#durge: villi

[troutberryspoon]

Unhallowed Heart - Chapter 2 'Gifts'

Dark Urge/Enver Gortash

Second chapter - After a fruitless first meeting, Gortash bombards the temple with gifts

Word count - 2483

Full fic here on AO3

___

Two groups of acolytes faced each other in a large, dark side-chamber of the undercity temple. Torch flames flickered on the stone walls. The air was rent by the sounds of laboured breathing. Next to Villi, Brother Owain spat out a mouthful of blood.

The end of the battle was close. Villi was certain that the handful of faithful servants who stood by his side had enough left in them to make this a decisive victory. He narrowed his eyes, fixed his stance, and awaited the signal for the final attack.

FWEEEEP!

Archstrangler McDavis blew a short blast on a whistle made from carved bone. Villi lunged forwards, deftly kicking the ball at his feet right between Sister Emberstar’s legs. Brother Owain sprinted ahead to receive the pass, then tapped the ball forwards, towards a pair of great grinning orc skulls that denoted the other team’s goal.

A loud cry went up as the ball crossed the line. Villi’s team had won, seven goals to two.

Villi went around the chamber and clapped the shoulders of his team, complimenting them on a game well-played. He found Brother Owain on his hands and knees, searching for his missing front tooth in a dusty forgotten corner. It had been knocked out during a particularly spirited tackle.

‘Any luck?’ Villi asked.

‘Unfortunately not, my Lord,’ Owain said, rising quickly. ‘I fear the ancestors have claimed it. Not to worry, I’m sure the infirmary has spares. Perhaps I’ll be able to replace it with a gold crown.’

Villi hummed in what he hoped was an encouraging manner, despite knowing full well that Sceleritas now scoured all the corpses that entered the temple in order to claim every last scrap of gold for their dwindling coffers.

The chatter started to die down as the acolytes filed out. Villi walked over to the ball and rolled it under his boot. With a quick little flick he had it balanced on the top of his foot. He wobbled there for a moment, standing on one leg, countering the ball’s desire to fall back to the floor with small, careful movements. The ball had been fashioned out of a discarded elf’s bladder. Villi had sewn it up himself.

There was an inter-planar ‘pop’, and Sceleritas stood at his side in a haze of sulphur.

The fiend sniffed.

‘I see you’ve been sweating with the acolytes again, mi’lord,’ Sceleritas said.

‘You disapprove.’ Villi didn’t look at his Butler. He was too busy concentrating on keeping the ball balanced.

‘It’s most unbecoming. You shouldn’t make yourself so available to them. They should whisper your name in the corridors, quake at your very presence. Not… play games with you.’

‘You’re just jealous I didn’t ask you to play,’ Villi said. ‘And it’s not a game, it’s Goatball. Wars have been fought over Goatball, you know.’

‘I know,’ Sceleritas said drily. ‘You have mentioned it once or twice.’

Villi finally let the ball roll off his foot. ‘Did you want something?’

‘We have received another gift.’

‘Him again?’ 

By ‘him’, Villi meant Enver Gortash. Somehow the man had discovered the identities of the small number of Zhentarim traders that were allowed to travel in relative safety to the ancient Bhaalist temple under the city, and he had paid them handsomely to transport several large boxes over the course of the last tenday. He must have deep connections.

Sceleritas called them gifts. Villi dismissed them as mere bribes. Bribes he still ordered to be opened and distributed, all the same. He had to be pragmatic in these trying times. One of the boxes contained finely crafted polished daggers, handles wrapped in butter-soft, black calfskin. Another box held a plethora of poisons and paralytics, their delicate glass bottles packed securely in straw. Yet another was filled with bottles upon bottles of topaz-hued white wine. Villi made Sceleritas swallow an entire cup before he tried it for himself, and then found to his annoyance that it was utterly delicious. He had hoped to hate it.

‘I was thinking…’ Sceleritas said.

‘No,’ Villi said.

‘Master, please consider–’

‘I said no.’

‘He is very wealthy,’ Sceleritas said quickly, wincing as if he expected the Son of Bhaal to kick him across the room like an overinflated bladder.

‘So, you disapprove of me getting too familiar with my own Father’s followers, yet expect me to consort with this– this politician?’ Villi spat out the word like it tasted of the bitterest gall.

‘Not consort! Never consort.’ Sceleritas raised his hands, twisting them in the air. ‘You should use him. Extort him. Wring out every last copper. Only let him think that he has your ear. Be clever and cunning. Take everything that he has, then take his wretched life.’

Villi growled, frustrated that he could see the merit in what his Butler suggested. They needed coin. Gortash had it in abundance. Gortash wanted his attention. Villi would have to make sure that it cost him dearly.

There was a rustle of parchment. Sceleritas held out a small bundle of paper. ‘These invitations were included in each box. I didn’t want to vex you any further at the time, so I took them all for safe-keeping. But I think now you might be willing to take a look?’

‘Let me see,’ Villi said, taking them from his Butler. The paper stock was thick, luxurious, smooth to the touch. Obviously expensive. Each invitation was written in a flowing, cursive hand, and addressed Villi directly:

The esteemed presence of Villiame Redvalok is humbly requested

At Baxendall House, Upper City

As the clock strikes the hour of Seven o’Clock in the evening, a private dinner meeting shall commence

An intimate gathering for two where discourse shall flow as freely as the wine, and the repast shall be as rich as the conversation

A seat of honour awaits you

Preparations shall be made to ensure an evening of unparalleled elegance and intellectual delight

Yours, in anticipation,

Sir Enver Gortash

Villi turned several of the invitations over to check both sides. ‘They’re all the same, no dates on any of them. Do you think he sits there every night after sending a delivery, on the off chance that I’ll make an appearance?’ 

