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strawberrypinky · 5 months ago

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Through Bane, Enver Gortash was born.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was within this opulence Enver first saw her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A sly grin placed itself on his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A surprise, albeit a pleasant one.

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

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

"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Elodie."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I would be delighted."

"Excellent."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'd like to think so."

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

"By all means."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was confident Elodie would learn that lesson, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have indeed," he chuckled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I beg to differ."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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tarithenurse · 7 days ago

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I see fire - 19

Fandom: D&D 5E/homebrew campaign. Word count: 2847 (sorry). Contents: Conundrums, questionings, birds and bees-talk. A/N: Any questions are welcome. Please comment and like and reblog. Let me know if you want a tag. Divider by @firefly-graphics

XIX

It rains again, making the road muddy and the cart heavy to push into position facing south. There, as they huff and puff and stare at the wagon, they contemplate how to go about pushing it because the thing is: Morella can only be a horse for a few hours per day, the rest of the time, they’ll have to brute force ahead themselves.

“I say you morph when we’re too tired to do it. While you pull, we can recover and then we take over afterwards,” Zilvra suggests.

“Makes sense,” the others agree.

That’s how, in the late afternoon, Morella is the one to be pulling the wagon for the second time when the group becomes aware of riders approaching from the south. It’s a group of six or seven all nearing at a rapid pace.

“Might be friends,” Harris says.

“Might? What if they aren’t?” Anvindr wants to know.

The human smiles grimly. “Then we better hope they’re friendly, at least.”

It takes a moment longer before the group of riders is close enough that Harris sighs in relief and starts waving at them, and soon the strangers have the wagon surrounded, the horses seemingly happy for the pause and a few of the men dismounting.

They are all humans, dressed practically and a few wearing old armours, matching weapons at their sides. They’re all wearing scarfs or bandanas over the lower half of their faces. One of them is enormous, making Zilvra fear for the poor animal he’s on even though it too is on the large side.

“Harris!” one of the men greets, looking his friend over before studying Zilvra and Anvindr. “Where’s Elmer?”

Harris had been smiling but now the joy fades and his eyes avert. “In the back...dead.”

“What?” Several men reach for their weapons but don’t draw them as the leader asks for an explanation.

It’s a brief story without any embellishments or excuses of any sort. Just facts. In the end, he motions to the cart: “So we’d cut the horse loose, had no Elmer...but still a ways to go. And now you find us.”

“Looks like you found a different horse. The other made it, though...it came back alone and we figured something was wrong,” the leader of the men admits.

The big guy dismounts, letting the reins hang free as he walks up to the three people by the wagon. He’s almost twice the size of Harris, dwarves Zilvra completely and as he reaches Anvindr, the genasi involuntarily swallows hard.

“Hello,” the blue male says but gets no other response than a hard stare. “Yeah...I guess I look different from you?”

The big fellow grunts, lifts a huge hand...and pats Anvindr on the head.

“Hey, don’t do that,” Harris intervenes, shooing the mountain of a man away.

“Let’s add one of our horses to the cart,” the leader says, pulling down his bandana.

Next moment all weapons are drawn and pointed at where Morella the horse stood and where Morella the eladrin now stands, stretching and shaking her hair free.

“Oh man, I’m so happy to hear that idea,” she smiles.

Harris is laughing at the sight of his friends’ confusion. “Meet the last of my new friends.” Then he grows serious once more. “I’d been dead too without them.”

It’s with a certain tightness in the voice that the leader of the men introduces himself as Claude.

“Morella,” the eladrin curtsies, earning a slight bow.

“Anvindr Hayate,” the genasi nods, a gesture that’s mirrored.

“Zilvra Shadowsong,” the drow curtsies too, expecting a similar response which she does get but with a slight stutter in the man’s movement that she mentally notes to herself.

Strapping in a real horse to the wagon, the now big group heads on south once more for a while.

It’s quiet besides the buzz of nature and the steady sound of rain but Morella seems pleased to be off pull-duty and she hums softly, a tune that the big guy tries to learn.

“You’ve met another of ours?” Claude suddenly ask the trio.

They nod: “Gavin.”

“Right...he told me of you all,” the man divulges.

“Is he where we’re going?” Zilvra is curious.

“Yes.” Not much of a conversationalist, it seems, Claude refocuses on the road ahead.

Harris perks up at that. “Nice, how’s he doing?”

“Not too good. The eye.”

Apparently, that’s all the answer the leader is prepared to give at the moment but it also doesn’t seem like Harris needs more with the way he swears softly before slumping further on the seat of the wagon where he’s sitting.

---

When the group of Masonners and the trio make camp, Claude quickly arranges for a seating spot for himself but the trio too, facing him. He even goes so far as to point to where he wants each person seated, telling them not to worry about creating shelter or anything because the other men will see to it (and they do).

The only one not quite doing as he wants it Morella who takes the time to conjure some goodberries and place them with the cart as she had promised the worgen – a detail she doesn’t share with anyone present.

