#[ IC ] Wyll Ravengard

[rowan-of-waterdeep]

Look I love Wyll with the power of a thousand suns, but sometimes this feels like him

Help the good people

Get angry at the bad people

Easy peasy

Right?

...

Right?

[winter-wise]

Fictional character ages are weird because Wyll Ravengard and Tyrion Lannister are both 24.

Wait. wait. 24-year-old disabled son of an influential political figure considered a disappointment by his father mother died in childbirth discriminated against because of appearance unhealthy relationship with alcohol and an even worse relationship with an evil hot lady and a hopeless romantic. I'm not saying they're the same character because they're far from identical but. I am cooking something here.

They should fuck, actually. This would solve zero problems and potentially create new ones but w/e I shall not retract my statement.

[larsisfrommars]

Next patch/hotfix better be the “we’re sorry Wyll” super patch or me and Larian gonna fucking FIGHT

[fkitwebhaal]

As someone who knits, I think of all the companions, Wyll would be best suited to take up knitting.

I know, I know, Astarion sews, but he already has that going on, and I think yarn tangles would drive him nuts. Wyll however is always on the road, sometimes staking things out, tracking stuff: knitting would be great for him. It’s a good “hurry up and wait” activity.

Additionally, he would love to give away hats to people who need them. Get saved by the Blades of the Frontiers? If you’re cold, the hat is also free! It even has holes for horns!

Also the puns of “this looks like a problem for my other blades” as he holds out two knitting needles is too funny, very Wyll core.

[storyhaunt-a]

the days as of late seem only to grow crueler by the hour; rest and reprieve a mere yearning of the not-so-distant past - at least, for the likes of one such as wyll, who can acknowledge the privilege he holds in comparison to those around him. even now, they are struck by some level of urgency, given the hope that somewhere in this mountain pass lay the key to their curing, and there is no real time for sight-seeing, not when their very lives could be on the line. even so, the other's must forgive wyll, if he finds himself the barest bit captivated by the natural beauty of the pass and the monastery nestled within its loving grasp, alight and sun-kissed by the golden hours of sunset.

" pretty enough to paint, " warlock says to wish, with a note of sincere awe - followed quickly by, despite his mostly deadpan delivery, the undertone of a barely-suppressed smile as he adds, " too bad i don't have a canvas. or paints. or the skills. "

* @mindhallow.

[dragonsfell]

[ INBOX / always accepting ] ⸻ @architaciturn sent in ⸻ “Gods. Somebody studied Shakespear once and now it's everybody's problem.” (For Wyll, from Astarion. - architaciturn)

❝ I favor myself as someone who could quote the finer poetries of playwrights. ❞ It's said half distracted as he watches their wizard companion spout off Shakespeare. ❝ Yet this ⸺ ❞

Perhaps he spoke too soon when he had decided that Gale had become significantly less insufferable as they had all been traveling together. Tempering each other from wilder thoughts and darker intentions, bonding with one another. Nerves no longer crossed as often as they had back at the Grove.

He may be quite the romantic himself; guilty of evoking the great Bard with such flowery prose for a lover, here and there, but this was insufferable. Rare was a time that he and Astarion would find themselves agreeing on anything.

❝ Do you suppose it's some form of wizardry foreplay? ❞ Wyll suggests, if not to rile Astarion up a little more and decided that it's time perhaps they dip down this next street without their companions for sake of no longer having to bare witness to such displays. A further suggestion should be made that they get a room instead of the shared penthouse the rest of them slept.

❝ Yet here I thought you would be all in favor of speaking prose. ❞ Considering Astarion's age, which the Blade may be smiling at such implication. All of them in motley crew, Wyll included, wasn't above the harmless jokes every now and again. Agog had still a choicely word from the vampire.

[griefology]

the bugbear twitches in death at her feet. necrotic damage oozes, something pustule, and frankly disgusting blistering on it's skin from her spell. it's almost enough to keep her from checking the body, but the shimmer of gold piece in his pocket convinces her.

for a princess, she was rather [ . . . ] dirty.

❝ i had it under control. ❞ wyll starts, sheathing his sword with some reluctance. ❝ you didn't have to do that. ❞ @bladegard finishes, and nym can feel his eyes on her as she slides a ring and some gold into her pocket for later pawning. she wipes her hands on her pants and then adjusts her mask before sparing him a glance. ❝ you were taking too long. ❞ she murmurs, ever - quiet. her voice sounds humor - laced, however, something almost light to the tone. without the mask, she may be smiling.

he'd never know, though.

❝ rude to keep a lady waiting. we haven't even had breakfast. ❞

[shadowbrn]

from zara tiaon ( @mcnks ) to wyll ravengard:     persuasion check ( roll: 9 (+3) 12 )

wyll didn't understand why zara was so convinced to throw herself into every situation head first. things would be so much smoother if she would just . . . think first. they could save themselves from a lot of fighting. he didn't want to give mizora any more ammunition than she already had. ❝ if you won't stop and think for yourself, can you at least stop and think for me? ❞ wyll asked, frowning slightly as he looked at her, ❝ what am i going to do if anything happens to you? ❞

[asspinkie]

tav and the party begin to lose contact with each other over time. suddenly, halsin is old, several generations of children all raised under his wing. he's passed on his responsibilities, made a commune of reithwin. he's losing his sight when he decides to send one last letter, even though the previous ones have been ignored by a grieving astarion and a relentlessly busy lae'zel. the last time they saw each other was over a century ago, at tav's funeral. wonderful, beautiful tav. who died too quickly, even with longer lifespan of one of faerun's seemingly immortal races. something about years of hard adventuring, and the grief of losing shadowheart, gale, karlach, and wyll. halsin, astarion, and lae'zel would be the ones left, the ones who could never connect with each other outside of tav. but halsin feels like his time is short, so he sends two final letters, two final ties to his past life. one to the ageless clothesmaker in the city who has faded from the memory of the people as a hero of baldur's gate. one to the young and fearless warrior who exists outside of time waging holy war. when astarion and lae'zel finally arrive, it's too late to see halsin alive again. he's laid to rest in the forest he grew up in. an oak sapling sprouts where he's buried, and astarion cries over the freshly turned earth, lae'zel holding him as best she can. halsin is given an honorary sarcophagus in the mausoleum that holds tav and the rest of their companions. there are two other stone coffins that will never be filled.

astarion fades into mundanity and routine. he hasn't seen lae'zel in centuries - he only knows she's still alive from the stories that have sprung up, across the realms, of her exploits. he doesn't dream, but he trances often of his time with halsin. with tav. he wishes he'd been less angry when they'd been alive. he wishes he could live without all the regret he has shored up. he visits tav's mausoleum often. with the same kind of flowers they once left on his grave.

one night, centuries after the defeat of the netherbrain, astarion finds an aged lae'zel in the cemetery. her right hand is pressed to the marble of the mausoleum with a quiet calm that astarion has never seen in her. in her left hand are flowers - tav's flowers. her once taut body is unstrung, the curve in her back decrying years of labor and life. topaz eyes flick up toward him with a cunning that he's never forgotten. it feels like ice in his unbeating heart.