It was an amusing image. One Sceleritas quickly dispelled; ‘I doubt it, mi’lord. A man of such means could easily have a fine dinner made and disposed of each night and suffer no hardship.’

‘Yes, yes. He’s very wealthy. You said.’ Villi sighed. ‘Fine, at least I know the wine will be of an acceptable quality. I’d better go wash up.’

‘Before you leave, please tell me that the acolytes at least let you win the game today through fear?’

‘Of course they did,’ Villi replied with a quick grin. ‘They always do.’

___

The hour of their meeting drew close. Villi strode through the Upper City towards Enver Gortash’s estate, looking every inch as if he belonged there amid the pale marble pillars and beautifully manicured gardens of the upscale neighbourhood. Gortash might be expecting to play host to a savage this evening; Villi was going to present to him a gentleman, instead.

Some of the wealthiest people - real blue blood, old money wealth - tended to wear surprisingly shabby clothes. The fabric and construction were of the highest possible quality of course, yet the items themselves were often well-worn and carefully repaired. Villi’s own inherited wardrobe bore the same characteristic faded glamour that marked out the members of some of the oldest families in town.

For tonight’s meeting he had chosen to wear an heirloom cloak over a black velvet doublet with slit sleeves that were laced up at strategic points to show glimpses of deepest burgundy from his shirt underneath. His trousers had been cut in the old Tethyrian fashion, and they clung to the swell of his calves. In his hand he carried an ebony cane topped with a darling little silver skull, its eyes inset with red rubies.

He was greeted at the iron gate of Baxendall House by a pair of well-armoured guards; one human, one teifling. He revealed only that he was an expected guest of the estate’s owner and he was respectfully shown inside. Neither guard made any mention of the dagger on his hip.

The entry hall was grand, spacious, softly lit by the glow from a crystal chandelier. The walls were adorned with gilded frames showcasing oil paintings of imposing castles and numerous portraits of Enver Gortash himself.

In an alcove sat a display case, filled with an assortment of curios and coloured gems. Villi fought to maintain an outward impression of cool disinterest as the goblin-raised impulse to grab all of the shiny things clamoured at the back of his mind. Years of etiquette training and study since taking his rightful place in Bhaal’s temple kept his scarred hands resting on the cane in front of him.

At least Gortash didn’t keep him waiting for long.

‘Ah! You made it. I am delighted to see you here at last,’ Gortash said as he descended the sweeping curve of the stairs. He was dressed less formally than Villi, wearing a black silk shirt laced loosely at the neck. It was new, freshly dyed, darker than a raven’s wing.

‘Few people would be happy to see me in their home. You’re… a rare sort.’ Villi meant it sincerely. Gortash had remained remarkably composed the first time they met even as Villi had sought to gut him like a fish. Villi wondered what his secret could be; a calming potion, an enchantment, a daily meditation practice? Whatever it was, he longed to strip the man of his easy self-confidence and see nothing but naked terror in his eyes.

‘My dear Villiame, I am one-of-a-kind,’ Gortash said, without a shred of modesty. ‘As are you, naturally. Together we could– ah, I’m getting ahead of myself. Please, follow me.’

Villi handed his cloak and his cane to a waiting servant, then did as Gortash bid, following him through the west wing of the house, past yet more paintings, sculptures, and luxurious furniture set on deep carpets. 

A vulgar display of wealth. Villi kept his hands behind his back as he walked. He found some small degree of amusement in maintaining a more relaxed pace than Gortash’s quick, purposeful stride, which meant his host had to keep pausing and waiting for him to catch up.

‘Apologies for my haste in getting to dinner. I got lost in my work today and quite forgot to eat,’ Gortash said after he looked over his shoulder for the third time to find Villi trailing several feet behind him. ‘We’re here now, this room on the right.’

The dining room was compact, intimate. The kind of room where personal meals were taken. There was enough space for a round wooden table that would comfortably seat four, and a small sideboard decorated with vases of glowing white lilies. The table had been laid for two, set with fine ceramics, crystal glassware, and shining silver cutlery.

‘I thought we could speak more freely without being interrupted by the staff, but that means we’ll have to serve ourselves,’ Gortash said, opening a door of the sideboard to reveal a row of bottles. ‘I hope that’s acceptable. Can I pour you a glass of wine? I took delivery of several crates of an excellent red from Calisham yesterday.’

Villi chose one of the chairs and took a seat, then pushed the glass chalice from his place setting towards Gortash to accept the offer of wine. He had already decided that he wasn’t going to give the man the satisfaction of showing any kind of reluctance to eat or drink anything he was offered. If Gortash wanted to poison him, so be it.

But Gortash made a show of trust anyway. He filled Villi’s glass then took a sip from it himself before handing it back.

Villi eyed the moist patch left on the rim from the other man’s mouth. If he drank from that same spot, tasted his saliva, it would be the closest Villi had ever come - and may ever come - to a kiss. He surreptitiously turned the glass and drank from the opposite side.

‘What do you think?’ Gortash asked, sitting down in the other chair.

‘Smooth. Tastes like sour cherries. It’s good,’ Villi said, downplaying his enjoyment a little. It was excellent. He wanted ten crates.

‘So, what made you change your mind?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘About discussing our partnership.’

‘Who’s to say I have changed my mind? Maybe I was at a loose end this evening and thought that I’d pay you a visit, drink your wine, eat your bread, and then split open your chest and have your heart for dessert,’ Villi said, leaning back. ‘No archers watching you tonight, I take it?’

Gortash smiled, and Villi hated him for it. The man was far too comfortable in his presence. ‘No, not tonight. I am entirely at your mercy. But I rather hope to be worth more to you alive than dead.’

‘My father is the God of Murder; death is my currency. It’s my reason for being. What else could you offer?’

Ding. The muted chime came from inside one of the walls. Gortash bowed his head politely, and rose to open a concealed hatch. Their first course had arrived, delivered via dumb waiter.

