a proper burial was all that he could do.

 

Gortash struggled to keep himself busy that night. There wasn’t much yet left to do. It was just the Gate’s usual business, which bored him to tears. The next steps in his plan were already under way, but he couldn’t do much, only wait. That downtime was by design. He was a careful planner, and never let anything go to waste. It should have been a time for celebration, before moving on to the next part of the plan with the three Netherstones in his possession. Instead, all he wanted was to skip the celebration altogether and move on. He gave his orders to the Brain, sent even more orders for the factory to shut down and for the Gondians to be executed. It was time to clean up. Ravengard’s health would slowly deteriorate until his inevitable death,  and his patriar opponents were all dead or soon to be. The council was a husk of its former self, and it wouldn’t be hard to discredit them and have it dissolved.

But none of that could be done that night. All he could do was drink, staring at a spot right above that white sheet before him. Avoiding it, even as he knew it was there. And he did his best to not think about what was underneath it. The cold, stiff body of a white dragonborn, eyes dark and empty, forever open. He kept drinking, until he eventually fell asleep, his body reminding him of his mortal limitations.

As his eyes closed, and darkness surrounded him, he felt a presence. It overwhelmed him, made him feel small and insignificant. Before even hearing His voice or seeing Him, Gortash knelt in reverence. He didn’t look up, he never did unless he was allowed to. 

His Lord’s voice was nothing like Bhaal’s grating voice. It was low, booming and a single world would make the heart of any mortal tremble in fear.

“Enver Gortash. My Chosen. I command you for your work.”

“Thank you, My Lord.” 

“With the three Netherstones in your possession, you will seize control of the city and turn it into a bastion of my Faith. The city of Baldur’s Gate will wage war in my name, while the other gods’ power wane.” 

“It will be done, my Lord. Baldur’s Gate will become your new bastion, I will erect a Black Keep worthy of your name.” Gortash answered. He could already imagine it- The city walking to the beat of war, with A Black Fortress as its heart, a place of worship and rule. 

“It must be done. Put in it as much effort as you did turning the Bhaalspawn’s mind against His Father.”

The banite’s heart stopped at the mention. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t know what to say. The Black Hand laughed. It was a cruel, mocking laugh that sent shivers down Gortash’s spine. “I was pleased to see Bhaal’s efforts crumble to ashes. His own Child, turned from him by my Chosen. He will be made a mockery of for the next century. It should teach him to not overreach. A shame The Bhaalspawn’s soul was taken before I could claim it myself.”

“I apologise, my Lord. It’s my failure that the Bhaalspawn’s soul was lost. I will accept your punishment for being so short-sighted.”

“It seems a reward and a punishment are in order. Tell me, Chosen. Do you think the Bhaalspawn would have served me, had he not thrown his soul away to Bhaal’s whims?”

Gortash knew the question had weight. If he said no, the punishment would certainly outweigh the reward. But should he say yes, he had a feeling The Black Hand had an idea in mind. An idea that would put his own soul at risk. It was a test of faith- Gortash’s faith in his God, but also his faith in himself, in his own work. 

There was, of course, only one answer worthy of the Chosen of Bane. “Yes, my Lord. He threw his life away because he wanted to serve you.”

Bane chuckled. “How bold of you, my Chosen. Hope that you are right, and I will lighten your punishment. Should you be wrong- I will make sure your soul will join his in the fugue plane, after I’m done lashing it to pieces.” 

The fugue plane. Of course, that was where his soul had been sent. He had given up on his own God, and with nowhere else to go, it was bound to suffer an aimless afterlife in the nothingness of the fugue plane. Gortash had no wish to end up there. He would prefer risking an eternity of suffering by His Lord’s hand than to give up and end up in that faithless place. 

But what did The Black Hand mean? How was he going to check The Dark Urge’s allegiance- And more importantly, to what end? Sure, his soul was a powerful one, but Bane must have had more in mind than just ask a question and be done with it. 

“What must I do to prove my word to you, my Lord?” He asked.

“Bring the bhaalspawn’s corpse to my altar tomorrow night. Make an offering of blood and fear. We will see your fate then.”

 

And just like that, the presence vanished, leaving Gortash stuck in complete darkness. Eventually, it too, vanished, and he found himself falling through grey vapour, trying to reach for something, anything to stop his fall. But it was all smoke. He couldn't touch anything, and nothing could touch him. As he fell he thought he saw faces through the clouds, thousands of faces, and hands, reaching for him, but they too, were made of smoke. He kept falling, and he couldn't even see the ground below hm. When would he hit the ground? Was there even solid ground in that place, or just endless smoke, dooming him to an eternity of waiting, wondering if he would ever hit solid ground one day, waiting for death, with no way to get out of it.

He woke up from that dream, sweating and breathing hard, his heart beating as if he had truly fell from unfathomable heights. 

He remembered his Lord’s words, as clearly as if they had been spoken to him the moment he woke up.  At last, he had something he could do. He got up and went to fetch one of his underlings. They would be holding a ceremony the next night, and a sacrifice needed to be prepared.

 

If the Banites had any questions regarding the reason why they were bringing The Chosen of Bhaal’s corpse to their temple, and on their Lord’s altar of all places, they didn’t dare voice them. And it was good they didn’t, as Gortash would have had them executed for questioning the Black Hand’s will. As soon as the order had been given, a suitable sacrifice was found. A worshipper of Mystra, who was proud to claim he wouldn’t ever give in to torture, even as he was dragged into the dark dungeons below the upper city, where the banites had built their chruch. When he was dragged before Gortash in the torture chamber, the man’s eyes went wide. “You? A banite? I should have known-” Gortash smiled, and brutally kicked the man in the chest. The wizard folded himself in half, wheezing as the impact had taken his breath away. “I will take care of him personally.” The Chosen of Bane said. The banites bowed their heads and left him with the cuffed prisoner inside the room. 

“Let’s see how long you last until you’re begging me to stop… Finn? Is that right? I forgot the name they gave me. Not that it matters. Soon the only thing you’ll be able to do is beg me for mercy.” He said. The man looked up defiantly. “I won’t ever submit to you or your pathetic half-god. 

Gortash punched him straight in the face, splitting the man’s lip, and dislodging a teeth. Blood splattered onto the ground to join old stains that had long since dried, and that no amont of washing would get out of the old stone. Finn shouted in pain. “What was that?” 

“I-I won’t ever submit!”

“Very good. I do prefer when they’re stubborn. It makes for a better offering.”

With these words, Gortash dragged the man by the hair to the other end of the cell. The man tried to bite his tongue to hold back his cries, but Gortash didn’t care. He could scream or not, in the end, he would beg. The banite shackled his victim to the wall. At first, he needed to test. He needed to see what made his guest scream, what made him whimper and what made him stubbornly hold on to his foolish pride. Just to be sure, he gagged him to prevent him from trying to bite his tongue to death. “You’re not dying until I say so.” Gortash said. The wizard glared. Gortash placed his tools next to his victim. He smiled up at him, gesturing at the metal platter full of torture implements. “Which one should we start with?”

 

For hours straight, Gortash tortured the man. He gave him small breaks- Ten minutes so he wouldn’t pass out from the pain, and then he started over. After three hours, He had broken so many bones that just a touch on the wizard’s ribs made him sob. The pathetic worshipper had no nails left, only bloody gashes on each hand. At that point, Gortash started to talk to him. He asked him about his goddess. “Tell me, what boon does your Goddess give you that she deserves your loyalty, even in this situation?” He pressed on his busted kneecaps, moving the bones around a little. The wizard cried out through his gag, his eyes rolling in their sockets. “You’re not passing out.” Gortash said, releasing him. The wizard tried. He tried to fall into sweet unconsciousness, but he couldn’t. “Magic is Mystra’s domain. Could she not help you  if she wished?  She is, after all, one of the most powerful gods.” 

Finn glared. He couldn’t answer, of course. Gortash didn’t need him to. He would give him his answer. “And yet- she dares not interfere with my Lord’s worship.” To make his point, Gortash picked up a dagger and dragged the blade along the man’s face. He removed a single piece of his flesh, and dangled it in front of his eyes. “How many pieces of flesh must I carve before she decides to intervene? Let us count.” 

 

And count he did. He carved small pieces, not big enough to be a threat to his life. But he made sure to cut in places where the bones weren’t broken. He had to stay alive. He counted aloud, showing the pieces before throwing them onto the platter next to him. The pile of flesh grew and grew. At around thirty two, Gortash paused. “How many more are left on you, do you think?” And he started to trace the next pieces of flesh he would carve out on his broken ribs, his bleeding hands- And then he heard the man sob. Tears welled up in his eyes and ran into the fresh wounds on his cheeks- Of course he had made sure to go for his face first. What could be worse than to be disfigured. Gortash smiled. “Now, don’t cry or you’ll just add salt to your wounds.” To make his point, he wiped away the man’s tears with his thumb, before rubbing it into one of the gashes on his cheek. The wizard howled and sobbed, his body shook. How long as it been? Four hours? Five?

“You know, I had a friend who would have loved to make you cry like this.” He said, for no specific reason. “I haven’t done that myself in a very long time. It reminds me of my first sacrifice to The Black Hand. It was messy- But I had a natural talent for it. It’s not just about the pain. It’s about the meaning behind it. He understood that as well. Each broken bone, each piece of flesh I take- It’s one piece of you your goddess doesn’t care about. Isn’t that right, Finn?” 

The wizard’s eyes were tired and red from the pain, exhaustion and tears. The Banite couldn’t care less. He saw in his eyes that he wasn’t quite broken yet. “You know, I’ve heard Mystra enjoys playing with her followers.” He placed the dagger between the man’s leg to make his point. “Perhaps she will care if I start cutting that part? What do you think?” The man’s eyes went wide. He shook his head vigorously. “It’s funny- Most men are like that, aren’t they? I could remove the flesh from your bones and you wouldn’t mind the scars, but if I start cutting down there…” He pressed the dagger through the man’s underpant, until blood stained the fabric. The wizard whimpered as Gortash dragged the blade along, trying to fight against his restraints. Gortash stopped a moment, letting the man calm down a little. “I don’t understand why you make such a big deal out of it. It’s not like you will notice when it’s gone- Hardly anything to notice at all.” He mocked. It wasn’t necessary, but he found it entertaining. The man glared even harder than he had before. Gortash smiled, and then stabbed the man’s testicles. The wizard howled in pain, and as he did, the banite hit his broken kneecap with the dagger’s pommel. The pain was enough that the man shook violently, almost convulsing, losing control of his bladder. It lasted only a few seconds before he came back to his senses, whimpering. “Look at yourself. You’re covered in snot, drool and piss. I’m really not convinced your goddess is coming to help. It’s just you and me. I guess we can try to keep removing bits still, just in case she decides to show up and offer you a swift death. ”

The man shivered as the banite dug out another piece of flesh. He kept counting. A dozen bits, and the man spasmed and groaned weakly in pain. 

Six hours. That was what it took for the worshipper of the goddess of magic to break completely. By the time Gortash was done, he wouldn’t even cry out when his broken bones were moved. He only spasmed, threatening to convulse. The banite removed the man’s gag, still smiling. He slapped his face a little to force him back into focus. “Are we done? Or should we continue?”

The wizard let out a pained groan, struggling to move his mouth to speak. “N-no. I can’t. Pl-please. Let me- let me-”

“Let you what? Finish your sentences, or I think I’ll have to drag the words out of you another way.”

“D-die. Please. Hurts too much. S-so much p-pain.” He sobbed as he spoke, his broken jaw, split lips and missing teeth must have made it particularly painful to utter the words.

The banite grinned. “The only one who can take your life is Lord Bane himself. In a few hours, you will beg him to grant you death. Do it, and you will be free. And if you don’t… I know ways to keep you alive for  weeks. There will be no gods that will want your broken soul by the time I’m done with you.”

The man nodded slowly through tear filled, vacant eyes. Gortash smiled, satisfied, and left him to rot there. As he left the chamber, he ordered the banites standing guard to prevent the prisoner from falling asleep. He needed to be reminded of his position until the night’s sacrifice.

 

Banite ceremonies had always been rather sober. Bane wasn't a god who enjoyed theatrics. He demanded efficiency above all, and in all things. The faithful came wearing their black armours, and gathered before the obsidian altar, with a statue of their god looming over them, reminding them of their insignificance before the God. Black candles were lit around the room, which was otherwise dark. That night, a white dragonborn’s body had been put on the altar, for all the assembled banites to look at. They had no idea what was about to happen, but they didn’t need to. They followed The Chosen of Bane, and his words were their Lord’s words. So instead they waited as Gortash stepped inside the altar room, walking past rows upon rows of armoured banites, all kneeling in his presence. He saw the body on the altar and took a deep breath. He hadn’t looked at it since he had taken the stone from it. But there was no helping it. He was there to obey, and he wouldn’t be the chosen of Bane if he couldn’t stand to see a corpse. 

“Tonight, we offer a sacrifice to The Black Hand, Our Lord Bane, to show the depth of our devotion.” The Chosen spoke. And they all listened, bowing their heads deeply as the sacrifice was brought in, dragged in by two banites. He couldn’t even stand on his own anymore, and exhaustion was clear on his face. He had a few more bruises than he had when Gortash left him, certainly the work of other banites. 

He was thrown on the ground at Gortash’s feet, and left crawling like a worm before The Black Hand’s altar. The Chosen crouched, grabbing his hair to lift his face up from the ground. “Tell me, who is the only God who can free you from your pain?” He asked the wizard, whose eyes were tearing up again. “L-Lord Bane. The-The Black Hand.”

A smile. He pulled harder on the man’s hair, exposing his throat. “Good. Now beg, and we’ll see if my Lord is pleased by your show of submission.”

The wizard struggled to even swallow. His speech was slow and slurred from the swelling of his face. “P-please. Don’t want to hurt any- anymore. H-hurts everywhere. Can’t- Please, Chosen- I-I regret what I said- your God- F-Forgive me.”

Satisfying. Gortash slit the man’s throat and threw the corpse at the feet of the altar, before he knelt before it, before the statue of his God. “We offer this soul in sacrifice. He lived serving Mystra, and he dies begging in vain for your mercy.” 

Their was no silence as holy as the one observed in that moment. The moment after a prayer has been heard, and was waiting to be answered. The moment in which the faithful gave their soul to their god, so he may deign to look upon them. 

 

Gortash felt power surge inside of him. He lifted his head, and he looked at the corpse upon the altar. He wasn’t sure if he was fully in control of his body, but it didn’t matter- He wanted to do The Black Hand’s bidding, and so he got up and stepped over to the altar, going around it to face the assembled banites. He placed his hand over the dragonborn’s dead body, and he felt his own body flare up with unholy power as the corpse started to lift from the black stone. Its eyes shone green, and its mouth hung open. In that moment it was but a puppet, ready to answer to its master.

