#and gortash is fuming about it.

[archduke-enver-gortash]

thinking about how subtle gortash’s manipulation of zeke is sometimes. his isolation tactics especially. someone maybe catching zeke in a rare moment when he isn’t in the tyrant’s grip. zeke seemingly making a friend, who asks him to go with them to maybe a date? or something like that. zeke has been having fun, so he agrees, and then the other man is suddenly behind him, gently places a hand on his shoulder and whispers to him that he’d make sure nobody is going to interrupt him during his kill.

[moonselune]

Heya, would it be possible for you to write about the bg3 ladies comforting/helping their Paladin Tav after their Oath was broken on something seemingly mundane. Like "cutting a deal" with Gortash to "work with him" to deal with Orin, as a way to avoid conflict after his promotion ceremony. The breaking of Tav's Oath weighing heavy and Tav doesn't want to retake their Oath until what caused it to break was rectified. Like getting Gortash that cheeky shit

This was such a good request honestly I am so impressed with everyones imagination (I literally sound like a school teacher lmaoooo)

Karlach:

You sit by the campfire, staring into the flames as the weight of your broken Oath presses heavily on your shoulders. The decision to cut a deal with Gortash gnaws at you, a compromise that went against everything you stood for as a paladin. You had done it to protect your camp, to avoid a conflict that could have cost lives, but the cost to your soul felt almost unbearable.

Karlach approaches, her fiery- and notably fuming, presence a stark contrast to your somber mood. She sits down next to you, her usual boisterous energy tempered by concern.

"I don't get it," she starts, her voice tinged with frustration. "We could have taken Gortash down right there. Why did you make that deal?"

You wince at her words, the guilt and shame bubbling to the surface. "I did it to protect everyone," you say quietly. "To protect you. We were unprepared and we would have been obliterated by the steel watch... but it broke my Oath."

Karlach sighs, running a hand through her short, spiky hair, seemingly ignoring your last comment. "Look, I get wanting to keep everyone safe, but sometimes you have to fight for what's right. You should have let me kill him when I had the chance."

Your temper flares, the stress of the situation pushing you over the edge. "Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I wanted to break my Oath?" you snap, your voice breaking. "I did what I thought was best, and now I'm paying the price."

Karlach's eyes widen at your outburst, and she realizes just how deeply this is affecting you. Her expression softens, and she places a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make it worse... I just hate seeing you like this."

You take a deep breath, trying to regain your composure. "I can't retake my Oath until I make things right. Until Gortash is dealt with."

Karlach nods, determination hardening her features and she wraps an arm around her shoulder. "Then we'll get him. Together. I promise you, we'll make things right."

Her words bring a flicker of hope to your heart, and you nod, leaning your head against her shoulder, "Thank you, Karlach."

She smiles, her fiery spirit rekindling and she presses a kiss to the temple of your forehead. "Anytime. Now let's get some rest. We've got a bastard to hunt."

Minthara:

The night air is cool and still as you sit alone, the weight of your broken Oath heavy on your soul. The Oathbreaker's words rattling through you. The deal with Gortash had been a bitter compromise, one that went against every principle you held dear as a paladin of the Oath of the Ancients. You had done it to protect your loved ones, to avoid a deadly conflict with Gortash and his steel watch, but the cost to your spirit felt immense.

Minthara finds you, her eyes gleaming with curiosity and amusement. She stands beside you, her presence commanding and confident.

"So, this is why you should have taken the Oath of Vengeance," she teases, a smirk playing on her lips. "No room for compromises, no room for weakness."

You don't respond, your eyes fixed on the ground. Minthara's smirk fades as she senses your distress. She crouches down beside you, her tone shifting to one of genuine concern. "You are truly troubled by this, aren't you?"

You nod, your voice barely above a whisper. "I broke my Oath. I betrayed my principles to protect everyone, but it still feels wrong. Devastating, even."

Minthara's eyes narrow, her expression thoughtful. "You did what you thought was necessary. Sometimes the path of righteousness is not clear-cut, my love. But I see that this weighs heavily on you."

"I can't retake my Oath until I make things right," you say, the determination in your voice masking the pain. "Until Gortash is dealt with."

Minthara places a firm hand on your shoulder, her grip reassuring. "Then we shall make it right. I swear to you, we will bring Gortash to justice."

You look up at her, surprise and gratitude mingling in your eyes. "You'd help me with this?"

Minthara nods, a fierce glint in her eyes. "You are my ally, my lover. I will stand by you, no matter the cost. Together, we will see this through."

Her words fill you with renewed strength, and you nod, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Thank you, Minthara."

She leans in, her lips brushing against your forehead in a rare display of tenderness. "Rest now. We have much to do, and you will need your strength."

Lae'zel:

The campfire crackled softly in the still night, but its warmth did little to chase away the cold weight of guilt and shame pressing down on you. The decision to cut a deal with Gortash haunted you, a compromise that had shattered your Paladin Oath. You had done it to protect your group, to protect your loved ones, but the cost to your spirit felt immeasurable.

Lae'zel approached with her usual determined stride, her sharp eyes narrowing as she assessed your state. She seated herself beside you, her presence both comforting and commanding.

“You seem lost,” she began, her voice unwavering. “What troubles you?”

You sighed heavily, unable to meet her gaze. “I broke my Oath, Lae'zel. I made a deal with Gortash to avoid conflict, to keep everyone safe. But in doing so, I betrayed my principles.”

Lae'zel studied you for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she placed a firm hand on your shoulder. “Your actions were guided by necessity and loyalty. There is no shame in that.”

“But it feels wrong,” you said, voice trembling. “I can’t retake my Oath until I’ve made things right, until Gortash is dealt with.”

Lae'zel’s eyes flashed with determination. “Then we shall hunt him down and restore your honor. My blade is yours, and I will strike with the force of a thousand Githyanki warriors.”

Despite your heavy heart, you couldn’t help but chuckle at her fierce proclamation. “A thousand Githyanki warriors, huh?”

She nodded solemnly, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips and she nudged you. “Indeed. We will make Gortash regret his actions. Together, we will see this through.”

Her fierce loyalty and unwavering support filled you with renewed resolve. You nodded, a small smile forming. “Thank you, Lae'zel.”

She inclined her head, her expression softening slightly. “We fight for each other. Now, rest and gather your strength. The battle ahead will be fierce.”

Shadowheart:

You sat in your tent, head in hands, the weight of your broken Oath pressing down on you. The decision to cut a deal with Gortash had been agonizing, but necessary to protect your companions. Still, the betrayal of your principles gnawed at you, leaving you feeling lost and adrift.