‘Gold. Information. Power. That’s what I can offer. And with those three things, you will be unstoppable,’ Gortash said.

‘You assume I’m lacking in those regards?’ Villi scoffed.

‘Villiame, please. Let us talk plainly. I have eyes and ears throughout this city. I know you are.’

‘How dare you–’

Gortash put a dish in front of him. ‘I hope you like pigeon.’

‘First you insult me, then you serve me flying rat?’

‘Give it a try, it’s delicious,’ Gortash said with a wink.

Villi seethed. 

And yet he made no move to attack the other man. He sat there and watched as Gortash retook his seat and sliced into the moist, pink flesh on his plate. 

The first time Villi picked up a sword to train with a real warrior he had been left bloody and bruised. Despite the unholy destiny that was woven into his blood, despite already having three kills under his belt by the age of fourteen, when faced with a master he was left slashing at thin air. Now, many years later in Enver Gortash’s elegant dining room, he felt that same way again. Outclassed. Outmanoeuvred.

He had managed to beat the old warrior by taking a step back, swallowing his pride, and paying attention to what she had to teach him. Then he took her head.

Gritting his teeth, he picked up his fork and speared the pigeon breast, lifting it in one piece. ‘Very well. Let us speak plainly,’ he said, before taking a bite.

[troutberryspoon]

The whole roasted dwarf thing is the entire reason I picked 'kidnapped by goblins' as Villi's backstory.

These are still one of my fav Durge dialogue options

[444names]

names of dwarves in the warhammer universe

Alarim Alategaka Alayer Aldalist Aldors Aldotr Aleaxe Alebeart Alebiter Alfriksson Alfsson Alrim Alrin Alron Anvil Anvillin Anvilver Anvitehamm Anviter Anviterst Anvitzhe Arkaiteheak Arkatanya Arkrim Arkrimgonna Balaisson Balar Balasdot Balayer Balbrek Balbrenna Balegorri Balfhammer Balfharnir Balfist Balganul Balgrim Baliker Balina Balki Balkran Balkraneerf Balkric Balkrin Baragg Barak Barbrokrin Bardina Barern Barfist Barggillric Baric Barim Bazedma Bazorgaker Bazri Bazrin Beaker Bearic Beldarst Belderson Belhar Bellrok Belly Bolasdokk Bolayer Bolgri Bolgrik Borik Borrnorist Brack Bradrik Braganbrer Braganya Bragar Brago Bragona Brand Branya Braze Brombrek Bronson Brund Brundottr Brunehammen Buggan Buggilver Bugma Bulssone Bulssong Burgrod Burgsdorson Burin Burnisdotr Byrric Byrrim Byrrison Byrrisson Byrrnin Catala Caton Cattr Crago Crand Craninarson Dalengrek Dalik Dalkrack Dalkrik Dammenst Dammer Dammerf Dengi Dengplarson Dorst Dracterf Dragelgaker Dragornden Dragri Dragrio Draki Dranesh Drearagri Drekk Drenn Drokkson Drokson Dromer Dronfist Durgs Durin Durloki Durnin Durzadrin Dwalarkaize Dwalatouard Dwalear Dwalf Dwalki Dward Dwardrim Dwaringina Dwarlow Edottir Edouristin Edoutbelm Elaiterfist Elarim Elarnotr Elatanefist Elayer Elayerfist Elgande Elganson Elgard Elgor Elgric Elgrind Enging Engronhard Falaker Falgorgrim Feldad Felly Foomer Foottinsson Furimna Furlokrim Furndt Furnir Furnist Garbric Gardorson Garearkrik Garison Garlistir Golechback Golgarn Gorgrikson Gorgrim Goric Gothellhamm Gotrikson Gotrim Gottielgi Grageld Gragon Grand Grandottock Grernissonn Grikaize Grikeldbrek Grimnars Grimnir Grissong Groarkrik Grokk Groksone Gronhammin Grudgebeard Grunchaizek Grunchback Gurakk Gurakksson Gurlik Gurlist Gurlokk Gurnin Halammeng Halardum Halaspesmin Halbrik Halbromen Halen Halgorsonn Halin Halinsongi Halkina Halkrim Hamingri Hamman Hammanya Hammenbring Hammeng Hammenne Hammer Hamnin Hamnine Haran Haranya Hardin Hardina Hardum Harina Harnison Heggarlok Hegonson Hegorego Hegorgario Helde Helder Heldesmin Heleak Helgake Helgard Helgidul Helgornina Helgric Helgrimgan Helhaize Hellokk Helly Hewers Hundoring Irokin Iromengrokk Irone Jorim Joringi Jorio Jorrnin Josefist Josefistock Jugganisson Juggon Jugma Kadorgar Kadot Kadragi Kadrek Kandotrim Kanin Kanully Kanya Karaze Karek Katalfsson Kater Kazorinson Kazorst Kazragelm Kazragori Kazrim Kazrinstock Kemmer Kemmerson Khammerf Kharegg Kingul Kragart Kragdinson Kragelm Kragidum Kragnin Kragnisdotr Kragon Kragrik Kragrune Krand Krandadrim Kranef Krangrim Kranya Krazadok Krazed Krazorsonn Krazri Krudgellak Krudgelm Kurggan Kurlikson Kurlow Lardin Laver Lonbacter Lonbornist Lonehe Lonsh Lonslarek Lonspik Madragrim Madrik Maker Malamin Malebeakelm Malikson Malison Malkrago Matouar Molammerson Molar Molgart Molgorgard Morek Morensson Morikson Morimgors Morin Mornin Morrndadrek Morrning Morrnir Nokksson Norek Norgrin Nosebeak Nosebitegon Nurgg Nurgric Nurlokk Oaker Randt Ranstin Ravengebits Raverf Raverfootr Razed Redma Rhund Rhunne Rhupearagri Rhupearer Rhupeshits Rogelenn Rokson Rorgrik Rornist Shiellok Silbrakaize Silbron Silveng Silvensongi Silver Silverson Skegorsong Slaizek Slatart Snorgarf Snorgon Snorinsonef Snotri Snottieldar Sorggardin Sorgorek Spanbrerf Standordrek Stargrik Starina Stockhammer Stockhar Stokingi Stonesh Stong Stouar Stourlik Stournottr Svillri Targrik Tarim Tarlok Theakai Thelhe Thorgarlow Thorgo Thorgrok Thori Thorik Thorim Thorrikai Thorrinson Thors Thorsonback Thregar Threk Threkk Thunchback Thunn Thunna Thupeard Thupesmiter Ulgrinaron Ulthranist Ulths Ungdin Valik Valing Valist Valki Vilbren Villy Vilvenbear Vilvenssone Vilver Whieldbrom Whieldot Whits Yellarfoom Yellist Zareart Zarek Zargg Zarik Zarlok

