#banedictus

[darkgifted]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐙𝐄𝐒 is that she is not cold. regardless of how close to the fire she slept, regardless of how many blankets were wrapped around slight frame, the chill of the shadows seems to sink beneath her skin and wrap around her bones. it's a relief to leave those lands behind for the relative comfort of rivington and when she slowly rises to her feet, too lazy to suppress a yawn, her gaze drifts towards the looming towers of the city cloaked in stars. in doing so, sharp gaze also picks up on movement towards the far corner of their camp and a tent purposefully chosen to ensure some measure of isolation.

❛ isn't awfully late to still be up scheming? or too early, really, depending on how you care to look at it. ❜ the usual bite accompanying her words is absent, tempered by another brief yawn. he seems wide awake, gortash, possessing the sort of energy that leads her to believe sleep hadn't been pursued in the first place. something cutting begins to form behind her teeth, syllables molding into place effortlessly, but she swallows it with a sigh. no use in starting the day off with a battle before the sun's even risen. ❛ get some sleep. we're close to the city and you'll wish you had rested with the pace we need to keep. ❜

her eyes trace along the items meticulously organized in and around his tent, metal catching the pale moonlight. ❛ whatever you're working on, ❜ her arms fold over her chest, fingers absently tugging at the ends of messied hair. she isn't certain she cares to know. ❛ surely it can wait until dawn. ❜ @banedictus

[beregosts]

❝  whether you come as a lover or an executioner, i am ready to receive you.  ❞ / hi. the post-game year.

"well, forgive me for failing to make an appointment in advance." a brow arches before the iron door has slammed shut behind her, the creak of ancient hinges now familiar to her. "i was under the impression your schedule was quite open for the next, hm, ten months, isn't it?"

it should startle her, how unchanged he looks these past few months. most men would've crumbled beneath the weight of such a loss, would've shattered after seeing such carefully crafted plans come undone, but enver gortash has never been most men.

"i hope you won't be disappointed to hear i've come on matters decidedly more mundane than either of those options." arlis settles into one of the chairs adorning the cramped room and immediately her gloves are plucked off, delicate fingers all but twitching with relief to be free of them. she doubts she'll ever become fully accustomed to them as she places them in the small bag at her side. "besides, it's been an awful lot of work keeping you alive, in case you've forgotten."

for a moment, she thinks she spies something akin to bemusement in his dark eyes. the gilded clothing is long gone, the adoring gazes once cast in his direction now turned to scorn and loathing, but he still carries himself with a certainty that arlis has only recently begun to mirror in herself. lord or not, before the nobility of the city or before her alone in a room barely a step above a cell, that air of authority hasn't changed.

"we both know nothing involving me airs towards the mundane, arlis." a shadow of a smile appears on his lips. he isn't wrong, though her gaze shifts southward, to the true reason for her visit.

"no, that'd be far too easy." she sighs and shifts, jaw working silently before she continues. "i've come to let you know that you won't be made to wear one of those collars again, the ones crafted for the gondians. the few that still remain are to be destroyed within the week."

there is a flash of genuine surprise on his features, though it quickly changes to curiosity. "and is this your doing? you managed to convince the patriars to abandon such a suitable instrument of punishment?"

"it's simple politics, enver." her arms fold over her chest, though her response lacks any true bite. "a public remark or two about being better than our would be oppressors, a thoughtful statement in the gazette about how too many of my fellow baldurians were choked by the force of the absolute, little things here and there. suddenly, it seems in poor taste to put one of them on even baldur's gate's most hated man."

arlis stands, words sharper, firmer. "they're hideous, those things. the city'll be better for their destruction. no one should be forced to wear them." there's a pause when her gaze finds his. "not even you."

as she draws nearer, she can detect the tell-tale sign from just along the edge of his shirt, against the arch of where his neck meets the broad curve of his shoulder. a hand extends slowly, cautiously, and arlis ignores the brief flicker of disdain that's kindled in enver's eyes when she moves rough linen aside.

they're ugly marks, cutting deep into irritated skin rubbed raw against sharp spikes and too-tight steel. they were crafted for smaller necks, after all. her lips purse into a thin line as her gaze traces over them. it's worse than she had anticipated.

worse yet is the recognition, the profound understanding, that he deserves this and far worse. it sits uncomfortably within arlis as she reaches into her bag.