And so the master asked. Gortash knew the questions only as they left his lips. “Answer, Bhaalspawn- Does your soul belong to Bhaal?”

The Dark Urge’s voice, slow and struggling, came up from the corpse’s maw. “Not… Anymore.”

Satisfaction. Another question emerged.”Why did you reject Bhaal’s powers?”

A beat, right before the corpse spoke again. “He wanted to ruin… I wanted to rule.”

And finally, the last question. 

“At the moment of your death, Did you wish to serve Bane’s chosen- To serve The Black hand- to aid him in his goal to dominate all?” 

“Yes.” 

Gortash felt himself laugh. A spine-chilling laugh, one he knew well. “Very well, Bhaalspawn. You will swear your soul to me, and I will reclaim it on the moment of your death. Serve my Chosen and ascend to rule, or Fail and I will drag you both in Banehold, to suffer for all eternity.” 

It wasn’t Gortash’s words, nor his voice that came out of his own throat, of his mouth and lungs. Bane himself was speaking through him. The Chosen didn’t have time to realise what was happening before he felt like his body burst into black flames, flames which blinded him, and engulfed the dragonborn on the altar. A dark, unfamiliar power filled his whole being, overwhelming, crushing. Gortash felt blood pour from his nose, his eyes, even his ears. Power to raise the dead far beyond the grave- not a mere resurrection spell. The Dark Urge’s fate should have been sealed, but by some sort of miracle, The Black Hand had decided he had use of him yet.

All of a sudden, the power vanished, leaving Gortash reeling from the experience. Not many survived possession by the Black Hand, even less would survive power like that flowing through them. And yet, he was still standing, or almost, as he had to hold onto the altar’s stone to not fully collapse onto the ground as his knees gave out. He heard awed whispers in the room. But they barely registered as he glanced at the body before him, and he saw a flame-red eye staring at the ceiling- and then at him. He gathered all his strength to drag himself back up, and as he did, he felt a hand on his arm, attempting to steady him. 

Gortash stood over The Dark Urge, and when he stared, the dragonborn stared back. The same cold stare, the same light animating his eyes as before. 

“Enver.” Was the first word he uttered. His voice was hoarse, like he wasn’t used to speaking anymore. Gortash couldn’t help but smile a little. “Do you know where you are? What happened?”

“I heard… Bane.” The dragonborn blinked as he realised. Whose voice he had heard. 

“The Black Hand brought you back to serve, in reward of your service to his Chosen, and to him- And your defiance of your Lord father.”

As he said that, Gortash made sure to speak loud enough to be heard by the rest of the room. It was important for the assembled Banites to hear it. Bane could punish, yes, but he also rewarded his most devoted worshippers and allies.

He stepped back to let The Dark Urge sit up. The dragonborn shook his head a little. He looked at the assembled Banites, who rose as he got off the altar. “Welcome, dread Brother.” Gortash said, and the banites saluted. “You were chosen by Lord Bane to serve him. As all initiates, you will have to prove yourself worthy, or die should you fail.” 

“Praise The Black Hand!” The banites shouted, saluting once more, the sound of their fist hitting their chest plate resounded through the altar room, rising up to the alcoves above. 

Then, Gortash turned to The Dark Urge, lowering his voice so that only he could hear. “Come with me.”

He didn’t wait, and he didn’t have to. He stepped around the altar and headed out of the room, the dragonborn following close behind. He still felt a bit weak, but he didn’t want to let it show as he stepped out into the Church’s corridors, pulling The Dark Urge aside inside of one of the rooms. The undergrounds in which the banites had build their place of worship was an old basement of sorts, above which stood remnants of a manor- long since abandonned. It wasn't as dirty as the bhaalists' temple- Far less blood and innards littered the ground- But it wasn't anywhere near luxury. The rooms themselves were old, and only basic furnitures had been brought in to serve their purpose. Gortash had pulled them both into the library- Banites woudn't be found in there most of the time, only a few spell casters and priest enjoyed the premises on the occasion.

He placed an accusing finger on The Dark Urge’s chest. “You- If Lord Bane hadn’t brought you back himself, I would have killed you again.” He hissed through gritted teeth. 

The dragonborn didn’t react at first, only stared back at him blankly, making him wonder if he had been brought back with even more brain damage than before. 

“I did what you wanted me to, didn’t I? You wanted me to reject my father, so I wouldn’t get in the way. So I did.” 

The Chosen wanted to retort something, but he found himself short on words. He had wanted The Dark Urge to reject Bhaal, to join his cause. That had been what he had worked towards even before the amnesia- The Bhaalspawn had always had something in him, something that made him receptive to the The Black Hand’s teachings. The two of them had such a similar view of the world- Gortash didn’t understand why they needed to fight, if only The Dark Urge could abandon his bhaalist faith. 

And yet.

“I didn’t ask you to defy your father to his face. You could have waited. There would have been opportunities-”

“We both know there was no other way. My Father’s blood is- was- in my veins. He could control me. This was the only way, and my gift to you.”

Gortash scoffed at that last part. He wanted to remain angry at him for all but killing himself, but he couldn’t. “Next time, keep to flowers or jewelry. You don’t realise what you’ve gotten us both into. Lord Bane did not bring you back from the Fugue plane out of kindness of his heart. He wants something from you. And if you don’t deliver- Our lives are both forfeit.” 

The Dark Urge frowned. “He wants my service. And my soul.” 

“Precisely. There’s no running from this. You will serve as a banite, or die as a godless. And I’m not letting you do the latter.”

“Why is your fate on the balance as well? Did you fail him in some way?”

 

The words hit harder than they should have. Had he failed his God? He remembered how Bane had brought up The Dark Urge out of nowhere, and then spoke of a reward- But also of punishment. As he looked before him, he understood that the dragonborn was both his reward and his punishment. Lord Bane knew of their involvement. He had seen, and he had judged it too invasive. The moment Gortash vouched for The Dark Urge’s faith, he had admitted to more than he was willing to admit to himself. The punishment for it was simply lesser than the punishment for losing Bane’s time.  “- I spoke in your favour. I guaranteed that you would be willing to serve me, and consequently, Lord Bane.”

The Dark Urge smirked. “You did this to yourself. No one asked you to trust me. It’s foolish, at best.”

“It would have only been foolish if that trust wasn’t warranted.” The Chosen corrected. He smirked in turn. “But I was right, you are willing to serve, aren’t you?”

The dragonborn’s smirk vanished. He grimaced. “I don’t need the threat on my life to do so. I believe in our plan. I believe we can rule. If it means ruling in Bane’s name, so be it.”

“Not quite the right answer-  Without our Lord, you would be dead, your soul wandering the Fugue plane forever. Be thankful. ”

The Dark Urge fell quiet, as if reconsidering his situation. He didn't seem disturbed by his death and subsequent resurrection. Perhaps, after dealing so much death himself, such things simply left him indifferent. “You said I need to prove myself as an initiate. What do I need to do?”

“I will teach you the tenets of banite faith, and you will learn them. Then you will have to prepare a sacrifice. Usually, it takes longer for an initiate to be able to prepare a sacrifice, but you’re not any initiate. Our Lord expects much from you, and so you will be held to a higher standard.” As he said that, he eyed the dragonborn, wondering if he would be able to follow banite rules without letting his pride get in the way. As an initiate, he was technically the lowest of the low in the hierarchy. It was unthinkable that he could be talking to The Chosen of Bane as an equal, without even kneeling. 

“I can handle it.” The Dark Urge assured. He didn’t even know what it entailed, but he was ever as confident. It was a good trait, to be confident of one’s skill. One that any good banite should possess. But overestimating them? It would prove deadly.

“Can you? Then kneel, banite. You’re not allowed to adress your betters while standing.” Gortash ordered. He was quite serious- He treated him as he would any other banite under his command. For a moment, he thought the dragonborn wouldn’t do it. But then he lowered himself on one knee, head low in due reverence. The former Chosen of Bhaal, turned into Bane’s dutiful follower. There was something satisfying about watching him kneel before him like that. Gortash lifted the dragonborn’s chin. And when he looked up, there was no animosity in his eyes. He felt warmth from the scales under his hand, and he couldn’t help but remember the dead, dull eyes, and the lukewarm body, growing colder and stiffer by the second. But he wasn’t dead anymore. He was there, breathing, talking, living- And once again, he owed it to Bane. The Black Hand, feared and reviled by so many, and whom he adored above all. He would make The Dark Urge see things his way. Perhaps it would start off as serving to repay a debt. Perhaps he would be reluctant- But Gortash would make him see. And then they would both rule as equals, with Bane the sole being above them.

 

The Chosen of Bane gazed into his subordinate’s eyes for a long moment. He placed his hand on top of The Dark Urge’s head, gently caressing the scales there. The dragonborn didn’t move, he let himself be touched, and even leaned into the touch as Gortash’s hand moved to his cheek, eyes closed. His thoughts drifted to more carnal images and he decided it was time to withdraw his hand. He had always appreciated the dragonborn’s docile behaviour in private, but it was neither the time nor the place for such things.

“Stand.” He ordered. The Dark Urge did. He smiled at him, amused. “I didn’t think you would accept it so easily.” 

The dragonborn grinned, a particularly toothy grin. “Once I have proved myself worthy, I won’t need to do that anymore, will I?”

“You won’t. You’re supposed to kneel before all your superiors until then- But You won’t meet many of them. I will personally take care of teaching you the banite doctrines.”

“Good. I don’t know if I can handle being treated like a dog by your average banite without getting the itch.” As he said that, his right hand twitched reflexively. His weapon hand. 

“Do you still get the urges from your bhaalspawn blood?” Gortash asked, furrowing his brows. The dragonborn shook his head. “My father’s blood is all but gone. The Urge, the Slayer, and much more- I have lost it all. What remains is my own bloodthirst and need for death.”

He hummed at the answer. He wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad thing. The Dark Urge seemingly understood what was going on in his companion’s head, as he smiled confidently. “I’m in control of these urges. It’s no stronger than the need for games, drinks or sex.” 

“Good. Then I trust you will display less of your trademark impulsivity?”

“I will try. ”

 

The sound of footsteps in the corridor interrupted their conversation. Gortash rolled his shoulders, feeling rather tired from all the day’s work. The torture. The ritual. And the responsibility of The Dark Urge’s education. He needed to go back. “Let’s leave. It’s better if you don’t mingle before you’ve proven yourself. I don’t want the others to test your limits.”

The dragonborn nodded. As much as Gortash believed he could one day become a devoted banite, he didn’t believe it could be done in a day. There was no use squandering their chances of success from the start.

They left for Wyrm’s Keep, where Gortash intended on keeping The Dark Urge until he could recite and put into application The Black Hand’s doctrines. He hadn’t told him quite yet, but it wasn’t like he had a choice.

Walking into his suite above the hall, was an habit by then. He barely looked to where he was going, his feet carrying his tired mind towards a much needed rest. Yet, as he set a foot past the door, and took a brief look at the room before him, barely lit in the night- He stopped suddenly in his tracks. He had stopped so abruptly that the dragonborn walked into him.  As he stepped in, he swore he had seen it- That white sheet on the table, and the corpse underneath it. That cold, stiff corpse, waiting to be buried. The vision stuck with him. Even as he pictured the sheet, a plain, white sheet, with nothing out of the ordinary, nothing showing from underneath- The image of the dragonborn’s dull, empty eyes staring back at him, rose to the surface of his mind. Out of all the corpses that could have haunted him, it was the image of the only one that had come back that stuck.

He was just tired. Too tired from the lack of sleep, and the events of the day. Being possessed by a god was no small feat, and it took a toll on the body. 

“Are you alright?” The Dark Urge asked. Gortash rubbed his eyes, chasing the vision. “I’m fine. Just tired from resurrecting you.” 

“Next time I’ll stay dead.” 

He didn’t like that joke one bit. The anger he had felt the past few days that kept coming and going in wave washed over him like a tidal wave. He turned around and pulled his underling down by the collar. “There will be no next time. Is that clear? Do not even mention it.”

The dragonborn stared at him wordlessly. Only then did he realise his temper had acted up again. He was supposed to be teaching him about control, about resisting impulses. And there he was. He understood why his Lord had seen fit to punish him so. Perhaps it was even a test of his will. He shook his head, and released his companion’s collar. He was of no use until he had properly rested. 

“Enver-” The dragonborn started. “Lord Gortash.” He corrected. There was a pause, and then, very quietly- “Thank you.”

The words sounded wrong. Gortash couldn’t explain why. Was it the person saying them, or the reason he said them? Had he done anything to bring him back? Had he even done anything to stop him from dying in the first place? Those useless, hateful thoughts swarmed his mind. Anger, rising, rising, until it exploded. There was nothing to grab and throw, so instead Gortash punched the door. It was too hard to break, but it sure appeared to have broken a few of his own fingers. “Enough!” He shouted. He took deep, shaky breaths through gritted teeth. Pain had a way of sobering the mind, but it wasn’t enough. He hadn’t felt that agitated since- Since when? All his life he had kept a clear head, kept marching on, his eyes on the prize and his mind busy thinking ahead, not back. 

The last time, he remembered well. The House of Hope, getting beaten for refusing to obey, and then beaten more and more for crying. All he could think of was the betrayal, the pain of being sold by his own parents, of losing his family, his home, his future. But then he understood that looking back wasn’t the solution. There was only ahead. He found it easier to control his emotions that way. 

It wasn’t different. It wasn’t. Even if his failure stared him in the face, talking to him, reminding him of the weight of it, of the punishment he was to endure. 

He breathed in, passing a trembling hand over his face. How tired he was, to let his thoughts spiral like that.  “I’m just tired.” He repeated. He tried to turn around, but a strong, clawed hand grabbed his face, forcing eye contact. Gortash glared “You got what you wanted. And now you live with it. I’m not upset about it. So you shouldn’t be either.” 

Don’t be stupid. Is what Gortash wanted to say. He also wanted to slap his hand away, to go get his rest. Instead he found himself at a loss for words. 

“You won’t hear thank you- then hear this: I forgive you. Do you feel better yet, Lord Gortash?” There was venom in his words- But they weren’t meant to hurt. It was the kindest thing any of them could say. The anger, the rage that kept burning inside of Gortash’s chest ever since he had seen that cold, dead body finally came to a stop. Could that anger have been guilt ? The banite laughed bitterly at the notion. And yet- He had been the only one not to see it. Even his god had seen it, read through him. And it was exactly why The Dark Urge was both his reward and his punishment. Guilt. There should be no guilt for a task done well. But he had failed. Both his god, and his ally, even if partially. 