Shadowheart entered the tent without warning, her presence like a jolt of lightning in the oppressive gloom. She took one look at you and sighed, her expression a mixture of exasperation and concern.

“Get up,” she commanded, her voice firm. “Sitting here wallowing in self-pity won’t solve anything.”

You looked up, startled by her abruptness. “Shadowheart, I…”

“No excuses,” she interrupted, grabbing your arm and pulling you to your feet. “You made a difficult choice to protect us all. That doesn’t make you weak or dishonorable. It makes you human.”

“I broke my Oath,” you protested, your voice breaking. “I can’t retake it until I’ve made things right.”

“Then make things right, but moping around isn’t going to help anyone. Least of all yourself.” She said sharply, she then unsympathetically dragged you out of the tent and into the cool night air, her grip strong and unyielding.

"Shadowheart just-"

“-Look at me,” she demanded, her eyes locking onto yours. Her hands cupping your cheeks and forcing you to look at her. “You are a Paladin. A protector. Start acting like one.”

You blinked, taken aback by her intensity. But there was a fire in her eyes, a fierce determination that mirrored your own. It reignited something within you, a spark of the resolve you had thought lost.

“I will make it right,” you said, your voice steadier now. “I’ll deal with Gortash and restore my Oath.”

Shadowheart nodded, removing her hands, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. “Good. And I’ll be right there with you, every step of the way.”

You felt a surge of gratitude and affection for her. “Thank you, Shadowheart. For not letting me give up.”

Her expression softening slightly, and she kissed your forehead. “We’re in this together. Now, let’s get some rest. We have work to do.”

[cringecannon]

imagining being caught between the immovable object Enver Gortash and the unstoppable force Astarion

Maybe you managed to get away from Astarion in that sweet spot between his ascension and him turning you. There were more important things to deal with, the tadpoles still wriggling in your heads, the impending doom. Astarion would begrudgingly let you run off, save the day. After all, what was the point in newfound power if he wasn’t alive to savor it? So you leave. You fight. You’re all finally free.

Then what happens when Astarion doesn’t swoop in fast enough?

He’d always intended to bring you back, to sequester you away as he promised, but he was foolish enough to think he had all the time in the world, that he had decades to win you back. So imagine his shock when the dust has settled and you’re nowhere to be found. He’d interrogate your friends, send his new spawn hunting for you every night, turn the entire city upside down to no avail.

He can barely keep up with his duties as a new lord in the city, can barely even think of anything but you. He’s at his wits end, considering another deal with the devil when all of the sudden, in the last place he’d expect, he sees you. At some stuffy patriar party, hanging off of Archduke Gortash’s arm like some lovesick puppy. It would sicken him, enrage him. How dare you move on so quickly. How dare you forget about him, forget all that you had together.

In his jealous rage, he wouldn’t notice how tight your smile is, how it doesn’t reach your eyes. You have no such luxury. You’re intimately aware of how uncomfortable you are, your skin crawling wherever it makes contact with your fiancé. Even thinking the word disgusts you. It was a horrible, crooked deal you’d been forced into. Just days after saving the city, Gortash had cornered you. Threatened the well-being of you, your friends, everyone you held dear. All you had to do was give up one tiny, insignificant thing- your hand, in marriage.

You would have no choice but to acquiesce. Running away would be selfish, he assures you. You’d be dooming everyone you cared about, and he’d hunt you down anyway. It would be so much easier just to give in. So you do. You let him dress you up in high end fashions, you hang off his arm while he schmoozes the upper-crust pawns that line his pockets, and you let him fuck you dumb over his ornate desk, his satin bed, and anywhere else he wants to.

When he sneaks you out of the party and pulls you tight against his chest, you don’t protest as he slips inside you, taking what’s his. Your obedience earns you nothing though. He doesn’t even have the decency to let you cover yourself when Astarion catches you in that dark hallway, your arms held back as he leisurely thrusts inside you. He doesn’t stop when he notices the vampire, merely greets him and asks if he’s enjoying the party.

Astarion would bristle, he’d have to hold himself back from tearing the man apart. It would be suicide to kill him so publicly. He considers it though. He has no such self restraint when Gortash offers to let him join in, pulling out of you and flipping you around so that the Archduke can enjoy your mouth instead. Astarion would be insulted, fuming as the other man speaks of you so vulgarly, offering to share you like some common whore… but at his core, Astarion is a selfish man. He knows he’s debasing himself, debasing you, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not yet. He’ll get you back, eventually. Lock you away where no one will ever find you. For now though, he’s just thrilled to be inside you again.

[animentality]

Gortash angrily condemns the dark urge after they go missing, presumed dead, calling them a pitiable fool, insisting they ruined their master plan, that their weakness put the entire world in jeopardy. everything would've gone according to schedule if they hadn't been so careless.

But late at night, when he fumes about their disappearance, feeling abandoned... he secretly wishes they were still there, for him to yell at.

His anger comes from grief and his frustration comes from the loss of the only person he really valued, saw as his equal.

He wasn't supposed to be alone at this stage. So why was he? He just doesn't understand, and for a man like Gortash, that lack of knowledge would keep him up at night. That and the haunting emptiness of his heart and his home.

[bharv]

So yeah I don’t talk about it lots but Manva’s ending is that something snaps in her when Gortash is killed, she empties her mind in full monk mode to avoid the overspill of grief in losing Orin and Enver, and crawls onto the top of the brain vaguely thinking of her Father’s will but also with a spark of… something in her gut.

And she starts her rampaging through Faerun with her thralled servants and eventually gets an audience with Bane, who asks her to defect. She says she will only do it if he returns Gortash, which he sees as a very silly cost, but agrees to it. So she becomes the chosen of Bane, and with Gortash returned continues the work of subjugating the sword coast. Bane courts her well, and Gortash is fucking fuming, but knows that he has to play along to survive. Without the threat of her father and without her crushing powers, they could have a normal ish relationship! If Bane wasn’t more interesting…

But Bhaal isn’t done with her either, and it sparks a conflict between Bane and Bhaal. Myrkul offers his chosen status to the resurrected Gortash, who can’t resist accumulating his own power again, and the whole thing threatens to blow up once more.

Before it can, a bunch of other chosen including Elminster, Dara, Cattie Brie and other high power adventurers finally take down Manva and her poor acolytes. Because although Ao “doesn’t let gods intervene” this false god? She’s getting a bit too big for her boots.

[blackjackkent]

OK, off to the Flophouse, our last stop before everything goes Completely To Shit in camp.