"hold still." her fingers dip into a small jar, the scent of herbs immediately filling the meagre room. enver flinches when they come to rest against his neck, but she doesn't try to guess whether from discomfort or something else. she repeats herself. "hold still. it'll scar if it isn't tended to."

it's a simple balm but one crafted carefully. it'd been too great of a risk for even the savior of baldur's gate to try and smuggle in something possessing real magic, anything capable of healing beyond what might be purchased at an apothecary. even this is a risk, but one she finds is worth taking.

her fingertips gently press the salve along the rough edges of the gashes and bruises painting his neck, his skin warm beneath them. she can feel muscle against the line of his collarbone, knows it would only strength were she to follow it along his shoulder and arm. enver doesn't move, even though she does not doubt the salve's harsh sting. "do you feel differently about those collars, enver?" she reaches for more, her words as slow and thoughtful as her work. "now that your neck knows their weight?"

he doesn't reply. she isn't certain she wants to know the answer, but she thinks there is some answer to be discerned from his silence. her thumb glides upwards and comes to rest over his pulse. it's steady, even. it betrays nothing. how strange that she should be so very near his throat without the intention of wounding it, but rather to tend to it. stranger still, arlis finds it doesn't frighten like once it would have.

her fingers move once more of their own accord, brushing over the stubble lining his jaw and into ebony hair. for the briefest moment, only half of a breath, she thinks he leans into her touch.

that, somehow, is too much and arlis immediately withdraws her hand. "hide this. apply it every other night so no one notices it's working," she sets the jar next to him, hurriedly reaching for her gloves. she's at the doorway in a few steps, final words quick and quiet before she knocks for the guards. "and don't make me regret it, enver."

[dreadgrace-a]

@banedicti requested a meeting;

she listens as lord enver lays his proposal at her feet. another offering to Father, the lord's newly minted position ever more secure - a refusal is the furthest thing from her mind.

but he bores her near to death with the details. that she cannot stand. lark raises a finger in the midst of enver's speech to fill two waiting goblets with the reserve she'd requested. ❛ you do not need to convince me. ❜ the heft of his payment half-accomplished that on its own. the rest - well. call it admiration. she smiles at him over the lip of an already-half emptied glass. ❛ consider the deed done. and- ❜ abandoning her wine, lark pads to the doorway, pauses, and returns to the table, patting it, before returning to the exit. ❛ you'll need this. ❜

enver takes the vial she leaves behind gingerly, frowning at the antidote for a moment - then catches up. ❛  is this supposed to scare me?  ❜

she turns to peer back at him from the doorway, eyes glinting hungrily in the dimmed hallway. ❛ what it's 'supposed' to do is your choice, my lord.❜ she taps the frame of the door once, thrice, her grin blossoming. ❛ we shall meet again soon. ❜ then she is gone as she came, a shadow lost to daylight. enver's fate is his own.

[lordsrot]

@banedictus ❝clever. you were testing me, weren’t you?❞

As a stranger in these planes, flourishing with new matters of creatures, magics and GODS by which he’s never seen nor heard of before--- it was important to achieve his baring's. Both in surroundings and the people in it. Any means to find the possible answers he seeks for his affliction. Perhaps even more than a mere cure to be uncovered. Yet, he’d be ever the fool to blindly seek the audience of any mortal. People were fools, cowards, far too quick to bite at an unfamiliar hand. Especially one the likes of his own. There was a need for reputation. And Gortash merely happened to be one of those to catch his flaming eye. His name was whispered among the people; genius, strategic, informed, damnable. The very traits in a person the corpse blood would speak with. 

And it was worth the effort of worming his way into the man’s company and forcing an unseen hand at his schedule. Time was made, allowing for a more formal conversation to be held, and privately at that. Gortash proved very much to be the man that he was rumored as. Agravaine watched as reignition washed over the younger's features. Wits were quick about him too, this one.