[cienie-isengardu]

In war is usually wise to have only one side mad at you at a time. Villie managed to get both side mad at him. And Hutts. And some corporate sector peoples. And certain individuals.  Example --- one fellow named Durge. Marginally involved. No sense of humor at all!

[troutberryspoon]

Unhallowed Heart - Chapter 6: 'In dreams'

Gortash and Villi are named as their Gods' Chosen [or, Gortash gets caught in a lie] Warnings - depictions of drunkenness

(I was fully planning on there being some smut here but the word count ran away with me. Next chapter I swear)

Word count - 3076

Full fic here on AO3

Later that night.

‘I know we’re a…we’re a murder cult…but why’s this party sooo dead?’ Villi laughed at his own joke. Ha, he was hilarious. He raised a chalice to his lips, only to pout when nothing came out. ‘Sceleritas! Ya lil’ bugger…where– oh, there you are…wine’s gone.’

Sceleritas studiously ignored the empty vessel that was being waggled under his nose. ‘I think it might be time for you to retire to your chambers, Master.’

‘An’ I think it’s time for yooo-uuu to get me s’more wine,’ Villi said with another drunken giggle. He tried to place the chalice on his Butler’s top hat, missing by quite some way and watching sadly as it cracked on the stone floor. ‘Ah, cockrot. S’your fault, that. You moved.’

‘I assure you–’

‘Fuckit, I’m goin’ to bed anyway, I’m dyin’ of boredom.’ Villi heaved himself out of his chair, only for the ground to swell and roll beneath his feet. ‘Hells. Gettin’ choppy in ‘ere. Bed ahoy!’

Sceleritas carefully guided the giggling Bhaalspawn to his chamber, grabbing his leg when a wobble threatened to become a faceplant.

‘Get yer claws off me arse,’ Villi muttered, making a half-hearted swipe for the fiend’s head. His hand met empty air.

‘Nearly there. I do wish you wouldn’t let yourself get into such a state.’

‘Say one word about proper conduct an’ I’ll…I’ll kick yer teeth in.’ Villi pitched forward once his bed was within falling distance, dropping gratefully into its piles of soft cotton and feather bedspreads. He hummed happily. He would never ever take a comfy, clean bed for granted. Not ever. ‘I used to sleep in straw, y’know,’ he said, muffled by a pillow.

Sceleritas started to remove Villi’s boots. ‘I know,’ he said.

‘We all had lice.’

‘I know. Those days are long behind you now, my Liege. You will find a carafe of water on the nightstand–’

‘I miss the parties we had, though.’ Villi rolled over, wrapping himself in a blanket as he went, still fully dressed but now minus his boots. The room continued to spin even when he stopped rolling and held onto the side of the bed. ‘Here, no-one drinks, not like I do. There’s no music. No-one dances. They’re all miserable getz. We should be celebrating.’

‘But we are celebrating! Sister Nudvaoi recited the full Prayer of Crimson, there are some truly rousing stanzas in that one,’ Sceleritas said. ‘It always gives me the tingly goosebumps.’

‘Ugh. Piss off.’

The bed was bobbing about on unruly seas. Villi closed his eyes but it just made the feeling worse. At least Sceleritas had vanished when he opened them again. He yawned, wondering how he’d ever manage to fall asleep while his brain sloshed around in a vat of wine, and started to hum a song he remembered from his years sleeping under the stars:

Under moon's twisted grin, we dance and sing,

For warrakul hearts know only one thing.

When dawn breaks, we'll vanish like smoke on the breeze,

Back to our shadowed lairs, where secrets appease.

So raise your tankards high, let the plunder be sung,

For warrakul hearts beat fierce, forever wild and young.

And then he was out.

___

He awoke with a rough gasp, freezing cold and completely sober. As he pushed himself upright his hands slapped polished stone: he was no longer in his comfortable bed. He was lying on a slab, or some kind of altar. It was dark.

‘Sceleritas?’ His voice bounced back unanswered from unseen walls, mocking him.

He swung his legs from the slab, stood up, and looked around. Anger percolated in his chest, thick and hot. He wondered who would dare to take him from his chambers, dress him in a long black robe he didn’t recognise, and lay him out like a winter solstice buffet. Whoever it was had made a horrible mistake.

‘Sceleritas?’ he called again, this time louder, sharper.

Red, unnatural flames flickered to life along the cavernous walls, adding not so much illumination as a deeply unsettling atmosphere.

‘The Butler is not here.’

The voice was blood, torn flesh, grasping fingers, the rattle of a last breath.

Villi’s insides twisted in fear and awe. He turned around, searching for the voice’s source.

The man stood by the head of the altar, watching him. And it was an altar, now that Villi could see it in full view. A burly man with long, unkempt black hair, a full bristling beard, and hatred in his eyes.