Zilvra does follow orders, but reluctantly, sitting down as the last with obvious dismay and it earns her a crooked grin from Claude who then becomes distracted by Harris. It’s a few whispered words, impossible to discern for Zilvra.

“Right...” Claude says, refocusing on the trio.

He mumbles a few words and waves his hand in a, to the drow, familiar gesture: ever so faintly a dome shines around where they sit, golden particles floating in the air and the drow recognizes it from the appearance and the gentle caress in her mind – it’s a Zone of Truth. Failing at resisting it, she knows she cannot speak a deliberate lie and she’s about to warn her friends of the nature of the magic when Claude himself admits to what he’s just done. Apparently, the guy doesn’t mind them knowing.

“I’ll ask you a few questions each, please be honest and direct...I’ll know if you’re lying.” The three non-humans nod. “Zilvra Shadowsong...what makes you tick?”

It’s not quite what she had expected and it seems harmless enough to answer: “Friendship. Injustice.”

There’s no reaction on the man’s face as he turns to the next. “How do you feel at the moment, Morella?”

“Confused. I have more questions than answers.”

“Are you searching for answers?”

The druid shrugs. “At this point I don’t know what I’m searching for – making sure my friends are fine is top priority.”

“Your kind,” he turns to Anvindr without further ado, “you are nomadic – do you intend to return to them?”

“Yes I do.”

“So what are you searching for?”

“Knowledge.”

Like a finger pressing into wet sand, something insisting penetrates Zilvra’s mind. It doesn’t hurt, merely wriggles through her memories and emotions, inspecting each carefully before placing it back where it belongs and eventually withdrawing, leaving the drow out of breath and slightly fuzzy.

“Found what you were looking for?” she hears Anvindr gasp.

Looking to her friends, it’s evident that the genasi must have been subjected to the same: dizzy but stubborn, he’s trying to hold the gaze of Claude. Morella on the other hand is furious but seemingly unmoved...maybe she resisted the intrusion?

“Yes,” the human answers. Then he looks to Zilvra: “You must be prepared...you will be sad in the future.”

As by instinct, the drow holds a hand out to stop Morella who snarls at the words. “Why? You recognized my last name. What aren’t you saying?”

The man had just motioned Harris over, but takes a moment to regard the females before deigning Zilvra with an answer: “You’ll be sad if I tell you.”

“Sad now or sad later according to you. Just tell me.”

“Your father is dead.”

It isn’t what she had expected to hear but even so it stings. She’s never known her father, only heard his name spoken once, and has spent frighteningly little time considering what his fate might have been, being too preoccupied with Filandrin instead.

“Do you even know who my father was?” she hisses regardless, trying somehow to make it not be real.

“Shadowsong was an excellent commander.” Claude sighs. “You’ve met his killer.”

Unsure what to answer, Zilvra simply shuts up, resorting to glaring angrily though some of the anger in reality stems from guilt at never having pressed the matter with her mother. Harris who’s come over on Claude’s behest sends her a glance that speaks of pity which she decides to ignore.

“They’re good,” the human leader admits to his friend or subordinate, causing Harris to smile. “Anvindr...your skills: I might have something of use for you at the base.”

Three men move away from behind each of the friends, causing them to realize that a wrong movement or word would most likely have resulted in instant death. Then the trio is dismissed but promised a night where they for once will get to relax as the men will keep watch. Both girls send each other a glance, knowing full well that no, they will take their usual shifts of guard duty.

“Oh by the way,” Morella smiles wickedly, “I’ve left goodberries for the worgen to eat.”

She doesn’t elaborate and the man oddly refuses to ask, turning instead to their human friend and talking with him in a foreign, broken language.

---

With the early morning light comes yet another bout of thunderous weather that forces the group to stay at the camp, spending what little breaks in the storm to fortify the shelters – especially Anvindr is working hard on it together with the men, grumbling and swearing at each blitz of lightning. The females pitch in too (Zilvra more learning than helping) but Claude just sits and waits, keeping an eye on particularly the three outsiders.

As the rain washes the dirt of Morella’s raincloak, the leader of the men beckons Harris over to him. Because of the storm, they have to speak rather loud but it’s in the same foreign language as the night before and the only part that Zilvra recognizes is “Kirkland”.

Once the shelters have been improved on as much as is possible, Harris joins the trio in their with a sheepish look upon his face.

“Don’t mind Claude and...it’s just,” he tries apologetically, searching for words, “it’s just that...we’re sort of damaged goods. The stuff we’ve seen makes it hard to trust.

Anvindr, who is trying hard to temper his mood, pins the man with a glare. “I suppose he’d use the same tactics as #2 if he was unimpressed by us? Elimination?”

“Yeah...yes...that’s why- the men behind you...”

“Figured as much.”

Harris looks truly regretful. “He and Claude used to be friends but then Claude decided to side with the Masons. I guess...I understand why #2 couldn’t.” The trio say nothing, just wait for him to go on. “I don’t always agree with Claude on how things are done but I’m just one person and I do share the end vision so...”