"Clever? Or simply thorough? You question my methods as though you have not done similarly. People are best measured by such tests. Their valuation, their knowledge, and their ability to react and adapt. All things worth knowing about a person before your time and resources are wasted." He lectured, head canting as he watched Gortash from where he sat. There was a near smile in his words that the bleak and expressionless mask he donned did not convey, "You passed. I believe we could prove useful to one another, if willing."

[gloomedhands]

@banedictus ‘you think that it’s yours. that it’s owed to you.’

They were prone to quarrel over their differences. Dakara and Enver couldn’t always see eye to eye ( and where was the fun in it if they had— ) . Not all partnerships as fair and curious as theirs could be glittering gold at every waking moment. Sometimes it lost its shine. Awaiting to be polished once more. That was the reality to any successful alliance. Transactional or otherwise. Though the topic at hand had strayed away from the manner of duties and whatnot. Dipping into a toe too many into more personal affairs. 

Enver's words had never probed him so thoroughly before. Rather, they hadn't roused the drow in such a manner as they did now, finding them easy to brush off shortly after. A weakened space upon his iron-like demeanor remained, where the flesh was not yet hardened enough to withstand the plunge of a blade. Slipping perfectly in to puncture his nerves.

"Because it is mine." The gloomed ranger hissed lowly, the influx of his words pairing with the tight furrow of ashen brows as his expression twisted. Just as quickly it dulled. Swift to take control back over the tone of his voice. Still it lingered in every word, flickered in those pale divergent eyes. "All that I have is mine. I played my parts, filthied my hands for cowards, earned my worth, and gained the weight that my name carries. All on my own. I started off with nothing. I was nothing. Leashed by empty promises and fueled by lies for YEARS. A mutt begging at an empty bowl. They kept it starved. So it was happy with the scraps it was tossed."

“Not anymore. Not ever again.”

The hand who once fed the ranger is left a mystery between them. Only hand that mattered now was his own. He would never allow himself to hunger again. And that was all his companion need know. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Throat cleared as his demeanor straightened, booted heels carrying him a few, slow strides closer. Heavy palm clasping ‘pon the younger man’s shoulder. Squeezing firmly as he spoke, lips curled in that familiar smirk, "So yes, my dear Enver, do pardon me for being so… audacious. I do believe I am OWED many things from this fucking city and the filth that crawls about it like an infestation. After a damned century— longer, I think I've done more than enough to earn my own entitlement. To make the demands I do." 

"Don't you ever feel the very same?” He inquired softly, studying Gortash’s features as he continued, hand carefully moving to grasp gently at his neck. Calloused pad of his thumb brushing along the other’s jaw. “That you're owed every once in awhile? After working so hard to be where you are now. Respect, authority… Be honest."

[darkgifted]

𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐒𝐎 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐅 that had she blinked it'd have been missed altogether, gortash is somewhere else. she sees it in the glint of dark eyes, in the way his breath seems to dwell for just a pause longer in heis chest, though whatever is mirrored behind them is too hazy to discern. wherever, whenever, it may be, arlis knows without knowing that it is not a place she ever cares to see. for all her curiosity, she only feels cold, dark dread to consider the murky haze of where enver gortash has come from. he has not been molded by gentle hands.

❛ parts, ❜ she repeats softly, slowly, and the word tastes the same on her tongue as the air in moonrise. it's earthen, thick and warm, hints at endless use beyond that final stillness. it sickens her in its familiarity. arlis thinks that perhaps he and thorm were not so different despite the gods they were so eager to kneel before. for ketheric thorm, death an altar; for enver gortash, death a distraction. but to both? death as holding infinite promise, impossible utility.