He would have preferred the lash to whatever torture that was.  The dragonborn stared at him for a while, and when he didn’t get any answer, he simply wrapped his arms around Enver, who jumped, as if jolted awake. The embrace was warm, and he was tired. He felt the dragonborn nuzzle against his neck, and he rested his forehead on his shoulder, sighing. “I really am tired.” He said.  “I know.” was the only answer he got.

“Tomorrow, I will teach you the banite doctrines, and I will let you find a sacrifice. You will succeed. We both will.”

He made himself focus on the future, not the past. And on the present, to let the feeling of his warmth replace that memory of the cold. 

And then he would sleep, and the next morning, he would forget. He would forget about the death of his ally, of his lover, and he would only remember the task ahead, his duty to make the former Bhaalspawn into a devout worshipper of Bane. And one day, they would rule, until they expired in service of their god.

For that future to be true, he would take both punishment and reward the way a Chosen of Bane should- with a level head, dignity and skill. 

Chapter 19: Chapter 19

Notes:

More warnings for torture in this chapter!

It was hard to conceive what the fugue plane was like. Most people imagined a fog. A fog of the likes you could see on the prime material plane, near the harbour in the city of Baldur’s gate; for example.

But it was nothing like that. A fog could be felt, in a way. It was heavy with moisture and carried the smell of the surrounding , the sounds- even if the sight was obscured. 

The fugue plane was nothing of the sort. There was nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to smell or feel. 

And there was no fog. It was just... nothingness. Plain nothingness. The only notable feature was the city of judgement.  Ever in the distance, but at the centre of everything. The place where Kelemvor judged the soul and sent them to their respective gods, or doomed the faithless to an eternity of suffering.

 

That was where The Dark Urge woke up after the moment of his death. Pure nothingness. Had he died in any other way, he would have erred in the plane until he was brought to serve his father.  But he had rejected his father. He had rejected his god. When he saw Kelemvor's servant surrounding him, he knew. He knew the time of his judgement had come, and he didn’t expect a good outcome. 

 

He was brought to the city of judgement, before Kelemvor himself. The God of death was imposing, but he didn’t inspire fear unlike Bhaal did. Or at least, The Dark Urge was so used to the fear that he didn’t care anymore for Gods and their posturing. Next to him was a scribe, a skeleton that looked like it had been mummified. The dragonborn didn’t know everything about the gods, but he knew of that scribe. He was the one known as the former God of Death- Jergal. He who had granted divinity to the Dead Three. 

 

As he stood before the god of Death, he didn’t feel afraid. He didn’t feel, would be more precise. What use was there to feel afraid of his fate? To cry and beg like his victims did every time? There would be time for cries and pain later, an eternity of it awaited.

"You stand before Death, awaiting thy judgement.  Know thou of thy crime, faithless?" The scribe . Each of his words weighted over The Dark Urge. He couldn’t help but feeling like the end was close, like everything would be gone in a single blink. The world, his soul- everything. It was oddly soothing, in its own way.

"Tell me. " The dragonborn answered. It was a trial, and he would not be allowed any defence other than his own. He knew what awaited him, it was inevitable.  But it didn’t mean he had to make it easy for them, or not attempt to ease the punishment in some way.

That time, it was the god of death who spoke. His eyes were cold, empty. His face betrayed no emotion. He was , to some, the perfect judge. 

"You have abandoned your faith, betrayed a lifetime of service to your God, denying him your soul at the last moment of your existence. Now you stand as faithless, your soul unclaimed for your betrayal. Do you recognise your crime?"

"I don't remember worshipping Bhaal for a lifetime." The Dark Urge answered.

Kelemvor glared. "You dare lie in the city of judgement ?"

His seneschal, however, raised his hand to interrupt him. " 'Tis no lie. A technicality, perhaps. But the mortal doth not lie."

The God of death turned to him. "Do you mean to speak in this mortal's favour, Jergal?"

"I have never interfered in thine judgements, God of death. The decision is thine own to make."

Kelemvor grunted as he turned back his attention to the mortal that stood before him. "Perhaps you wish to argue your case, mortal. Know that I will listen. But that the facts remain- With no god to claim your soul, you remain faithless."

 

Of course, he knew. He also knew that his deeds in life didn’t speak in his favour. And yet he told his story- or what he remembered of it. He spoke of the Urge; of his heritage; his memory loss and his time in service of Gortash- Bane's chosen.

He was telling his story when someone entered the hall, a creature wearing an armour as black as night- But it was no mortal underneath. And yet the armour walked in, and bowed its head just barely at the God of Death. 

 

The next thing The Dark Urge remembered was a commanding voice speaking to him. "You will serve me." It said.

And then he could feel. Cold stone under his fingertips, pressing against his back. Then he could hear- a voice next to him, whispering all around. The smell of blood was the next thing he became aware of- followed by its taste on his tongue. His own blood, he thought.  And at last, he opened his eyes. He saw a ceiling above him. Alcoves of stones maintaining it, and ending in darkness. Movement next to him made him turn to see a man standing there. Black hair; with eyes almost as black as them and the clothes he wore. He recognised them, of course. He felt relief at that. The last time he had woken up- he couldn’t recall anything. 

He tried to recall his own name, just for the sake of it, and it came back naturally. The Dark Urge. It was the only name he knew, the only one he had ever claimed as his.

But there was no Urge anymore. Bhaal's vile leash had been severed at last. And in that moment, he felt relief. 

 

When he woke up the following morning, he looked into his mind and felt the exact same relief. It wasn’t back. He was himself, free to think and feel. He opened his eyes to find himself in a familiar room, bathed in early morning light. Enver Gortash’s office, and then Enver himself, sleeping right next to him. He heard his breathing and felt his warmth against his scales before he turned to see him. He had a frown on his face even as he slept on his side, facing him, His hand rested on the dragonborn’s chest. The fingers on it were blue and swollen- he had broken them the previous night. 

He had never seen the banite so angry before. Or perhaps once, when they had argued over killing Orin. Judging by how soundly he slept, snoring occasionally, he had been truly exhausted and had let his emotions run his patience thin. It was understandable- They both found themselves in a situation that could very well spell their doom. However, The Dark Urge was confident that they could overcome it. They had gotten that far together, even with enemies all around them, and nothing much to their names. But it was their effort, their collaboration that had brought them to the top. They had stolen the crown from Mephistopheles together, enslaved an elder brain, conquered Baldur’s Gate- Even death hadn’t been enough to stop their fate. They were meant to rule.

Perhaps then, it was truly a mistake that The Dark Urge should have been born from Bhaal's blood. Bhaal didn’t make rulers- He made killers. And he was a killer, but he was also so much more.

 

To pretend that he didn’t mind trading his Father’s leash for Bane's iron fist would be a lie. He had wished for freedom to think beyond anything else. Freedom to act- it had never been a possibility in his mind. He knew his father never would have let him go willingly. He knew that he would die, but death had been a blessing to him- The one choice that was his and his alone. To oppose his Father, to die a free soul. 

He hadn’t expected to be brought back. Even less for Bane to be the one to claim his soul. He didn’t understand why. Perhaps it was simply a way to assert his power over Bhaal, a simple petty act of revenge between the two rival gods. It could be something else, beyond mortal comprehension. 

Regardless of the why, The dragonborn didn’t know how to feel about it. He believed in Gortash’s vision: To rule the world as absolute, to build a society where the strong were free to do as they will, leading the weak, keeping them in their place. It made sense to him. After all, he had always been a hunter, and the world had always been his prey. It was all he could remember from his past life; the death he had sown, the lives he had taken. And what did he have to show for it, in the end?

The temple of Bhaal still had to hide, their numbers hardly ever grew- Only the worst refuse of society would ever murder as a way of  worship. They killed, they brought purposeless terror. Oh, it was fun to kill, to see terror in the eyes of the victims, to hear terrified whispers in the streets. He had fresh memories of it, and those were fond memories. But he wanted more than just mindless killing. He wanted power. True power over the slaughterhouse that was the world in his eyes.

The banites understood that.  As his former followers stagnated , killing with no more purpose than animals with no other intent- The banites grew in number, and prepared to take a whole city under their rule. He didn’t remember meeting Gortash. He didn’t remember what he saw in him, or what he thought. But if what he got from his alliance was a dagger through the brain, and from what he knew of Orin, of his Father’s plans- The bhaalists simply had no other ambition than slaughter, and it was meant to be a reward, in and of itself.

Perhaps then, Bane was the right god for him. If he was ever to be considered worthy enough to serve. Being a Bhaalspawn stained his whole being. His past, his soul, even his self. He still enjoyed killing, and even as he stared at the Chosen of Bane, he wondered what it would feel like to dig into his flesh, to feel him under his skin. How much of it was due to his nature, and how much of it had been encouraged and grown by the Urges? He would never have the answer.

And neither did Bane, considering his first action had been to collar him tightly lest he ran away. He didn’t have the influence Bhaal had over his spawn, but he had found another strong incentive in Gortash. Bane’s threat on their lives bound them together, and in turn, bound them to him. The god of Strife was clever, he knew that he couldn’t expect submission from a former servant of Bhaal, from one tainted by his blood, simply through the power of gratitude. 

He was right, too, as the Dark Urge believed in Bane’s Chosen more than he believed in the God he followed.

 

There was much to consider, so soon after being brought back to the world of the living. He let out a sigh and gazed at the man sleeping next to him for a moment. He showed no sign of waking up, which was unusual. He was always up at dawn, regardless of how late he had gone to bed. Out of curiosity, The Dark Urge placed his hand over the banite’s broken one. He barely grazed it that the snoring stopped and the man furrowed his brows. He smiled, and squeezed the broken fingers softly. Enver grunted and jerked his hand away. He opened his eyes right after, holding his hand in confusion. “What are you doing?” He asked, after he took a moment to take in his surroundings and the person facing him.

“Your fingers are broken.” The dragonborn remarked. Gortash grimaced, looking at his swollen fingers. “Indeed, they are. I will get a cleric to fix them for me.” It took only a few moments for the banite to wake up, and then he got out of bed right away. “Get dressed. You have much to learn if we’re to turn you into a proper Banite.” 

The Dark Urge huffed, but he smiled nonetheless. There was no trace left of the previous days’ exhaustion and turmoil on his companion’s face. He was just as ready as he had always been to move on to the next step. 

It was… reassuring. 

 

Gortash didn’t lie about teaching him banite doctrines, either. He had a few pieces of writing brought in-which included his own writings- And simply dropped it on The Dark Urge’s lap. “Read and memorise. There will be a test.” He said, before going back to his desk. The dragonborn sat at the large table in the office, surrounded by scrolls and books. He had no idea if Gortash seriously meant for him to read all of it- He couldn’t imagine having enough time in a day to do so, but he fully expected the banite to be on his case should he fail the task. He felt like a student, all of a sudden. Of course, he had never been to school. He was taught to read and to do simple mathematics by his Butler, who wasn’t the best of teachers. He was easy to kill, and easy to fool. Thankfully, The Dark Urge was rather clever, and he picked up on most things easily. How hard could it be to learn of Bane and his doctrines?

 

The answer was: Tougher than he imagined. Mostly because some of the scrolls dated back to long before the times of troubles, and the Church of Bane had undergone many, many changes since. Older parchment praised the killing of one’s enemies within the order in brutal manners to assert superiority. Others even theorised about Cyric, and spoke in length of the False God, condemning those who had chosen the cowardly way of converting to worship of the mad God upon Bane’s death. By midday, The Dark Urge’s head was drowning in information, his eyes hurt from reading, and his large body was sore all over from being bent over books. He raised his nose from all his literature to see Gortash writing on parchment; his quill dancing on the paper as he stared at the page with brows furrowed. After a while, he lifted the page and put it delicately aside, before picking up a new one. The dragonborn had no idea what he was doing initially, but after the banite did that several times, he started to guess that he was probably working on a book. He remembered seeing pages of manuscripts around before, but he had never paid it too much attention. It made him curious about the writings Gortash had given him, which were signed by his own hand. He stretched a little, cracked his neck, and dug through the mess of paper on the table to find it again. 

 

It wasn’t bad. The writing didn’t lose time in pretty prose and ramblings, and went as straight to the point as possible. It went in length about leadership, society, and how the quality of a leader reflected on the group they lead. A weak leader, in short, made for a weak group. Such a group was easily torn apart by petty conflicts and outside interference- Due to the mortal nature towards selfishness and self preservation, the weakest often sought to reach far beyond their means, or wallowed in misery and didn’t contribute. A strong leader, however, was capable of uniting the group, of keeping both the over-ambitious and the worthless in their place, in order to work towards a singular, common goal.

It wasn’t hard to see that Gortash was fully convinced by these values. It wasn’t like the propaganda he spread throughout the city, meant to sway people’s opinion in his favour. It was a work written by a believer, who wanted to share his vision with others. Of course, it fit Bane’s doctrines perfectly. The strong’s duty was to rule over the weak, to unite them, to put all of society under their rule and, consequently, Bane’s rule. 

The Dark Urge had already heard his ally speak of the topic, of course. But never to such an extent. In person, it had never felt like he was trying to convert him to his faith, but even then, the dragonborn could tell how passionate the man was about it. It was hard to understand the depth of the Gortash's devotion when he, himself, had never been given the choice of his faith.

 

It made him wonder, what faith would he have chosen, had he not been born a bhaalspawn, and later forced into worship of the Lord of Murder?

The thought distracted him, and he found himself staring blankly at the wall opposite him as he pondered the question. He didn’t notice until he heard a voice behind him.

“You’re hard at work, I see.” Gortash’s unexpected presence made the dragonborn jump. He cursed under his breath. “I didn’t take you for the type who enjoys creeping up on people.”

“It’s usually your role, that’s true. Although I don’t consider walking up to someone who is distracted as creeping up. More like, supervising.”

“I was, in fact, working. Thinking is part of it, isn’t it? Unless you expect me to absorb this content, vomit it back up, and forget immediately after?” He was perhaps a bit too defensive, but he wasn’t about to feel bad about it. As far as he remembered- which to be fair, wasn’t that far- He had never enjoyed being supervised. He found it rather offensive, even. He was obviously more than capable of reading . There was no need for the overbearing mentor attitude. 

“You must have found your reading enlightening, then? You looked like you were thinking quite hard.” He could hear the mocking smile in the banite’s voice. He changed position on his chair to be able to look at the man, who was indeed smirking. “I did, in fact. I was thinking about your writing technique, and thought it could use some improvement.” 

Gortash narrowed his eyes. He probably knew that it was merely provocation, but the mention of his writing still appeared to catch his interest. “Then you’ve read that one already? Good. What is your honest opinion of it?”

The dragonborn sighed. “It’s efficient. Straight to the point, and… passionate. Like you.”

His companion arched his brow at the last part. “It’s a compliment?”