"bury me here," she rasps, dropping the flowers, and turning to face him in earnest. "bury me amongst our friends, astarion."

as she collapses, astarion races forward with uncanny speed to catch her. he is the last person to hold her.

he is the last person.

at last, he is face to face with his worst nightmare. he thought he would be angry. he thought he would cry. but instead, an unnerving relief and resignation fill him. he holds lae'zel until the sun rises. they take their last moments together like those awful spirits at elfsong tavern so many years ago. quickly and bitterly. but amongst friends.

the young duke ravengard finds their remains and ensures that they are laid to rest alongside his ancestor. at last, the heroes of baldur's gate are reunited in death.

[killerpancakeburger]

*Duke Ravengard has joined your camp*

Wyll: Isnt my father amazing? :) *sunshines and rainbows around him*

Me: Haha yeah :)

*Wyll walks away*

Me, turning to the Duke menacingly, still smiling: You're on thin fucking ice old man... Wyll may not resent you for the way you treated him but I sure as hell do.

[storyhaunt-a]

" you work too hard. live a little! "

the ravengard had been lost in his own tangled and mangled thoughts when it was wish's voice which broke him from his self-inflicted trance. attention snaps to his companion, the instinctual tensing of muscles and startled demeanor quickly ebbing at the realization of who stands before him - replaced instead by a familiar comfort, one which felt much older than he and @mindhallow had known one another. eyes flit to the cup that is in wish's hand, the drink offered to him. part of him wants to politely decline, send wish on his way.

a laugh breaks free from his chest, his throat, and though a deep and buried weariness clings to it, still does it ring with sincerity, and no matter how short-lived it is, the air carries its singing note for a moment longer. he accepts the cup that is given to him, swirls the drink inside absentmindedly. " i hear you, wish, " wyll says, half-smile doing well to reach his voice, his eyes. worry continues to trudge through his mind, that much wish is aware of, but he seems, at the very least, to welcome the company offered, the snapping from his own thoughts. " i guess i still forget that … life isn't all duty and obligation, and not everything need be looked at like a battle to be won. apologies, if i had begun to ruin the mood. "

[dragonsfell]

“I may have had… briefly, mind you… stirrings.” @ wyll

A moment of doubt had begun to pass his mind when Tony's hand had dug into the dead spider and pulled some flesh; that maybe his own doubts about being a leader, about being the chief decision maker of more than just himself may have been wrong given the current man they were following. That thought only furthered when h had licked the spider by some compulsion.

It was only while they sitting outside of one of the trial rooms, letting Shadowheart embark alone through these tests (something she had insisted upon) and had left them to sit, twiddle their thumbs that Wyll has to say something more. SO ABOUT THAT SPIDER ⸻

I may have had... briefly mind you... stirrings.

That is not what Wyll had been expecting for Tony to lean over and whisper. So there absolutely had been a blush to Tony's cheeks, which had merely been a jest to defuse the tension that Wyll had felt standing by. There had to be something in air, perhaps spores, around this Sharran temple that had led to such peculiar behavior.

Dare he ask what kind of stirrings, or perhaps that best be knowledge men only kept to themselves. ❝ Right, right. Stirrings. ❞ Shadowheart was taking her sweet time with this test; maybe they should go in and check on her. Anything to get out of this conversation. ❝ Erm, did it... uh.. awaken anything that you might need to have your bedroll on the other side of camp or.... ❞

Gods, he really does not want to know anything about the spider incident but now he was asking. ❝ We can stay right here, and uh, there's nothing around that corner over there. No one'll say anything to Shadowheart or judge. ❞ He absolutely was trying hardest not to. She wouldn't know and she was blessed for that. Wyll would pray to Shar himself to move that knowledge.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Are they on the Naughty List? Or have they’ve been good all year?Well that’s for you to decide.

Start:November 12

End: December 31

«timeline»

◇ day 1-7: {Nov 12-18}

Day 1: Luis Sera - Ice Skating

Day 2: Carlos Oliveira - “I can’t believe you did that to Santa…”

Day3: Raiden - “I made you some hot cocoa.”

Day 4: Peter Parker - we were going to a Christmas party but fuck if you don’t just look sinful in red, and you know what? Fuck that Christmas party || Insomniac Peter ||

Day5:Goro Takemura- Dancing In The Snow

Day 6:Johhny Cage-Sucking on a Candy Cane

Day 7: Peter Quill- “are you really playing christmas music already? it’s barely november”

◇ day 8-14: {Nov 19-25}

Day 8:Gale Dekarios-Watching the snowfall from inside a cosy house

Day 9:Sam Drake-“Carmel apples, leaves falling down. What could better then November?” “I don’t know maybe fucking June?”

Day 10:Peter Parker -we got a little too carried away with the Christmas lights, and now suddenly my hands are bound with the lights and oh my god are we about to have sex? || Insomniac Peter ||

Day 11:Nathan Drake- it’s holiday dinner with your family, and oh Jesus where are your hands going?

Day 12:Peter Parker-“Do you need help hanging up the Christmas lights?” || MCU verse ||

Day 13: Peter Parker-“HAPPY NOVEMBER!” “No one wishes anyone a happy November.” “Well I just did.”|| MCU verse ||

Day 14:Tadashi Hamada-one lending the other their scarf to keep them warm.

◇ day 15-21 {Nov 26-Dec 2}

Day 15:Jacob Seed-Handing their S/O a positive pregnancy test with a sprig of holly and a note reading ‘Merry Christmas’

Day 16:Spencer Reid-Baking holiday cookies.

Day 17:Alejandro Vargas-Reader wearing nothing but a Santa hat

Day 18:Loki-A naughty sleigh ride || Exhibitionism sex ||

Day 19:Alex Casey-Build A snowman.

Day 20:Chris Redfield-“Let’s do something that puts us on the naughty list.”

Day 21:Mike Schmidt-Santa Baby: reader has decided to dress as Mrs. Claus for a little more “adult” Christmas fun. Oh boy!

◇ day 22-28 {Dec 3 -9}

Day 22:Matt Murdock-I picked you for secret Santa but I wrapped the wrong box so now I’ve given you a very festive sex toy, and oh my god this is so embarrassing

Day 23:Halsin-“Breasts/thighs are my favorite part to nibble on.”

Day 24:Miguel O’Hara-“You know, tying the legs together keeps everything moist.”

Day 25:Ethan Winters-Christmas Morning.

Day 26: Johnny ‘Soap’ McTavish-Hanging Stockings.

Day 27:Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley-“The turkey’s not the only thing getting stuffed today.”

Day 28:Modern!Mizu-“Save some of that whipped cream for later.”*soon*

◇ day 29- 35 {Dec 10-16}

Day 29:Bigby Wolf-“You look even more beautiful covered in snow.”

Day 30:Harry Osborn-Christmas shenanigans under the tree, if you know what I mean

Day 31:Ethan Winters-“I’ll be content if you are the one stuffing my stocking.”

Day 32:Mike Schmidt-“Go on, open it.”

Day 33:Wyll Ravengard-“Did you decorate the tree without me? I can’t believe this!”

Day 34: Bruno Madrigal-Kiss Me Under The Mistletoe.

Day 35:Jordan Li-“Excuse me—where is my Christmas kiss?”

◇ day 36-42 {Dec 17-23}

Day 36:Mike Schmidt-"Why are there so many mistletoe?"