❛ you told me at moonrise that i didn't have the heart to be like you. you're right. i don't, i can't. i know what my choice will always be because it isn't a choice, not to me. ❜ she'd been drowning in doubt when last they'd met, head barely above churning, hungry waters. those waters have stilled now, aged into something firm and unyielding; fear replaced by purpose. her next words are unwavering, quiet. ❛ but my heart is stronger than you think, enver. you may underestimate it and you may mock it, but you do so at your own peril. it'll surprise you, if you're not careful. ❜

both hands lift, scarred palms outward as if in apology. ❛ of course, i'd forgotten the rules are different for you. you may root around inside all of us, cutting and tearing until you find something that suits your fancy, but that right only extends one way. consider caution noted. ❜

it takes him every ounce of self - control to not rise at the jab ⸻ actually, no, it isn't a jab; it doesn't feel like one. It must sound like an insult, certainly, to Arlis' ears, but for Enver, it's the absolute opposite. It's many things but it all coalesces into a reminder of what he is and where he came from, of the screams and wails he left behind during a mad dash towards his opportunity to escape the Hells all those decades ago. Truly, he crawled within them at first, and then out of them, with teenage cunning and scarred hands. [ A soft echo rings in the back of his mind. It's Hope. She's screaming at him to run and stop all at once. ]

the memory barely has any time to stay, because Arlis digs up yet another sin: the Mind - Archive interface. It's monstrous to her. It'd be to anyone with a heart like hers. [ It is monstrous. It's terrifying. There are more deaths on Balthazar's rotten hands than on Gortash's, but the point remains: it takes a special kind of self - control to recognize practicality and potential over humanity. ] Is that all we are to you? Parts?

well, of course. What else is the world now if not a functioning system, a living machine? It may sputter and malfunction on occasion, its gears may become stuck more often than not, but it follows a pattern in the end. A rhythm. And Enver is a part of it as much as Arlis is. The sooner she understands, the better.

“ They were parts. ” he is somber. he is deaf to her plea, much as he hears it; much as she wants to wring compassion out of him, he bleeds none of it. “ Whether you prove to be the same or better than that, it is solely up to you. It'll be your choice. ”

and then, a warning. “ Arlis, you're reaching somewhere I would only describe as ... murky. I suggest caution. My insides are not and will never be a lock you're meant to pick. ”

[instatera]

* banedictus ! ❛ i can’t change who i am. ❜

" bullshit. " form spins to face him, nostrils flaring. the curse is .. out of place on her tongue, but the scoff that follows is all too familiar. " anyone can break their chains to fate. i used to think the same as you, but i've realized that destiny is a tale fabricated by those who wish to control us. you can be whoever you want to be, if you have the will to do so. " gaze raises to catch enver's, arms crossing over her chest. " i've been a servant to expectations placed upon me for hundreds of years. that is my burden to carry, my sorrow to sew. " form softens as she wills herself to untense and sigh softly. " but you will not break your chains, this i know all too well. you're set in your decisions. " eyes flicker with sympathy, for she feels the ache even for him. it is her way. " and for that i am sorry. i've seen your past, and i'm sure if searched for it i could find your future. it is not my place to interfere in this instance but.. i can offer some advice. " hands drop to her waist, where they remain as she picks at her fingernails. " this road you continue to take, it will not end anywhere good. " a pause as she mulls the thought over. " but maybe you know that. you don't seem a fool to me. you've gotten yourself this far, and that's no easy journey. you've burned many bridges, i've heard. " a brow raises. " i doubt you want my compassion, but i offer it nonetheless. do as you wish, but don't lie to yourself. you're here because you want to be, not because you can't change the outcome. "

[firstpriestess]

#FIRSTPRIESTESS : a highly selective, private portrayal of SOS'UMPTU BAENRE of r.a. salvatore's drizzt series and dungeons & dragons 5e. marginally influenced by baldur's gate iii.; mostly headcanon based. sideblog; all follows will come from @n1ghtwarden. woven by claire ( 26 / they/them / canuck ).

entwined with: @meetsorcery, @ascendead, @shadowsfell

A STUDY IN: eating your young, the horrors of blind faith, becoming the snake in the grass, blind ambition, worship as a weapon, refusing to be overlooked, the bonds and blood that binds, the violence of sibling relationships, you have always been the wolf in sheep's clothing, the entirety of brutus by the buttress, and prevailing - even if all that is left to you is ash and bone.