‘My Lord Bhaal,’ Villi said, his breath leaving him in a rush.

‘Child. Here we stand at last. I am about to name you my Chosen.’

Villi bowed his head. ‘I am honoured–’

‘It was not my choice.’

‘M-my Lord?’

Prowling with a wolf’s hunger, Bhaal circled his spawn. ‘It is too soon, but I lost a wager. To Bane. He wanted to test a new follower, one he claimed was a master manipulator. The test? You.’

‘I don’t understand…’ Villi feared that he did understand, all too well. ‘Do you mean the alliance? I can explain–’

‘The alliance I can forgive. The alliance I expected. Such a pact is not worth the vellum it is written on. I told Bane as such. I wanted to wager something I thought would be impossible. I said to him: I see your pact and I raise you… a kiss.’

Villi’s stomach lurched and dropped in a sickening freefall.

‘My only living child. I was certain you could not be tempted by the poisoned honey that oozes from the axe wound of a Banite’s mouth.’

‘I–I didn’t–’

‘Silence.’

Bhaal didn’t shout. Didn’t yell. The command was delivered with the same measured, growling tone as the rest of his words, but the force of it drove Villi to his knees. A hand of iron bit relentlessly into his jaw, dragging his gaze up to the harrowing pits of his Father’s eyes. Endless misery danced there, twin daggers burning into his skull.

‘Now, tonight, I must name you my Chosen, as Bane names this Enver Gortash his. And you and I, child, will be pressed into their service. Those were the stakes.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry! My Lord–’

‘Listen to me. You are my weapon. When we discover what their plan is–for I know Bane always has a plan when he seeks me–you will kill the Banite Chosen. You will find a way to raise an army fit to mutilate this world in my name. You will not fail me again.’

‘I swear–’

White hot pain obliterated the rest of Villi’s assurances to his Father. The sound of his jawbone cracking beneath Bhaal’s grip was drowned out by a howl of agony that seemed to come from a long distance away, even if he knew, on some level, that he was the one screaming. Every bone, muscle, and sinew writhed and snapped, his skin split, his organs boiled.

Just when he thought he would be driven mad by the pain, or die from it, it stopped.

Perhaps he had died.

Tentatively, he lifted his head. No, he was not dead. He was still in the same dark, cavernous hall, curled in a ball on the frigid stone floor. His head felt huge and heavy. His mouth contained too many teeth. He unfurled quickly at the shock of realisation, raising himself up to his full height, towering over his Father.

He held out his hands and counted four of them, wickedly clawed. Diving around behind himself in a tight corkscrew he caught a glimpse of his new tail before it whipped out of sight.

Bhaal had granted him His Slayer form. Oh, how Villi had dreamed of this moment. 

The pain had been a just punishment, he knew that now. A warning. In the future it wouldn’t hurt in the same way to change shape, but if he fell short of his Father’s expectations again then it could be far, far worse.

Villi chittered happily at the God of Murder; grateful, honoured, determined to make Him proud.

‘You will follow me,’ Bhaal said, striding towards a huge archway that Villi hadn’t noticed before. 

He dropped to all fours–wait, all sixes, on account of the extra arms–and loped behind his Father, thrilled with the way keen muscles bunched and lengthened beneath his wickedly spiked hide.

They headed outside to a vast ledge situated high on the side of a mountain. The surrounding lands were blanketed by snow, marred only by knife slash pine trees. There was a surprising lack of wind out on the ledge. Villi would expect to be buffeted by strong gusts of icy air this high up, but there was nothing. Only an eerie calm.

A shrine of sorts had been hacked out of the mountainside. Black wax candles burned with flames of red and of purple in the rudimentary alcoves. A third of the candles remained unlit. Somehow Villi knew they would burn with a green flame when the time was right.

Gortash was standing near the shrine, dressed in the same kind of black robe Villi had found himself in before his transformation. With him was another man, one who radiated an aura of cruelty. He was tall, thick-set, with silver hair and a well-groomed beard. Dashingly handsome. He must be Bane, the God of Tyranny, Gortash’s master.

Gortash turned as they drew closer, looking up at Villi’s monstrous form in admiration. He said a few words under his breath and while Villi didn’t know the language, he recognised the sound of cursing when he heard it. A guttural snarl that trailed into a series of questioning clicks left his throat in return.

Ah. He had forgotten that he couldn’t speak. He wanted to demand answers. He had so many questions, chief among them being: Was it all just a ruse for a wager between their Gods? And: Aren't you already Bane's Chosen?

Those questions would have to wait until he had a functional larynx.

‘I see you have already bestowed your ‘gift’ upon your spawn, my old friend,’ Bane said to Bhaal, as the Gods eyed each other like a pair of veteran, bare-knuckle prize fighters. ‘Getting a head start, eh?’

‘Let us conclude our business,’ Bhaal growled.

‘As you wish. Enver Gortash, I name you my Chosen. Where the weak falter, the strong shall prevail. You are my Black Hand; I will wield you to shape the world as I see fit. Fear, hatred, and control are your weapons,’ Bane said.

Gortash inclined his head. ‘Thank you, my Lord.’

‘Child, I name you my Chosen,’ Bhaal said to Villi. ‘All is ash and meat. You are my Slayer; savage the world in my name. Pave my path with corpses, and build my castle with bones.’

Villi gave a hard growl of acknowledgement, flicking his tail from side-to-side as he committed this moment to his deepest memories. He would remember this night until the end of everything.

Bane turned back to Bhaal. ‘Now. Old friend. Do you enter again into my service, as per the terms of our agreement?’

‘Yes,’ Bhaal said, quickly, as if to prevent the word’s bitterness from lingering on his tongue.

Villi huffed, ashamed that his actions had forced his Father into this situation. He hadn’t meant to make a noise but seemed unable to hide his feelings in this form, every emotion telegraphing itself through unwitting vocalisations or the movement of his tail. Maybe in time he would learn to control it.

