#dirge named durge

[predninja]

Behold!!

The dork urges

Durge is an amnesiac paladin who journeys with the bard Alfira he swore to protect with his life, this oath becoming more demanding after he hurt her one night. His encompassing facial scar comes from such, and while Alfira has remorse for it, Durge doesn't. He's an Oathbreaker, despite not meaning to break said oath but urges

Dirge is not the direct creation of Bhaal, but the son of said creation. After discovering his own lineage and ending up in the Bhaalist cult at a young age, Dirge ended up organizing a coup with his cousin Orin and killed his father, unintentionally inheriting the cult before being betrayed later on. He woke up in a farm house rather than the Nautiloid before making his way to Moonrise in search of answers of both his past life and murderous urges. He often mitigates said urges by either mercilessly killing those he deems a problem or issue in his path, or he fucks them out He's a Sorcerer with an elemental affinity, and multi-classes as something of a brawler

Julikar is the newest of the dipshits and suffice to say, he likes dwarf, is remorseful of every time his urge takes over, and is constantly in a state of bloody half health He's a War Cleric of Lathander (originally a knowledge cleric but I, the player, did not play that very well)

Vorcarion is a behemoth of a dragonborn who may look and fight like a barbarian but he has a cunning, manipulative mind that catches many off guard. Each decision has an ulterior motive and he does not stand weakness, even his own, which has become its own issue when it comes to expressing his softer feelings. Although his black stripes are indicative of draconic sorcery, Vorcarion hates using magic, with anything beyond a cantrip causing discomfort, nausea and pain that he's sourced to being the result of some sort of pstd from his hidden past. He is a berserker barbarian with some magical capabilities

[computerram]

finally started BG3 👍

[argendriel]

Finally managed to draw my Durge. He's having a little murderous nightmare, the poor dear.

[impossible-rat-babies]

im gnawing on bg3 for giving me the ability to have pretty grey streaks in durge's hair

[iron-bullogna]

i cannot get over astarion's stink face here

[sinistersuns]

INCREDIBLY self indulgent art of my durge (who’s also named dirge) to heal my brain after weeks of classwork that only slightly made me want to commit a crime <3

[knightwhoisni]

a little bit obsessed with my dark urge tbh

[catella-ars]

First couple days of @raysoffrost 's BG3 Inktober!

Day 1 - My four Tavs and one Dark Urge because I already pared them down from like twelve so you have to see all of them

Day 2 - I don't have any screenshots so this Guardian is an amalgam of my memory of a few lmao

[majorasnightmare]

thinking about isobel and ketheric, and my durge and ketheric, and isobel and my durge

like ketheric whos entire personality is centered around being a failed father, dirge who lives solely and exclusively for a father who does not love him, isobel being horribly violated for the sake of fatherly love in the name of a person shell never be again like excuse me this trio of people makes me go insane

ketheric and dirge like!! zealot recognizes zealot, ketheric knows what its like to be devoted wholeheartedly to a god who will discard you and thats explicitly why he has a businesslike relationship with myrkul, who KNOWSSS ketherics heart isnt in it but doesnt care, ketheric who never fully believed in the absolute plan but carried it out nonetheless, ketheric who nonsensically traded the death of the world for his daughters life, who in reality most likely traded his afterlife for isobels life, knowingly condemning himself to never see melodia again, to an eternity of torture at myrkuls hands, just so isobel can breathe again. dirge knowing with perfect clarity his own father would never do that for him. ketheric knowing that kind of hopeless devotion and willful blind ignorance leads to a kind of iron will that makes dirge genuinely dangerous but pitying the poor fool nonetheless because despite dirges clear intelligence and skill, despite his overwhelmingly obvious power, hes shackled to a self destructive idiot whod bite off his own arm just to spite the world who couldnt give a single fuck about dirges mental state or how that affects achieving bhaals OWN goals and fulfilling his OWN desires, because ketheric understands perfectly well a god will be stupid and selfish first and reasonable and measured second. dirge hating ketheric not just for being a wishywashy traitor who cant settle on something to be devoted to, but because ketheric has the shit figured out. its a zero sum game. theres no winning, only different types of losers, and embracing that truth means acknowledging his entire life has been a pointless self destructive waste that will never give him the satisfaction and actualization dirge craves, so its easier and more stable to just interpret ketheric as a coward. except hes going to kill himself for isobel. going to go through hell for her. theres a level of devotion and love and care there that dirge has only experienced once in his life and the memory of it is enough to drive him to madness, but despite it all ketheric IS competent. is level and measured and powerful and capable of looking past his own self interest to the far horizon of victory, is tactical and clever and willing to wade into the fray. so dirge hates, and admires, and envies, and pities, and reflexively seeks out and avoids ketheric in equal measure. wants to carve him up until he finally breaks, screaming for a god that wont hear him as just rewards for his insolence (because dirges loyalty will SURELY be rewarded, loyalty to his god and to his father, certainly), cant stand the idea of working alongside anyone else, hates being around him but hates doing things without him, falling into old habits of depravity just to get away from the cacophany of emotion and the introspection it tries to trigger.

