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They come to him at night.
Or – what passes for a night in the lands of the shadow-curse, anyway. Gortash is sick of it, already: he always is, whenever he must grace the ruins of the Thorm household with his presence. Even the air here tastes like dust, and one does so get tired of consorting with dry, desiccated corpses. He cannot help but think that the ambience would be drastically improved by setting the whole thing alight. It would burn oh-so-beautifully.
Alas, a man is more than the sum of his urges. Or so Gortash likes to think.
‘Your security is lax.’
Speaking of urges. There is work to be done, still, but he settles for finishing the line and pushes the parchment away. Rolls his shoulders, slowly, languidly.
‘Ah, but is it?’ He says, without turning around. ‘With you around, I should not think so. Besides, we are all such good friends here: are we not?’
The Dark Urge is beautiful. White scales and red eyes of an albino make for a striking pair: but it is the sheer inevitability with which they move, inexorable and terrible, that makes him think so. A steady drip of sheer, primal terror oozes from the apex predator that now stalks in his sitting room. An ancient horror, preoccupied with the mundane matters of domestic security.
‘If you stopped antagonising Thorm, perhaps.’
‘Antagonising?’ Gortash says, with mock surprise. ‘Why, I would never. I have nothing but respect for the venerable general, I’ll have you know. And he is! Venerable and oh so very, very old.’
The Dark Urge does not grace the comment with an answer. Instead, they move closer. The scales flex and move with the muscle underneath: a pretty picture if Gortash’s ever seen one. He wants to reach out and touch them. He does not. A firm and principled believer in the benefits of delayed gratification, he is.
Children of Bhaal hold no such compunctions. The Dark Urge slots themselves at his feet, the spectacle of the mass of flesh leaning against his legs gratifying in ways that Gortash fully understands to be a matter of his nurture, rather than nature. They are warm – hot, even. He used to find it odd. Unexpected, for a creature that brings the chill of existential dread into every room they defile with their presence. Now, he relished it.
‘Long day?’ Gortash says, with a gentleness that surprises even him.
The Dark Urge releases a deep rumble in response. It resonates through both their bodies: the deep, dark timbre of an alien physique beholden to a terrible god. Gortash hoards it, greedily, like he does many things.
Feigning idleness, he runs his hand across the ridges of the dragonborn’s head, tracing its creased curves. They sigh in response, relaxing into the touch. Gortash finds that odd, for a moment. There is an ever-present tension in this wretched creature that never goes away, even when they are sprawled over the settee in his study or lounging in silky sheets: but perhaps it is not so odd, after all. There are different rules here, in the umbrage of the shadow-curse. Time drags on, slowly, and dead things do not stay dead. What is a little lapse in judgement, among friends?
‘It does get tiring, listening to that vile little creature – what do they call it, Baldemar?-’
‘Balthazar.’
‘Yes, that one – listening to it prattle on and on about nothing in particular. I cannot fathom why Ketheric keeps him around.’
‘Hm,’ the Dark Urge notes, ‘indeed. Thoughtless, too: we already have the expert on meaningless prattling, courtesy of Bane himself.’
‘How rude!’ Gortash says, delighted. He has come to consider himself something of an expert on teasing out these displays of wit from Bhaal’s own chosen. Their father dearest would see this terrible, brutal intellect of them drown in a deluge of blood and gore, he is sure. It would be a waste. It is a service he does to them all, nurturing the Bhaalspawn’s appetite for scintillating conversations. General Thorm would not have found them nearly so affable were it not for all the hard work Gortash had put in, over the years. He is gracious enough to not point it out to them, though.
‘I have half the mind to send you away, you realise, if this is the way you intend to treat me,’ he adds. The Dark Urge, insultingly, does not move even the slightest bit.
‘You won’t,’ they say.
‘No,’ Gortash says, ‘I suppose not.’