“What do you think?” The Dark Urge grinned at him, and he averted his eyes, not bashfully, but he was clearly trying to keep his composure. “I’ll take it as one. What had you so deeply lost in thoughts, then, if not my prose?”

The Dark Urge paused, trying to remember what he was thinking about, and how to bring it up.  “Why did you choose to follow Bane? You , unlike me, had the choice. There are so many gods out there, you could have followed anyone. So why him?”

The question surprised him, but the surprise in his eyes quickly disappeared, replaced by his trademark intense stare, which he had whenever he was focused on one of his tasks- His book or his schematics. The passion The Dark Urge had mentioned.

 

“There is promise in my Lord’s teaching. The strong will be favoured, the weak will be crushed. It’s a matter of temperament. Anyone can rise above their condition if they have the will to do so. When I was  a child, the only thing I had  to my name was my will to rise, and to keep rising regardless of what happened. I let nothing get in my way, and it wasn’t the forces of good , compassion, or anything of that sort that got me out of there. It was my own will, and the weakness of others, that saved me. And of course- Bane’s blessing. He saw my potential. He saw my strength, and he gave me the tools to exploit it.” He clenched his fist as he said that- the formerly broken fingers had been bandaged, but he didn’t appear to be in pain anymore. Then his eyes, which had been fixed far ahead as he spoke, fell upon the dragonborn. “He gave me power, and in exchange I rose to power for him. I hear many call him a monster, fight against his influence- But to me, he is a saviour. And if the masses could understand it, then all could walk towards glory as one, instead of struggling pitifully in the mud, fighting over scraps, while fattening those undeserving of the power they hold.” He furrowed his brows for a moment as he said that, grimacing in disgust. Then the expression vanished, and he smiled casually at the dragonborn. “Does that answer your question?”

The Dark Urge couldn’t help but to stare at him with a grin. Banites were often described as cold, too stuck up, and in a way, it was true. But looking at Bane’s Chosen, he also saw passion, ideals, and even love. “Better than any of these books did, I think.”

That got a rather smug smirk out of the banite, who joined his hands behind his back and puffed up his chest. “Maybe we’ll make a half decent banite out of you, after all. All that’s left is to teach you discipline. Go back to your books.” And on these words, he turned on his heels to leave. 

 

Days of studying under Gortash’s guidance had left The Dark Urge with a terrible itch. He could barely go outside, even his food was brought to him. All he wanted was to get out, and let out his frustration through his favourite hobby. Endless readings, lectures, and even punishments. As the days passed, the banite was less and less forgiving of any mistake, and he even  demanded that The Dark Urge knelt whenever he entered the room, or when he wanted to address him. He couldn’t move or speak without Gortash’s permission when he was around, and on more than one occasion, the dragonborn had found himself biting his tongue to not lash out at him. He understood why he did that, and he was thankful that he hadn’t been made to undergo training with lower ranking banites. He was too used to power, to being on top of the food chain, and his nature, even without the Urge, was to resort to violence to get his way. Something he learnt the hard way during one of Gortash’s tests the previous day- He had to punish a banite. Just a couple of lashes, no more. But when the banite refused the punishment on the basis that The Dark Urge was a follower of Bhaal, he had been… overzealous in his reaction.

He had ended up on the receiving end of the lash for it.

He felt the sting of it as he rolled his shoulders, sore from having knelt for hours in Gortash’s office, waiting to be allowed to get up. Two days ago, when a similar situation occurred, he had simply assumed the banite had forgotten to give the order to rise. The short of it was, he hadn’t .

Four days, and his head and body felt thicker already. He hadn’t realised how easy Bhaal’s worship appeared, in comparison. Bhaalists were a bunch of misfits united by faith. They followed anyone brutal enough to become Bhaal’s chosen, and the only rule was to kill often enough to deserve the god’s blessing. Even the trials to become one of Bhaal’s assassins only hinged on murder. 

Bane was a much less lenient god, to say the least.

 

At some point, Gortash rose from his desk, and stopped right next to The Dark Urge with a critical look on his face. “You can rise.” He said. The dragonborn got up with some difficulty. One of his legs had fallen asleep, and his back and knees hurt. He grimaced as he awkwardly stood up, enduring the pain in his waking leg. Gortash smirked. “Good. You learnt from your mistakes. I think it’s time we get you your very first sacrifice.”

The Dark Urge perked up at the words. He felt like a child being handed a candy. “A sacrifice…” The word felt like music to his ears, like sugar on his tongue.

They went into the city, one of the only times the dragonborn had been allowed out of the Keep in the past few days. The sights and smells called to him, but he remained focused- He was looking for a sacrifice. And not just anyone would do. 

They took a seat inside the Elfsong tavern, and Gortash ordered drinks for them. While a few patrons came to greet Gortash, the Archduke who did them the honour of being in their presence,  The Dark Urge looked around, scanning the room as he always did when he was hunting. His mind was apt at naturally deducing what basic information he could deduce from the people around. That was always how he picked his targets apart in a crowd. 

“You remember what you are looking for?” Gortash asked. He nodded in answer. He knew. Unlike Bhaal, not any death would do. He had to find someone offensive to Bane. A worshipper of a rival deity, a detractor… Of course, he couldn’t exactly go up to people, ask them their opinion of Bane, and drag them away should the answer not please him. 

But he could find all sorts of worshipers in the city. 

 

He spotted one, in particular, that caught his eye. He noticed immediately from the man’s garb that he wasn’t the average patron. The older man wore old, worn out robes that had been patched up several times. He looked poor, and was accompanied by a vagrant, to whom he offered a drink and a meal. The two men ate together and made conversation. When the man in the robes The Dark Urge spotted scars on the hands and arm. He was willing to bet the man was a priest of Ilmater. They were the most self-flagellating, pathetic priests of the pantheon. They helped the weak and the poor, and let even criminals profit off their help. A perfect target. He rose from his seat. Gortash turned to him, interrupting his conversation with a halfling woman who was rambling on about the Steel watchers with her companion. “Let’s meet at the house later.” He told him. He was purposely vague, but the dragonborn caught his meaning. There weren’t many houses out there he could be talking about, and the safehouse The Dark Urge was supposed to live in was nearby.  He nodded, and approached the priest. Getting closer, he confirmed his suspicion- The man wore an amulet bearing the symbol of Ilmater. He smiled at him, and engaged him in a conversation.

 

It was, by far, the easiest part of The Dark Urge’s initiation. All he had to do was chat up the priest. He looked physically weak, as did most of ilmater’s priests. His clergy often ate very little, and spent their time doing mundane tasks when they weren’t self-flagellating to ask for forgiveness for the privilege of being healthy. 

He would break easily physically. Perhaps too easily, even. 

Catching the priest was easy. All he had had to do was follow him after he left, and then later, he waited outside the temple for him to leave again. He paid an urchin to attract the priest in a dark alleyway as he walked away from the temple. The man, unaware he was being baited, followed the child into the dark, only to be left alone as the child ran away again with his money. The moment The Dark Urge came out of the shadows to face him, the priest smiled. He remembered him, of course, from earlier in the day- The nice dragonborn who had made a donation to the temple. The one who spoke passionately about the misery in the city. 

He didn’t realise what was happening until it was far too late.

 

When The Dark Urge dragged the unconscious priest to the safehouse in the dead of the night, he was welcomed by Gortash, who smiled as he helped him get the man down to the basement. It was a cellar, without much space, but it was enough for a chair and a single prisoner. 

As they tied up the man, Gortash noticed the man’s pendant. “A priest of Ilmater? Not an easy target.”

“Is it supposed to be easy?” The Dark Urge gave a cocky smile as he finished tying up the unconscious prisoner. 

“Confidence is good. Overconfidence, not so much. Remember- He has to break mentally before he breaks physically.”  He grabbed the man by the hair to take a closer look at his face. He hummed.  “He looks healthy, at least.”

The dragonborn huffed. “I may not be a banite yet, but I can assure you that I can torture just as well as one. I know what I’m doing.”

Of course the man was healthy. He was frail, but healthy. Ilmater priests were resilient to physical pain, but there were other ways to torture than just break bones and skin. It would take a couple of days, but that was the best part- Making it drag on and on. The priest would beg for mercy by the end of the week. 

Gortash took a step back, hands raised in surrender. “Fine, I will let you do your work. I’m not supposed to interfere anyway. It is your act of worship. Not mine. Keep that in mind- Worship.”

On these words, he left and went back upstairs. The Dark Urge watched him go up the stairs until he was out of view, before he returned his attention to his victim. He had a few ideas in mind. He would need water, sheets… And probably some poison. The psychoactive type, to induce hallucinations. It wasn’t his specialty, psychological torture, but he did feel rather inspired to try.

 

He kept the Ilmater priest in the basement for three days. He didn’t bring him food, and fed him poisoned water that had the man see nightmarish visions for three days with no end. Meanwhile, The Dark Urge fed his terror by feeding him stories- Stories of creatures that wished to harm him- and they did. Well, The dragonborn was the one who harmed him. When spiders crawled all over him and bit him, he pierced the man’s body with pikes to fit the narrative. When he was burnt by their venom, he poured acid on his face and body. The few moments of clarity the man had, only lasted long enough for his torturer to make him know it was Bane who caused his torment. At first the man prayed, when he had enough sense to do so. But Ilmater didn’t answer. What could he do, if his faithful was in a state of induced delirium, and incapable of realising nothing was there to hurt him.

The dragonborn controlled his sleep, as well. He only slept for short, very short periods of times and only when he decided so. He had managed to convince the priest  that if he fell asleep, his soul would be consumed. 

The man was barely coherent by the end of the second day, and downright delusional by the third. His eyes were bloodshot, wide open as they darted around the room seeing things that simply weren’t there. And he wasn’t under the effect of drugs anymore. He kept shouting at the slightest noise, begging and screaming for whatever creature lurked in the shadows of the cellar to leave him alone. The Dark Urge mostly watched him just out of sight, sometimes using a spell to create sound or light somewhere in the room, just to mess with him. 

Then he would move into view; sometimes looking like himself, sometimes disguised through magic to look like a stranger. And the man perked up each time, alight with hope, vain hope. He begged for help at first, jumping at the smallest noise, not daring to raise his voice. And everytime, his “saviour” did nothing. He just stood there, watching. Or an image of him did, anyway, maybe even an hallucination, as sometimes The dragonborn would hear his prisoner shout at someone or something even when he was upstairs, eating or taking some rest.

As days passed, the begging for help turned into desperate whimpers, then he started being angry- he would ask for help and then insult whoever dared to refuse to aid him. He abandoned his god’s teaching, referring to the whole world as vile, worthless, and much more colourful words. There was no compassion left in him by the end of the third day, and when The Dark Urge walked up to him in one of his most ‘lucid’ moments, the man whispered. “Please… anyone… help me…” And that was when he  knew that the man’s mind was shattered. He asked him to give up his life, to submit to Bane’s superiority, and the priest simply did, in a soft, tired voice. 

The dragonborn grinned. He didn’t need to feed him the drugs anymore. In his state, he was fully pliable, and begging for any piece of rest. 

That night, The Dark Urge greeted Gortash with a smile before kneeling- as he had learnt to do. The banite let him rise quickly, tilting his head. “You look like you’re in a good mood.”

“I am. The priest is ready.” He grinned, displaying his sharp teeth as he did so. The banite smiled back, but it was much more subdued than he had expected. Did he not believe him?

“Show me your work, then.” He said, gesturing inside. 

They both went down the stairs to the cellar, where the priest was staring at a single point without moving. He appeared obsessed by the dark, and sometimes narrowed his eyes or jumped all of a sudden, as if he saw something- Or perhaps he was resisting sleep. 

They both stood before him, and the man looked up expectantly, but without uttering a word. Gortash looked at the dragonborn and gestured at the prisoner. “It’s your offering. I’ll let you have the honour of ending this.” The Dark Urge nodded solemnly.

“Ending? Is this ending? Are you going to help?”

The dragonborn knelt by the poor, confused man, and he spoke to him in the softest voice he could muster. “We can help you. All you have to do is let go. Give your life to our Master, and it will all end.”

“Yes… Please… anything. No one is here. No one will help me. I want to sleep. I want to see the light- There are things here. Or maybe in my head. I don’t understand, I’m so afraid- I-” He started to tear up, and his voice cracked as he uttered the last words. 

The Dark Urge placed a reassuring hand on the man’s cheek, shaking his head as he feigned regret. “Your god offended my master. And you had to pay for it. This is just how it goes.”

The priest shook his head. “I didn’t know. I didn't mean to upset your master. Please.”

“Bane is the only one who can free you now. Perhaps if you beg him for forgiveness, we can help you.”

The man started to cry. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Gods. Bane, Ilmater- I didn’t want to offend anyone. I never spoke ill of any of you. Please- I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”

The Dark Urge looked up at Gortash, who nodded. He grinned, turned to the man and answered. “Apology not accepted.” 

Then he seized the man’s head between his hands, and putting as much strength as he could, snapped his neck. The man shook, mouth opening and closing as he tried to grasp for air. Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he went limp. The Dark Urge got up, and placed his hand under the man’s nose to check for breathing. He felt a faint breath as he did, and clicked his tongue. He had probably broken the bones but the trachea was still somewhat intact. That time, he simply finished the job by choking the remnants of life out of him- Just to be sure. Then he let out a satisfied sigh and rolled his shoulders. In the end, even all the compassion in the world couldn’t save him from his own weakness. 

He felt something as he watched the dead man before him. A small surge of power, an acknowledgement of his offering that told him his sacrifice had been accepted. But he had the foreboding feeling that something was missing. 

He turned to Gortash, who stared at the dead man in silence, a dark look on his face. Could he feel the same ? He was, after all, Bane’s chosen, and if the god was displeased, he would be the first one to know. 

He was about to say something when his banite companion turned around, hands joined behind his back. “Let’s go upstairs.”

The dragonborn simply nodded, and followed, even as he furrowed his brows. He could tell something was off. Even Gortash’s expression as he arrived had been unusually sombre. 

 

They went upstairs, into the parlour, and The Dark Urge remarked that the usual chairs that sat before the fireplace had been moved to the far end of the room. In their place, a small but sturdy looking table had been moved in, and on it was a tray with a set of peculiar and very familiar implements. Next to it a few clean sheets, what looked like health potions and a bowl of water. As they stepped inside, Gortash didn’t even glance at the unusual items. He went straight to the dining table and removed his coat, placing it on one of the chairs. “It’s the best I could get on such short notice, but it shall suffice.” He said, nodding towards the table. 

The Dark Urge’s mind swirled with questions. Those weren’t torture implements. They were surgical implements. Meant to dissect, to cut and remove. He stepped closer to the table to check them, grabbing a scalpel to check its sharpness. He had barely pressed the blade against his finger that he felt the skin break. It was perfectly sharp. 