Day 37:Gojo“I’d like to be one of the unhealthy things you put inside your body this weekend.”*Soon*

Day 38:Luis Sera-“Alright, mister. I know you’re the one who keeps hanging up mistletoe everywhere."

Day 39:Chris Redfield-“Thanksgiving is for giving thanks” “And for body slamming each other during the family football match!”

Day 40:Aaron Hotchner-The scent of real Christmas trees

Day 41: Derek Morgan -“I’m going to have you stuffed better than the turkey by the end of the night.”

Day 42:Victor "Sully" Sullivan-“I’m not much of a cook, but I’m good at glazing.”

◇ day 43-50 {Dec 24-31}

Day 43:Leon S. Kennedy-Cabin Sex { Christmas Eve sex }

Day 44: Billy Butcher-“Merry Christmas, motherfuckers!”

Day 45: Bucky Barnes-“Did you spike the eggnog again?”

Day 46: Spencer Ried-“Will you make a gingerbread house with me?”

Day 47: Clint Barton- “It’s Snowing”

Day 48: Joel-Peppermint-flavoured everything

Day 49:Mizu-Snow/temperature play

Day 50:Johnny Cage-“It’s time for hand turkey’s everyone.” “FUCK YES YES!”

[master-of-the-elements]

Get to Know My Tav!

(I saw this template and had to get all of this out my head!)

Tufani Anu / Human / Storm Sorcerer / He/Him / 26

What’s your Tav’s…

Favorite Weapon: Cacophony Quarterstaff (prefers to cast via his hands though)

Style of Combat: Long-Range, Blaster, Crowd-Control; Tufani prefers to lead his companions from behind, like a general. He’ll hang back or fly high to cast his elemental spells to do powerful blasts and widespread damage or use the weather to alter the battlefield for his allies.

Most Prized Possession: A divination mirror given to him by his belated grandmother. It allows to him divine truths, aid in rituals, and speak to his ancestors.

Deepest Desire: Tufani is pragmatic and responsible by nature and through guidance from his parents and elders. However, deep down lies a free spirit that longs to live in the sky with nothing beneath him but the blue of the sea.

Guilty Pleasure: Sweets/Desserts. He has a big sweet tooth especially for cakes and breakfast pastries.

Best-Kept Secret: He comes from a long line of powerful, elemental sorcerers via his mother (an earth sorcerer). Therefore, his elemental magic is very intertwined with his emotions and he must keep them in check to cast effectively. The tattoo on his face is also not just for aesthetics. It’s a mark of his heritage and serves as his arcane focus.

Greatest Strength: Empathy, Compassion. Tufani was raised by not just his immediate family but also extended family and the surrounding community as well. He was taught to use his magic to help and aid others. This is why he looks after the companions so much as well those they help on their journey.

Fatal Flaw: Overextension/Addicted to responsibility. Tufani is conditioned to helping out his family, friends, and community so much that it spreads him thin and wears him out. Unfortunately, he repeats this pattern with the camp companions and all the helpless people the meet on their way to Baldur’s Gate that it leads to him being overwhelmed and burned out.

Favorite Smell: Floral and Tropical scents.

Favorite Spell or Cantrip: Ice Storm and Ice Knife. As a Storm sorcerer, Tufani’s atmokinetic magic gives him control over multiple elements: wind/air/thunder, rain/fog/mist/water, light/heat/lightning, and cold/ice. To most people’s surprise, ice is his go-to element, not lightning. It’s the element that intertwines with his anger and it feels good to let it out.

Pet Peeve: Arrogance, Selfishness. Tufani detests arrogance as well as wanton selfishness. He’s not opposed to one putting themselves first , if necessary. However, when it comes before the survival and needs of others, absolutely not. This is initially why he clashes with Astarion and Lae’zel.

Bad Habit: Self- Isolation. Despite growing up surrounded by so many people, Tufani is an introvert by nature. He loves to be by himself when he gets the chance. However, it’s also a coping mechanism that he uses to hide his emotions and vulnerability. Usually leading him to not seek help when he needs to.

Hidden Talent: Expert Gardener/Herbalist. Tufani has a natural affinity with nature. Thus, his love for gardening and herbalism is one of his favorite pass-times. The hobby was passed down to him from both his mother and grandmother. Tufani is also a great at drawing a talent he gets from his father. He usually likes to draw scenes and stills from nature and occasionally people (when they aren’t looking).

Leisure Activity: Reading. He loves to read books about history, botany, and animals. He’ll also read an adventure book from time to time.

Favorite Drink: Tea. He also enjoys the occasional Whalebone Spiced.

Comfort Food: Seafood (especially calamari and crab). He is native to isles and thus has a love for heavily spiced seafood much to Gale’s chagrin (they argue over being camp cook as much as they debate sorcerer vs wizards).

Favorite Person: Wyll Ravengard

Favorite Display of Affection (Platonic and/or Romantic): Interlocking of Arms. He loves it when Wyll offers his arm for him to wrap his own hand or arm around it.

Fondest Childhood Memory: Attending the island festivals with his parents.

And that’s my tav, Tufani Anu! I’ve had these thoughts in my head for a while now and it feels good to finally get it all out.

[dragonsfell]

Tensions has been running high, had been all day, and Wyll would say that they all have earned the right to feel frustrated with what felt never ending. Since he had been seventeen, the Blade had traveled a lot, but he knew what anger at thankless days felt like. In fact, he knew anger more intimately than he could ever dare to admit to.

So he holds back, stands still, let's Johanne lash out and have her fit; they were relatively safe for the time being and no one else was around. Some steam could be afforded to be left out. Although, they still needed to get moving on and think about camp soon.

Pointing out that there had been elk in the area, tracks that had seemed fresh enough that he could possible find the trail. Certain he'd find the trail, he had managed to track Karlach all through Avernus and to this part of Faerun.

❝ Lucky us, I've spent plenty of years having had to hunt for dinner. ❞

Wyll nods his head, making a humming sound and honestly, suggesting was the elk more for him. His stomach had rumbled, and a good dinner felt as thought it was beyond well earned. He may be a warlock by pact, but Wyll had plenty of skills beyond that; a ranger by trade could have been his life if not for all that had happened to him.

❝ Lae'zel wouldn't complain. ❞ He's namely looking at Gale for a long moment as he mentions complaining. The wizard's mouth could be a lot, his personality could be as well. Astarion would want the elk for blood draining and ruin the meat for the rest of them. ❝ We should be able to wrap up, and be quiet enough to walk away with an dinner for the camp cook.

@dragonsfell // cont.

She should have been used to this by now over the years of being a mercenary and a bleeding heart like her brother's but even then Wyll didn't deserve to be on the end of her irritated tone.

Johanne pinched the bridge of her nose, a deep inhale through it before letting out a controlled sigh with her shoulders going slack. It was time to call it a day for them if she already started to gnash her teeth. They need to set up camp, get looked at, and have a proper meal for once. Storm blues eyed their resident camp cook, knowing that the man was exhausted beyond a shadow of a doubt and began to take note of what they had in their supply cache.

Any other time, she wouldn't have minded the warlock's words. The innate ability to keep one's spirits up was one she admired greatly. Even at times like these, he wasn't deep in despair, but he certainly was fatigued.

