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It was a beautiful night. As beautiful as any night could be in a wretched city like Baldurs Gate. Crisp air with not a single cloud to obscure the ever watching stars. And from where Ilvarel was perched he could barely make out the sound of people frolicking in one of the many taverns below. No doubt drinking their worries away and seeking a warm body to lose themselves with for the night. Perhaps in that way he was like them. Seeking someone to entertain him for the next few hours.
His skin was crawling with the urge to seek out someone specific. To lure him into safety with a promise of relief only to rip him apart and devour him whole. A pleasant shiver rose up Ilvarels spine and settled in his finger tips at the thought of flaying Enver, cracking open his ribs so he could curl up inside, feel his blood dry on his skin as he drifted away to sleep in his lovers embrace.
But it wasn’t the time. A replacement would have to do. For now.
Soundlessly the Baahlspawn stalked over the low roofs of the lower city. Sure enough he could just order Sceleritas Fel to fetch him a man that fit his tastes. The little demon had gotten quite adept at finding more and more Gortash lookalikes. Perhaps Ilvarel should have quizzed his butler on where he found these men. He did enjoy hunting in person so much more than having his sacrifices and games delivered onto his table without any effort or struggle at all.
As he was musing on somewhere below him a young man yelled obscenities after someone what Ilvarel only assumed to be a woman. For a moment the drow was intrigued enough to glance over the edge of the building he had been sitting on. In the dim lantern light Ilvarel could make out a roughly middle aged human, short, dark messy hair. Good enough. He would do.
Blissfully distracted the man followed his own unwilling target for a few more steps before stopping and cursing to himself in a language Ilvarel didn’t understand. His voice was grating. No where near as smooth as Gortash’s. Still he would do. His fingers itched with the urge to close around his dagger and bury it in the mans flesh. He could practically hear the mans blood singing to him. Begging to be finally released from it’s fleshy prison. Soundlessly he unsheathed his dagger while dropping down from the roof. The weapons crimson blade gleamed hungrily in the moonlight, singing to be drenched in the humans lifeblood.
A desire Ilvarel more than willingly indulged. The man didn’t know he was being followed until the drows teeth and dagger tore into his flesh. Acrid tastes of sweat, cheap perfume and the heady sweetness of the mans blood mixed in the Bhaalist princes mouth. He downright sighed in bliss as he bit down harder, unnaturally sharp teeth tearing through flexed muscles until he yanked back and ripped out a piece of the mans neck. Distantly he noted the man falling to the floor, pathetically dragging himself away from his assailant. In his desperation he apparently couldn’t decide whether to try and vainly quell the bleeding caused by Ilvarels dagger, or the chunk he had bitten out of the mans neck.
For a moment Ilvarel just closed his eyes and reveled in the moment. Chewed slowly, savoring the flavor then finally swallowed. It was tough, but impossibly sweet. More than making up for the offense his skin had been. Ilvarel couldn’t help but wonder, what would Gortash taste like? He was already more than familiar with most of his flavors. But his flesh? Had the scent of smoke powder that seemingly stuck to him no matter what seeped into his flesh as well? Heat flared up his spine at the thought of it.
A pathetic cry drew him out of his daydreaming. The man had managed to crawl a steps pace away from him, miserably pawing at the cobble stone beneath him in an attempt to get forward. Mewling out for help all the while. The sound of his voice alone was enough for everything in Ilravel to boil over. Without thinking he pounced, all plans of going about this carefully, reverently and lovingly lost to the seething rage.
By the time he was done and himself once again, what was beneath him could barely be called a body anymore. So torn asunder and brutalized that nothing but a gory mess riddled with shattered bones was left. Hands buried wrist deep in what had once been intestines and could now only be described as bloody gruel. He had abandoned his dagger on the stones to his right. Still in reach and throughly soaked in blood, but at some point he had thrown it aside in favor of just using his hands to rip and tear. Despite his disappointment at his loss of control he felt warm. Fuzzy. Loved. He had done well.