His fingers dip lower, now, petting the curve of the dragonborn’s neck: his scales split into thousands, here, to allow for movement, and he is struck with a desire to taste every one of them. He might, at some point. Not tonight, though. The suspended animation of the tower hold does not lend itself to languid indulgences. He would not put it beyond Thorm to be watching, too, even now. No – this is something for the privacy of his own bed, high above their shared domain.
A different kind of liberty, though, might be taken even now: and if Thorm’s eyes are watching, so be it. It would do him some good, even, to be reminded of where the centre of gravity lies in this strange triad of theirs. Let Myrkul reign over the fleshless and the dried-up. Bane’s and Bhaal’s interests lie with the living.
The Dark Urge breathes in, deep, nuzzling their maw into his thigh. They can smell his excitement, he realises – they might know his body better than he knows it, at this point. He likes that. He has worked hard to make this flesh his own, after the years spent at the tender mercies of the petty little tyrants of the House of Hope. He likes the shape of it. Feels comfortable in it, even. Broad shoulders, borne of years of his own labour for himself; calloused hands, made coarse through his ceaseless tinkering with hulking metal constructs; sunken eyes, earned through restless nights of plotting and politicking. Not at all like the elfin, dainty statures of many of the other notables of Baldur’s Gate. Were it not for his dress, one might mistake him for a dockworker or a butcher. That makes him look good on the flyers, too. A man of the people, he is, mind and body.
If he chooses to share this body now, of his own volition, with something truly monstrous: well. He has had plenty of experience with that, at least.
A sharp pain jolts him from his thoughts. A dark patch spreads across the black cloth: the Dark Urge withdraws, having bitten into the tender flesh of his inner thigh. Gently, but that does not matter when one is dealing with an unkind gullet of this most awful monstrosity. Gortash shoots them a dark look. It is an expensive hobby, this biting habit of theirs. His tailor must be wondering as to what on earth Lord Gortash does with his clothes, to go through his wardrobe as rapidly as he does. Let him – he is paid more than enough to never voice out that question.
‘You are thinking too much,’ the Dark Urge says, remorseless. ‘Cease.’
‘It is one of my better qualities,’ Gortash says. The wound throbs sweetly: he feels himself start to harden, with the bulk of the brute’s body flush against his groin. The Dark Urge sniffs, in what he presumes to be disagreement, and then nudges his legs apart. He allows it and is rewarded with a flick of their reptilian tongue against his cock before they return to the gash that so clearly holds their attention. He knows that they fully intend to devour him, one day: disembowel him, step by step, appendage by appendage, so that he may linger in blissful agony as long as he can, witness to the Bhaalspawn’s loving gluttony. How thrilling, to be the architect of and participant in one’s demise: what a lovely, immaculate self-annihilation to look forward to. Pure, blissful carnage: the final fruit of this most perfect, most sublime love.
But before that, the Dark Uge curls at his feet, half-starved and lapping at the little that Gortash allows them. He laughs, well-pleased with the show – then shoves them aside, cruel in his elation, and stands up. The Dark Urge whines. It is an unusual display of surrender, this early in the evening. Usually, it takes a while for the creature to get this blood-mad, with Gortash delighting in teasing it out of them through alternations of surrender and denial. Perhaps it is the memory of their previous trysts that drives them senseless already or the results of the abnegation of the carnal that marks the abodes of Myrkul’s favourites. He shan’t complain. Tyranny is, after all, his domain.
‘So eager,’ he teases, nevertheless. ‘How fortunate for you that I am a gracious and benevolent lord: tell me, what would you like? And remember, you cannot just make noises at me, dearest – use your words, I know you can do it.’
The Dark Urge snarls and rears up: an entirely expected reaction, engineered for Gortash’s entertainment. He is not a small man by any measure, but they tower above him nevertheless, this slab of jubilant bloodshed made flesh. He crooks his head ever-so-slightly, holding their hateful gaze. He is fully hard, now.
‘Go on,’ he says. ‘Do give me your worst.’