"Hmm... We could do with a decent meal tonight." Arrows weren't her choice of weaponry, being well-known for her great axe, but a javelin and some daggers should do the trick. They could even do with a new set of furs to either keep or sell. "That would be something to look forward to." She glanced over at the rest of their companions, brows furrowed at the state they were in. Perhaps some of them could stay and set up camp while she and whoever else is able can wrap up the rest of what they set out to do.

It was hard not to slip into the role of being the elder sister when a good amount of their companions needed a constant reminder to get along. "Aside from us two, is there anyone else you think we should bring to finish the rest of the day while the other ready camp?"

[strawberrypinky]

fire and ice. [gortash x tav] - part one [of tyranny and chaos]

Enver had rarely been wrong about people throughout his rise to power, yet Elodie Liardon was the gift that kept on giving. She was his equal in every way & he would go through to great lengths to ensure she'd be at his side when the world became his.

Unfortunately for him, she wasn't as easily convinced.

A/N: I think it goes without saying that I don't support or endorse anything Gortash does in this story. He's a terrible person & evil. That said, he's hot & this is also my first time writing a villain as the main character - I am not yet sure where this story is going to head in certain aspects. The warnings are subject to change, so make sure to check them out as this story progresses. This story may feature non con down the line. Also, I'm not an expert in DnD lore – a lot of this is based on my own research & interpretations & I'm taking a few creative liberties with this story, e.g. the Council of Four. Canonically, the Council of Four consist of Ulder Ravengard (Wyll's father), Dillard Portyr, Belynne Stelmane and Thalamra Vanthampur. For the sake of this story, Vanthampur is replaced with Thamior Liardon aka our heroine's father. The age difference between Elodie and Enver is fairly large. She is about Wyll's age when the canon events start (24), whereas I headcanon Enver to be around 40 years old. This chapter takes place about five years before the canon events, making Elodie 19 and Enver 35. You can also read this story on Archive of Our Own This chapter serves as an introduction to both Elodie and Enver. Shoutout to @gufu-vire for giving me some serious dialogue inspiration & supporting this messy project from the start 💕 And of course shoutout to my platonic soulmate @legacygirlingreen. I couldn't do any of this without you girl 💕 Word Count: 7k

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine

Ordinarily, Enver enjoyed the splendour of the Upper City and the extravaganza of what the night brought. 

It wasn't that he particularly cared for exuberant soirees or merriment among the Patriars and Lords of Baldur's Gate, but because the ceaseless inebriation meant they all became cursory - revealing their Achilles Heel to Enver on a silver platter.

All that was left to do for him was shoot and observe as they crumpled beneath their fragmented invulnerability. 

He had long learned not to underestimate the value of thinly veiled threats and carefully curated negotiations. Enver's upbringing in Avernus had ensured at least that much. It had been a miserable existence at best, though the unyielding fists of Nubaldin and the narcissistic ornery of Raphael were better described as castigatory crucifixion, and for the longest time, he had been sure he'd succumb to it. The bloodied and blazing wastelands of Avernus were scarcely the sight any sane being would wish to wake up to, but for a near decade, Enver had been greeted by rivulets of lava and barren hills whenever he had opened his eyes to the unending torment of the House of Hope and while the lavish grandeur of Raphael's home would forever outshine most of the Patriars estates, it could never hide the insanity that transpired within its walls. An existence surrounded by infernal creatures was a fickle thing, rarely monotonous as the days had bled into one. Sleep had been a scarce rarity to come by as screams of tortured souls and beggars and the everlasting sonorousness of the Blood War penetrated even into the dungeons of the paradoxical House of Hope. It was madness incarnate, and Enver would nearly count himself as fortunate not to have gone mad.

Yet, in his most forlorn and reticent moments, there was a mocking voice in his head, a reminder that the abject terrors of Avernus had rendered him just as mad and just as hateful. His mother would have likely argued he had always been a hateful little wretch, having loathed his entire existence from the second he had taken his first breath after the agonising three-day labour he had "put her through".  Perhaps she had been right. He was so very full of it. 

Enver came to think of his hatred as his strength, his source of being and the flame that drove him forward - A testament to his unwavering determination and resilience.

When he had escaped Avernus, coughing up sulfur and ash, it was hatred which drove his acts. For as much as his hatred had grown like a malignant tumour in Raphael's clutches, it had been useless until his eyes flickered over the poverty-stricken streets of the Lower City. 

His hatred proved incredibly useful when he was penniless, toiling under the Zhentarim's thumb. It was a thankless venture, but it kept him off the streets.At the very least, it also provided a start to more extraordinary things. 

And it was his hatred which fuelled his Lord, the one God who deigned to answer when all others had long forsaken him. 

His mother once worshipped Gond and while his father never expressed favour for any of them, Enver had espied prayer to Waukeen more than once. Enver cared for neither. He hadn't cared for any of them – until Bane.

His God had sensed his hatred, strengthened it, and it served him exceptionally. For all their faults and arrogance, the Zhentarim had chosen their patron correctly. Bane was wholly malevolent —  hatred incarnate. Enver had long understood that the weak were culled and ruled by the strong, and Bane only strengthened Enver's resolve to establish his rightful place as the mighty. He had pledged to never be weak again. To never feel fear as he had when his parents had sold him, but to make others fear his might alone. He had pledged to never be the snotty, heaving child again, fearfully wailing for his parents as Nubaldin's fist hit him over and over again. Gone was the child Enver Flymm.

Through Bane, Enver Gortash was born.

And through him, Enver Gortash would rise like a phoenix from the ashes until the world was his, and his subjects would tremble in fear of his God as they were destined to be.

With Bane, it had been almost frighteningly easy to oust the Zhentarim from the weapon market to take control over the entirety of the Chinonthar Valley black market, but his hatred demanded more with each passing second. No matter which ventures Enver took upon, he succeeded – his loathing endless and his greed all-consuming. 

Perhaps in another life, Enver would have felt fulfilled, escaping from the Hells.

Perhaps in another life, he would have been content with leading the weapons trade.

In this life, he knew he'd never be. Sated, perhaps, when all bowed before his glorious might. But certainly never satisfied. 

The gentility of Baldur's Gate understood him well enough, even if they buried it deep beneath false charity and fascicle philanthropy. Beneath the masks they had carefully curated, they were all as spiteful as him. They all craved control over one another to assert themselves as the leaders they had made themselves out to be. Extravagant soirees, glittering jewels and extortionate gossip defined their haughty measuring of dicks. It was an ecosystem in and of itself, one which was all too easy to mould once the first step had been taken. It had taken a few years of sweet-talking, of extorting and of fucking them, but Enver was nothing if not patient. He was one of them now, and hardly anything else mattered but the next step. It was why he attended these lavish parties in the first place, even when his mood had been sour for the better part of the day.

The bitch queen's waveservants had distracted his sailors, and while Enver knew they hadn't half of his wits, he had expected they could think with their smooth brains instead of their minuscule dicks. A mistake on his part, really. As a result of their inadequacy his cargo had been seized and half his posse incarcerated. Far from uncommon in his line of work, but it was troublesome just the same. 