and then ketheric is doing all of this for someone who doesnt really exist. the isobel he wants to revive isnt real. its a version of her thats stripped hollow of the things that make her, HER. he wants an isobel that doesnt love aylin, he wants an isobel that is content to remain in place and be protected by him, where he was the center of her world. he wants an isobel that hasnt existed for over a century. he wants an isobel like he remembers thinking of the days before melodia died. its why despite everything he gives up for her, if ketheric gets his hands on isobel he tadpoles her. the tadpoles are just a convenient tool for cutting away the unnecessary parts of a person, things they dont need and wont want afterwards. isobel mourns the father she had after her mother died, but ketheric wants the isobel she used to be when melodia was still present in their lives. the isobel after melodia died eventually left him for aylin. grew up and became a person outside of their small family and community. had interests and desires and goals that took her away from him. she doesnt need aylin, doesnt need anything besides family. thats whats important, thats whats worth ruining lives over. everything after isobel was just a failed copy, not even worth reminiscing over. everyone beyond isobel doesnt matter. desecrate the family tomb, abuse your son, drag your aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters out from the grave just to see if it works, if it sticks, because the whole world revolves around a little girl who stopped existing long before she died, because she became someone else someone new and left you floundering alone. youll get them back even if it means you burn in hell forever, those few precious moments are worth it, itll all be worth it, its already worth it. kill yourself kill the world because the only god worth dying for is the one found in between poorly scratched letters on a paper rotting from age that say "love you papa, -I T". live every day with the smoke and the rot knowing that your father loved you so much he cant even look at who you are now. live every day knowing its a gift you cant return to a man who doesnt see you, knowing that all youll ever have are ghosts that seek to hollow you out and play pretend with the shell. hes awful. hes horrible. hes a monster. hes your dad and he loves you so much its killing you. will kill you. has killed you. has killed everything you could ever want in your life. hes your dad. he read you stories when you were small. kept you from falling apart when your mother died. your rock in stormy seas. he wants to read you another story. its dark outside. its scary. this story has a happy ending. its just for you. the girl in the picture book has your name but doesnt look like you at all. its written in silver blood. theres an ache that wont leave, a rot that refuses to mend, a scar that wont close, and its all for love

thinking about dirge being the one to drag isobel from her coffin, to bring her back for the sake of sealing a pact that will end the world, going against his entire religion the whole reason for his existence just for the sake of fulfilling his own fathers dreams. children living at the behest of their parents, denied death for their fathers selfish whims. isobel autopsied and opened, layers peeled back. gortash and ketheric never exhumed a body, never prepared it for the grave, never made such an intimate study of death. gortash unwilling to bloody himself unnecessarily, ketheric unwilling to look past the deathmask to see isobels interior, so its dirge, it has to be him, the only one willing to bite down his own desires for the greater good. an unforgivable violation of autonomy, but the only one who thinks of it as such is the scion of the murder god. she cant consent. she cant choose to be apart of this, to sacrifice herself for a cause greater than herself. he has to inflict this upon her. life is suffering and madness and delusion. death is peace, and he is the holy vessel of transition from one state to the other. this? this is blasphemy. she has already fled this horrid blighted world for a better one, and here he is participating in blasphemous ritual. its for the sake of their plan, its for the sake of enacting his fathers dreams (as all children know, you are naught but a vessel to achieve the goals they could not in their time), but she cannot even take glory in the knowledge of her sacrifice, cannot even know she is a sacrifice until its too late to go back. carves open and peels back the picturesque skin, preserved by gloom and arid darkness and sealed stone to keep away the rot. peeling away the mask of Isobel Thorm to see the visceral rotting insides of a person ketheric cant stand to see.