Dragging his limbs behind Ilvarel finally got up. His armor was soaked with blood, viscera caking in between belts. It would be a pain to wash all of that out. Not that that pain was his to bear. Sceleritas Fel would make the armor disappear the moment he dropped it off home and have it reappear once his unholy cleaning work was done.
On that thought Ilvarel paused. He didn’t feel like heading back to the temple just yet. He didn’t want to bother stalking through the sewers, trying to not smell the filth and skipping over the rats.
With that he picked up his dagger and stalked towards the upper city gates. He would pay Gortash a visit. Even if he was already asleep at this late hour he surely wouldn’t mind if Ilvarel came crawling into his bed once again in the dead of the night.
His trek through the sleepless city went uninterrupted, by now Ilvarel knew which streets and alleys to take to avoid the ever suspicious eyes of the flaming fist. Especially when he was covered head to toe in gore. But few fists kept an eye on the roofs, even more so at night.
It took him an alarming lack of effort to unlock the window leading to Gortash’s bedroom. Be it practice or an alarming lack of security. He slunk into the room soundlessly, closing the ornate window behind himself effortlessly. If it wasn’t just him Ilvarel would have a few words to say about Gortashs personal guard. Like a specter the drow stalked from shadow to shadow, his gaze ever laying on the sleeping form of his compatriot. Slightly snoring said human laid sprawled out on his back, a blanket partially drawn up over his chest. But fast asleep despite the intruder in his most holy sanctum. Again the security of Envers home left something to be desired.
Ilvarel’s eyes did not leave Gortashs sleeping form as he begun undressing in the adjacent washroom. No twitch, no sleepy sigh or out of pattern breath went unnoticed by the drow. He didn’t exactly need his hands to find each strap and buckle keeping his attire together and have them effortlessly slide to the floor into a neat bloody little pile. A problem for future Ilvarel. Or Gortash. Whoever found their way first into the washroom at first light. Finally, now fully bare under the moonlight, he stepped deeper into the smaller chamber and sauntered over to the steaming bathtub. No doubt it held the already preheated water for Gortash’s morning bath. How had he said it was heated again? Some sort of enchanted metals and stones that kept the water just the right temperature.
With a soft sigh Ilvarel slid into the water, attempting to be as quiet as possible. Though that was possible only so far when water was lapping at the edges of the tub and dripping over the side. For just a few moments Ilvarel allowed himself to revel in the waters comfort and close his eyes. Perhaps there was more than one reason he liked to pay late night visits to Gortash every now and then. Twisting in the tub Ilvarel slid out far enough to reach some of the gently scented soaps standing at the ready and carefully got to work on his hair. He didn’t feel like unbraiding all of his braids, so just gently massaging in the liquid soap into his scalp, then water boarding himself would have to do.
Ilvarel repeated the process of diving under, massaging his scalp in an attempt to wash out any remaining soap, blood and vicera, then diving up again and catching his breath only to dive back under again, a few times until he was satisfied. For once he actually smelled decent, and not of stale blood and well… the sewer.
He decided to finally climb out by the time he threatened to doze off in the bathtub, the gentle warmth and soothing soapy smell easily lulling him off to sleep. To his dismay the chilly night air and even chillier tiles bore a stark contrast between the heaven he had just been in.
Shivering terribly Ilvarel paused to inspect himself in the ornate full sized mirror leaning against the window facing wall. From what he could make out he was pretty much cleansed of all blood or viscera that had still stuck to him by the time he had crawled in through Gortash’s window. Surely now he would not get complaints over having spread blood all over his oh so expensive carpets.
Satisfied Ilvarel fell back into his by now well practiced late night routine, easily finding the stack of fresh and well scented towels. Gortash surely wouldn’t mind if he borrowed some for the night. Nor would he mind if he went right ahead and borrowed some clothing as well. Knowing him he also wouldn’t see a problem if Ilvarel came crawling into his bed as bare as he was now. But it wasn’t a night for games like that. He was satiated one way and the other.