[thepalelfe]

* @banedictus ! continued from here.

astarion felt no particular way about enver gortash, and that was simply it. a temporary alliance fit to save their group effort and time where it was necessary, but to say he trusted him was of course, another deal entirely. when day broke and their new addition still held onto his head and various other limbs, the spawn makes a haughty remark that he doesn't expect a truthful response to, but finds amusement in nonetheless. astarion tsk's, " it is a real shame, i was hoping for a gorey spectacle. how disappointing. " the spawn guffaws, then graciously rolls his eyes. " gods who gives a shit about any of that, i'm more intrigued to see where exactly this is going to take us. wasting a good arrow or blade on you would be .. fruitless. besides, i'm sure if you put a toe out of line someone would be happy to remedy your existence in this camp. " a cheeky vampiric grin. " cheer up, you've never been in better company, assured! "

[darkgifted]

❛ Love doesn’t keep us from freezing to death, or starving, or being killed for what’s in our pockets. Love doesn’t buy us anything, so be glad for what you have and who you have because you may want for things but you need nothing. ❜

𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘, 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 a lecture from him would instinctively coax venom to her tongue, his unwavering sense of superiority neither requested nor appreciated. however, sharp retort is stayed out of both surprise and curiosity with each unexpected word after unexpected word. arlis does not, however, rise from one of the only slightly musty chaises adorning the center of the room, instead offering up an arched brow while arms cross behind her head.

❛ i wasn't aware you'd been taking note of my private life. ❜ there is a strong emphasis added. his time amongst their camp, and certainly within the tighter quarters still of the tavern, has allowed him glimpse into what she's never attempted to hide, but it's different to hear him speak of it aloud, to confirm his knowledge of where and in whom her affections are found. her voice is quieter now. ❛ and i'm more than glad for who i have. i'm grateful in ways you can't even fathom for him. save your sermon.❜

her head cants to the side as she slowly sits up, tongue tapping against her teeth. ❛ i'll admit, i hadn't expected you to take a stance on love, bitter as it is. matters of the heart never really seemed your sort of interest, enver. i always was under the impression they were beneath you. ❜ arlis studies him now with intensity of gaze that he normally reserves for her; perceiving, dissecting.

a sudden blink of dark eyes, the briefest furrow of her brow. ❛ someone loved you once, didn't they? they offered you something that wasn't fleeting, more than just want or desire. did they offer you something true? ❜ once, long ago and only for the briefest of moments, she might've felt something more for him but it was never any shade of love. he'd always felt incapable of both receiving and giving something so painfully, hideously human, enver gortash, and to consider him in so new and alien a light startles her.

was there ever a gap in that armor, something unguarded and ungilded? soft enough to bruise at gentle touch?

❛ no-, no. that isn't it. i think that might only amuse you, being loved, or perhaps it'd only bore you. ❜ arlis stands now and each word is gentle despite certainty. ❛ oh, but you loved someone, didn't you? that's why you speak the way you do. you loved someone, enver, or alt least you felt the closest thing to love that you cobbled together from the bits and pieces you had. you gave what you could. ❜

another realization, another understanding as she takes a step closer. ❛ but they aren't here. for all your talk of ruling, there's never been mention of another throne to rest beside your own. all that power, all that domination you so dream of, and you've no one to share it with. when it all ends, it'll just be you.❜

he thinks her heart a weakness, a distraction. is that animosity because he had once entertained his own and learned how ardently it could ache? ❛ i'm sorry that they're gone, enver, whoever they were, ❜ a hand lifts of its own accord and for the briefest moment, fingers trail feather-light over the arch of his cheekbone. ❛ and i'm so sorry that your's will be a very lonely kingdom. ❜

[murdershaped]

@banedictus | asked: ❝  i am surprised to see you so plain after such boasting.  ❞

Her brow furrowed at the lordling's BLATANT DISMISSIVENESS of them, the true chosen of Bhaal. Its sibling ( which his iron fist had oh so masterfully sunk his hooks into every inch of flesh ) had given a POOR IMAGE of what Orin ought to be. Gortash wanted them, he wanted to raise a hand and every limb of Orin's now mind mangled sibling would appear, TRIPPING AND FALLING over itself to obey his command. The cult of Bhaal was a few steps away from total collapse because of how entangled their ligaments and entrails had become. The Grand Design had become a race to see whose ego would become so swollen with puss and blood that it would burst and cover ALL AROUND with their juices and rotten failure.