After an entire day of  negotiating  for their (undeserved) freedom, Enver had half a mind to drown himself in Arabellan Dry. Unfortunately for him, it was the night of  The Breaking,  and his attendance was crucial.  The Rah of Baldur's Gate was rarely  ever  found in a gathering this grand,  and it provided ample opportunity for Enver to further his ambitions.  

The moment he stepped through the grand, gilded doors of High Hall, he was enveloped by a cacophony of drunken laughter and chattering. The glittering melody of an orchestra filled the halls, a sickeningly joyous melody commemorating the arrival of spring. The air was perfumed with a fragrant blend of expensive cologne and plum prosecco. Enver had wrinkled his nose in distaste. The awful concoction was a true scourge these days. He could only hope some Baldur's Grape was available, too. Otherwise, this would be an arduous night.

There was a faint and underlying mustiness to the halls, the gallery illuminated by twinkling chandeliers casting an ethereal glow over the old halls. The decor was befitting the occasion — elegant pieces of silver and sage adorn the room's tables, ceilings, and elaborate mouldings. The flower arrangements were fragrant and intricate, likely having cost a fortune. It was opulent, borderline garish – utterly characteristic of the Upper City and its residents.

It was within this opulence Enver first saw her.

He had spent the better part of the night speaking to associates and... investors in his business ventures – a dance or two with a lady of noble birth in between. Their coquettish smiles were charming, though their personalities were as bland as a slice of stale bread. Enver never understood how some could be that dull and daft when they had endless funds at their disposal. If he were a better person, he'd pity them. Alas, he drowned his exasperation instead. He was far from drunk, but at the very least, the endless yapping had become tolerable.

His eyes wandered over the crowds, most delightfully inebriated, as Sir Provoss chewed his ear off about some venture Enver was invested in. He hardly listened; the Provoss family was near destitute and of no value to him. Within the sea of people, he noticed a glimpse of something silvery and shimmering, a horde of young ladies not far as they looked in the same direction and gossiped animatedly. Their gazes were full of disdain and haughtiness. Enver knew that hatred well - he had been on the receiving end of it long enough himself. His insatiable curiosity propelled him forward as he observed the rare display of disdain from the young noblewomen. With a quick excuse, he approached to catch a glimpse of a young elven woman standing beside Duke Dillard Portyr. The older man appeared to be engaged in a lively conversation with her.

Enver's first thought was that she was magnificent. Beautiful. Alluring.

Silvery locks had been intricately swept up in an updo, with carefully coiled curls framing her delicate features as they gleamed in the light. Her face, petite and exquisitely angular, was adorned with elegantly high cheekbones that gracefully complemented her ivory skin. Shell-pink lips were curled into a pleasant smile, and her eyes were such a striking green that Enver was almost disarmed for a second as he glanced at them. She wasn't tall, but she held herself with a regality Enver had scarcely seen from the most noble houses of Baldur's Gate.

It was easy to see why she was regarded with such disdain. These noblewomen who regarded her with such disdain could only hope to mimic a fraction of her beauty and breathtaking allure.

A pearly gown draped elegantly against her small figure; the delicate and intricate stitching along the hem only further enhanced her beauty. A Debutante, Enver noted. Rich by the looks of it, too.

A sly grin placed itself on his face.

Young, naive and likely wealthy beyond measure – Exactly the kind of woman he could play for a fool before he played her family for funds. It was a game he had played often. For all their money and education, these noblewomen all succumbed to the lie of love far too quickly. Disgracing might have been cruel, but their families were all too keen to pay hush money, so at least they'd appear virginal.

"Duke Portyr," Enver spieled, his voice full of false enthusiasm.

The Duke and the young woman beside him turned their faces to him.

"Sir Gortash," Portyr greeted him equally enthusiastically. He was the one Duke on the Council Enver had always been able to wrap around his finger. The man was anything but a genius. Ravengard had always dismissed him and Stelmane... well, whenever she was coherent enough to conduct meaningful business, she seemed to tolerate Enver, though apparently her business interests were in conflict with his.

The last of them, Duke Liardon, Enver had met merely three times. The man was reclusive, though popular and reminded Enver of the worst times of his life.

Enver quickly shook the memory of their first meeting from his mind. He could not afford to falter now.

"Wonderful to see you tonight," Enver cleared his throat.

"Likewise, likewise, my boy. Enjoying yourself?"

Enver internally rolled his eyes. He was not a boy. He was a Lord, an inventor, a trader - an instrument of tyranny. Yet he said, "Of course", with a smile on his face.

"Why, have you met Lady Elodie yet?" the demented Duke suddenly said, turning to the side as he pointed towards the true object of Enver's attention. The young woman looked at him intently, her gaze sharp and calculating. She was focused. Vigilant. Beneath her pleasant smile, she was assessing him as much as he had assessed her.

A surprise, albeit a pleasant one.

"I have not," Enver answered, his eyes not leaving hers.

The young woman held out her hand, as polite company would, and Enver placed a chaste kiss upon it.

"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Elodie."

"The pleasure is all mine, Sir Gortash." Her voice was gentle and as delicate and airy as she appeared. A melodic lilt, carried like a breeze - warm and kind. And yet there was a measurement to her words, a precise calculation, each word enunciated as precise as they were rhythmic.

"You see, Elodie, Sir Gortash is an excellent man for business," Duke Portyr spoke. "Most excellent, in fact."

"I'm certain he is," Elodie spoke, her vigilant eyes not leaving Envers. "Weaponry, I'm guessing?"

Enver had to swallow his astonishment. Whoever she was, she was far more keen than he had expected.

"Among other things," Enver confirmed with a nod. He did not appreciate her control, but her intelligence? Perhaps that was even more intriguing than her beauty. He could respect it even, but control? He would always love that above all.

"May I have your next dance?" He asked. A young debutante should be easily swayed by flirtatious advances, no matter how intelligent.

"I would be delighted."

"Excellent."

As genteel as ever, Enver held out his arm for her to take, her nimble fingers settling in the crook of his arm as he led her to the grand dancefloor. A lively waltz was playing, the cadence of the song joyful as people danced the night away around the odd couple. Enver could see various men glancing his way, their eyes full of envy. It made him smile deviously. A blind eunuch would probably still get a boner with a woman like that – she was oh so ravishing. And he had gotten her first. Jealousy was, in Enver's humble opinion, second to only hatred. If they envied him and what he had, they would hate him too. And in hatred, they'd bow to him and his Lord.

"Are you new to Baldur's Gate, Lady Elodie?" Enver asked as the pair began to waltz among the rest. "Forgive me if I am being bold, but a woman with your beauty would have long caught my eye."

She laughed - an earnest but musical sound. A blush placed itself on her cheeks.

As expected, Enver thought. The noblewomen all fell to the same folly.

"I was born in the Gate, Sir Gortash. I was... fortunate enough to travel Toril for a while. I returned recently."

"Indeed?" A well-travelled woman - certainly explained why she seemed far more educated than the rest of the lot. "Have you been enjoying your return to the city then?"

"Just so," she smiled at him as they spun around. His hand was firmly placed on her waist as he led her, warmth seeping through to his fingers. So close to her, he could smell her, and it was as exquisite as the rest of her. Luxurious notes of bergamot, freesia and mandarin assaulted his senses, with something sweet simmering beneath. Jasmine, perhaps? Whatever soap she used, it must have been expensive. Whoever her family was, they must have been at the top of the food chain.