This is all he needs to say. One moment, he is standing face to face with this avatar of a god most odious: the other, he is being shoved against the wall, stumbling, gruesome claws tearing away at his hips. Never let it be said that Gortash is gracious in his surrender. Viciously, he shoves his metal-clad hand in between their bodies and burrows it into the soft, supple flesh of the Bhaalspawn’s belly. Then, he drags it down, hateful, and malicious to the last. The creature keens, shivering as their tenderest scales give way. Gortash laughs again, giddy, sanctified by his wretchedness.
Not one easily bested in matters of cruelty, the Dark Urge presses into him, jaw slack with blissful suffering. For a single, thrilling moment, Gortash tenses up in the suspense of anticipated agony: shall it be a bite from his shoulder, perhaps, or this dearest claw in his belly? Then: a sickening crunch.
He does not expect it. He moans, more in surprise than in pain. Looks - sees it before he feels it. A mangled mess of broken bones that is his right hand, held tenderly in the crushing grasp of the Dark Urge.
He cannot comprehend it, for a few moments. It is a strange feeling, really, for a man who prides himself on thinking quick on his feet: not even struggling for words, but for thoughts, his brain turned jelly-like and sluggish not slowly, torturously, but just like that, with a single snap. While he grapples with it, the Bhaalspawn lifts him with their other hand as if he weights nothing. He lets them - instinctively wraps his thighs around their hips as they press his back flush against the stone.
The pain clouds his mind, cherry-sweet and cloying. He feels unmoored, buoyant. He barely registers the Dark Urge tugging down his breeches, but whinges when their paw descends to his cock, fondling the still-swollen head. It is this that overwhelms him, in the end – a spark of senseless pleasure, mingling with inhumane pain radiating from a hand still held so gently by this intolerable, beloved monster.
He mewls, undone by this act of spectacular, intimate violence: his hand, his hand, what is he going to do without his hand – he needs his hands – and the Dark Urge laughs at him, because he may be saying it out loud. Maybe not: maybe the sheer shock in his eyes is enough to amuse them. They thumb at his cock fondly before they let it go, adjusting the weight of his body still wrapped around them before they mount him in one quick, merciless thrust. Gortash is a big man, but they are bigger still: yet his body, slack with shock, takes them in more easily than it should. Someone is jowling, pitifully, wretchedly. Only as the Dark Urge withdraws and snaps their hips back into him, he realises that it is him.
They fuck him with joyful abandon, wildly, carelessly, without much sense or rhythm. Were he slicker, their cock would keep slipping out: this way, they can rut into him without care, anchored by the drag of the too-tight flesh. He attempts to ride it out, keening worse than the most obnoxious whore this side of the Chionthar: screams, even, when the Bhaalspawn finds the spot that they are so obviously looking for, angling him for the purpose as if he were a ragdoll or a mannequin. His back aches, jostled against the roughly worked stone: he is raw and split-open, not untethered, but not wholly there either.
It is too much: it might not be enough.
‘Should I make it worse, Enver?’ The Dark Urge asks, leisurely, breathlessly. Gortash grapples with it. (They never call him Enver, somehow content with the mouthful that is ‘Lord Gortash,’ or perhaps just ‘Gortash,’ if the moment calls for it.) This, too, is strange – but he cannot think, not like this-
‘Make it worse, he says – oh, but I will, Enver dear, split your flesh and tear and spear, -’ they say, punctuating every phrase with a thrust for good measure – and this is not right either, he thinks, with dawning horror – and they must see it in his face, and they start to cackle-
- and their flesh ripples and melts and suddenly Enver is staring into eyes of pure, milky white, his body held most tenderly in the crimson-grey embrace of Orin the Red.
She is still laughing.
Driven more by instinct than anything else, he attempts to jerk away. Orin’s expression morphs into one of pure, unbridled resentment, and her hand – the one holding his mangled palm in hers – slams both against the wall.