" Would you prefer me to grovel before you, rub my nose in the dirt to be that who was leading us ALL TO SURE DOOM ??? " Orin asked pointedly before her skin was no longer pale, its eyes had clear pupils and irises, and she was the FALSE, MAGGOT RIDDEN CHOSEN which Gortash had coveted so. " It is gone, there will be none of the BLIND OBEDIENCE you instilled into my husk of a slaughterkin. When you raise your hand, I will not come running as a carcass whose head had just been CHOPPED OFF. With such MANIA AND DESPERATION for your approval, no. So if that does make me OH SO PLAIN in your eyes so be it. "

[beregosts]

[ lips ] sender caresses receiver's lips with their fingertip.

their truce has been extended since that night in rivington. the mutual decision, their shared effort, has never been voiced aloud or so much as acknowledged, but arlis does not doubt that this stalemate is felt. her attention is divided so many ways already, split and scattered and demanded until there is nothing left in reserve, that she's grateful for it.

things are simpler when they're not at each other's throats, both figuratively and literally in that way only they can manage.

it's become something of a routine, their conversations in the early hours of the morning when most of her companions have yet to stir. his mind keeps him from his rest, her body from her own. tonight, they've lapsed into a shared, comfortable silence before the inn's hearth. tonight, it's easy enough that it almost reminds her of all those years ago, all those nights spent plotting in his office over the affairs of the lower city, this gang and that guild and some alley. it all seems so painfully insignificant now that the world will be shaped by one of them.

but not both, never both. there is no ending in which they endure together. worlds are not meant to be shared: it will only be one of them at the end.

she's pulled from her somber thoughts by the recognition that enver is staring very intently at her, dark gaze gleaming against the dying fire before them. she leans forward to stir the embers before arching a brow.

"something on your mind?"

he huffs a breath somewhere between amusement and annoyance in response, but his gaze does not shift. her other brow arches as she adjusts the blanket over her lap.

"you're peering, enver."

his hand lifts unexpectedly and moves towards her cheek. she thinks of moonrise, of the chill of that terrible gauntlet against her skin, but this time his fingers pause just they reach her. once the initial confusion passes, arlis realizes he is asking for permission. (another recognition, she did not flinch. not this time.)

slowly, cautiously, she leans forward into his outstretched palm. he looks her over in the dying firelight, tracing each of her features carefully with his gaze, but there is something different in his eyes than at the towers. she had felt a bruised sum of tattered parts then, frayed and lacking. it had been easy to recognize the cruel bemusement, that harsh curiosity when he'd taken in the dark shadows beneath her eyes and the pallor of her skin. now? she isn't certain what she senses in him now, except he touches her with a care she hadn't thought him capable of.

"it's gone from you, all that shadow. not even a trace left." his voice is a murmur. she thinks she detects the faint sheen of admiration. "death didn't suit you, arlis."

but his hand does not retreat from her, nor does she retreat from his hand.

they're still and they are close enough now that she can smell the leather and oak imbuing his clothes, the warmth of coriander intermingled. she is afraid to breathe, afraid to move lest this strange, delicate thing shared between them be shattered. after all, it occurs to arlis that she does not want it to end.

finally, enver's thumb travels feather-light down the slope of her cheek to the corner of her mouth. she can feel the callouses lining his thumb, rough against delicate lip, but then he moves it so carefully, so gently that her breath hitches in her throat. her eyes flutter shut and she leans forward into his touch. she had always known him to be capable of precision, but this? this is tenderness and tenderness requires more.