Rakha is, at this point, very emotionally drained; she's still wrestling with Gortash's reveal about her history with the cult and the struggle it evoked inside her own mind, AND the showdown with the Harper doppelgangers AND the mind flayer attack AND the "moment of ecstasy" AND Raphael.

(And Naaber, I suppose.)

So she's feeling like a bit of a punching bag. She's also definitely not excited about the Flophouse; the reason they're even interested in it is because of a key they found on the bodies of some of Orin's victims. And while Rakha knows intellectually that they need to find Orin and kill her, she is not looking forward to the moment when they actually come face to face again (by which I mean she is terrified).

No one else in the party is really doing that well either tbh - Wyll is simultaneously mourning his father and desperate to save him, Lae'zel is disillusioned by Rakha turning down Raphael's offer, and Jaheira is running on fumes and mentally taking on responsibility for the lives of this pack of feral cats she now has to herd.

(Minthara, to be honest, is probably in a pretty good mood, comparatively - she slurped the worm so she's feeling powerful, and she supported the alliance with Gortash. She too, though, is definitely low-key scared about the upcoming confrontation with Orin.)

Anyway - in we go.

There are a few people hanging out in the Flophouse lobby (merchants and adventurers trying to get into the city proper), but Rakha's attention immediately homes in on the short fellow in red in the corner.

"I'm looking for a killer," she growls down at him. "A dwarf. Dressed in red. Just like you."

"How dare you! Accusing an upstanding citizen like me!"

"Of being a dwarf! I'm a halfling, you oaf!"

(A/N: Lmao they just stared at each other for a full five seconds or so and then the conversation ended. XD )

[flymmsy]

Steeples hands. Do we think Durge would lose it over Enver’s first greys. Just tackle him down and purr out that oh, Lordling, the clock is catching up with you - but secretly they’re fuming over how handsome it makes him look

Okay I don’t know if DURGE would but I know that /I/ would.

Actually I think this heavily depends on the Durge. Let’s get the sad out of the way because I think there’s also angst potential here - a child of a god loving a mortal means they experience time very differently and Gortash’s greys would be a sign of that.

MOVING ON TO THE THIRST I also think there’s potential for Durge to be absolutely feral about it as you’ve said. They eye up Gortash’s greys a LOT and Gortash pretends to not notice but secretly he just GLOWS from the attention.

Durge makes him start wearing his hair slicked back more because it shows them off better.

[adorablebanite]

15 & 24 for the edgy oc ask :)

Well hello :} thank you so much for indulging me!!

15 - OC face claim??? Oh no I haven't even thought about it! Both Destri and Lilla are from one of the CC mods (I'm sorry I'm on mobile I can't remember which one, but it's probably obvious to those who use it!)

I hope some screenshots will suffice? 🥹

And 24 let's see ummm - What's an alternative path your OC could have gone down? What different choices etc!

This question is so fun!

For Lilla it's kind of funny because her destiny was kind of set for her because she was made via a Banite ritual where two Banites boinked (that's a Banite word, I swear, look it up👀) and Bane infused his essence into it somehow (I dunno how copulation. rituals work I'm just assuming it's something like that - but later on I was like "what if Bane possessed the male and-" nevermind 😈).

Basically he wanted the ultimate Banite supporter for his next Chosen so make sure things go well, and Lilla's kind of infused with the will to be as loyal as one can possibly be to Bane's Chosen, but it kind of got botched and the Banites who did the ritual couldn't put her through the ringer of bringing her up with the edict. Ultimately she ended up in the same place she would have regardless if the Banites could follow through with her traumatic training or not, so with Lilla all roads really just led to Gortash, as he's the chosen. She sees it more like she was made for HIM rather than the chosen, but it's foggy whether things would be different if the chosen was someone else - chances are she'd be just as enamoured with someone else because it's wired in her blood to be devoted and loyal (and ultimately love) the chosen.

I kind of liked toying with Gortash's reaction to this - like he's always wanted someone to love him unconditionally - and here she is (even though she can't be an equal, it's still nice) - but when he finds out she had no other choice but to love him, he struggled with the idea of Lilla's love being disingenuous (which is honestly laughably ironic from what we know about him).

Long story short Lilla's path always leads to where she is now- she just may have been a bit different and less sweet and adorable, but that's what makes her a fun Banite, imo xD

-

Destri's struggle is the epitome of being torn between two worlds! May I answer with a self-indulgent excerpt that basically puts it into words easier than I can explain it? (I'm also sorry I've I've shared it before my brain is smooth like a bean and my memory is -45)

Warning; uncharacteristically soft Gort! I am highly aware but do it anyway xD because dopamine.

---

“Remarkable!” Gortash scoffed while pacing his chamber in agitation, “Absolutely astounding . We unfold a grand scheme to usher in a new dawn in the name of the Dead Three, and all Myrkul’s Chosen can think about is resurrecting his dead daughter!”

Destri was stretched comfortably across his bed, silently re-reading her lewd novel while the tyrant fumed.

“The insinuation as well…” he spun on his heel to roam the length of the room again, clenching his fist, “Such disrespect towards our lords’ alliance. Myrkul no doubt expects full fealty from him, but it’s clear the general has his own agenda, and is using his god to serve himself - just as he had with all the previous ones he’s abandoned…”

Destri looked up with a tired sigh, “You truly are so impassioned about the bone lord’s relationship with his patron gods?” she drawled, flipping to the next page in her book, and flicking the tip of her tail playfully.

“Well…” Gortash scratched the back of his neck in aggravation, “Perhaps not that specifically…but it’s the implication of it all.” When Destri merely rolled her amber eyes, he strode over and snatched the novel from her hands, “What have you been reading all this time, that you’ve been so eager to avoid me seeing?”

Body tensing in abject embarrassment, Destri was probably the closest she ever had been to outright gutting the tyrant. Thanks to her oath to him, she stayed her hand, but she soooo very itched to gore him with her horns at the way his face fell when he read the colourful words on the page before him.

“Tyrant…” she pushed herself up off the bed, and stepped over to him with such sensual calmness, it made his skin crawl, “Return that to me now, or suffer the consequences.”

Despite the divine pact that protected him from her bloody wrath, Enver dropped the book back into her outstretched claw, swallowing dryly, “That was foolish of me, Bhaalspawn,” he muttered, “I apologise…”

Now THAT took Destri off guard. She narrowed her piercing gaze at him, awaiting some smug addition to his admission, but he only followed it up with a sincere look. She pursed her lips, and shook her head at him, but spun around to return to his bed, rather than leave the chamber altogether - however he caught her elbow, stopping her from moving away.