"Though I hardly believe you asked me to dance to ask me about the Gate."

"You're quite perceptive, aren't you?"

"Just so," she grinned again, mischief flickering behind her eyes. "Or perhaps I have met your sort before."

Enver could not help the indignant snort that escaped him. No matter what she may have seen on her travels, he would bet his entire estate that she had never come across a soul like his.

"And what sort would that be, hm?" Enver teased. "I am but a partiar with a penchant for weaponry."

"Are you trying to insult your own intelligence or mine?" she quipped with a teasing lilt to her voice. "Your garments alone tell me you crave to be accepted as their own, and the shadows under your eyes are deep enough to let me know you hardly sleep. I don't suppose you call yourself an inventor too?"

Enver blinked in surprise, his mind failing him for a second as they continued to dance. This was a first. Never once before had he met a woman so stunningly beautiful and equally intelligent. A lethal combination if there ever was one. It was disarming.

"My garments?" he slowly spoke after a while. He wore something of equal luxury as she did - a bespoke suit, tailored to perfection of obsidian colour and embroidered with fine golden thread.

"You are compensating," she stated with a matter-of-fact voice. "It's a fine quality ensemble, but the embroidery is borderline garish. A man who grew up with abundant wealth would hardly wear this. You worked yourself to the wealth you have. I can only assume this means you are exceptionally smart as well."

If he hadn't been so impressed, Enver would have been livid. How dare you? He wanted to shout. He wasn't compensating. He had earned his right to wear finery, and he would be damned if he did not make full use of it. Instead, he only gave her a strained, near-mocking laugh. After all, she had correctly assumed he was smart.

"My my. You are full of surprises, aren't you?"

"I'd like to think so."

"Right then. Let me return the favour," Enver offered.

"By all means."

He resumed his assessment of her. The gears in his mind turned endlessly, solving endless puzzles as they presented themselves to him. She had surprised him tonight, a mistake he would not make again. Enver knew people - understood them and their wants before they understood themselves. An ability which had served him well. Her gaze, beneath the smile, remained calculating, a mask to conceal something deeper. She was a problem waiting to be solved, and Enver guessed no one ever had. His mind could fixate on problems like that — anything, really — and not let go. Controlling one element of the world meant a step closer to whole tyranny. It meant his certain keep from ruin. A bad habit, perhaps, that blinded him to other things that could harm him. A tendency towards obsession was hardwired into his brain and would have likely been his undoing if he hadn't learned to outsmart it.

"You crave to be known," Enver ventured to guess. Her breath hitched almost imperceivably, and Enver smirked. His gut had never failed him.

"You know you are beautiful. That men desire you. But you want to be known for who you are rather than your body. You crave for someone to uncover the deepest parts of your soul," his voice had reduced to a mere whisper now, blowing in her ear. "You want more, Elodie. Whether that someone is a challenge or an equal."

She blinked at him, her cheeks flushing now. Enver was sure that if he had placed a hand on her chest, he could have felt her heart beating erratically. She might have him figured out, but two could play that game. They had created a strange tableau that night in the ballroom: nefarious man, enigmatic woman, lavishly grandiose ballroom. It suggested a tale that could only end in tragedy or ruin, but Enver had always defied destiny. They could be good for each other.

"I can see why you are such a success," she chuckled, almost nervously.

"I simply exercise control in all things, Lady Elodie."

"Hm, one might think that's borderline tyrannical," she mused.

To a normal person, that might have been an insult, but to a man like Enver, who worshipped at the feet of Bane, it possibly was the best compliment he'd ever get.

"Perhaps," Enver chuckled. "But it serves me well."

"Careful, Sir Gortash," Elodie quipped. "You almost sound like a Banite."

Perceptive little thing, Enver wanted to laugh. He almost wished to inflict penance upon himself for having underestimated her so severely. She was beautiful, sure. But what worth held beauty in a woman if there were no brains to match? At best, she'd be a nice fuck, but never an equal or better yet - a wife. Enver would never dare to sully his line with offspring from a daft hussy - not that Bane would allow him to, either. His God demanded perfection; Elodie might just have been that. She was, quite frankly, up to his standards. Perhaps the woman in his arms wasn't vicious or hateful like him, but she was machiavellian and astute, qualities Enver knew Bane valued.

He tried to imagine her clad in obsidian silk or the deepest emerald wool money could buy, warped in Bane's embrace, and Enver decided he liked it. She suited his God, was possibly even worthy of his blessing if she could understand the tranquillity his tyranny would bring and follow in his name. Enver wagered she could, especially if someone could convince her of its worth and who better to convince her than him? Enver silently wondered how big of a challenge she would be, for her innate craving to be known was something he could give her better than any other man ever could, yet she did not appear as a woman who liked to be tamed. The longer Enver held her, the more he recognised that beneath the elegance and allure, there was something wild and untamable - something feral.

She could be his equal in tyranny - an invaluable asset.

"Bane is a God like any other, Lady Elodie. He rewards those willing to make sacrifices in the name of power. Sacrifices which not everyone will make." Enver mused. Her immediate face of contempt amused him. "You're not a fan, I take it?"

"Hardly," she pursed her lips. "I fail to see both the value and the right in tyranny."

"A strong word for what some might consider the natural order. The weak have always been ruled by the strong few."

"And yet nothing constitutes that right," Elodie countered, devotion in her eyes. "None have the right to decide another's fate or to enact punishment, no matter if by the hand of a God or the sheer circumstance of fortune. Nothing does."

Altruism - how much Enver detested it. He supposed it was a marker of her young age, for no matter how well-travelled she was, her brain would lack in experience and instead make up for it in idealism and heroism. He supposed he had thought like that himself once before Nubaldin and Raphael had beat it out of him until nothing but hate and the certainty that absolutism would always rule those too feeble for it. There would always be a power above them, ruling with an iron fist. Enver had long understood it was better to be that power, to wield it, instead of succumbing to it.

He was confident Elodie would learn that lesson, too.

"And how would you propose to rule chaos then, hm?"

"Chaos?" Her voice did not hide her incredulity.

"Chaos," Enver confirmed. "No control, no law, no gods, no government at all. Where do you go from there? What sort of agreement is necessary if everyone is to live in peace? What social contract is needed so that everyone is taken care of?"

She mulled over it for a while, the gears in her head turning as the pair spun around the ballroom. She seemed to genuinely consider his question, though Enver did not know where her mind strayed. Would it come to the same conclusion he had long accepted? That in chaos, each mortal, with their own individual agenda, could only cause friction, conflict and war? Humanity was a flaw, and in the chaos of Avernus was the first time he saw it undressed. In turmoil, civilisation disappeared; every august manner and act was stripped away in the blink of an eye. Chaos would always reveal everything a person was - that humanity's greatest flaw was humanity itself. A peaceful existence could only exist if they bowed to a collective agenda - his agenda, preferably - and when finally they'd bow to him in fear, perhaps they might find a semblance of peace.

"You are a curious man, Sir Gortash," Elodie hummed after a while. "I don't think I have ever met an enigma such as you."