“I trust it’s sufficiently sharp?” Gortash asked as he stepped closer to examine the blade. 

The dragonborn nodded, placing the scalpel back on the tray. 

“Good. Now is time for your real sacrifice.” The banite spoke. Their eyes met. His gaze was as determined as ever- even more so than usual, in fact. Just looking into the other man’s eyes, the dragonborn understood what he meant. Why he had looked so sombre ever since he had gotten there. His heartbeat increased as the realisation set in.

Chapter 20: Chapter 20

Notes:

Big, big warning for "surgery"/ medical implements, ect

“Do I have to kill you?” He asked.

Enver managed a small smile. “If that was the case, I wouldn’t have bothered with this.” He gestured at the operating table- Because that was what it was. 

“Which part, then?” 

“Bane demands my eyes. And you have to be the one to take them.” Gortash answered.

His eyes. What kind of sacrifice was that? And why take his Chosen’s eyes, and not his life? Why did he have to do it? 

“He wants to make you blind?” Was all he could manage to say. There were too many questions, and his heartbeat wouldn’t settle as pictures of the surgery to come filled the Dark Urge’s mind. 

“You’ve spent the past few days learning about our Lord’s tenets. His commandment, his will. I’ll let you deduce all of this yourself, and decide.”

Bane demanded submission. Complete submission from the world, and even more from his followers. The Dark Urge understood why he was tasked with such a thing- The god of Tyranny wanted to test his submission to Him, not to his chosen . But Gortash had been unwavering in his worship, he was on the cusp of handing a city to his god. What more did he need to prove?

Or maybe not prove, but learn. A lesson, a warning. But he wouldn’t take the risk of weakening his Chosen, would he? Unless he intended to discard him- But then, he would have asked the Dark Urge to end Gortash’s life. 

That was where faith came in, didn’t it? He had to believe that their god wouldn’t go too far in the punishment. That he would still let them rise to power for him. That he believed they could do it together. What was the other option anyway? 

And so The Dark Urge nodded. 

 

“Excellent. Needless to say- There will be no anaesthesia.” Enver said, before climbing onto the operating table and lying down. He was unwavering, but as he settled down, The Dark Urge noticed how he clenched his jaw, and how his breathing was deeper and slower than usual. He was staying calm because he had to, but anyone’s nerves would be tested by the idea of having to undergo such a surgery while fully conscious.

The Dark Urge watched him lie there for a moment, before his eyes fell on the implements. His heart was dancing in his chest, and he struggled to keep a steady breath. Anyone would chalk it up to anxiety, but as he grabbed a pair of clamps, his hand was perfectly steady. 

He was excited. He was eager. It wasn’t the urge, not at all. The urge was gone. But his will to maim, to hurt and dig inside living things was still there. And he had dreamt of breaking Gortash’s skin, of tasting his blood, relishing in his screams ever since he had laid eyes on him upon waking up in that cell, tied up, barely alive. 

He didn’t want to kill him, though. No- That much he had cleared up. He wanted to do all sorts of things to him and his body- and it was those things that would definitely lead to his death, should he ever indulge in them. 

He cleared his mind, and looked under the sheets for what appeared to be a strap of leather poking from underneath. He picked up the strap and brought it to the other man’s mouth. 

“Bite this.” He told him. Gortash opened his mouth and did as he was told. There would be no easy way to go about it. He was going to suffer. 

The Dark Urge then placed a hand on the banite’s face, the other holding clamps, which he brought closer to the man’s right eye. Gortash glanced at the implement and took a deep breath. “It’s going to hurt a bit. But it’s not the worst part.” The dragonborn said. He had vague memories of doing something similar. Placing the clamps around the eye would be painful. But it definitely wouldn’t be the worst part. 

 

He placed the clamps around Gortash’s orbit, and he started to dig around to force them in. Gortash grunted, and then he let out strangled sounds of pain as the metal sought a way into his skull, between the bone and the eyeball. He was grimacing in pain, and when the clamps finally found purchase, tears were running down on his face. It was only a natural body function, but it was a good look on him. Face contorted in pain, tears in his eyes and running down the scarred skin of his face. With the thumb of the hand keeping the man’s head in place, The Dark Urge wiped the tear away from his left eye. That eye, still free of movement, gazed up at him. In it he saw determination, pride, but also pain and even a hint of fear. 

 

Once the clamps were in place, a few cuts had to be made. Muscles and ligaments held the eye in place, and if it was technically possible to tear them by pulling hard enough, it would be far more painful, and even more damaging. The goal wasn’t to torture or to kill. It was a surgery. What was demanded of him was precision with no extravagance.  

The Dark Urge brought the scalpel near the eye, peering in to see the places he needed to cut to free it from its snuggly home. He spotted them easily. Top and bottom, a couple of cuts. Gortash grunted in pain, his head moving by reflex as if he tried to flee the blade. But he couldn’t, with a hand holding him firmly in place, there was nowhere to go. The dragonborn hushed him. “Almost done with that part.” He said. He put down the scalpel, and seized the clamps.

Then, with no further warning, he started pulling. Gortash closed his only valid eye and grunted again, biting hard on the leather strip in his mouth. He was remarkably resilient considering the circumstances, but even that resilience would eventually break in the face of what was to come. 

The eye came out of the socket without too much difficulty, and by then Gortash was breathing heavily. He kept his left eyes closed, but he couldn’t close the right one, which was hanging dangerously just out of the socket. 

He left his patient some time to catch his breath and recover, letting go of the eye to dispose of the clamps. He saw Gortash swallow heavily, trying to steady himself. His face was covered in sweat and blood. The Dark Urge gently caressed it, and took one of the clean sheets. He humidified it, and gently wiped away the blood that ran down the banite’s face from his empty eye socket.

Gortash hesitantly opened his left eye once more, and the dragonborn smiled at him, which got him to knit his brows together in worry. 

He grabbed the scalpel once more.

 

“This is going to hurt a lot more.” The Dark Urge said, seizing the eye between his fingers with one hand, holding the scalpel in the other. He had to find the right places to cut. The right angle. Gortash was already in a lot of pain, but much more awaited him, and he knew it as he tensed up, steeling himself for what was to come. The bhaalspawn brought the scalpel to the first piece of muscle that held and controlled the eye. Gortash bit hard on the leather strip in his mouth. The dragonborn cut again. And again. The third time, Gortash’s head jerked back as the blade grazed the nerve beneath the muscle. The movement almost caused the blade to slip. But experience and a steady hand prevented that unfortunate accident. “Try not to move. I don’t want to disfigure you.”

Perhaps want wasn’t the proper verb. He didn’t need nor have to disfigure him. As for what he wanted- It was better not to think about it for the moment. 

He peeled the remaining flesh fibre, freeing the eye entirely, until the optic nerve was the only thing connecting the orb to its socket. Its tail slithered into the darkness of the orbit, where the brain rested, safe inside the skull. A spike through it would kill the banite instantly. 

 

He took a small break to take in the scene. Gortash was panting, sweating and he shivered, biting hard into the solid piece of leather in his mouth. Tears ran down on one side of his face, and blood on the other. One eye closed, while the other hung above his eye socket, held firmly into the dragonborn’s hand, ready to be plucked. Optic nerves were fragile things, and it would surely tear should he pull hard enough- But it would be painful, even traumatic for the brain. He couldn’t do it. 

Instead, he did the only merciful thing he could do- And started to cut through the protection around the nerve with his scalpel. The blade was sharp, but the material it had to cut through was tough and slippery. As he worked, he heard Gortash struggle to not cry out, grunting and panting as he tried to stay still. He felt him clutch his robes, trying to find anything to hang onto to carry him through the pain. The bhaalspawn gritted his teeth as he focused. He had to slice through the nerve. There was no nice way of going about it, and the faster the better. He put more tension into the nerve, pulling on it a little so it would be more stable, the banite screamed through gritted teeth from the pain. When the blade finally cut through- Gortash cried out, and went limp immediately. 

The Dark Urge imagined he had blacked out from the sheer pain and shock of having a nerve sectioned. But the eye was freed, and he deposited it gently on the tray with the implements. He picked up the wet sheet from earlier and started to clean the banite’s skin as the man groaned, only half-conscious. He hushed him and opened a health potion, pouring the content over the bleeding eye socket. Once it was done, and the bleeding receded, he used a clean sheet to cover the empty hole in the banite’s skull. 

 

Gortash eventually emerged from his half-comatose state, he was pale, his breathing was shaky and his gaze still somewhat unfocused. The Dark Urge passed his hand through his hair affectionately, knowing full well that in any other circumstances, the banite would have snapped at him for the condescending gesture. 

It was hard to explain the way he felt at that moment. Satisfied was a word he would use. Satiated would be another. It felt like scratching an itch after a day of resisting the urge to do it. Some said that violence was the product of hate. But The Dark Urge didn’t hate Enver , quite the contrary. What he felt when he mutilated a victim he hated was different, it was a burning rage that nothing could extinguish so long as death didn’t claim his victim. Another interpretation of violence was lack of empathy, lack of care. But that wasn’t always the case either. When he killed someone he didn’t care about- it felt like cold indifference, with variable satisfaction at the end- a bit like a one night stand, a body to be used and discarded, never to be seen again. A means to scratch an itch. 

But hearing Enver’s screams, seeing the tears and blood on his face- He felt warm from it. It felt no different than a hug, a kiss, a playful touch or bite. It felt… caring. To care, and to want to hurt the object of your affection- That was what he felt. As for the why? Why did one feel the need to kiss, to hug, to touch? There was no reason behind it, just instinct. 

And a bhaalspawn’s instinct was primarly violence, urge or no urge. 

And yet, reason told him that he shouldn’t be enjoying it so much. He had to remain lucid, too: Enver was going to end up blind, and he would be more vulnerable for it. And it would be his fault. 

He stared into Enver’s only remaining eye for a moment, finding himself deep in thought as he considered the flood of emotion he felt. Had Bane anticipated how much The Dark Urge would enjoy it? And how bitter it would taste afterwards? Was that his idea of a punishment, or was it a test of how far the bhaalspawn would go to earn his favour?

He was snapped out of his thoughts as he felt a hand on his arm, bringing him back to the task at hand. 

One eye remained.

And he had to take it too.

 

The second eye was messier. Mostly because Gortash, for all his resilience, had been already weakened from the first part of the surgery. There was only so far  sheer will would take you when your body underwent so much stress. He also blacked out a few times as he started to suffer from the amount of blood he had lost. Not enough to be life threatening, but still too much for the body to function well. The potions came in handy to avoid further blood loss, and the dragonborn realised he had been too caught up in his own satisfaction to address the problem earlier. He should have stopped the bleeding before, but he hadn’t. 

 

When he put down the second eye on the tray, Gortash was fully passed out. His skin was quite pale, and his breathing shallow. The dragonborn had to force him to swallow a whole potion of health to stabilise him. It wasn’t just the blood loss- It was also the shock from the pain and the trauma of being operated on while conscious. Not mentioning losing your eyesight in the process. He stared at the eyes on the tray, bloody, and slowly losing their shine. He couldn’t help but pick them up to take a closer look at them. Those dark eyes he had looked into so many times, wondering what was going on in their owner’s head. They were no more than vulgar pieces of flesh on their own. 

As he held them, frowning in contemplation, he felt power course through him. Much like the one he had felt staring at his sacrifice earlier. And as the power grew, the eyes started to blacken. A black fog surrounded them, swirling with dark energy and when it vanished back into the eyes- the orbs looked much cleaner and shinier, almost like glass. He poked them curiously. They didn’t feel like glass. 

But they did emit power. 

 

He knew what he had to do. It didn’t take a genius to  guess. He lifted the bloodied sheets from Gortash’s face, and approached the first eye to his right, empty orbit. It had barely come into contact with it that black smoke appeared again, and the eye simply reappeared in its rightful place. The same thing happened with the other eye, and they looked almost natural once inside of their socket. 

Almost natural. They were much darker than  Gortash’s former eyes. Like the pupil was larger than it ought to be, and the light from the flames in the fireplace didn’t reflect against its surface. It absorbed it. 

He didn’t get to stare at them for long, as all of a sudden, the banite’s eyes closed. The Dark Urge knew at that moment that he had succeeded. Bane was pleased, and he had accepted his offering. 

He only hoped Gortash would be extended the same favour. After all, without him, none of it could have been possible. He owed him that much.

All he had to do was wait for Gortash to wake up.

And so he waited, sitting next to him, watching him rest. After a while with nothing to do, the dragonborn started to clean up the remnants of blood from the banite’s face and neck. Then he removed the leather strip from his mouth, and cleaned his own hands. The banite remained sound asleep, so he left the room to ask a servant to bring them some cups as well as fresh water. He was thirsty, and he imagined Gortash would be thirsty too when he woke up. 

It took about an hour and a half for Gortash to stir. The Dark Urge was busy staring at flames in deep reflection and turned around to check that everything was fine. Ten minutes later, the banite opened his eyes. He furrowed his brows and blinked a few times.

“Can you see?” The Dark Urge asked, getting up to look at him. Gortash’s eyes moved to rest on him, and he raised a hand, with two fingers up.

“Two.” Gortash answered. His voice was hoarse, and he sounded weak. He was still rather pale- But he was alive, and with two eyes to boot. 

“So you can see?”

“I can see your fingers.” Gortash answered. Then he cleared his throat. “Water.”

The Dark Urge helped him sit up. His companion grimaced, clutching his head and closing his eyes a moment to steady himself. When it passed, the dragonborn handed him a cup of water. Gortash stared at it a moment, as if he couldn’t understand what was in front of him. Curious, The bhaalspawn moved the cup to the left. Gortash’s eyes tracked it just fine- Then he suddenly grabbed the dragonborn’s wrist, clicking his tongue. “Stop moving.” He told him. With his other hand, he hesitantly reached for the space where the cup was, feeling the item with his fingers. He only grabbed the cup once his hand was safely wrapped around it. He drank without another word. 

“You can see my fingers, but not the cup?” The Dark Urge asked.

“The cup is made of metal, correct? Gold? Silver? Very polished.” He said, feeling the material under his fingers.  At first, the dragonborn nodded. Then he wondered if Gortash could even see him nodding. “Yes.” It was a golden cup. 

“It reflects light too much. It blurs the outline of it.” He sighed. “I can’t explain what I see. It’s like shadows and lights. No colour, no details. But I can see… Beyond as well.” He looked at the netherstone on his gauntlet, moving his hand before his eyes. “Energy. It stands out.” 

The Dark Urge didn’t know what to say. He remained quiet, and decided to get himself some water as well.

“You are very quiet.” Gortash remarked with a weak smile that was certainly intended to be a smirk. 