Bane was looking at Gortash again. ‘It is done. You will have to make good on your promise, Enver Gortash, or you will face my wrath.’

Glancing at Gortash, Villi added another question to the list. What had the Banite promised his God?

‘Of course, my Lord. You have my guarantee,’ Gortash said.

A change came over Bane then, swift and subtle. The avuncular expression in his eyes fell away, replaced by a stinging, sadistic lash. ‘My guarantee is your soul, which will be mine to twist and torture until eternity’s end. Do not forget that.’

‘Absolutely,’ Gortash replied smoothly, unruffled as always.

‘We’re done here,’ Bhaal said gruffly, waving a hand at Villi.

Wait…

Villi started forward, not yet ready to leave, and everything went black.

___

He floated in darkness. No time, no space. No sounds, no sights.

Nothing.

Until…a smell.

The savoury, mouthwatering smell of cooked meat; smoked ham, or something similar.

He surfaced from the dreamless darkness towards the smell, blinking open dry, sticky eyes, only to be assaulted by the sight of Sceleritas’s nasty visage not ten inches from his nose.

Villi inhaled sharply. ‘Balyag-zaar!’

‘Master! You’re awake,’ Sceleritas said, grinning from fiendish ear to fiendish ear. ‘Jubilant day!’

Villi shoved himself away from the Butler, getting tangled in a blanket as he did so. The hammerblow of a hangover started to ring his skull like a bell. He closed his eyes again and groaned.

‘I have a herbal tonic here, mi’lord. That and your legendary constitution will have you feeling as perky as an abyssal chicken in no time,’ Sceleritas said as he held out a chalice brimming with a deep purple liquid.

Villi took it and drank. It tasted mildly of anise. He tried to recall snatches of the dream he had last night. Images tickled his mind, scattering like a shoal of glittering fish as he grasped for them.

‘Ahem. I hear congratulations are in order,’ Sceleritas said.

Then Villi remembered. He was Bhaal’s Chosen. In an instant he was out of bed and on his feet, sweeping the Butler up under his arms to whirl him around with a grin. ‘He made me his Chosen!’

Sceleritas cackled. ‘I am so proud of you!’

Oh no. The spinning had been a bad idea. Villi dropped the imp and pressed a hand to his mouth as it flooded with saliva and a bubble of bile threatened to make an unwelcome appearance.

‘Deep breaths in through your nose, master,’ Sceleritas advised from the floor.

Villi sat heavily on the edge of the bed, concentrating hard on not vomiting up the herbal mixture that he could already feel working. More memories came back to him, and shame threw a bucket of cold water over his initial joy.

‘Oh, gods. Sceleritas, I did something awful. I mean awful, awful, not good, awful.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’ Sceleritas asked. Having picked himself up he now stood by Villi’s knee, with a cup of water in one hand and a plate loaded with breakfast in the other. Smoked meat and thick slices of bread that had been toasted over an open flame until the edges were almost black, with fresh butter and mustard on the side.

‘Father said–he said it wasn’t his choice. It was too soon. But he lost a wager…and it was my fault. I failed him.’

‘No, no,’ Sceleritas said. ‘If you had failed Lord Bhaal he would have either taken your body for his own use or drained you of your vile, precious blood and torn what was left of you to pieces. Furthermore, I would despise you. None of those things have come to pass, have they? You may have disappointed him, but he loves you still because I love you still. You are his Chosen.’

‘That’s…I suppose…’

‘What did you do? It’s not the first time your Father has had to pledge himself to Bane’s service. There’s always some game or a wager lost and–happy times–we’re back in a war against the Realm. History repeats itself. Do try a sip of water, mi’lord.’

Villi took the cup and downed half of the water before looking sheepishly at the Butler. ‘I kissed the Banite.’

‘O, history repeats itself…’ Sceleritas muttered.

‘Pardon?’

‘Hm? I mean…They’re foul tricksters, those of Bane. Liars, manipulators of the worst kind. No scruples.’

‘I don’t have any scruples,’ Villi pointed out.

‘That’s not the same. You do it with style, mi’lord,’ Sceleritas said. ‘For the right reasons. Not them. You might think it was your choice to…do what you did, but I assure you, it will have been orchestrated by the Banite from the very beginning. You should not blame yourself, not for one moment.’

Taking the plate of food, Villi mulled over the Butler’s words. He picked up a piece of meat and took a bite. ‘I think it was my choice, though,’ he said, with his mouth full.

‘Exactly, that’s how manipulative and slimy they are,’ Sceleritas said. ‘Speaking of which; should I have a bath drawn for you?’

‘Mmhm.’ Villi nodded, before quickly swallowing. ‘But one more thing. My Father referred to me as his only living child last night. Did Orin die?’

‘Lady Orin? No, she is in the reliquary making use of one of the recovered racks if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Then what did he mean?’

Sceleritas hesitated. ‘Well, you are your Father’s Chosen now. I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm…’

‘Butler.’ Villi felt his patience slipping.

‘Yes, yes. So you see, Lady Orin’s unholy blood comes to her by the way of her grandfather. Lord Bhaal is not her direct sire. Your Father learned his lesson after the debacle with The Five. No more offspring. One single pureblood spawn was the plan this time,’ Sceleritas said. ‘Lady Orin is unaware of this fact.’

‘Oh,’ Villi said. His sister was even more of a mongrel than he thought. ‘Then, who is her father?’

‘I don’t know. I have my suspicions but her blood is…murky. It makes it difficult to sniff out the truth, as it were. She is still your kin, however.’

It didn’t make much of a difference. Well, not to Villi, anyhow. He was Bhaal’s favoured child. It would matter more to Orin, however; she was very proud of her blood, of their bond, of their Father . It might be prudent to keep hold of this information–this gift–to use against her in the future, Villi thought.