"I will take that as a compliment," Enver chuckled as he spun her around once again.

The melody of the song came to its grand finale, every couple spinning as they prepared for it to end. Glittering twirls and heaving breaths accompanied the soaring crescendo before, after long, the orchestra had quieted, and each couple bowed and curtsied in respect before either gathering themselves for another dance or leaving the floor altogether. Enver gently led Elodie away, hoping to perhaps continue their conversation over some wine. It was rare a person caught his interest beyond business - the last was a Bhaalspawn and he still wasn't entirely sure how much he could trust them. After all, their masters were not only at odds, but they had been created for nothing but slaughter, and Enver wasn't asinine enough to pretend he was the exception.

"It's getting rather late," Eloide mused.

"You've yet to answer my question," Enver mentioned with faux casualty, though internally, he was burning with curiosity.

"Delayed gratification is not denial, Sir Gortash," a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "I shall bid you good night."

Gracefully, she spun around, shimmering in the glowing light before she disappeared into the crowds, leaving Enver Gortash speechless for perhaps the first time in his life.

The second time Enver saw Elodie, it had been in the same corridors of High Hall, though the decor had long been removed, and the orchestra was no longer enchanting Patriars. Parliament was supposed to be in session later that day, and Enver had been summoned by Duke Portyr to discuss further commerce strategies as the Tymanther-Unther War continued to disrupt the trade between the nations. It was a tiresome issue, and if someone would have asked him his opinion, Enver would have bombed the Tymanthan armies a long time ago. The old empire of Unther was far from his favourite places in Faerûn, but their gold and iron were unfortunately far too valuable to lose in the long run.

Alas, Duke Ravengard had outright rejected to provide any militia, which had upped the price of metals exponentially - much to Enver's ire.

Porytr was a dimwitted oaf he had always been able to control, but unfortunately, the Duke was simply that. A Duke. The commander of the Flaming Fist on his side would have been much preferable for Enver, but it was merely a matter of time before Ravengard perished, whether that be in battle or due to an uprising among the Gate's citizens. Gorion's Ward, the hero who had saved the realm from Bhaal once, had not been spared - a mere commander of the Flaming Fist was replaced within a breath. Enver had considered assassination more than once; the Bhaalspawn turned his personal assassin would have been more than up for it, possibly even knelt at his feet for allowing such carnage and chaos to be sown. However, Bhaal and Bane's truce was fragile enough - further straining their relationship by using Bhaal's greatest design would have been an insult to the deity Enver was not keen to make. He had made a great deal of enemies; he did not need to add the God of Murder to the list.

As Enver sashayed around the Ducal Palace piano tunes accompanied his steps. Curious, he thought. There was nary a day the pianos were used, unless the halls were used for lavish parties and as far as Enver knew, there were none held anytime soon. As his luck would have it the sound carried itself from somewhere near the ducal offices, thus Enver indulged his curiosity and followed the melody as it carried itself through the musty halls.

He was both bewildered and pleased when he saw Elodie again.

The young woman had hardly left his mind in the aftermath of the Breaking, and yet not a single person had spotted her since. Enver had half a mind to ask Porytr for the young maiden's full name, for the oaf seemed to at least know who she was, which could not be said the rest of the Partriars. She was a complete mystery, and mysteries had, regrettably, a way of driving people utterly mad. No matter how well Enver tried to outsmart his own humanity, he, too, fell folly to the same desire of uncovering the truth.

He observed her for a while; watched as her nimble fingers glided over the piano keys. He had recognised the tune then - a Cormanthyran hymn from times long ago, first come into creation as the Seven Citadels' War had ended and Elves had rejoiced of peace returning to their lands. Enver did not know the name, for the Elvish tongue was foreign to him, but he knew of it as an Ode to Freedom, heroism and eventual triumph as people came together to be good. Enver silently wondered if she had known he would be there or if she had chosen the piece by chance (even if he did not believe that himself).

"You are full of surprises, Lady Elodie," Enver revealed his presence as the final note echoed within the halls.

If she had been beautiful in the dim and glimmering light of the Breaking, Enver supposed she was ethereal as the sun illuminated her skin and her hair, cascading down in gentle waves to the middle of her back shimmered in the golden light.

"Oloth elgg ssussun," the elvish sounded like a prayer spilt from her lips. "Have you any idea what that means, Sir Gortash?"

"I'm afraid I speak no elvish," he divulged, curiously awaiting where this conversation would lead.

"Darkness drowns out light," she smiled as she turned to face him. "You asked how I would govern chaos."

So she had not forgotten - Enver was almost giddy as he awaited her answer with feigned lassitude. He had damn near longed to hear her answer after she had disappeared from his clutches.

"I have indeed," he chuckled.

"My mother saw the piano as a means to control the chaos in me," the young woman began to muse. "She had hoped that dexterous fingers would curb the less dexterous approach I had to... other things."

The gears in Enver's mind began turning rapidly again as he assessed the vexing smile on her lips. She was toying with him, possibly even enjoying laying out the puzzle pieces to her innermost self. He could venture to guess what she was; the feral nature that had always simmered just beneath was the answer all along.

"You're a Sorcerer, aren't you?"

She nodded in confirmation, her smile widening a fraction on her face.

"My parents were rather frightened when I set fire to my maid's skirts at the mere age of eight," a small chuckle escaped her. "I was uncontrolled. Chaos incarnate, one might say. And you know what only amplified the chaos?"

"I suppose you are about to enlighten me." He was intrigued now, clinging onto her words as if each and every one was vitally important.

"Control. The more my parents tried to control it - the further they tried to suppress what I was - the worse the chaos became. People are a lot like that, you know?" she hummed appreciatively, head somewhere between there and the clouds. She was staring into nowhere, a faraway look in her eyes as if remembering times long past. Enver supposed she did.

"Either way," she sighed after a few seconds, "control, tyranny, is not the answer to ensure peace."

"Then what is?" Enver asked, slowly stepping closer. He wasn't entirely sure why he had asked - he knew full well he would neither approve the answer nor even think it sensical. But, perhaps, she had been just impressive enough for him to bother and young enough to believe he could influence her. Change her. For all the men and women he had bedded, betrayed and deceived, none had ever offered a semblance of a challenge or semi-equal wit, and it was both pleasant and addicting to have it in her.

"There isn't a need to govern chaos, much less to suppress it," she smiled gently. "There is beauty in it, and it is part of us human beings as much as it is of our greatest problems and most eloquent solutions."

Enver suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and laugh in her face. There was no beauty in chaos or much less revelry, and while he agreed that chaos was innately human, he would never dare describe it as beautiful. Chaos did not provide any eloquent solutions but caused endless problems, which in turn only caused suffering. Her youthful, altruistic nature was nearly adorable - how delightful it would be for him to turn it around. He did savour a challenge, after all.

"I see," Enver nodded. "So your idea of a government is for it to do nothing."

"No," Elodie frowned. "Besides, you -"

Their conversation was cut short as the grand oak doors leading to the ducal offices opened, and Duke Portyr and Duke Liardon stepped out with grim looks and hastened steps. Whatever previous meetings they had been in - and Enver assumed it was trade-related, as most things were these days - it likely wasn't fruitful or congenial, which meant he would have to amplify his charms if he wanted to convince the oaf Portyr of the vision he held for the Tymanther-Unther War. He scrutinised the two men as they prattled in hushed voices, tension clear on their faces as both looked near furious at the other, the vexation bubbling just beneath the surface. A peculiar sight, Enver noted, yet he continued to observe, hoping the already visible tension would translate itself into something further - as it always threatened to.