“I have nothing to say.” 

The banite took a deep breath. He looked satisfied. Or perhaps relieved.  “This is a success. Bane has accepted  your sacrifice, and we have been rewarded for it.”The Dark Urge arched a brow. “You’re blind. I removed your eyes while you were conscious.” Even by Bhaal’s standards, that hardly seemed like a reward. 

Gortash’s face hardened. He looked tired, and he had gone through hell, but he still looked capable of killing with a single stare. Those new, obsidian black eyes of his only reinforced the impression. “Don’t misunderstand me. The reward is us both keeping our lives. Our Lord Bane cannot tolerate failure. He also cannot tolerate weakness. We have committed both, accepted the punishment, and now, we can move on with his blessing.” He said that as a matter of fact, although his expression softened somewhat as he frowned. “It will take some adjusting. I can’t write or read anymore, at least not the way I’m used to. But I can still rule. I won’t let that, or anything else stop me. So long as Bane deems me worthy to be his Chosen, my objectives remain the same.”

 

The Dark Urge smirked at the stubbornness he had grown to know and appreciate. “Glad to see you’re not too traumatised. I was worried.”

“You weren’t worried for a second. You enjoyed it.” Gortash corrected, as he sipped on water, closing his eyes a moment to steady himself. He must have felt nauseous.

The dragonborn looked away, like a child caught eating candies right before dinner time. Of course he had enjoyed it. “I-”

The banite chuckled. “Don’t pout. I much prefer that to you shying away from the task and costing us both our lives. It’s thanks to your… eagerness that we are both here.” The bhaalspawn crossed his arms over his chest. Who was pouting? “That’s one way of seeing it. Or well- Perceiving it.” he snided.  Gortash narrowed his eyes. “If you start making these jokes, I will personally send you to the afterlife, to see if Lord Bane finds them as hilarious as you.”

He laughed at that. He could imagine Bane finding the jokes funny- Although he appeared to like Dark humour much better, judging by the latest events. “I’ll try to abstain from making them.” They really weren’t that funny, and would grow stale rather fast. His companion nodded approvingly.

“Good. You’ve just only become a banite. It would be a shame to end it all so soon. I would very much like to see how you evolve under Lord Bane’s teachings.” He smiled, and then coughed a little, before sipping on his water again. “I think I need to rest before any of that can happen, though.” He put down his cup on the table next to him. The Dark Urge approached to help steady him. Of course, Gortash raised his hand to stop him. “I’m fine. I need to get used to this. Just stay close in case I fall in the stairs.” 

 

He took  a first few hesitant step. Then he walked over to the table to get his coat, and carefully manoeuvred around the furniture until he was out of the room. The Dark Urge followed him, and as they got to the bottom of the stairs Gortash stopped, looking up. “I think I see much better in complete darkness.” He remarked aloud. The staircase was indeed, entirely bathed in shadows at that time of the day, with only a window on the upper floor shedding some light inside. But it was moonlight, not strong enough to blind him as the cup had. They went up the stairs, and the banite’s steps were indeed far more confident as he navigated the less lit places of the safehouse. The bedroom wasn’t lit at all, and he sat on the bed as soon as he got in, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, clutching his stomach. He passed a trembling hand through his messy hair as he exhaled. “Nauseous?” The dragonborn asked. Gortash nodded. “Nauseous, faint. Typical of blood loss.” He opened his eyes and gave him a meaningful look. The Dark Urge shrugged. You couldn’t do a surgery without some blood loss. “I’ll ask the servants to get some food done.” He said.

He wasn’t out of the room for very long, only enough to tell the servants to start preparing dinner, and bring back water to the room. When he got back inside, Gortash was holding a book, sifting through the pages.

“Can you read in the dark?” The dark Urge asked, placing down cups and a water pitcher on the table before he sat down next to the banite on the bed. He closed the book just as the dragonborn started to look at the pages over his shoulder. “I can’t. I hoped I could, but it seems the smaller details are simply lost on me, regardless of the lighting.”

“Unfortunate.” He said, as he leaned in closer to the man without really thinking about it. He smelled like blood, on top of his usual scent. When his snout came to rest against his head, in his hair, he had to resist the need to lick the blood of him.

Gortash sighed and pushed him off. “You are far too comfortable with your affections towards your god’s chosen. Have you forgotten your teachings already?”

The bhaalspawn smirked. “You were saying I was making progress just earlier. Don’t change your tune so often, it undermines authority.” 

“I said I expected that you would evolve over the years, and that I wanted to see it.” He corrected, placing his book down on the bed. 

To evolve as a banite. The Dark Urge couldn’t imagine ever becoming as collected as his companion was. He knew how to remain calm, he knew when to be ruthless and cold-blooded. He could hold back his darker impulses for a time- But he simply couldn’t hold them back forever. The whole point of leaving his father’s yoke had been to be able to have his own wants and wishes, and if he was to live, he wanted to be able to act on them. That was the whole point of gaining power- To be able to decided the when and the how of everything. To have ultimate control. The thought pleased him. And he thought it compatible with Bane’s teachings. 

“How do you expect I will evolve?” He asked thoughfully. He expected Gortash to have his own picture of their future as rulers. 

“Beautifully.” He turned to look at the dragonborn, who hadn’t expected such an answer. “When we met, I thought that it was a shame you served Bhaal. You had all the makings of a good Banite. You are powerful, clever, determined. You have an impressive drive and you understood the need for cooperation.”

“Flattery? And for what purpose?” The Dark Urge tilted his head and smiled. He did like being flattered, but he knew the banite wasn’t the type to lay empty flattery upon him. The other man hummed. 

“Honesty. To start on a cleaner base. Now that we both serve the same God, and that you have made your proof- I expect honesty. We both know the stakes. Should you or I die, the other should take his place. For that to happen, I need truth, honesty and trust.”

The dragonborn arched a brow. He wondered what had gotten into him all of a sudden. He couldn’t remember lying and most of the time,  he wasn’t the one who had things to hide.

“I’ve never been anything but honest, Gortash.”

“Is that so?” He mused aloud. He marked a short, meaningful pause that caused the dragonborn to frown at the implications. “ I want us to be partners. I want us to be leaders. I want us to rule in Lord Bane’s name, and make the world kneel before us as we take the world in his name. Be honest then: What do you want?”

There was a pause as The Dark Urge considered the question. What did he want, indeed. He hadn’t had that much time to think about it. Before, The Urge had decided what he wanted. After his resurrection, his situation had demanded that he put his wants aside to secure his place as one of Bane’s followers. And what about at that very moment? What did he want? It felt easier to think, with all of that mess out of the way, and the answer came naturally. 

“I want to rule. I want the power to decide over my life. I want the freedom to act because I want to.” There was a last one, one he wasn’t sure he should say. He hesitated a moment, and thought that if Gortash had wanted honesty, then he would give him honesty. He lowered his voice just a little as he said the next part, gazing into the dark, obsidian eyes that were fixed on him. “... I want you. I want to make love to you, to devour you, to hold you and to tear you apart. Is that honest enough?”

Gortash raised a single eyebrow. Provocation hardly worked on him, and if he knew him nearly as well as he claimed to, then it shouldn't have come as a surprise. It wasn’t like The Dark Urge hadn’t acted on it before.

“-It seems our objectives are compatible. For the first part at least.” He said. The Dark Urge stared at him a moment before he asked his next question. “And about the second part?”

“I’m not sure I share your… enthusiasm for cannibalism.” He frowned.

“I’m not actually going to actually eat you, Enver.” The bhaalspawn grinned, leaning in so that he would speak in his ear. “I only want to do the mostly harmless stuff.” 

The banite sighed. He rubbed his face tiredly. “I have no need for a lover. I need a partner.” 

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Gortash clicked his tongue disapprovingly, putting some distance between the two of them so he could look at the dragonborn face to face again. 

“Don’t act the fool. You know my meaning. Partnership is a matter of mind. Of perspective. Lovers are… Carnal pleasure at best. At worst, pointless emotional attachment. I don’t mind being physically intimate with you, but I don’t want any further involvement. You should get rid of these thoughts. They will only hold you back.” He waved his hands dismissively. 

The Dark Urge would have dismissed it too earlier, perhaps even a few hours ago. But maiming, murder, and torture had a way to bring his most repressed desires to the surface. And he had been repressing much. 

Perhaps his past self had felt that way, too. As he and Gortash well knew- back then, there had been no good ending in sight. No way for their goals to converge. The Urge, and Bhaal, had ensured that nothing more than a formal, temporary alliance and the occasional sexual encounter would ever connect them.

But once those obstacles out of the way- What prevented The Dark Urge from taking what he wanted? Their objectives and desires converged, and nothing got in the way. If they were to rule the world together, then what stopped him from laying claim to his partner? 

Of course they could share in each other's flesh occasionally when the thoughts crossed both their minds, and be done with it. They had been doing it already. But it wasn’t enough. Seeing how Gortash reacted only reinforced the bhaalspawn’s conviction that it was simply not what he wanted.

He wanted him to himself. He wanted to own him, his body and his mind.  He wanted to swallow him whole, to crawl under his skin to be closer than it was possible to be. He wanted to be the only one capable of making him bleed and the only one who could lick his wounds closed. He wanted their partnership to be one written on their blood and flesh, on their souls and on their bleeding black hearts. Something stronger, unstoppable. Something no one else could share. But was there even a word for that? Could such a thing fall under the naive label of “love”? Did it even matter what it was called? 

“Then don’t call us lovers. Call us Kings; mates, partners, companions- whatever you want. But you asked me what I want. Well, you made me want the world, Enver. And it includes you .” 

He reached for Enver’s face, passing his thumb over his eye, as if to take it out again. The other banite didn’t even flinch. After it all, who else but him would stand before him and not fear what he could do?

It made him want to see how much pain they could do to each other, and how strong they would grow from it. He had died for him, given up his heritage; his everything. He had made Gortash risk his life, lose his sight, risk his soul. And they still stood there, together. And he wanted more every single time. 

But Gortash didn’t answer. He placed his hand over the dragonborn’s, gently but firmly removing it from his face. “This isn’t the right time to talk about that. I need to rest, first. And then I need to think . Thank you for your honesty.” Then, he got up, slowly, and turned to him one last time. “I advise you to think on it as well. Do not forget who you serve, and what our objective is.”

“I haven’t, Gortash. I can want several things at the same time.” He hissed, getting up as well to loom over him. The banite ignored him, simply moving on to head towards the door. “Where are you going?” He asked.

“I’m going to eat. You’re welcome to join me, or to stay here to brood over impossible things. It’s your choice.” He left the room right after, not closing the door behind him.

 

The Dark Urge watched him go, jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring up as he huffed. To say he was frustrated to have been denied would be a large understatement. He was fuming. How could he promise him the world and deny him the one thing he wanted? 

He growled and he looked at the cups of water on the table. Lost in thoughts, he remembered Enver’s tear and blood stained face, the sound he made as his eyes were removed, his pale skin and lips as his blood ran down his face.

It made him sigh. He had hoped to lick his wounds afterwards.

 

But at that moment, the only thing he hoped was for the damn man would walk straight into a wall. 

Chapter 21: Chapter 21

Notes:

Beware: Some dubcon (consensual but not explicitely so) sexual content in this chapter. I will separate it with in between "-"

 In the days that followed, Gortash went back to work almost immediately. They had to discuss the next steps in their conquest, and set up a new hierarchy. With their forces soon to be spread over several cities, they needed to be organised or they would fail before they had even started. 

The Dark Urge’s new status as Gortash’s right hand allowed him to be present during all of the most important meetings, to give out orders and gather reports from the field. 

From a more personal perspective, It had taken The Chosen very little time to get used to his new eyes. He acted entirely as usual, regardless of the daunting experience he had lived through. If it hadn’t been for his inability to read and write, most people would have simply not noticed the change in his sight. It took an expert eye, and the opportunity to watch him in his private moments to notice the small hesitations, the change in habits, and the daily struggles he had to contend with to even get dressed. Laces and buttons were a particularly difficult part of it.

Still, his work couldn’t be done by anyone else. And so he had found someone to read his reports for him, and to write his letters in his place. That someone was a young banite- an half elf, rather tall, with neat white hair, whom he praised ceaselessly for his excellent elocution. The two of them worked on stabilising Baldur’s Gate and finalising their rise to power, while The Dark Urge was tasked to work on their next step- The city of Elturel. 

Elturel had been considerably weakened in the recent events of its fall, but the conflicts that emerged among the population since its return from the Hells and its history made it a prime target for them. With the right words in the right ears, the right daggers in the right backs; The city would fall into their hands out of its own volition. Ideally- They could even convince them to join an alliance with Baldur’s Gate, under the pretence of shared plight and history. An alliance which would, of course, eventually turn into a Kingdom. And perhaps, later, even an empire.

 

The bhaalspawn did his task without complaining. He enjoyed that sort of plotting, and he still had their ultimate goal in mind. He never mentioned their personal affairs anymore, it was all about work. At first, he worked in Gortash’s office. However the constant sound of  the young banite’s grating voice reading inane letters got increasingly aggravating over time, and after about two days of dealing with it, The Dark Urge ended up leaving the Keep to work elsewhere . He only came back at the end of the day for his reports, and then returned to the safehouse in the lower city.  

That day, when he came in as usual for his report, the young banite was still there.  He was dutifully writing what Gortash said as the archduke paced before the desk. When the dragonborn entered, he cleared his throat and Gortash held up his hand. 

“... and be assured that I share your concern over your husband’s disappearance. We will find the criminals responsible and bring them before justice. Yours sincerely, Archduke Enver Gortash.”

“Before justice.. perhaps insist on the punishment, my Lord?” the young banite asked. 

The Chosen of Bane stopped in his tracks and hummed. “And we will make sure that those criminals face just punishment for their crimes. Hm. Why not. Write it down. And leave us once you’re done.”

The underling did just that. He wrote a few more words then after neatly placing back the quill in its place, he got up, saluted, and left the room, saluting The Dark Urge as well as he passed.

He glared at the young banite, but said nothing. 

Once he was out of the room, The Dark Urge pulled a parchment out of his robes and tossed it on Gortash’s desk, staring him in the eye as he did so. Gortash joined his hands behind his back. “What is it?”

“You can read it later. Or ask your helper to do it for you. Our people in Elturel have some good news regarding trade agreements within the city.” 

“Anything else of import?” Gortash asked as he stepped closer to recover the discarded parchment and put it in its appropriate place on the desk. 

“Attempts at diplomacy with the big names of the city’s black market have gone nowhere. I’ll get to harsher measures soon.”

Gortash nodded. “I remember you saying one of them was favourable? What of it?”