“Wait…” he murmured thoughtfully. She turned around to face him with an exasperated glare, but his soft expression immediately muted her anger, “Is this-” he gestured to the novel, “due to anything I can…help with? I rather didn’t take you for being touch-starved, but if there’s anything I can do…”

Destri gawked at him for an awkward moment before bursting out with a hysterical snort of laughter, “Are you rubbing it in, tyrant? Having a laugh? You can’t help yourself, can you?” Her anger was further aroused with each question, but the look of befuddlement on his dumb tyrant face told her he was being sincere… which was much worse. She couldn’t stifle a flowery guffaw, and flashed a fanged smile at him, “You’re serious? Tyrant, I am not touch-starved …This just helps…” she faltered, realising the fact she hadn’t really thought through exactly why she consumed such smut - her own experiences with Enver were drastically more licentious than the scenes in her novel, “...To get my mind off things, is all,” she said finally, uninterested in clarifying further.

It was to get her mind off him , and the blasphemous feelings she harboured between them. Debauchery and bloodless flesh games were never a complication - but the infuriating way the tyrant occupied her heart was . When she first stalked him, he sat politely behind her heart and around the corner where her Father couldn’t see…But now he damn near enveloped it- filling it to the brim with his exasperating voice, and his chewable face, and his detestable chest, and his unbearable smile, and his stupid. Fucking. Haircut.

Enver cleared his throat, considering his next words carefully, “Well…I could help with that too, if need be.”

He meant that sincerely too. He was genuinely trying to be courteous - even though he didn’t understand at all. He was so stupid . So irritating. So damnably excruciating - she needed to flay him. That would fix things, really. To pull her favourite pieces off, and chew them up, and spit the pinkish pulp out, right off the balcony into the lake in idiotic little pieces. Plop. Plop. Plop. (Like that).

“Help me by doing what, tyrant?” Destri scoffed flippantly, trying desperately to evade his sentimental approach, “Tie me down? Pull my horns? Tug on my tail?” As she said this, she brushed the stubble under his chin with the tip of her tail, but his expression didn’t falter - he continued to gaze at her with gentle concern, which made her want to bite his eyeballs out.

“That’s not what I meant…” He started, trying to find the right words, “It doesn’t have to be like that. I just…I would like to ensure you are…well…happy…” He loosened his shoulders, as if finally saying this released a world of tension, but Destri only scowled, baring her fangs. He was making things much, much worse for her.

“You think because I’m reading some indecent novel, I’m not happy?” She purred with a forced grin, “You could roleplay as the daring knight, if you want - Or, no! The swashbuckling necromancer…”

Gortash’s patience was fraying at the edges, and his soft expression began to harden into frustration. Good . It was better he was angry at her, than whatever this was.

“Well what do YOU want, Bhaalspawn?” he pointed a clawed finger directly at her, exasperated, “Is it not obvious I only wish to be kind with you? Is that somehow not appropriate now?” His obsidian eyes bored into her, smouldering with emotion, “I am clever in many regards, but clearly am I in no way equipped to appease you - barring slicing my throat and consuming my innards - or whatever it is you always rant and rave about…So you’ll just have to tell me , how to appease you. If you would…”

Rendered speechless, Destri only stared at Enver while he turned away to pace, but immediately lunged back again with an antagonistic finger directed at her as he continued, “I may not have experience with laying my emotions bare for you to witness, but forgive me, for my experiences perhaps hadn’t entirely been nurtured as perhaps it should have…” his expression dimmed to a gentle frown, “...But should I be so mercilessly tormented for trying? ”

Destri swallowed a painful lump, pouting with defeat, and fear. She couldn’t tell him that her destiny - her very soul - wavers on the edge of her Father’s ever-parched blade. Under Shar’s horrid curse, Bhaal would struggle to peer into her soul - but if she entertained the tyrant’s heart wrenching plea, she would surely know the Murder Lord’s wrath, once she returned to the city. Even if she could somehow hide her heart from his hollow, crimson eye, Orin would know. Orin was always looking. Searching. Stalking. Scrutinising. Always waiting for her to slip. Then wha t ? Bhaal would not let his own flesh and blood free so easily. She wouldn’t be permitted to frolic through the fields and forests with the tyrant like they had in their false memories, drawn on by consuming each other’s blood potions. Oh no. Ohhhhh no. If her Father didn’t tear her mindflesh to ribbons, Orin would at his behest, with gleeful giggles... Then Destri would have no tyrant, no mind, and no soul of her own. Her birthright was to be elevated as His Slayer; to ultimately offer her body and spirit for Bhaal to twist and contort for His wretched desire… That or to be disgraced, and exiled as a living, mindless murder-husk.

Those were her two options…‘A bleak prospect,’ the tyrant would say, if he truly understood. But he didn’t. And he never would. There was no third option, where she fell in love with Bane's Chosen and they lived happily ever after.

[iron-hearts-ablaze]

He snuck off from camp in the middle of the night while the rest were safely nestled in their beds. Call it a flight of whimsy. An idea that struck as a most precious of gift for Karlach. She hadn’t wanted his gift of eternity, not yet. But he’d offer her something just as delicious. He left a note for her to meet him in the graveyard. There she’d witness the most delightful of sights. “Come to me and kneel.” He called out into the dark.

From the shadows emerged him. Gortash. Two pinpoint bite scars on his neck. His eyes orange with the hold of compulsion even in the dark. The man quietly with disgust writ on his face kneeled in the dirt. He glared up at them in defiance, but didn’t say a word. He was still soiled by the dirt of his own grave. The one Astarion buried him in.

Astarion had commanded him not to speak. Those lips of his sealed until his master deemed him worthy enough to.

“A gift for you. He’s perfectly obedient and more importantly—“ His lips curled into a devious smile. “—resistant to most forms of violence. I can give him the command to be obedient to you too. All you have to do is ask.”

Unprompted Ask || Always Accepting

A note in such elaborate scrawl. How quaint. She didn't need a name at the bottom to know who it would come from. A graveyard? Rather stereotypical, but there was a feeling it may just be worth her while. As she trudged through the near empty streets of Baldurs Gate, she fumed slightly as she dug through her thoughts. If this was another way to badger her into accepting his offer to become his Consort - or whatever bull he tried to sell her - she would be done with this little affair of theirs. It was fun while it lasted. But she didn't need his by-proxy form of eternity. She had her own plans in mind... The Netherbrain was closer to hand than ever before. She just had Gortash in the way now. And once she dined on his bones and soaked in his blood, she'd take that last stone and take control of the brain - of her fate - once and for all. She would get there on her own, by her own prowess, not off power borrowed from him. She admired his hunt for power, it matched her own, but it would never overtake her own drives...