From the handful of encounters Enver had with Duke Thamior Liardon, he had gathered that the man was as stoic as can be, deep brown eyes constantly assessing and calculating as he carefully observed those around him. For an elf, the man was rather tall and imposing, and while his rather charitable ventures made him a somewhat popular fellow among Baldurians, Duke Liardon was possibly the single person in this plane Enver could never quite make sense of. He knew the Duke had engaged in ignoble dealings and immoral trades, the man's history strangely interwoven with Enver's own and yet neither had ever mentioned it to the other. To know of the truth, to be conscious of another reality while dancing around carefully constructed tales had created a strange diorama between the men who otherwise did not engage with each other, though Enver anticipated the day he finally put Duke Liardon in his rightful place.

To repudiate morality while laying claim to it was one thing, though Enver did not care for liars. But a man who dealt with devils, no matter how beloved a politician, was no man he would protect when he inevitably rose above them. It was yet another process of arduous and ultimate subtlety in his ambition, his destiny, to be absolute.

"Papa," the girl next to him cleared her throat before she took assured steps towards Duke Liardon.

The two Dukes finally ceased their conversation, quick, easy and strained smiles placing themselves on their faces as Elodie approached them. Papa? Enver wondered for a brief second, though he wished to self-flagellate himself when he finally saw it. Of course - how could he have not seen it before?

He had felt the presence of nobility, understood she was wealthy beyond most people's means - she even looked like him. It was uncanny now that the girl stood in front of her father.

Enver Gortash, nee Flymm, rarely ever got excited, but that particular moment was something else entirely. Enver watched with sharp eyes as perhaps the most significant opportunity in his life arose - a culmination of years of hard work, careful planning and, in this case, sheer dumb luck.

Elodie - no longer an elusive noblewoman but the daughter of a Duke.

"Duke Portyr, Duke Liardon," Enver greeted the men. "How wonderful to see you."

"Likewise, Gortash," Thamior nodded curtly, his voice clipped as he mustered Enver. "I wasn't aware we were expecting company in the ducal offices today."

"I invited him," Portyr retorted. "We were to discuss some ... commerce strategies."

"Ah," the elven Duke nodded. "I see."

"I wasn't aware you were active in the political landscape, Sir Gortash," Elodie cut in, a curious look on her face as she retrenched this new information.

Before Enver could answer her, her father cut in, an incredulous "You know him?" spilling from the collected Duke's lips. It was the first time Enver had seen the barest hint of emotion on the man's face. He stored that information away immediately. Knowing the Achilles Heel of another was always valuable, particularly for a Duke who shamelessly bargained with infernal beings without so much as an ounce of contrition. Not that Enver was any better.

"We met at the Breaking," Enver explained with a small nod.

"I actually introduced them," Portyr exclaimed happily. "They were rather dashing on the dancefloor if I do say so myself." Enver nearly snorted as he glanced at the barest hint of displeasure and ire on Thamior Liardon's face. Achilles Heel, indeed.

"I wasn't aware matchmaking was an area of your expertise, Dillard."

The Duke laughed dismissively, the sound echoing through the grand halls of the ancient halls. "Your daughter has grown up," he remarked with a hint of both condescension and amusement.

Enver was confident he would have been privy to a fight between the Dukes then and there had Elodie not intervened with a chagrin giggle.

"Be that as it may, Mama has asked you to join her at Figaro's before the council is in session later today. Something along the lines of your doublet needing to be fixed?"  

The Duke begrudgingly complied, uttering a quick "Until later" before he scurried towards the exit, a chamberlain and guard rushing to follow him before Enver was left in the company of Elodie and Duke Portyr, who conveniently excused himself with a cheeky wink. Enver carefully quelled the instinct to be overzealous, opting instead to maintain his characteristic veneer of stoicism. However, beneath his near-impenetrable façade, the prospect of engaging with her further was a discrete thrill, an emotion as perplexing as it was involuntary.

"I see my father is no votary of yours," Elodie broke the silence.

Enver barked out a laugh. If only she knew. Her father was a man shrouded in more secrecy than most Baldurian's would ever know, hardly the paragon of justice some had made him out to be and even less the devout Lathander disciple his Cleric wife had allegedly turned him into. But if they had all accepted the lie, Thamior Liardon had imposed on them – if all his records and annals told the same tale – the lies passed into the narrative and became truth. It was yet another testament to humanity's flaws, for most could be made to accept the most flagrant violations of reality, simply swallowing everything they were given without a second thought. How much they could thrive under leadership like his...

"We do not see eye to eye," Enver cryptically replied after a while. One day, he would use the lack of her knowledge against her, but in that singular moment, it had been far more sensical to omit the truth in favour of her trust.

"I'm not surprised," Elodie mused. "He's no fan of control."

"A sentiment you see to share," Enver retorted.

"I do," she nodded resolutely. "Control and power are not a means, Sir Gortash. They are an end. Tyranny itself is deeply rooted in the chaos you desperately seek to eliminate."

"I beg to differ."

"Do you?" Elodie tilted her head. "One does not establish tyranny in order to safeguard people from chaos; one sows it to establish tyranny. Sarevok himself used chaos as a means to establish his own."

"Sarevok was a Bhaalspawn," Enver interjected, befuddled. "Bhaal's scions never sought anything but conflict. It was quite literally bred into them." - and still was, he nearly said, but the girl likely lived under the belief that any Bhaalspawn had long perished.

"And yet he sowed enough chaos to nearly be crowned a Duke of this city, which would have enabled his own tyrannical rule and end in Bhaal's name." She hummed for a second as if deep in thought. "Faith is both an anchor and an excellent catalyst for indoctrination, you know."

"Aren't your parents known Lathander worshippers?" Enver asked incredulously. Such words were hardly those of a faithful.

"I am too," Elodie confessed. "And yet my point stands. How often have wars been fought in the names of gods, if only to establish something purportedly better? How often has faith been used to establish means of control, yet only chaos was left in its wake?"

Clever as she was, Enver had begun to see her point, though he certainly did not agree with her conclusion. While Sarevok's folly had been nought but chaos and destruction, it was hardly reflective of faith but more a reflection of the god. A god such as his Lord Bane would bring eternal peace, though yes, also fear, yet the brief struggle would culminate in peace if only people would see and bend to the whim of his dreaded Lord. Obedience alone was not enough unless there was suffering for a brief second in which human minds were torn apart and put together again in the shapes of his own choosing.

Enver surmised, with a grin, that Elodie was correct.

Chaos was, if only briefly, a vital aspect to assured peace and if a collective god would sow it upon all until they bend to his will - an imposture of manufactured chaos, which may have been unreal yet vitally important. His mind twisted and turned endlessly, rapidly altering and revising as Enver realised just how useful chaos could be if only treaded with trepidation, contempt, adulation, and orgiastic triumph.

"I see your point," he eventually grinned. "After all, the faithful will do anything in the name of their god."