The malice of it is immaculate. It is pure and false - a mockery of a sacrifice upon an altar beholden to a god not her own, this weak, human body, still wailing and begging for release that will never come. He is a worm, caught in the lightning flash of perfect, sacrosanct fury. His lord descends upon him suddenly, righteously: subsumes every bit of his being in spite-
Orin, unaware, uses the moment to lean in and lick a wet stripe across his cheek. Like the rest of her, it smells like iron, mildew, and curdled milk.
He rears against her, his legs falling to the ground. The changeling is unnaturally strong, but he uses the wall behind him to give himself a boost and lunge at her. His bulk collides with her body. Orin stumbles and falls on her back. Momentarily, he forgets about his broken hand: he is reminded of it when it crashes into the ground with the rest of him. The pain is inhuman, but so is he. Yawning, black horror screams from within his ribcage. Sheer, overwhelming rage pulsates through every bit of his being. Lies deceit BETRAYAL FAILURE-
He needs the one hand that is left to him to hold himself up above her, so he drives his forehead into her nose instead.
Orin laughs and laughs and laughs, bleeding from her mouth and nose and eyes as he slams his head into her face again and again and again. ‘Did it think – it could take it?’ She wheezes out, somehow. Her face is a ruined mess of flesh and blood and bone: seraphic in its abject anguish. His face might look the same for all he knows: Gortash does not feel it. He does not feel anything but hate.
‘Did it think – it could be loved-’
He wants to pluck every single one of her teeth out and feed them back to her. He wants to drive his thumbs into her eye sockets and push until they pop. He wants to tear out her lying LYING tongue, boil it and plate it with lamb’s lettuce and vinaigrette. He cannot: he has no hand to do it with. She took it from him – she took -
‘What did you DO-‘
It might be Gortash speaking. It might not.
‘Dead! Dead dead dead dead - it is dead dead DEAD, I KILLED IT, yes I did – my Father’s most beloved child, my Father’s only child – yanked the flesh clean off the bone, drained the juice from the skull, mixed it up and ate it all up – heard it moan, all wet and tender and loose- ’ Orin babbles, this hallowed child of terror, sublime – righteous, even – in her consecrated gore. She shines, beatific in violence: a most unholy relic of her wretched god, radiant in this blood-bathed ecstasy.
‘No,’ he says.
‘Yes yes YES – oh my my gracious, most benevolent lord – is it going to cry? Poor little thing – Orin can kiss it better, yes sir, please sir, let me eat your heart sir-’
Lord Enver Gortash leans in – Orin, seizing up, meets him halfway. Their mouths meet: he smashes his teeth into the ruined crevasse of her mouth and bites off her tongue.
He does a slopy job of it, truth be told. It is no simple task to tear out a living muscle, and less so when the creature it belongs to trashes and writhes under him. However, Gortash is a man of nothing but ambition: he works for it, chewing on it until some of the sinews finally break, and then rips it out of her jaw messily, piece by piece. He swallows some of it. It tastes rotten, sitting ill in his gullet. He gulps it down with grim determination. An offering to something greater than himself, greater still than the empty wretch spasming under him.
But there are no gods here, not at that moment. Together, they unite in a monument to flesh.
He finishes chewing. Spit it out. Orin twitches, splayed out on the floor like a dockside whore.
‘No more,’ he says. ‘It is done – so be it.’
He drags himself to his feet through willpower alone. He feels empty. He cannot feel his face. His hand is a pure-white fuzz of agony, and his head throbs with the force of the voice of the lord.
‘Should you ever try to speak to me of this,’ he says. ‘I will start with your tongue and work my way from there.’
Orin does not respond. How could she? An eye for an eye: a tongue for a hand. In terms of the other losses incurred, the Lord Bane shall not let him collect on those. As long as Bhaal favours this pitiable child, Orin the Red is safe from the tender mercies of the Black Hand.
He is ever a devoted, faithful servant to his lord. For the first time in years, Gortash finds himself yearning it was not so.