Karlach folded her arms when she got to the graveyard. He was fairly easy to spot, his pale frame practically glowing in the moon's light. The air around her changed when Gortash showed himself - the unmistakable signs of him being Astarion's spawn showed themselves instantly. At first, all she felt was cold-blooded fury. How dare he! She was so fucking close to taking Gortash's life for herself, how dare this prick stand in the way of her glory! But as her breath quickened, her hands balled into fists, he said something that caused pause.

Resistant to pain... Pain she could inflict on him whenever it pleased her... Gortash - completely owned by them her. What a keen prospect. With a darkening glare, her naturally amber eyes seemed to reflect as much as the vampires did as she approached the kneeling man that stole her life. Yet, created her.

"You probably don't remember the last thing you said to me," Karlach's speech was almost sultry. Utterly driven by a lust for violence towards him. She cupped Gortash's stubbled cheeks and stroked them. "But I do. 'No hard feelings, sweetheart'. And there aren't, are there... Sweetheart." Her hands twisted inward, digging her nails into his skin, drawing blood with an excited glint in her eye.

"Oh Astarion, how you spoil me." She stood up, licking the blood off her hand. It was sweeter than she expected, though maybe that was just the exhilaration of the prospect dancing on her tongue. "I ought to get you something nice. The city would make for a good start, I reckon, now we have the last Netherstone." Blood still coating her lips, she leaned in all the closer, but not closing the gap entirely. "It's about fucking time we take what we're owed...But, until then," A soft sigh. She can suck it up for this one thing. As a treat. Speaking almost at a purr, if she was going to belittle herself she may as well lay it on thick. "Please may I borrow your little pet for a bit?"

[faerunscursed]

@shimmerbeasts [ retrieve ]  your muse requesting or ordering mine to retrieve them something . (Mizora and Wyll)

This had been a hunt Wyll had admittedly been waiting for since Raphael had graced the party with his appearance for the first time. Ever since he had dared to insult the deal that he had with Mizora by offering a new one. 'Break your deal with Mizora, Wyll Raveguard. Break it and I will help you become a far better warlock than she could dream of making you.' Those were the words he had said, and it had made his blood boil with rage. It was't just him either, he knew Mizora had been fuming at the idea, the thought, that someone such as Raphael would try to steal her bloodhound from her. Wyll hadn't even hesitated to inform her of the attempt.

Raphael, of course, held a significantly more amount of reach and power in the nine hells as the son of Mephistopheles. No doubt, had Wyll encountered him first those 7 years ago he might have made a deal. However, that wasn't how things played out and despite his higher ranking, there was one thing that separated him Mizora the most. His pride. Raphael didn't give too shits about him, and he thought himself clever in his attempt to sway the warlock by offering power only he could grant. Wyll had seen right through his attempt, and had openly laughed in his face. Turned down the deal with a simple "fuck you."

It was now fortunate that Mizora had come to him, finally issuing the hunt he'd been craving. The grin that had stretched across his face then had shown how eager he was to take the job, just as eager as he had been to kill Gortash. It was funny, the man whom had tried to steal him would now pay the piper in a big way. No one would even know, even, that Wyll had been sent on this hunt but he knew they would be easy to convince to travel to the house of hope regardless.

The death of Raphael had been the most thrilling battle he had faced in a long time, as he sat at camp now, remembering how his infernal blade had landed the final blow to his heart. No one would see the satisfied smirk on his face, either as his blade sliced through infernal skin with no resistance, as if slicing into a blood cake. Intentionally prepared for him and his blade alone.

The blood of the now dead cambion which had sprayed onto his horns and face, decorated them even now as she stared into the fire before him. Even the jewels Mizora had helped so neatly onto his horns were stained by the now dried blood. Beside him was a spike set up, Raphael's head mounted atop as he took a sip of the expensive wine they had managed to snag from the house of hope before leaving. That's when he felt her coming, he could feel then, how pleased she was before her body even solidified.

"I have to hand it to you, that was the most satisfying hunt you ever sent me on," Wyll said, a soft hum following as his body quickly relaxed in response to her presence. "I've been itching to kill that bastard for days, weeks. Now he will no longer be a problem, and the world is rid of yet another piece of shit."

Admittedly Wyll felt like a different man now. Ever since the night he had rescued and abandoned his father at the same time. Ever since he found himself stripped of his grief and guilt, if only a little. Now he could feel the fires of avernus raging in him with more intensity as he felt more connected to the devil she had helped him realize he was. One that was basking in his victory.

Wyll offered Mizora another bottle and rose his. "A toast, to the death of the bastard Raphael."

[durgesupremacy]

[fic update] they Rest

Enver Gortash x Durge (Solace), part 5.

*

Solace wanted to tell him everythng then and there, all their favorite kills, their best work, their bloodiest deeds. The bright-eyed detective who delved too deep into the sewers. The captain all those years ago who they hung from the mast of his ship, face twisted and frozen into a perfect scream. The tiefling child.

They didn’t. They felt the rushed intensity of the feeling and though they weren’t quite sure what it was or how it worked, they recognized it as impulse, and Solace knew to be wary of their impulses. Still, they felt the want. The only ones who’d known about Solace’s deeds outside of the temple had been at the other end of their blades. Even the assassins regarded what little they heard of Solace’s kills with fearful respect. Nothing like admiration. The butler admired them, sure, but Sceleritas was a sick and twisted thing who shared Solace’s gruesome disposition. Gortash had no reason to appreciate the murder and yet he did. If Solace wasn’t so disciplined, they could’ve drowned themselves in the feeling.

Instead they ate, content to rest in Gortash’s office, or perhaps to wander back to the temple at daybreak. Their elven body needed little rest. But the night carried on and they watched Gortash continue to pour through his work, eyes bleary, head heavy.

“You need to sleep.” Solace broke the silence.

“I told you not to interrupt me.”

“You’re falling over in your seat. You’ve been muttering the same few phrases for the past ten minutes.”

“Leave, then, if it bothers you.” Gortash spared a moment to glare at them, but his annoyance was weak through his fatigue.

Something occurred to Solace. “This is why you get stuck during the day. You’re not rested enough to focus. Are you always pushing yourself like this?”

“This is nothing.” Gortash stood then, annoyance giving way to anger. “I am perfectly well and I will sleep when I am tired. Leave me in peace.”