clearing away the ruin and decay so something new can take its place. corpses are objects fled of souls, no longer a person, no longer anything and thus free to toy and play with as boredom and curiosity desires, but this is not a thing. this will again be a person, a vessel to trap someone inside of, to force them to suffer and persist and delude and live and he cant even ask if shell do it. do it to help him break the world and put an end to this madness forever. cant convince her of the rightousness of it, the necessity of it, cant help but use her for it. to gortash she is a token exchanged for power, to ketheric she is a snapshot of a better world he wants to go back to, but only here on this dirty bloodstained table with a bhaalspawn elbow deep in her organs is she a person, whos autonomy and personhood is being irrevocably violated. his nature is to free them of these shackles, to snip the cords and revel in the ensuing destruction, and here he is binding her again. the humiliation, the horror, of being set loose from this hellscape only to be brought back. to be dragged, kicking and screaming, back into living. to be subject to such awful blasphemy. here in the dark and the quiet where there is no voice to speak back to him, when there is no rushing blood or beating hearts to call forth his purpose, there and then does armageddons prophet desire forgiveness, only in this shadowed purgatory can someone truly see. when all the world lies dead at my feet, i will beg forgiveness from no one but you. lamb on the altar, holy blood, if such desecration was not necessary for the cleansing of suffering, i would never deign to subject you to it. to you alone do i tender my apologies, my blessed father may forgive this sin in light of the retribution it will call forth, but cruel fate has chosen you without your knowledge to bear this disgusting violation, and the only salve i can offer is that, gods willing, you will not suffer long. to live in a world that could give rise to something like me is a torture i would not wish upon anyone, and for the sake of my father i inflict it upon you nonetheless. when you rise, my only thoughts will be of murder, holy and pure. but here in the dark, when you are at peace and i am not, i think of you, and what youd want, and how no one would ever, COULD ever, ask for what i do to you here. here in the quiet i breathlessly whisper a prayer meant only for your ears, a second sin i cannot stop myself from committing, here where you cannot hear me but God surely can, a wish that i will surely pay for dearly, a punishment i endure willingly and without complaint, a smallest fraction of the torment i knowingly inflict upon you. i live, and soon so shall you, and for that, i will never know peace.

im so sorry. i did it for love

[predninja]

Dirge just wants to help out a friend. That's all~

[lets-go-hurt-someone]

I can’t stop writing little vignettes, moments from random parts of my bard durge Killian’s life. Should I be putting them on AO3? I don’t know. But I need to get them out of me like an exorcism.

Anyway, have a moment of internal crisis set a few years before BG3, after he and Gortash have been working together for some time but before they’ve really gotten the Absolute hoax off the ground. Very “prayer of forgiveness” inspired.

It’s Durgetash, but not nsfw beyond a bit of murder between friends. Canon-typical dark urge behaviour.

———

The body twitched and moaned from where it hung from the rafters, a noose fit snugly around its neck and its arms bound behind its back, toes scrambling for purchase on the stool below its feet. By now, the gag in its mouth was soaked through from all its blubbering and its face glistened in the low light, streaked with tears and spittle.

Killian lay on the bed only a few feet away, unmoved by the plight of a soul that was already committed to Bhaal. He strummed out a few ominous chords on the lute while he waited. A funeral dirge for the sacrifice, a calming melody for his own nerves. It was a shame to make Father wait so long for a sacrifice in the name of theatre. It was the sort of thing that Orin would do. But this was important. A test. An apology, perhaps.

Orin may have been sorely misled about the way in which their father demanded death, but she was right about some things. About the beauty in a well-executed kill, for one. Almost… romantic.

Kill sighed and flexed his toes as he plucked away – new boots still stiff, the leather yet to be broken in. Already they were dotted in flecks of blood splatter from bludgeoning the sacrifice before dragging it here. Soon enough they would be soft and supple and dyed a coppery maroon by the blood of his victims. Their victims.

The lock to the chamber door clicked and Kill sat up straight, tossing his lute aside. The body quit its struggling, going still as if it hoped whoever lay beyond the door would be its saviour. A hysterical notion, for the both of them.