‘I’m glad she’s not dead,’ he said. ‘I cannot wait to see the look on her face when I tell her that I’m the Chosen one. I know she always thought it would be her.’

‘And I always knew it would be you, master,’ Sceleritas said fondly. He sniffed. ‘Oh, look at that, I’m getting all misty-eyed. I will away, mi’lord, and draw a bath fit for a Slayer.’

Pop. He vanished.

Villi continued his breakfast, running through all of the questions he intended on asking Gortash later.

[troutberryspoon]

I'm trying to get back into a writing habit and I'm a huge durgetash fan so this is my way of combining both. I've been trying to figure out how/why their alliance came about in the first place, as Durge doesn't strike me as the type to play nicely with others.

The premise of Unhallowed Heart is this: the Bhaalists are broke. My durge (Villiame 'Villi' Redvalok) is a human fighter who spent his teens/early twenties living with goblins. His arrival at the temple heralds the beginning of the end times, so no-one is bothering to pay the bills. He's getting a bit stressed, doesn't want to let his dad down, etc.

Along comes Gortash, with his own plans for world domination. He seeks an alliance with Villi, promising lots of gold, power, and influence in return.

And they click.

Kissing ensues. Or it will, eventually. It's a bit of a slow burn.

Hope you enjoy it.

Some fun facts about Villi here.

[troutberryspoon]

Fun Facts about (pre-tadpole) Durge Villi

Name: Villiame Redvalok (his adopted surname was originally Redvale but the Bhaalists Bhaalified it). He prefers Villi, but Sceleritas has expressly forbidden anyone in the temple from using it. 'It's far too informal, Master.'

Role(s): Pureblood Bhaalspawn, Bhaal's Chosen, leader of the Balder's Gate temple, herder of cats.

Physical description: I don't really describe him physically other than the fact that he is shaped like a human male and has blue eyes that some people find quite pretty. He has lots of scars, no tattoos.

Age: He is 36-ish at the start of my pre-game fic Unhallowed Heart. Shameless link here.

Personality Type: ESFP (The Entertainer). He has to repress his true personality to meet expectations in the temple, but at his heart he loves being with others, good food and drink, music and dancing, competitive sports, fighting, anything that gets his heart pumping. He gets caught up in the moment and wants to sweep other people up too. It also means he gets bored easily and isn't great at long-term planning.

Distinctive skills and abilities: Fighter class, battlemaster subclass. Greatswords are his favourite weapons to use in battle, daggers for up close and personal encounters. Speaks fluent Ghukliak. Skilled with a scalpel, and has a surgeon's level of knowledge of anatomy.

Greatest fear: Being forsaken by his Father.

Misbelief about the world: That fear == respect. He believes that no-one would dare to make a move against him if he's the biggest bad in the room.

What happened to make them believe this lie: Sceleritas has been blowing smoke up his arse for years, and before that he spent 14 years living in a goblin tribe.

How do they respond to emotional pain: Anger and avoidance. He tends to deal with it by getting 'high', and by that I mean he seeks out Bhaal's Ecstasy of Murder blessing by committing some kind of small atrocity. I headcanon that it's akin to an opiate high, taking all your cares and worries away for a time.

What do they criticize others for: Being boring, unadventurous or unambitious.

Love language: Touch! Touch, touch, touch.

Top 3 things they value (physical or abstract):

1. Competence. He admires people who are good at what they do.

2. Obedience. He wants people to do what he says.

3. Crisp and clean bed sheets. He slept on lice-ridden straw for years. This is non-negotiable.

Is there an object they can’t bear to part with and why: He owns a steel greatsword called Endbringer, it's like an extension of his body. I'm not quite sure (yet) where the sword came from or how it came into his possession, but he loves it above all other things.

Typical outfit: He inherited a luxurious wardrobe when he arrived at the temple. There's a lot of crimson and black. He generally looks well put together, opting for style over comfort most of the time.

Method of manipulation: Intimidation.

[troutberryspoon]

Unhallowed Heart - Chapter 5: 'Raid on the Hall of Wonders'

Dark Urge/Enver Gortash

First kiss, first kiss, first kiss! The Bhaalists reclaim some family heirlooms, Orin makes an appearance, and Durge and Gortash kiss.

Warnings - blood and violence, murder, gore

Word count - 3547

Full fic here on AO3

The morning of the opening of the Bhaalist exhibition.

The temple beneath the city bustled with the unfamiliar hum of organised activity. Everywhere Villi looked he could see Bhaal’s acolytes readying themselves for battle. Nearby, a small group of Deathdealers stood in a huddle around a Deathstalker cleric, heads bowed under black and purple cowls as they received their dark blessings. Three Unholy Assassins in their signature blood red leather armour distributed vials of paralytic poison as they moved through the shadowed hall. Young, robed initiates hurried here and there, carrying bundles of daggers, arrows, and throwing knives.

‘I must say; I haven’t seen this level of co-operation in years,’ Sceleritas said, lacing up the gauntlet on Villi’s right hand.

‘They made me work for it,’ Villi said. The edges of his voice were worn raw from two nights of using every tactic he knew to convince his flock, this rabid herd of cats, to work together. He had preached, he had threatened, he had exhorted and manipulated. Gortash had given him a short masterclass in how to bend wills, and, to give the Banite his due, it seemed to have helped.

It wasn’t that he had to convince them to kill on his command of course, not at all. Murder was their highest form of worship and his followers were nothing if not devout. Getting them to focus on a single location at a given day and time, however, had been exhausting. Villi still half-expected them to scatter when they went topside, ripping a bloody path through the Western district, slitting throats indiscriminately and leaving the artefacts unclaimed to languish in the museum.

Today was going to be the biggest test of his leadership so far. A thick eel of unease squirmed in his belly.