Silently, Zilvra thinks it’s a shitty excuse.

Just then Claude comes over, blocking what little light comes into the shelter, he’s reduced to a dark shape against any lightning that flashes.

“You alright?” he asks, then eyes Anvindr: “You look unhappy?”

“Crappy weather,” the genasi mumbles.

The leader grunts in agreement, shaking some of the ever-falling water off of himself. “Ever heard of Storm Crystals?” He earns a nod and cautious curiosity. “There’s an area to the south where several are, apparently in a formation. Stouvania looked into it once but found no use of them. Perhaps you can figure out more, seeing as they come from the same place as you...but be warned: the Crystal formation attracts a monstrosity.”

“Duly noted,” the artificer says, watching the back of the retreating man.

Curiosity has won within Anvindr and for once he opens up about his past: uncontrolled lightning can take the form of lightning elementals. Before Anvindr was created, the city where his people lived was attacked by the superior thunder giants who ousted them of the Plane of Air and that’s why Anvindr is trying to create weapons and shields that can help his people reclaim what they’ve lost.

“Yet in way it has become easier to find my kind,” he explains. “We’re created when djinns from the Plane of Air mess around with other races (often humans or elves) from the Material Plane and the offspring are the air genasi. More often than not, the child is abandoned – if it’s lucky it’s given to one of the tribes – and so the small communities are in reality a bunch of orphaned people who have helped raise each other for years. I’ve never met my actual parents,” Anvindr adds, “but I was adopted and raised well in much the same manner that I adopted the one that became my apprentice.”

“That’s so different from the way my home works,” Zilvra admits. “We live in a matriarchal society where finding a mate for the heat is more like reviewing applicants for a job. With the heat...well, you know but the result is supposed to be a girl, preferably. All of it being preceded by contracts and whatnot. The women raise the daughters, the men raise the sons.”

Her friends are astonished, having never heard of a concept such as the drow’s but Morella is quick to shrug it off.

“I’m not sure of a lot of things about my kind or our traditions and such but we don’t have heat like you do,” the eladrin announces very sure of herself, “There are no restrictions like that. But I do think I remember something about the stars aligning favourably every five years? Oooh, it gets busy then!”

“What do you mean?” Zilvra asks innocently.

Anvindr grows a deep purple but Morella and Harris grin wickedly.

“Orgies,” the eladrin admits with a wink.

Feeling heat rise in her cheeks, the young drow decides not to ask further and instead heads into the rain in search of Claude. He’s found a shelter of his own but makes room for her to join him.

“Yes?” he asks.

She tells him of the duergar, both the ones that attacked and led to Elmer’s premature passing but also the others in the mine, which finally leads to her asking: “So, are there any mines in that area? Or caves?”

“Not as far as I know, but it’d be good to check it out. The three of you will do that.”

She bristles at the assumption. “I’ll ask my friends as I can’t make any promises on their behalf. Not that I’m sure I would if I could.”

“Oh, and why’s that?”

“We don’t know you.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard various versions of the story: the uprising, the rebellion now which you probably have guessed is leading to a lack of resources in Stouvania,” he repeats what they already know. “Don’t worry too much, we have the people’s interest at heart, wanting to free the country of corruption.”

“Uhuh,” she nods.

He must be able to sense her resistance because he leans back to regard her more closely. “Your father was Kalannar.”

Hearing his name spoken out loud only for the second time in her life, Zilvra feels something weird in her heart. “Who killed him?”

“Not me.” Humans are different to read than drow but he seems to be telling the truth even if he’s conflicted about...something.

“Please,” she resorts to the tricks of her youth that made the adults take to her kindly, “I need to know more.”

There’s a soft smile, however sad it is, on his lips as he shakes his head. “There’s too much you don’t know. You’d want to fix things but...I’m sorry to meet you now. A lot of people knew of your father as he was an important person during the cold war.” His face hardens. “It was during that conflict, by the hands of a Stouvanian, that he died.”

He ends the conversation there, sending her back to the others where she curls up, allowing to turn her attention inwards towards a curiosity she’s rarely acknowledged...and a frustration of being deprived knowing her father.

Yes, if circumstances had been different, she most likely would not have known him anyways as most fathers were uninvolved in the lives of the daughters unless the contract specified that they could remain in the home even after the birth of the child they had helped create. Most of Zilvra’s classmates were, like her, brought up by a single mother and perhaps with the aid of a grandmother, aunt, sister...but never their fathers. And Zilvra had never questioned it. Not until now when it clearly is too late to make amends.

Frustrated with herself and the strange guilt she feels, she tries to distract herself by studying the world around her and listening in on the idle conversation between her friends and Harris.

#writing #d&d #dnd #dungeons & dragons #fantasy #dnd e5 #homebrew campaign #dnd homebrew campaign #campaign #homebrew #story #dnd campaign #ttrpg #I see fire

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