his thumb falters, all but trembles when he reaches the bow of her lips, however, and her eyes open once more. for the first time she can remember, he looks uncertain. has his hand forgotten what gentleness feels like, must it relearn after all that cruelty? has it atrophied after all this time, the reflex to touch another kindly?

her fingers lift to reach softly around his wrist not to hold him in place, but rather to steady him, to serve as an anchor. it serves as more than permission. it's offered as a request.

their gazes lock and enver exhales harshly. one final moment's pause, one last chance for them both to turn from what can only spell disaster, abandon this portent that has her pulse quicken behind the cage of her ribs, but then his thumb moves once more and her grip remains.

no matter, some distant part of her thinks, they've both always had a particular talent for escaping fate.

[dreadgrace-a]

‘you might have fooled the others. you haven’t fooled me.’

she'd not expected this meeting to go any other way. Enver had clawed and manipulated his way to power; to discover the summit had dulled him would have only inspired disappointment. Lark grants him a smile, an expression of edge she knows he expects; they are far too alike for anything resembling true affection to take root.

his the jackboot.

hers the off-hand blade one paid no mind to until it had opened the throat.

‘no,’ the word a sigh released in the same breath as her false form. patriar's features dissipate into her own, into a form almost too long for the chair she has yet to relinquish. ‘you, I never expected to fool.’ her smile remains; something else creeps forward to brighten it, an impersonal source of warmth, an ancient, oily hate, suffusing the room. ‘hello, Enver.’

@banedictus -> inbox clearout.

[firstpriestess]

@banedictus (tucks hair behind my ear) ha ha what if we were tyrants together ha ha

[darkgifted]

[ hand kiss ]  –  for the sender’s muse to kiss the back of the receiver’s hand.

"don't."

a hand lifts in warning the moment he comes into view. the goal had been to hide herself away outside the tavern, tucked into the shadows of the alley until some balance had been restored, until she'd felt like herself again and brought the words swirling in her mind to a halt. naturally, it would be enver fucking gortash to disrupt even the most private of her plans.

"i don't want any sort of assessment," arlis' hand remains lifted, each word enunciated through gritted teeth. she hopes its faint tremble is not evident. "and i certainly don't want a conversation. not now."

it had been an accident as much as it had been an impulse. there'd been so many bhaalists all at once, hidden away amidst the calm and quiet of the park. it had been the perfect place for them to strike, to ambush, in retrospect. where else might someone lower their guard within the lower city but amongst neatly kept paths, amidst the gentle trickle of fountains?

she blinks and swallows hard against the earth still lodged in her throat, the dust coating her tongue. his dark gaze is assessing, very nearly curious, though it lacks its the ruthless gleam she's become accustomed to. he takes another step forward and arlis repeats herself, both a warning and an order now. "i mean it, enver. there's a reason i'm not with the others. i need-, i need space."

it's hungry still, that thing inside of her. it had been insatiable when first untethered in the park, furious and rabid, and to think how closely it had ebbed towards the others once done with the bhaalists feels her with dread. she hadn't been in control. it'd been reckless, dangerous. (had it been the same way for thorm? had it been exhausting, keep that maw leashed? had it thrilled him like it did her, the surge of all that power after so very long with none?)

"your god doesn't worry me," gortash waves a hand dismissively and is closer yet, too close, "your's and mine have decided to tolerate each other for the time being, in case you've forgotten."

"he's not my god," her gaze flicks up and there's a sharp twitch of her fingers, the beginning of a call she refuses to answer. arlis clenches her hand into a fist, "and i'm not thorm. i'm not... practiced at this, not the way he was."