By the time he returned to Gortash’s bed chamber the humans breathing pattern had changed. He remained curled up on his side, eyes closed and breathing evenly. His right hand was tugged comfortably underneath the pillow. Clearly awake and pretending to be blissfully oblivious to the others presence.
“Who is there?”, the moment the mattress dipped under Ilvarels weight Gortash was half upright, very much awake and slightly panicked, dagger outstretched, pointing at Ilvarel, which made the drow stop mid movement. He duly noted that this was in fact the dagger he had gifted Gortash the day they had sealed their divine oath.
“Relax. It’s me.” The fact Enver had not made him out against the shadows answered the question Ilvarel had been asking himself ever since he had gotten into contact with the human all those years ago. Just how much did he see in the dark?
At the sound of Ilvarels voice Gortash let the dagger sink onto the blanket before tossing it onto the floor at his side. “Right.” He paused and Ilvarel carefully moved closer. Finally Enver settled back down onto his back and slightly pulled his blanket back in a silent invitation.
“I’m tired and it’s getting cold. Get in.” Envers voice was tired, yet commanding, but still laced with a barely audible hint of adoration. And Ilvarel more than happily obeyed, snugly curling up against him. Enver tensed and almost hissed a complaint as Ilvarel laid his head on his chest, the by now freezing water seeping through the humans thin sleeping cloth and chilling his skin. Still he wrapped an arm around the drow in an dangerously affectionate manner. Even more dangerous as his hand wove itself into his hair and started a motion that could almost be considered caressing or even massaging.
Ilvarel didn’t comment, simply wrapping an his arm around the other and closing his eyes. Enjoying the steadily slowing beat of his heart as Enver drifted off to sleep once more.
Once again that night Ilvarels chest swelled with warmth to the point that he felt almost giddy. It made him want to crawl even closer to Enver, wake him up just so he could feel his hand moving against his scalp again once again.
He couldn’t help but wonder if this was the closest he would ever get to actually loving. To actually being loved for more than the harm he could inflict. Though in the end what was love but a warm feeling he received as a reward for a slaughter well done. Or was it just that? To fight and kill for the person you loved?
Ketheric had loved his daughter and wife, and he committed countless atrocities in the name of his love for them. The man who Ilvarel had once called his father certainly had fought and killed valiantly to keep him by his side. Dying being the only reward awaiting him for attempt to keep his child by his side. Not that it had lead to anything. He was dead and Ilvarel had been taken away from the underdark regardless.
Ilvarel opened his eyes in the dark and angled his head to catch a glimpse of Envers sleeping form. His mouth was slightly open and his nose hissed gently with each soft breath he took. The moonlight lovingly accentuated the scar that sculpted his chin. Carved in by Ilvarel himself during one of the first times they had met. Oh how he had thirsted to carve him open and air his insides out.
Something he still craved to do. Every time he even thought of Enver his father blessed him with visions of his ruined body beneath him. A perfect sacrifice. Banes chosen slaughtered in Baahls name, what better proof of love could he ever hope to offer up for his father?
But not now. He would end Envers life in Baahls name when all was done. When they were the only ones left standing on the blood soaked earth after their self imposed apocalypse. When the oceans ran crimson with blood. All in Baahls name.
But for now, Enver was his.
By the time Gortash awoke once more with the light of the morning sun the bed was empty once again. Though the sheets were still warm and smelled faintly of one of the more subtly scented soaps he had bought as of late. At least this time Ilvarel had the grace to clean up before slipping under his sheets. More than evidently now by the water stain on his shirt and on the sheets.
As he looked to his side to get up, he also noticed the dagger he had discarded earlier that night had been picked up and placed on his bedside table. What a surprisingly nice gesture.
Though he took that statement back the moment Gortash stepped into his bathroom. It looked like someone had committed a murder in his bathtub. He didn’t even want to think about what exactly the little pieces were that floated merrily on the water surface. Not to speak of the state his towels were in. One of these days he would have his favorite assassin pay him back for all of his troubles.