The dragonborn frowned. “Killed. The new woman in charge isn’t as amenable. It seems it will be all or nothing. I’m not sure tadpoling them will work unless we have the majority. They interfere in each other's affairs too much.”

“The consequences of such a budding organisation. The fall of the city changed many things. I trust you to solve this situation in the most adequate fashion.” He smiled. The Dark Urge ignored him. “Very well.” He turned on his heels, and took a few steps towards the exit when the banite called after him. “When are you going to stop sulking?” 

He stopped dead in his tracks, but he didn’t turn around. “What makes you think I am sulking? Am I not doing my work adequately?”

“No, there’s no issue with your work.” 

“Have I been rude to you or anyone of importance? Lashed out?”

“No, but-”

“Then whatever could make you think I’m sulking ?” He spat out the last word. Of all the words he had to choose, he chose the one that made him appear like a petulant child. He had been nothing but reasonable, he hadn’t let his emotions get in the way of his work- He wasn’t sulking .

 

“You’ve been different. Colder. We hardly have time to discuss anything. You come, and you go just as fast.”

That time, he turned around. Gortash was standing there, hands behind his back. The dragonborn sneered. “You’re the one who told me to be more professional. Am I not professional?”

The banite crossed his arms, brow furrowed. “I told you to focus on our objectives, that is true. I also told you that I didn’t mind us being partners, but nothing more.”

The dragonborn passed a hand over his face. To say he was exasperated would be an understatement. 

“Gortash.” He said. Then he paused to inhale sharply. “What exactly have I been doing that doesn’t fit the description of partners in your book?”

Gortash didn’t answer, so he gave him the answer. “ Yes, I don’t sleep with you every night anymore. I don’t eat each of my meals with you, and I don’t spend all my  evenings in your company either.”

“And does that prevent you from just talking? Having a discussion, a casual drink, even a meal from time to time isn’t-”

 “We aren’t talking because I don’t want to talk to you.” He insisted on the word talk, to make sure the banite wouldn’t pretend he didn’t understand what he meant. 

“This, my dear, is the definition of sulking.” The dragonborn took a few steps towards him, into his personal space. 

“No, it’s the definition of a partnership.” He hissed, then he paused to glare at the man, pointing angrily at his chest.  “You want to talk? Well Ask that helper of yours. You won’t give me what I want, I’m not going to let you have what you want.” 

Gortash scoffed, frowning deeply. “You are being childish.” 

“And you’re being dense.” He felt his anger rise as he stared at Enver’s face. Those deep, dark eyes of his were narrowed, his brows furrowed, the tension on his face obvious. He looked older when he was angry, but he also looked ridiculously attractive, which only fueled The Dark Urge’s animosity. 

 

They both glared at each other for a moment, a battle of stubborness, clearly. The Bhaalspawn knew he wouldn’t budge. He simply didn’t realise the flaw in his own logic. Damned fool. “I told you I wanted you. I was honest with you. Now it’s your turn to be honest.”

“You are making no sense.” The Dark Urge growled at that, and impulsively seized Enver by the throat. He didn’t squeeze, he didn’t choke. He only held him in place. “What are you doing? Unhand me. Do not squander all we have built so far.” The bhaalspawn ignored him. He leaned in closer, close enough that his breath hit the other man’s skin, against his neck. He took in his scent, and his anger simmered down, just enough to be replaced by desire. He raised his head to be at level with his cheek, which he licked hungrily. And Enver didn’t move. He could feel his pulse accelerate under his hand, and he heard his breath hitch. “You want me. I can feel your pulse. And I don’t think you are afraid .”

“This isn’t the question.” His tone was cold, even as his skin started to heat up. 

“No, you’re right.” He released the man’s neck, took a step back, and he said, glaring, “The question is if you won’t give me what I want, who will ?”  Gortash watched him, he was still, eerily so. Even his eyes were surprisingly expressionless. And then, With no warning, he suddenly grabbed The Dark Urge’s arm, folded it behind his back, and slammed his upper body forward onto the desk. The calm before the storm- His hold on his arm was tight, harsh and he pulled it back too far, pulling on the muscles of his shoulder, as if he was a hair away from dislocating it.  The dragonborn hissed, cursed, and tried to shake him off his back. But the banite was strong. He put his full weight against his back, pressing their bodies together.   “I grow tired of this conversation. If you’re going to be so childish about not getting your way, how about I show you what it truly means to be owned by the Chosen of Bane.”

The Dark Urge grinned. He looked over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the other man’s face. “That’s a lot of barking and not a lot of biting. Are you sure you’re going to follow through, or are you going to run away ag-” He hissed in pain as the pressure on his shoulder increased, and his head was forcefully pushed down on the desk. The ink spilled from the impact, and it came into contact with his scales. He had to keep his maw shut to not get any on his teeth. 

“I’ll show you biting. ” Enver said. He sounded cold, menacing, and it made the Bhaalspawn laugh. 

He didn’t laugh for very long.

 

-

 

To call what he had in mind sex would be a generous statement. Gortash was not interested in pleasure, neither his, nor that of his partner. He was interested in punishment. He was interested in pain. He pulled so hard on the dragonborn's arm in his anger that he almost ended up dislocating his shoulder. The Dark Urge growled, he cursed, but he couldn’t fight back. And yet he laughed, and he provoked. Gortash grabbed one of his horns to lift his head , bending down to force him to look him in the eye.

"Still laughing? I'll help you with that." He slammed the dragonborn’s head back onto the wooden desk. So hard that the man appeared to be stunned for a second. Then he grabbed him by the nape of the  neck and threw him violently to the ground.

 

The Dark Urge landed face first, barely able to catch himself from the violence of it. He was breathing hard, and half of his face was stained with  ink. Yet, as he lifted his head to look back at the Chosen, his burning  eyes were full of defiance. Once upon a time, he had been able to see their colour- red like the blood of his numerous victims on his hand. With his new sight, they looked like two dark, burning embers, which haunted his memory. 

Gortash stepped over him, one foot between his legs, the other landed on his lower back, pressing down to prevent him from trying to get off the ground.

 

"Perhaps this will teach you to watch what you wish for." The banite declared as he removed his coat and belt. He threw them to the ground without a single care. 

Then he grabbed one of The Bhaalspawn’s horns again, and he all but started to drag him across the floor, forcing the dragonborn to scramble on his four limbs as he tried to follow his movement. 

He threw him onto the bed, and he climbed on top of him, putting his full weight against the Dark Urge's back  to keep him down, in his rightful place. His face was against his neck- the softer, red part under the white scale. He didn’t even need to see it to find it, to picture it. He knew the other man's body as well as his own. He could feel his heat against his cheek as he leaned in, the softness of his scales- how vulnerable he was there. 

He bit down hard on the skin, hard enough for it to break. The dragonborn hissed in pain.

"Still want to act up?" Gortash asked.

His partner chuckled. "I've been bitten harder by men half your strength."

A cold anger washed over the banite at the words. The comparison to others, the thought of him letting himself be treated like that by anyone else- He couldn’t stand it. Was he not Bhaal's scion? Could he not get rid of those men as easily as he wanted? Why would he let anyone inferior so much as touch him?

"Is that so? We'll see if it’s their bite you think of when I'm done with you."

 

He reached for his partner's belt- specifically for the dagger he knew he kept attached there. He pulled it free, and without hesitation, grabbed the dragonborn’s robes- and started cutting into the fabric. He simply ripped apart whatever was in the way- until The Dark Urge was left sufficiently exposed to be used.

 

Gortash claimed the bhaalspawn in the same way an animal would- Since his partner wanted to act like one, he would be treated as one. He didn’t take time to talk, didn’t wait, didn’t let him catch his breath and he had not an ounce of mercy for him.  He noted with indifference and even a bit of sadistic satisfaction as he felt the dragonborn wince in pain under his hand, heard him growl and groan as he clawed at the sheets of the bed, enduring the pain of the act.  

All he wanted was to punish him for his words and actions, to make him understand his mistake when he decided to ignore his god's chosen and truest ally, to provoke him, to dare compare him to lesser men. 

"Did you submit to these other men as you do now?" Enver growled, placing his hand at the back of bhaalspawn's neck, pushing his fingers into the bleeding bite wound on the soft, hot flesh.

 

The Dark Urge grunted. His whole body was tense and he panted heavily. Gortash was about to ask the question again- convinced the man was still trying to resist him, until his partner started moaning. A sadistic smile pulled at the banite's lips, and he pulled back the dragonborn’s head to look into his eyes, to see if he still acted so damn smug and in the mood to act like a provocative child. 

And he wasn’t . He let himself be handled like a doll as he moaned in pleasure and utter submissiveness. He was being treated like a piece of meat, but he didn’t even protest. 

They were used to rough sex- but it wasn’t just rough sex. It was meant to be punishment; to be humiliation. And the accursed Bhaalspawn wasn’t even angry. He was enjoying himself, accepting his punishment, atoning for his mistakes.

Gortash gazed into his eyes and he felt satisfied. It was good that he accepted his place. 

"All that act, and to what end?" 

His anger receded somewhat, and he found himself relaxing his hold on The Dark Urge. The tension in his body was clearing away, and he closed his eyes for a moment to recompose himself. When he opened them again, he bent down to lay on top of the dragonborn, and placed a kiss on the bleeding wound on his neck. 

"Do you think anyone else could handle you as I do? None of them would come nearly as close without losing their lives. I am your only equal. You know it, so why do you insist on making it complicated?" He closed his eyes again, sighing in pleasure, leaning into the Bhaalspawn's warmth, listening to the sound of his pleasure. The Dark Urge gave him no answer, and he didn’t need one for the moment.  He didn’t want to think more about it, about the two of them. Enver wanted to enjoy the body of his partner, the way he moved against him, the way he let himself  be claimed by his one and only equal , and no one else. 

 

-

 

When they were both spent, they lied in each other's arms as they often did. Gortash stared at the ceiling above, he stared at the shape of the rows of books on his shelf and the portraits on the walls. He laid eyes on them and he knew that it was where they belonged. Then his eyes fell on the dragonborn whose head was resting on the bed next to his, nestled in the crook of his neck as white clawed hands dragged through the hair on his chest. And he felt that it was his right place, too.

The feeling stagnated in his brain, and he slowly came to realise its implication. He swallowed heavily as he suddenly became aware of how parched he was. He sat up, and as he got ready to stand- The Dark Urge grabbed him by the arm. “Where are you going?” He asked. He could have just freed his arm, gotten up, and went to get his water. Instead he froze, as if he had been caught doing something shameful. “To get water.” He said, and he surprised himself at how unconvinced he sounded. What was he becoming? Years of service to Bane, content to be on his own, untethered by mortal relationships, with only his love for his god to keep him company. How many times had he been punished since he met The Dark Urge? And yet he didn’t seem to learn. All it took was for the bhaalspawn to speak, to get on his worst side and every single of his basest instincts would come out. 

“Then why aren’t you getting up?” Two strong arms wrapped around his torso as The Dark Urge came to sit right behind him, resting his chin on his shoulder. He was like the proverbial devil, whispering things into his ear and making him expose his weaknesses. He shrugged him off, suddenly feeling annoyed by his antics. “Our attachment is just physical. It can never be more than that.”

He heard a sigh behind him. “You say it can’t be more. Why? I don’t serve Bhaal anymore. I even joined you in worship of Bane. You wanted me to.”

“You were a gift to Lord Bane. A Bhaalspawn to serve him.” He said. He had never said it aloud, but he assumed the dragonborn had guessed it by then. And if he hadn’t, he hoped it would at least shut down that conversation.

“But you wanted me, too. Don’t act like you never wanted me as your right arm, serving your god at your side.”

Gortash glanced over his shoulder, frowning. It wasn’t wrong, but he didn’t like to hear it spoken aloud. “As my partner and right arm. Not as my lover. I don’t know why you insist- Is it not enough that we both seek the same thing? That we enjoy each other’s company without falling to this … nonsense?”

 

The Dark Urge moved and came to sit at the  edge of the bed next to him. The banite could see his eyes, and he could make out the shape of his head, and the lines of his mouth, but he felt like he was seeing him as clearly as before, just from memory. He could tell from the sound of his voice, from the position of his body, that he was displeased. 

“This ‘nonsense’ is already there, Enver. It’s been there for a while. We just didn’t want to see it. Who would, when it means going against your God?”

“Who would, indeed.” He repeated, scoffing. If it was that easy to understand , surely he could apply that logic and drop the subject.

“This doesn’t go against our God anymore, though, does it?” 

The banite looked at his partner, furrowing his brow. “You think Bane, lord of strife, The Black Hand, tolerates weakness ?” He laughed bitterly. If he had tolerated such things, Gortash wouldn’t have followed him in the first place.

“It’s only a weakness if it makes us weaker. But look at us- Have we not grown stronger for our alliance? Has our work not paid off more than if we had been alone? Didn’t we make Bane stronger, by being two to serve him instead of one?”

The words sounded sweet to his ears. Of course, he wanted to believe them. But what of the punishments? What of his failure to serve his god that had led him to lose both of his eyes, to be put on trial for the life of another? He opened his mouth to speak- But The Dark Urge interrupted him. “Bane doesn’t tolerate weakness. If he had deemed you weak, he would have asked me to end your life. Instead of taking your eyes.” 

“What you are saying is…”

“You’re his Chosen. You know better than anyone how to serve him. But he knows better than anyone how to keep you, and all of those who serve him in check.”

…The eyes. He understood at last. Lord Bane’s idea of a test, a punishment, and of a joke. A way to tell him that, all that time, he had been blind to his very own desires, his motivation. And when he thought about it, he did know about it. He had known for longer than he was willing to admit. Perhaps it was the force of habit that had him push those thoughts at the back of his mind. 

After all, how many years had they spent together, before the amnesia? How many years had they  spent knowing that one day, they would have to turn against each other? Years of being prepared; always, for an order from their God to end it all. Years keeping the appropriate distance between them, even as they had seemed to be getting closer with each minute that passed. 

But that order wouldn’t come anymore. There was no reason for it, so long as they served with due respect, and kept Bane above anyone else. That had been the reason for losing his eyes- The God of strife wanted to remind them that they served his will, regardless of their involvement. If he wanted them to kill each other, they would have to accept it. And if they wanted to make each other stronger, they had to be ready to make sacrifices. What was an eye, on the scale of all they would accomplish?

 

He passed his hand over his face, suddenly feeling quite dizzy. “I … see your point. But then what? You would have us get married? Get a house? Raise children perhaps?” The idea would have been funny if it didn’t disgust him so much. He grimaced, and he heard his partner scoff at the notion. “Don’t be ridiculous. I only demand a blood pact.” Gortash raised an eyebrow at the notion. “And what would be the terms?”