Solace bristled. Stubborn, arrogant man. He was tired already. “Fine.” They stood and looked towards the door, considering their options. They’d thought their partner reliable, and he had been. But now they knew. He could be better, if he only looked after his stupid mortal needs.

Instead of walking out, Solace walked over to Gortash and drove their boot into his chest. He crashed to the floor along with his chair.

Gortash pushed himself up, fuming. “What”—

“If you’ll sleep when you’re tired, then you’ll spar until you’re tired.” Solace went in with their elbow and Gortash deflected them, but it was sloppy. “Assuming you’re doing as well as you say, you’ll put up a good fight.”

“How dare”—

Solace drove the heel of their palm into his throat and Gortash choked mid-sentence. “If you can hold me off for seven minutes, I’ll leave you to your neurosis. But if you go on like this, you’re sleeping even if I have to knock you out. I need you at your best. Do we have a deal?”

“Fuck you.”

“That wasn’t a ‘no.’” Solace’s next strike went low into Gortash’s ribs.

Seven minutes. He didn’t make it to five. Gortash was weary hours ago, but Solace was freshly fed and strengthened by the rush of their hunt. They could’ve gone all night. Solace moved fast and pressed their every advantage. Gortash seethed with silent fury but his blows were imprecise. His anger burned through what was left of his energy and he soon hit the ground again, Solace restraining him with ease.

“Sleep. You’ve lost.”

“I haven’t lost yet.”

“Yes, you have.” Solace loosened their hold and let Gortash struggle for a moment before pushing him down again, bracing his chin with their forearm and forcing him to meet their eyes. “Six hours ago, you might’ve won. But you can’t perform in these conditions. Ignore the needs of your body and someday you’ll doom us both.”

Though Gortash’s gaze remained stubborn and firm, he could no longer avoid Solace’s point and he knew it. He slackened under their frame and Solace eased up, pulling him to his unsteady feet.

“I haven’t locked up the room,” he said.

“I’ll take care of it.” Gortash had extra security measures go up when he slept, but Solace remembered. They’d helped him redesign them, after all. “Rest.”

Scowling, Gortash stalked off to his quarters while Solace started attending to the security wards. They half expected him to find some way to busy himself still, but soon enough they heard his breath shift to the steady pace of sleep. Working their way around the room, Solace briefly wondered about Gortash’s paranoid caution. He had the best defenses money could buy. He was strong. He slept alone. But remembering the deep sleep of humans, Solace could appreciate their ally’s fears. Solace had private quarters at the temple, but there was no such thing as security in a hive of assassins; if they slept as humans did, they’d likely have been killed long ago.

Solace’s mind drifted into fantasy. How pleasant it would be, to slaughter would-be assassins of Gortash in his own office.

Once they finished setting up the wards, Solace curled up on the couch. An extra security measure in return for his trouble. They went into their trance.

***

Gortash awoke. He was comfortable, sprawled on the finest sheets, the least-utilized piece of his luxuries. He was better rested than he’d been in months.

Gods, what was the time? Gortash cursed and slowly rose, mustering the will to move with urgency. His office had an alarm clock of sorts, designed to go off when the sun rose. But despite his windowless sleeping quarters, Gortash felt that the sun must have been up for several hours at least. Damned Bhaalspawn. They must’ve switched it off, in their commitment to sabotaging his daily routine.

Gortash threw on his coat and opened the door, only to find Solace at his desk. He wasn’t quite awake enough to be eloquent with his words.

“The hells?”

“Ah, you’re awake.” Solace put down some papers and looked up at him. “Good. I’m running out of the business of yours that I know how to do.”

“What in Bane’s name”— Gortash snatched up the papers on top of the desk, only to find evidence of his morning duties almost fully complete. Finalizing of supply orders and inventory, condensing of intelligence reports for future appointments, identifying the day’s most urgent tasks, suggesting amendments to his schedule—all in Solace’s handwriting, but it could’ve been Gortash’s mind. He started at them, dumbfounded.

“Why are you so surprised? I’ve seen you do this time and time again. You talked it through with me at least once.” Solace took the papers back and stacked them neatly. “Though now I know you only needed my help because you were mad from lack of sleep. Don’t waste energy torturing yourself. You have more important things to do.”

Gortash ought to end the alliance then and there. Or punish them, at the very least. They had no right to challenge him as they did, much less to take on his work themselves. But his heart wasn’t in it. Though Gortash had lost hours of his day, his mind was clear, his thoughts calm.

Solace crossed a line. But they’d helped him. And seeing Solace’s disheveled hair and the dried blood on their hands, Gortash knew they’d taken their trance here. They’d armed and disarmed the security and done work that wasn’t theirs to do, at the cost of spending the night on his couch. He swallowed his pride and allowed it to be eclipsed by appreciation. They could’ve left him exposed. If they really wanted, they could’ve killed him in his sleep. Instead they took up his duties.

“You did well,” he said. Solace gave a slight smile and shook their head, standing up.

“I should go back to the temple. I have work of my own.” They went for the door. “I expect you to try and get better sleep, going forward. Just don’t get soft.”

Despite himself, Gortash chuckled. “Don’t get lost.” He found himself wanting to say something else, to keep them there. But he couldn’t think of the words.

Solace left. The severed arm was still on the table, vile and elegant in the light of the late morning sun.

*

Guess I should start linking to the rest: part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

[unhingedbutpretty]

[ INTERCEPT ]: sender picks up and carries the receiver out of the room because they're angry and on the brink of engaging in a fight with someone.

"The fuck I owe you!" Nyssala spat, her voice cutting through the bustling street. She knew her debts well, and Felogyr's Fireworks wasn’t on the list. Now this little prick was demanding 2000 coins for nothing. The nerve!

Felyn rolled her eyes, exasperation clear in her expression. The drama had been nonstop since they’d reached the city. It had barely been a tenday, and they’d already been approached by a dozen different people who Nyssala allegedly “didn't owe a thing.” But this time, Nyssala seemed honest. The rage in her voice and her firm denials were a stark contrast to her usual sheepish, apologetic refusals.

Felyn’s eyes darted around; a large group of Fists accompanied by at least five Steel Watchers were on patrol just outside the building. Starting a fight with a tax-paying citizen wasn’t a good idea for a pair of drow. She sighed, stepping between Nyssala and the irate merchant. "Alright, let's sort this out. What exactly do you think she owes you for?" she asked, hoping to defuse the situation.

