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The Dark Urge is, in a word, fucked.
He’s been having urges. Not the gloriously bloody ones Father blesses him with, but something altogether more shameful.
Take earlier today, for instance. He’d caught himself staring, during a meeting with Ketheric of all things, at the gap left in the neck of Lord Gortash’s robes, imagined ramming a spear into that spot and feeling bones crack and flesh split. He’d twitched away from the friendly pat on the shoulder Gortash tried on him as they left, acutely aware of the warm body next to him, so much warmer than his own scaled form, and full of so much blood —
No, this wouldn’t do. He has to do something about these urges before he does something he’d regret.
It is near dawn when he enters Sharess’ Caress and selects his victim: a beautiful young man with feathery dark hair and golden skin. His face is too smooth and girlish, but from behind, he can tangle his fist in that hair and pull, can imagine yanking his head back and drawing a blade quick across the column of his throat as he enters him, thrusting into him almost mechanically as his mind is lost in daydreams of blood, of slaughter.
By the time he comes, the sweet young man has died a hundred times or more in his imagination and lies loose and exhausted beneath him. He presses a claw to the boy’s head and utters a sleep spell, watches his eyes flutter shut. Then, the whore’s body thrown over his shoulder, he leaves out the balcony door, dropping down into the alley below.
He retraces familiar steps back to the underground, the old broken down outskirts of the temple where the stone would muffle screams. His victim awakens to see a hulking white dragonborn before him, regarding him with reptilian interest.
“Please—“ the young man starts and the dragonborn clamps one huge hand across his throat and squeezes . “No talking,” he says, his voice cold and cruel. “You talk, I take your tongue.” Satisfied that his message had been received, he loosens his grip and leans back. The boy’s blue eyes follow his every movement. Blue—wrong.
He feels the whore shrink back in his grasp as he brings one clawed thumb forward, pressing inward until the boy is screaming for him to stop. His claw sinks into the vitreous cavity with a wet and ugly sound, and the screams redouble. He repeats the procedure on the other eye, and the boy is screaming, screaming, screaming —
It’s getting irritating. He leans forward and clamps his jaws around the base of his victim’s neck, feels the resistance and give as teeth sink into flesh, hears the ragged cry tear from the boy’s throat as he chokes on his own blood. The dragonborn snarls, pleased, and tears his throat out. Finally—quiet, save for a few wet gurgles.
In the renewed silence, as the boy breathes his last, he feels Father’s love swell in him, feels it loop around his own throat like a noose, feels it tighten and stop his breathing, and he tries in vain to groan out a prayer. When Father releases him, he gasps in air, admiring his kill as he waits for his breathing to even. He leans in to lap at the last spurts of venous blood, idly kissing at the mangled flesh. The body looks passable as it is, but he wants perfection.
He’s getting as bad as Orin, toying with corpses. He’ll do penance later, but some kills ought to be savored, he thinks as he rakes his claws across the pretty face, tearing skin and flesh down to the bone until the whore is unrecognizable. It could be anyone, anyone at all—
It could be Gortash. The Dark Urge stops that line of thinking before it could go farther, cutting it off as cleanly as a limb. The body could belong to anyone. Just another anonymous sacrifice at the Murder Lord’s whims. Certainly nothing special about this particular body. It doesn’t even smell like him—
He cuts himself off again with an irritated growl, slicing a jagged line across the corpse’s sternum with claws, peeling back skin and snapping bone to get at the heart, ripping it from its cavity with a vicious jerk. The organ, still warm, gushes blood between his jaws when he bites down, sliding thickly down his throat, and he shudders in pleasure. The smell of blood thick in the air and the gore clotting his claws and Father’s razor-edged approval against his back have him hard and wanting, and there’s a body conveniently below him and well, if it worked for Orin…
He flips the corpse around and unceremoniously fucks into it. It’s still wet with his seed from earlier, but with the ruined face and chest hidden, he can imagine it’s anyone again. Blood pools on the ground beneath them as he thrusts forward again and again. This wasn’t it, this wasn’t what he wanted—
He closes his eyes and imagines the city fallen to ruin, its inhabitants dead, every single one slaughtered by his hand. He imagines his last kill is the body beneath him, bloodied and mutilated even as it’s being defiled, and he imagines a face and a voice a name—
He comes, and he does not groan out the name even if he thinks it, and Father won’t know, Father can never find out. He drops the corpse back to the ground, where it hits the bloodied floor with a pathetic little splash, and he waits for his heartbeat to slow, ignoring the twinned feelings of shame and guilt crawling through him.
Anything for his father. Everything. But not Enver Gortash. That one he would stay his blades from, because the only way he’d see Gortash dead is if he himself would soon follow. When they are the last two people alive in a world slaughtered to appease the Murder Lord, that is when the Chosen of Bane is destined to die.
The Dark Urge sighs, dropping to the stone beside the corpse as if it were indeed a lover, and covers his face with bloody hands.
Gods, he is so fucked.