 

“I want you to be mine. And I don’t like sharing. You will not have children with another, you will not marry with another, nor share your power with another.  And you will not die by another’s hand. I want to be the one to send your soul to Bane.”

The notion was… daunting. The terms weren’t hard to keep- He simply had no interest in doing any of those things, even with no blood pact involved. Yet, he still struggled with the notion of attachment behind the act- it sounded very much like a marriage, and he could not wrap his mind around it being a good thing in any way. Such feelings were a liability. Should they fall apart, and with The Dark Urge’s personality, they would be at each other's throat more than they would focus on moving forward.

“The terms are… acceptable.” He finally said. The bhaalspawn groaned. “I sense a but.”

“But- This cannot take precedence over our  objective. Over our service to The Black Hand. And it will not change a single thing about how we act in public. I hope you are aware that such  things are paramount to our success.”

“I tried to tell you before, Enver. This changes nothing. We’ve been playing that game for a long time. Longer for you than for me, ironically.” He smiled, he sounded amused by the idea. 

 

Gortash frowned. He still had a hard time understanding the necessity of formalising it. But what he understood was, that if he didn’t agree to it, then he would be breaking something between them. It was as The Dark Urge had said- He didn’t like any form of distance between the two of them. It didn’t feel right, just like it didn’t feel  right when his books weren’t in their right place, or when his desk wasn’t organised. Some things were meant to be a certain way to work well. He had felt that the two of them needed to be together to succeed for a long time, he had just never thought about what that together meant. He hadn’t allowed himself to. The Dark Urge had had the opportunity to forget about his god. To forget about his purpose, his dedication. To forget about the years spent  knowing intimately that they would never end well, but trying to find a compromise anyway. 

 

As Enver pondered all that, The Dark Urge placed a hand on his face. He looked him in the eyes, two black flames that were once red, and sighed. “Very well. I accept. If it can make you more at ease.” 

He wouldn’t speak of his worries, and he wouldn’t speak of the past, nor would he voice the place their relationship had in his mind, or in his vision of the future. Those things, he still struggled with too much to even admit. Bane willing, there would be a day, many years down the line, when he would be able to understand these feelings better; and when he would know what to make of them. He saw white teeth reflected in the light of the room, the dragonborn was grinning. Gortash took his hand, determined to get that over with, and he spoke first the terms of their pact. 

“I, Enver Gortash, swear on my blood, that I shall not marry, produce offspring, nor share my power with anyone other  than you. And that when I am about to take my last breath, you will get the honour of sending my soul to our Lord Bane.”

“I, The Dark Urge, swear on my blood, that I won’t marry, have offspring nor share my power with anyone other than you. And that my life will be yours to take when the time comes to draw my last  breath.” 

With the last words spoken, they both fell silent, as if appreciating the gravity of each other’s words, and the commitment  it demanded. 

“Shall we seal this in blood, then?” Enver asked. He was somewhat familiar with these pacts. He didn’t know if they truly held magical properties, but he had never heard of anyone trying to break them. Perhaps the simple fact of saying it aloud cemented the agreement, making both parties fully commit to something that had already existed, but never voiced. 

The Dark Urge didn’t answer, and instead he leaned in, as if to kiss him. The banite raised an eyebrow, but he let him do it. He felt a sharp pain on his lower lip as teeth pierced them, and he tasted blood when he reflexively licked the wound. He heard his partner chuckle, and then he simply licked his lower lip. He hadn’t expected Enver to open his mouth at that moment, so that their tongues would touch, and that he could taste the blood on it, just as his lover- if he ever could bring himself to call him that- had tasted his. 

As the bhaalspawn broke the kiss, Gortash noticed a small trace of energy lingering on his tongue,  before it vanished, swallowed into the dragonborn’s maw. 

 

As they sat there, holding hands in a world of shadows that slowly grew, Gortash could see the Dark Urge’s features better and better. He would never be able to see them as before, but they looked even more adequate in that way. Black eyes, pure white scales, with just a dark ink stain on his chin staining them- Closer to Bane’s colours than Bhaal’s. The thought made him  smile.

Perhaps it had all been worth it. To risk taking The Dark Urge back, to try and get him at his side, to lose his eyes- The future that awaited them would be one paved with obstacles, but he had the feeling that they would overcome, or die trying to.

 

They would never call it love, because love was a tainted thing for people like them. The love of cruel parents, the love of even crueller gods- Love had made them weaker. It had tied them down, it had tried to kill them, to keep them small. 

But that wasn’t them, no. They would make each other stronger, they would rise higher than they ever could alone, they would conquer, they would rule, and they would die, never once bowing to any other mortal or god other than their own.

It wasn’t love, it was strength. 

 

Chapter 22: Epilogue

Chaos had taken over Faerun again. Unlikely Alliances between gods had been struck to reach for the unreachable.

And Durge led Bane's forces towards its goal- The heavens. 

 

The moment they had attempted to open the portal, they were faced with armies. An army led by Helm's chosen, but he wasn’t the only god to oppose them. Mystra, Torm and Selune- and who knew which other gods tried to oppose their gambit.

But Bane had his own allies. His own army. One would not dare such an endeavour without allies. Shar, Myrkul, Loviatar, Mask's information and even Bhaal had joined their cause.

 They stood over the ruins of what had once been an elven city, thousands of years ago- and the seat of a tragedy that sundered the elven pantheon. Such energy had been unleashed that it remained a prime point for their plan.

 

When the armies clashed- it was cataclysmic. The god-s chosens had been given such strength that they made the ground trembled; the air filled with static and all life on the battle ground was simply extinguished.

The Dark Urge was being protected by a barrier of Darkness as he cast the ritual, unshaken by the chaos around him. They were too late to stop him.

 

The fabric of reality tore and from it emerged a blinding light, and then before their eyes stood the stairs that would take them to the House of the Triad. There, they would slaughter all in their way, seize the good and lawful gods' items of power, weakening them in the process for their own benefit. 

The moment they set foot on the stairs, swarms  of celestials rushed them. The Dark Urge's power, helped by the combined forces of the other chosen, and of an artefact that weakened anything holy- allowed them to cut through the defenders without so much as breaking a sweat.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, they arrived on the top of a mountain. Looking around; they could see a warm light covering a silver sea, and two other mountains in the distance, just as tall as the one they stood on, reaching far into the clouds. They would need to ascend further.  The gods had been baited away from their homes and held against their will- They would get no better chance.

 

As they ascended the mountain, the forces they faced were simply not good enough to slow them down. And suddenly, dragons came flying. One silver, one gold. The two landed right in front of the next stairway, barring their way. "Your presence stains these halls! Begone, mortals. Turn around or lose your pitiful lives!"

"We're here to make sure the stain on your realm is permanent.” Shar's chosen said, as she raised her staff and darkness engulfed the dragons. They growled as they tried to resist the pull of the black tendril, and the gold dragon used the might of its breath against the Sharran, who erected a wall of darkest night to shield them. 

The dragons finally broke free- bathed in holy light as their eyes suddenly started to shine with silver light. The gods were trying to stop them. 

But they had their spells for that.

As the dragons soared through the skies; gaining height, they suddenly stopped and turned back, maws wide open. 

The Dark Urge gathered his powers to channel one of the artefact's energy- it was a creation of Karsus; which would create a shield of pure magic to shield them against the holy and the unholy.

The moment the dragons breathed their holy breaths, the shield emerged, protecting all those under it- and causing everyone else to be instantly incinerated. 

Yet; the dragons' onslaught didn’t stop. The power they were unleashing against them was certainly drawing from their own life force. The Dark Urge clenched his teeth, glaring at the damned winged beasts. The shield would protect them so long as his magic would hold.

 

But the unthinkable happened.  All of a sudden- his magic left him. It simply vanished, like it hadn’t existed in the first place.

He didn’t have time to feel himself die. There was no pain, no thoughts beyond the confusion of the moment.

The next moment, he was in a familiar place. He saw the city of judgment, first. And at that moment he knew he had died. But that time, Kelemvor's servants didn’t come. He was left free to wander the vast emptiness of the fugue plane. 

He erred for what felt like days, seeing other souls being claimed. He was approached by a devil whom he sent on their own way. He waited for his turn to be claimed.

And he was. A being in black armour; bearing the symbol of bane on the chest plate approached him. "Come. The Black Hand awaits."

He followed.

 

Banehold was as dark and imposing as The Dark Urge had thought. The siege of Bane's power was a black fortress echoing with the cries of those who had failed him; or whose soul he had lain claim to through sacrifices. 

The halls were as black as obsidian, and the only lights were cold blue flames. 

The God's throne stood at the heart of the fortress. It was as tall as a building, the god himself being a gigantic being. It was impossible to imagine how imposing his presence was, and as The Dark Urge and his guide got close, they took a knee in reverence and in fear- So strong was the God of Strife's aura. He had been restored through his full power in the years The Dark Urge had spent serving him, and he felt a hint of pride that it was in part thanks to his service that the God had recovered so much, even as the others of the dead three struggled still. 

At the feet of the impossibly large, black throne were others in black armour and robes much like the guide who had brought The Dark Urge there, their faces obscured. They were four.

The two standing at the centre were people. One wore black robes, and a hood obscured his face. The other had a similar hood but he wore armour. Its material felt lighter and shone in a way reminiscent of glass. Both, of course, had the sign of the black hand on their outfits.

 The other guards, including The Dark Urge's guide,  all wore similar heavy plated armours. They  were remnants of soul that served Bane in death as they did in life, but retained very little will to show for it. 

"The Dark Urge. Bhaal's former chosen. His blood taken form. You now come before me to be judged for your service." The god's voice echoed throughout the hall- perhaps even all of Banehold. It sent a shiver down the dragonborn's spine. He kept his head low, he didn’t want to chance a look at Bane, and risk incurring his wrath. Bane chuckled. "Your soul is one I would enjoy crushing as equally as rewarding. I will listen to my Exarchs' opinions before I decide."

The first Exarch, the one in the robe spoke. "You have served our Lord well. But one could argue that most of your deeds aren’t yours to claim. Your predecessor eased the way for you to seize power; and in the moment of your own glory- you failed."

The Dark Urge didn’t speak. He had the impression he couldn’t even if he wanted to. But he didn’t think any less of it. He clenched his fists. Those successes were as much  his as they were-

"His part even before becoming chosen was key to the success of his predecessor. And while it is true that his last attempt was a failure- it was only partially so. The Gods are fighting, Mystra faces trial for breaking her oath of not withdrawing magic from any mortal she doesn’t favour. He created an opportunity for our Lord to rise."

The second exarch said. The Dark Urge's heart jumped upon hearing him speak. His voice sounded... familiar. A voice from his past, from years ago.  

"But is that enough to be exalted? The conquests are not his, and the culmination is but the continuation of another's work. The opportunity you speak of isn’t even assured."

"For someone who died in a much similar fashion, you sure are eager to deny others the privilege of your glory."

The man in the robes was about to answer when Bane started to laugh. "The bhaalspawn is an interesting one, indeed. He brings strife into my own domain, making my exarchs bicker over details. So be it- your efforts have weakened the goddess of the weave. Your death was a consequence of her actions. A sacrifice, she thinks- it will cost her dearly. For this, and your countless successes that allowed your predecessor to bring me back to full power- You will serve me forevermore, and bring glory onto me. Rise once more, exarch."

When the god spoke, The Dark Urge felt himself stand, and he felt something in him change. His very essence- The thing that had made him mortal- changed. He felt more powerful,  imbued with the unholy force of his god in a way he hadn’t felt before. The very air of Banehold resonated with his being; and he felt like he belonged. 

"I will keep on bringing glory and power upon you, until my soul is wiped clean from existence." He spoke.

"You have a very important task ahead of you; exarchs. With Mystra on trial- you will help me ascend. You will crush, you will dominate, and you will conquer. Go."

 

A single word, and all presents simply left the hall, the large; titanesque doors closed as they stepped out. The robed exarch stopped in front of him, and the others did too. "For a bhaalspawn to become Bane's exarch.. it is unthinkable. But your success proves your worth. Together we will conquer much." And on these words, he departed. The Dark Urge knew who that man was, he had heard of him. Fzoul Chembryl. 

As for the other- "You will get used to him. A good banite dislikes competition." He said.

The Dark Urge stepped forward, and with no hesitation, he removed the man's hood. 

He smiled. Dark hair, darker eyes. His face was the same as when they had met, all traces of ageing that had affected his mortal form in the later years of his life were gone, but the scars acquired in them didn’t.  The mark of an assassination attempt a year after being named archduke, remained across his neck. And his left cheek had the burn scar he had acquired defending Baldur’s Gate black keep in the siege ten years before. But of all the scars, The Dark Urge's favourite was the barely visible one on his lower lip- the mark of their promise.

"Enver Gortash. Exarch of Bane. It’s an honour to meet you." He said, smirking back at the dragonborn.

The Dark Urge placed a hand over the exarch's chest. He wondered if the scar from the dagger that had pierced his heart was still there, too. 

He remembered his death so vividly. Every passing day in the last ten years, the memory of it had kept him company. Enver had died defending Baldur’s Gate against crusaders. Self righteous idiots who deemed Bane had no claim over the city. He had used his own life to exterminate the army that encroached on them. And yet, even as he fell, he hung on to life still, waiting for The Dark Urge to plunge a dagger into his just barely beating heart to send him on his way, as they had promised. He had smiled, too, as life left him. 

His face, his bloody, dying smile- it  had been impossible to forget.

Enver placed his hand over the dragonborn’s. His hand was cold and his hold was firm. "You have kept your promise. We have ruled together alone, and you died at my hand." The dragonborn said. 

"I always keep my word, my dear. You know it better than anyone." 

The Dark Urge lowered his head,  bringing it to level with his lover's.

"Now, we will conquer together again."

"For as long as Lord Bane allows it, I will stay at your side. Nothing else will keep me away." Enver said as he placed a kiss on the side of the dragonborn's mouth. 

 

He hoped it would be forever.

 

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you enjoyed this story, and that the end didn't leave you unsatisfied! I'm honestly so shocked by how "popular" this fic has gotten. It was my first piece of writing to get as much hits, kuddos and comments, I am really shocked, and really thankful to anyone who has taken time to leave feedback on that fic. Feedbacks are what kept me writing, and motivated me to stay focused on the fic. I have big, big self-esteem issues when it comes to writing, and posting a chapter is always an incredibly difficult experience. Every feedback helped me overcome the feeling that my work wasn't good enough, and without all of you, I would have never finished it.

I hope you thoroughly enjoyed this story, that you forgive the typos, the potential lore mistakes, the interpretations of the characters- I write for myself first, and it is sometimes very impulsive!

I do hope to write more Durgetash, if the hyperfixation doesn't run out, and that you will eventually check my other works, if you like my writing (especially Regalis; my original story.).
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Bye bye!