The door swung open to reveal the Chosen of Bane, who took only a moment to assess the scene laid out in his bedchambers before stepping towards the man hanging from the rafters, unperturbed, to look up and meet his eyes. The captive began to grunt and thrash frantically, a wordless yet desperate plea for mercy, but Enver Gortash only rolled his eyes and turned away to face his co-conspirator with a scoff.

“Couldn’t you have taken a moment to lay down a few rags? It takes forever to get the blood out of the floorboards. I’ll have to get a wizard in.”

There was a spark of amusement in the admonishment. The man hanging from the ceiling’s frantic grunting quieted back to muffled sobs. Killian stood to meet Gortash and pressed a dagger to the body’s lower back, forceful but not hard enough to break skin. It whimpered, then went silent.

“I promise I’ll make it clean,” Kill purred, his eyes heavy-lidded with something like intoxication. The drunken feeling of death so near, at his fingertips. Of something else, at his fingertips. With his free hand, he reached out and ran his fingers over the sleeve of Gortash’s cloak. “New?”

“Do you like it?” Gortash smirked and tilted his head as if he was suppressing the impulse to do a twirl. “I just got back from the tailor.”

“Very archducal,” Kill said. “You should get a portrait done.”

Gortash’s smirk didn’t waver. “I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.” He gestured to the man hanging from the ceiling. “Special occasion? Some Bhaalian holiday I don’t know about?”

Kill drew back and shrugged, suddenly hesitant. “Not exactly. You weren’t the only one with a sartorial consultation today. I went to see a cobbler this afternoon.”

That smirk didn’t falter, but it froze, the expression on Gortash’s face suddenly all too still. “Is that so?”

“Father’s orders,” Kill murmured.

Gortash made a noise in the back of his throat, something like a laugh, but swallowed whole before it could escape. He turned away and looked up again at the tear-streaked face of the captive man. “Well, out with it. Have you made me an orphan or not?”

“Don’t act like you’d be sad,” Killian hissed, his eyes narrowing to slits again. The dagger in his hand trembled against the body’s back, threatening to draw a portrait of his shame upon its spine. “I’d only be hastening the inevitable.”

Gortash took a moment to consider this, then turned back to meet Kill’s eyes, that smirk brightening into a true smile.

“So not.” His excitement was palpable— and certainly not out of any concern for the Flymms. His eyes flicked to Killian’s feet. “And you even bought new shoes!”

“Your mother was very persuasive… it must run in the family,” Kill said, his shoulders hunching, his voice dripping with venom. Like he wasn’t sure if he hated himself or Gortash more, and that hate was fueling something unspeakable within him.

Gortash laughed, swiftly grasping Killian by the shoulders, bringing their faces mere inches apart. The crackle of energy between them was as heady as the scent of blood in the air, and Killian struggled to decide whether to fight against it or give in. “You defied your father for me. Your god,” Gortash said, his voice just shy of awestruck.

Killian did struggle. Hate was a mortal’s most powerful emotion. The most holy. And gods above and below, did Enver cloud his mind with a wet swirl of billowing heat— not heat— righteous, unholy hatred.

“They’re still going to die–and by my hand, I swear it. I will do as my father commands,” Kill insisted, but dropped his dagger so he could bring his hands to Enver’s sides, slipped beneath the brand new cloak, soft, velvety, lovely. He felt himself falter, his voice dropping to a gentle whisper, almost fond. “But I saw no harm in a small delay to allow you a bit of vengeance first.”

With a jubilant, throaty laugh from Enver, their lips crashed together and Killian nearly stumbled back and fell into the bed. He steeled himself, twisting an arm around Enver’s waist as images flashed behind his eyelids of his own body laid bare, flayed and forgotten, on the bloodstained stone of his father’s temple. Enver pressed forward, bringing them closer together, and Kill clawed at him, desperate, needy, almost forgetting his purpose for coming here in the first place.

A prayer, an apology. A test.

Just as he was about to fall back and lose himself entire, he kicked out, sending the stool beneath the sacrifice’s feet flying across the room. It let out a strangled cry as the noose tightened, then went blissfully silent as its neck snapped clean.

Killian felt the rush as the sacrifice’s life left its body, the pure and perfect euphoria always granted by his father. And still, insanely, absurdly, unconscionably, he found himself leaning more fully into Enver Gortash’s arms— and the abhorrent answer to all of his heretical questions filled his soul like the rush of blood pumped by his foul heart.