“This… This madwoman and her coterie of drunk hooligans started a fire that burnt out nearly half of my smoke powder stock!” The merchant's voice quivered with anger and frustration.

“We ran away as soon as we noticed the fire! We almost got caught in it ourselves. We didn’t start it!” Nyssala's voice was desperate, her eyes wide with urgency.

“I saw you with that alchemist’s fire in your hands, you filthy incendiary whore!” The merchant's accusation was venomous, his finger pointing directly at Nyssala.

“Liar!” Nyssala shouted, indignation and anger flickering in her eyes. Her fists clenched at her sides, knuckles white.

“You better pay me for your inconvenience, or else we can sort things in court!” The merchant’s threat was cold and resolute, his eyes boring into hers with a victorious grin. "Let's see whose pleas Lord Gortash will hear out."

Felyn watched as Nyssala’s hand deftly moved to her purse. As she recalled, that bag contained a variety of utility vials: grease, acid, water, and… alchemist’s fire. But no, she couldn’t be thinking about… She wouldn’t…

“Do you wanna see me with an alchemist’s fire in hand, you piece of shit?” Nyssala’s voice dripped with defiance and menace, her eyes locked on the merchant's, daring him to challenge her.

Yes, she would. Before Nyssala could act on her reckless threat, Felyn’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist in a firm, unyielding grip. Nyssala's eyes widened in surprise, but Felyn didn’t give her time to protest. With a swift, practiced motion, she hoisted Nyssala over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Nyssala squirmed and hissed in indignation, but Felyn paid her no mind. Her strides were long and purposeful, carrying them away from the bustling market and the angry merchant. Onlookers gawked, some chuckling at the bizarre sight of the petite Nyssala draped over Felyn’s shoulder like a disgruntled cat.

“Ah! Put me down!” Nyssala demanded, her voice muffled against Felyn's back.

“Not until you calm down,” Felyn replied, her tone calm and resolute, as if carrying a fuming drow through the streets was an everyday occurrence.

As they moved further from the scene, the tension in Nyssala's body began to ease, though her grumbling continued. Felyn ignored her, focusing on finding a quiet alley where they could regroup.

Finally, she ducked into a secluded side street and gently set Nyssala back on her feet. Nyssala glared at her, but there was a hint of gratitude in her eyes.

“We need to stay under the radar, remember?” Felyn said, her voice softening. “Starting a fire in the middle of the market isn’t going to help us.”

Nyssala sighed, rubbing her wrist where Felyn had grabbed her. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Thanks, I guess.”

Felyn smiled, ruffling Nyssala's hair affectionately. “Anytime. Now, let’s figure out how to blow up that place without getting caught, alright?”

Nyssala nodded, a devilish grin spreading across her face.

[amaranthsynthesis]

I love gortashs stupid fucking coat but EVERY TIME I HAVE TO DRAW THOSE SLEEVES I fume. I have yet to find a good reference and I’m so mad about it, I’ve got one for the gauntlet now and thank god but the sleeeeeeves

[archduke-enver-gortash]

found this screenshot on pinterest and uhhhhh losing it. add an “anymore” after that first sentence and if that isn’t a beginning of act 3 gortash fuming about zeke forming actual friendships with people mood i don’t know what is. man

[animentality]

The first time Gortash ever put his hand on the dark urge's waist or lower back, it's deliberate on his part, like he's trying to wave it off, to pretend he's just trying to walk past them or reach behind them for something.

And the dark urge is like a rabid dog, snarling at him for even trying it, because they're not stupid and he's not as subtle as he likes to think.

But he's got good reflexes and he backs away quickly with a stupid smile and says we're all friends here.

And the dark urge lets him live, but they're fuming about it.

Until they get home.

And then they think about it.

And then they can't stop thinking about it.

And then they'd be obsessed with that feeling, that fleeting sensation, a phantom touch that makes their skin tingle when they think about it.

And then they realize Gortash is more subtle than they thought, because maybe that was the point all along.

[rinwellisathing]

You're Awful, I Love You: Part 52

You know when you could picture your ending from the moment you started writing and you finally get to write it? Yeah that. Feels so good but so bad at the same time. Enver Gortash/Trans Male Tiefling Durge

The Mindflayer Colony fascinated Sentry. The color of the strange, pulsating walls, everything seemingly organic and alive. Ideas flashed through his mind of giving his sculptures movement or creating a space like this to display them. It was beautiful here in all of its strangeness and its wrongness. “Pay attention, boy.” Ketheric's voice snapped him out of his reverie. “If your focus isn't on dominating the brain, we're all done for.” “Uh...that brain isn't even here right now. We haven't reached it yet. Why can't I enjoy the scenery?” Sentry shot back, glaring petulantly at the old man. “We're in its lair, you arrogant...” The elf fumed, inhaling sharply through his nostrils as he tried to calm himself. “Come now, Ketheric. You'll have to forgive Mr. Ojeda, he has an artist's eye.” Gortash smirked, noting Ketheric's near outburst. “Sentry, my love, a touch more focus. Just for now.” He added, his hand slipping to Sentry's waist. “Alright, Enver. But once we've got this thing under control, I have to take a moment to sketch this place. It's phenomenal.” Sentry breathed. “Of course, my dear Executioner. But for now, just focus on that stone I gave you.” Enver's other hand clutched his own stone, a glowing purple one. Sentry nodded, producing his own red stone from his pocket. “I'm still not sure whether to add it to my halberd or make a crown of my own with it.” He mused, turning it over in his hand.

“There will be plenty of time to decide when we return to the city, dear Bhaalist.” Enver assured him, briefly pulling him close and then continuing along the winding, undulating path. Sentry nodded and followed after him. As he walked, he felt a strange tugging at his mind. 'What are you?' He frowned at the intrusion. Something was speaking to him. 'You are...transcendent.' He frowned, the bridge of his nose wrinkling as he began to look around for the source of the voice. Finding nothing, he continued along the path, hurrying to catch up with Enver. 'Such power...your pain, your anger...your will...It is intoxicating.' He shook it off, sweat beading on his forehead. The path led them deep into the bowels of the Mindflayer Colony, far beneath Moonrise. 'Your mind refuses to bend...your spirit refuses to break.' He tried to ignore it, a chill running down his spine. 'Come to me...Face me....Show yourself, godling.' The room they arrived in was cavernous, massive. The pulsating walls tinted green and grey and surrounding the slightly raised floor was a pool of acid-green liquid, bubbling and steaming. Small creatures scurried underfoot, the size of cats or small dogs, but crawling with tendrils. Pink, wrinkled meat on muscular, stubby legs. Intellect Devourers. “Well, this must be the place.” Sentry remarked as he stepped across the disconcertingly squelching floor.