"regardless, it's clear you have at least some of what power he did. you'll need to learn how to master it, lest it master you." gortash takes her hand, ignores the faint flinch it coaxes from her, and carefully, gently moves her fingers from digging into the tender flesh of her palm. his fingers wrap around her own to steady their trembling.

her gaze follows his, down to the dark bruises mottling her knuckles and trailing to her wrist. if arlis looks close enough, long enough, a part of her knows she will see them move, shift, darken further still.

gortash traces his thumb over the back of her hand slowly, almost tauntingly. "see? i've hardly succumbed." he turns her hand and allows a finger to brush over the lines of her palm, against the ebbing shadow at its heart. his next words are softer. "power isn't something to fear, arlis, not when you're the one wielding it."

then, without so much as a warning, gortash lifts her hand and presses his lips to its back. the tenderness of it startles her, disarms her, but to her own surprise, there is no attempt to withdraw her hand. if anything, she thinks she does not want it to end, this warmth that cuts through the chill wrapped around her bones.

this realization should frighten her, but she finds she does not want to fight against it.

"don't let the others in your party convince you otherwise," he releases her hand and yet again, still, there is no cruelty in his words, no cutting edge or disregard, "you can only control something if you understand it."

there is something new in his gaze, equally as bright but not nearly as dark. it looks like respect. "who knows, perhaps you'll surprise us all and be even stronger than our dearly departed ketheric by the end."

[beregosts]

there are no monsters in these shadows. only me.

he offers it to her as a warning, a reminder in a low tone that cuts through the quiet of the city like a knife. they both know why he says it and once, it would've had her pause, but the softer parts of her have long since hardened. "enough," her gaze turns from the distant harbor and the mist lapping against the outlines of ships, voice sharp, "that won't work, enver, not anymore."

he will never allow her the satisfaction of surprise, but the slight arch of his brow invites a challenge.

a bitter roll of dark eyes follows. "i know how diligently you've worked to master cruelty, enver, you've hardly made a secret of it. i know full well that there aren't any monsters hidden out of sight, tucked away in the dark, there's only you and woe to anyone who might stand in your way." emotion bleeds into her next words and arlis hates it, hates the anger that seeps from her tongue because it's another victory for him, yet another tally in his favor, but she's too exhausted to try and cauterize all the many wounds raw beneath her skin. "do they bring you pride, all those titles you've amassed? it's becoming rather difficult to keep up with them all."

each word is punctuated with venom as she turns to him, steps closer, "the dreadmaster. bane's chosen. the black hand." instinctively, reflexively, the last title to fall from her lips provokes a hard shove against his chest. "lord enver gortash." another shove, messied and clumsy, is absorbed by his muscled chest. "they'd have frightened me once those names. you frightened me once, but not anymore."

all the horror that has stained her to the core, all the grime and gore and suffering that can never be washed out, cannot be forgotten, has coalesced into a single point, a single form before her. "do you know why that is?" arlis moves to push him again only to have her fingers falter a hair's breath from his coat. her fingers flex, lost, only to rest gently over his heart. she swallows hard. "because i know where you came from. i know you by another name now. how long has it been since anyone used it, enver flymm?"

the name is cradled in her mouth with care, with the gentleness she now knows was never offered to him. not within the city, not within that far worse place. "i've seen him, enver, and i can't go back from that. he was a child that deserved to be loved, protected, that deserved to have dreams and hopes and you didn't get any of that, enver, and i'm so sorry."

she'd mourned that boy once before, in the shadow of his parent's home, but he hadn't even been allowed the dignity of becoming a ghost. instead, he'd been dragged away far from the sun, far from that little perch overlooking the harbor. "does it frighten you that i know so many of the little gaps in your armor? does it frighten you that i'll tear open all those old scars the way you would, were our places reversed?"

she meets his gaze and lifts her hands to either side of his face carefully, slowly the way one might approach a wounded animal; palms ever outward. "but i won't, enver, because i'm not you." she considers the delicate, almost invisible scars adorning his face. how many were given by hands that should have shielded him? her thumb dips to ghost over the scar cutting across his chin, the stubble of his jaw rough against her fingertip. "so yes, while the dread and cruelty of you were vast enough to win the favor of your god, i understand now that it was first taught to you. of course you became worse than the world in the end."

a monster stands before her, certainly, but one first crafted by expert claws. imposing, undoubtedly, but now she has seen the fractures and cannot unsee them. how easier it would be for them both if she could forget them all. her gaze locks to his.

"so you must forgive me, enver, that i see you now."