This wasn’t hate, but it was something pure. Something perfect. Something absolutely vile.

Sceleritas would have a fit. And his father— he would never—

Please forgive me.

[starfightervicki]

I need to make a Durge named Dirge to go with my Tav named Tavitha.

[impossible-rat-babies]

OWEN HI tell me about your Durge Dirge 🥰

HIII kittles!!!

so yeah! durge or dirge (they/them)—interchangeable since I pronounce them the same way? anyway it’s a sort of pieced together name of the definition of a dirge (a lament for the dead) and ‘the urge’ since they don’t recall their real name.

but they are half wood elf bard, college of lore! they use a lute, specifically lihala’s lute after the incident with alfira (they did kill alfira, tragically)

personality wise I’ve been kinda…molding them by their stats + the skills I enjoy using the most, which is a lot of deception, persuasion and bard stuff. they are a performer—keen to hide behind layers of masks as they have no real…concept of who they are outside the urge. they feel alien and distant—not at home in their body, or much of anywhere. the urge is frightening, but more they want to understand it. not in the sense of looking back for answers, but because there has to be more. it’s coupled with the desire to help people as a means to grasp onto their fraying threads of sanity & to find purpose. maybe if they do kind things, what they did to alfira won’t happen again. it’s self bargaining in a way to make sense of the chaos, however futile that might be.

I’m still only in act 1 in the Underdark after siding w the druids + the grove so. still a lot more to go skdjdjdkf

[iron-bullogna]

when you're so clueless you go covered in blood to ask your crush what he thought about you thinkin of kissin him

[boghermit]

Tagged by @ineed-to-sleep. Thank you for the tag!

Name: Salem Rekaviðrsson

Nickname(s): "The Dark Urge” before Wyll shortened it to “Durge” or “Dirge.” Now that he’s remembered his name, everyone just calls him "Salem."

Pronouns: He / him

Star sign: Scorpio

Height: Between 5’5” and 5’7”? Maybe shorter? He’s shorter than Astarion, but I keep hearing mixed answers on Astarion’s height. The Githyanki in-game says he's 5'11", but I think an official source said he's 5'9"? T'is a mystery.

Orientation: Bi

Race: Half-elf (wood elf)

Romancing: Astarion

Favorite fruit: Astarion He likes berries and apples a lot.

Favorite season: Autumn and winter. Whichever smells the most like dead leaves.

Favorite flower: Henbane, due to its real life hallucinogenic “berserking” effects; lavender, because he likes the smell; and honeysuckle, because he likes the smell and taste, and thinks it looks pretty.

Favorite scent: Sea spray, dirt, decaying leaves, cloves, Astarion’s weird cologne.

Coffee, tea or hot chocolate: Coffee

Average sleep hours: Oof. About three hours? His sleep SOMEWHAT improves after the end of the main game.

Dogs or cats: Both!

Dream trip: The Moonshae Isles

Amount of blankets: One very thin and fluffy blanket. His temperature runs a bit hot due to health and stress problems.

Random fact(s):

He was already going blind in his left eye when he gave it to Auntie Ethel.

He has lots of tattoos, most of which are related to the Cult of Bhaal, but he also has a lot of tattoos, scars, and brands meant as protective wards against (ironically) evil. Most of them are in the style of Icelandic galdrastafir. These include the ones on his face. (I don’t think the in-game scarring CANONICALLY means anything, but it appears to be at least inspired by galdrastafir.)

He wears his hair long and in a loose braid, but there’s nothing that really fits that in BG3. His mustache is also not nearly as thick as it is in the game. That being said, his in-game look has really grown on me.

He is 100% named after the cat from Sabrina the Teenage Witch.

Rekaviðr is old Norse for “driftwood.”

He’s both a bard and a druid, but I haven’t really been able to make a bard/druid multiclass viable in the game. :[ Maybe on explorer mode?

He was originally a stand in for the player avatar in MGSV. Then, he was an OC for The Arcana, then after that, the protagonist for an original world I was working on. But because the original world’s storyline centered around a plague, war, and political upheaval, and the 2020s exist, I shelved that story for the most part.

[lelianaslefthand]

bg3 has a monopoly over the name durge now but we cant forget our roots

the original Dirge