“I'm not sure I care for the company.” Enver cringed, stepping back as one of the Intellect Devourers scurried past him. “Oh, but why not? I think they're sort of cute.” Sentry grinned.

Ketheric grumbled something under his breath, pushing past the two and making his way towards a raised platform near the bubbling pool. The liquid began to ripple and pulse, bubbles coming rapidly now as something began to surface, massive and imposing, larger by several measures than any of its apparent 'children' scurrying about. Cruel eyes peered down at the trio as Enver and Sentry joined Ketheric in its presence. 'You....' 'You're the one who's been speaking to me down here?' Sentry thought back to the creature. 'Yes. You seek to crown me, to make me a god....' 'I...yeah...that was the plan, yeah...' 'I accept, godling. Together, you and I will rule this world...' 'Wait, easily as that?' Sentry was vaguely aware his eyes were widening in shock at the idea. 'You are peerless, you are powerful....You can succeed...' Sentry bit his lip a moment, looking from Ketheric to Enver. This could be a trick. The Elder Brain could see into his mind, that was clear enough, what if it viewed him as the cult had when he was young. What if it saw the breeding cage, his trembling, exposed body quivering in the dark. No. If that was the case, he would be a puppet or dashed against the walls by one of those massive squidlike appendages. He had to try. “Give me the crown.” He said, perhaps more bluntly than he intended. Enver gave a small laugh. “Dear Sentry, the plan was that I would crown the brain, after all, I've been holding the crown all this time, we agreed it was safest with me. I know how to use it.” “I wasn't asking.” Sentry drew himself up to his full height, standing at least half a head higher than his lover. “Let me do this. It has to be me.” He held out his hand to receive the crown. Enver's face began in an expression of shock, then a moment of indignation, then the look of pure worship Sentry had seen countless times when they'd been alone together, slicked with sweat, blood, and more.

“You call me your equal, you say we'll rule together, so let me do this.” Sentry repeated, expression set in a look of determination. Enver placed the crown in his hand, fingers brushing against Sentry's for just a moment longer than necessary, and he stepped back. Sentry turned to face the brain, looking up at it. The being floated closer, hovering lower and tilting forward as though kneeling to accept the crown. The Tiefling gazed in awe at this impossibly huge, otherworldly being, bowing in submission before him. His breath caught in his chest as he approached, willing his arms not to tremble as he placed the crown atop the creature, the stone in his pocket heating up and beginning to glow as he did, Ketheric and Gortash both startling as their stones reacted similarly. 'It is done, godling. I am Absolute....Together, we will rule.' The brain intoned inside Sentry's mind. The young man half wondered how this had looked to his companions, he assumed it spoke only in his mind, at least presently. But he shook away that worry. Who cared if he looked completely insane, he had solidified their plans, he had crowned the brain. An ecstatic grin crossed his face, eyes wide and manic with excitement. He had thrown everything he was, everything that was expected of him, in their faces. Sarevok, Jackal, the hanging corpses in the sculpture garden's entry way. He was Chosen. He was Absolute. As he had planned, Sentry took some time to himself after crowning the brain. He wandered the colony with his satchel, looking around for the perfect place to begin sketching. Finally, he found a room that seemed fairly empty. He liked the way the walls seemed to twist in odd ways, like nerves and blood vessels wrapping around eachother. He sat down and produced his sketchbook and some charcoal from his satchel, whistling a tune to himself and smiling serenely as he began to work. A pair of strong, calloused hands rested on his shoulders some time later, it might have been hours as several pages were full of scene studies, he wasn't certain. But he laid down his materials and gently squeezed one of the hands, blushing a bit. “You've been down here a while, I was afraid something had happened to you.” Enver's voice purred sensually above him. “You know how I get carried away with my work.” Sentry chuckled.

“So the plan is in motion now, you've done it, my love. Dominated the brain, birthed The Absolute...” Enver continued, letting go of Sentry's shoulders and walking around to kneel on the ground with him, a hand coming to rest on his cheek, pulling him into a deep, longing kiss. Sentry relaxed, eyes closed gently, returning the kiss hungrily, arms sliding around his lover's shoulders. And then...pain....Agony through his skull as though his brain were tearing apart. His eyes flew open and met dark, black eyes. No hint of emerald to them. The face Orin could never get right. Again, Sentry was back in his breeding cage, panic setting in, the fear he hadn't felt beyond simple nightmares since he was a child. He was vaguely aware of warm, sticky blood oozing down his neck and face as Orin gave the stiletto another twist, Sentry's eye twitching as another hole lacerated his brain. The last thing he was aware of was that face, shifting from a pale imitation of Enver to the marbled flesh and white eyes of Orin, the only thing that remained, was constant flow of tears, and the wide disbelief in the eyes as Sentry's world went dark.

Intermittent flashes plagued him after that. Laid out on an operating table or propped up on a slab on some kind. His body in agony, his mind screaming, trying desperately to find focus. Something crawling in his brain. Rotting. Maggots, it must be. He was dead. He was rotting. He was in pain. He was like one of his own statues back in the sculpture garden. A thousand images flashed through his mind. A handsome dark haired man. The Temple of Ilmater. A handsome dark haired man. Blood, so much blood. Slaughter. The streets running red. A handsome dark haired man. Light...A hand reaching for him, thin wrinkled fingers, the skin papery with age, but warm and a soft, familiar shade of brown. The fingers closed around his hand and pulled him to his feet, the world around them shifting white and grey, empty as a blank canvas. Warm golden eyes gazed into his and the scent of honey and freshly made fry bread filled his nostrils. The memory of standing by her side, shaping the little balls of dough and passing them into these same hands to be tossed into the bubbling oil. Her long iron grey hair framed her angelic face and her full, beautiful lips curved naturally upward into a kind, loving smile.

“Time to wake up, mijo” The woman kissed him on the forehead. Sentry's eyes snapped open and he gasped heavily, eyes wide in terror as he stumbled from the broken pod, collapsing to his knees, gazing around warily. Where was he? Who was he? What had happened? Sentry Ojeda. You are Sentry Ojeda. It doesn't matter what happened, you are in danger and you need to move. His mind told him. “Are you alright?” A soft voice asked as a blue-grey hand reached down to him gently. Sentry took the hand and was brought to his feet, finding himself standing taller than his rescuer, a rather short tiefling girl with glowing blue eyes and long pale blonde hair. “Yeah...thanks...My name is Sentry Ojeda...”