Sceleritas gave the gauntlet a final tug before stepping back, satisfied. He gave Villi an appraising look, then leaned closer. ‘You’re grinding your teeth, Master.’

‘Mere bloodlust,’ Villi lied.

Sceleritas pursed his withered lips, as if he was about to pry further. Villi silenced him with a glare.

‘Ah, Lady Orin, there you are,’ Sceleritas said, eyes twitching behind Villi’s shoulder. ‘I should go and see if the armourer has finished sharpening your sword, mi’lord. I won’t be long.’

The Butler scuttled away as Villi turned around to face Orin; the changeling, his second-in-command. As usual, he hadn’t heard her approach.

‘Lup-dup, lup-dup, lup-dup, lup-dup…’ Orin repeated the breathy chant as she tilted her head. Her eyes were cold, grey, featureless orbs, devoid of any visible iris or pupil. Villi knew they would be fixed on his throat. ‘How your heart pounds, dear brother.’

‘It’s bloodlust,’ Villi said.

‘You reek of fear.’

‘And you simply reek, sweet sister. That armour really does not allow your skin to breathe, does it?’

Orin folded her arms over her chest, causing the red chitinous plates that covered her body to scrape together in a way that was designed to put one’s teeth on edge. ‘Yes, let us speak of things that should not be allowed to breathe–’

‘I’m not going to tell you again. Do. Not. Kill. The. Banite. He will join us in the museum once the slaughter starts.’

Dear brother,

Sweet sister.

They were kin…of a sort. Both of them bore Bhaal’s blood.

No mortal womb had carried Villi. He was a Bhaalspawn like no other, formed directly from a gobbet of Bhaal’s own flesh. Orin was a mongrel in his eyes. The result of a dalliance between his Father and a lowly shapeshifter. But she was a Bhaalist down to the marrow. She had been born in the blood font, raised in the cloister, and had become the youngest Unholy Assassin in the history of the temple. She was utterly dedicated to their Father’s wicked doctrine, and Villi loved her for it. There was no-one else more qualified to be his second and give orders in his place.

He would also have to kill her for it one day, if she didn’t kill him first.

Their bond was a complicated one.

‘Do not kill! Oh, do not kill. The Son of Bhaal cries: do not kill,’ Orin said in a sing-song lilt.

‘That’s an order. He’ll die by my hand when the time is right.’

‘We shall see,’ she said, turning on her heel to walk away through the now crowded hall.

‘No, not we shall see, Godsdammit, Orin–’

Villi tried to follow but Sceleritas was suddenly in the way, leering up with his horrible little face.

‘Master! Endbringer is here, her blade sharp enough to cut the toughest of sinews,’ Sceleritas said. He was leading two initiates who carried Villi’s greatsword between them. The fiend kicked one of the youths in the ankle. ‘Do not drag it on the floor, you worm.’

Orin had vanished.

Villi took a breath. Orin was just trying to get under his skin. He would deal with her later.

It was time.

He raised his voice above the babble and chatter; ‘My vile family, faithful of the Dread Lord, hear me!’ After a few moments the noise around him settled. He continued; ‘Hear me and listen well. Remember your purpose today. We seek to reclaim treasured heirlooms and cherished remains from their unworthy custodians. Torture racks of Brother Eler’s design, the bones of Brother Toop, these are your quarry. But do not think I will leave your thirsty blades unsatisfied. Raise terror in the museum and make your bloody, beautiful offerings to Bhaal out of the guards and guests of the exhibition which mocks us. We must send a message: we do not exist for their amusement, we are their end!’

The gathered mass of hoods and cowls bowed in front of him, snatches of Bhaalist litany rising from veiled lips. A feeling of power bloomed in Villi’s chest, warm and heady like a good firewine. It helped to quash the remaining anxiety that nibbled at his guts as the initiates fussed around him, fastening his greatsword to his back. Its substantial weight was another comfort, and now his mind turned to the fight ahead. Real bloodlust kicked in, that most welcome of old friends. He stopped worrying about the acolytes and whether they would adhere to the plan. He just wanted to get out there and fight.

‘On me,’ he yelled, leading the Bhaalists out of the temple, towards the surface.

___

Dozens of disciples of the God of Murder streamed out of the sewers and onto the sunlit streets of Baldur’s Gate. Villi headed up the nightmare procession of killers of all kinds on a silent death march towards the columned building that took pride of place in the elegant city square.

Everyday people living their everyday lives stopped and stared.

‘What’s going on, where are they going?’

‘Check out the one up front; he’s got pretty eyes.’

‘Hells, are they real Bhaalists?’

‘Of course not, it’ll be something for the museum. They’ll be mummers.’

‘Their blades look real.’

So far, so good. If the gormless public believed this was all part of the exhibition, then the increased panic and fear when the blood started to flow would be even more exquisite.

Villi reached behind his neck to loosen the big sword in its scabbard and drew it before he reached the marble entry steps, letting it rest on his shoulder as he lifted his chin in greeting towards the guard who was standing at the massive bronze doors.

‘You, uh, you here for the group tour?’ the guard asked, watching Villi and the acolytes warily.

The tension in the air was intoxicating.

‘No. Draw your weapon,’ Villi said.

‘Shit. Shit!’ The guard backpeddled quickly, pulling the sword from his hip as Villi swung five feet of gleaming steel towards him.

Bhaalists started to disappear, at first in ones and twos, then the entire group winked out of sight using a combination of enchantments, spells, and potions. Villi felt the crunch of sword meeting chainmail, muscle, bone, and the rush of bodies around him as invisible assassins poured into the museum entrance.

Then the screaming started.

What glorious music. Villi followed it inside.

The foyer opened up into the main exhibition hall, lit by a series of skylights. Beams of light played over the polished stone floors, highlighting the splashes and pools of crimson that the Bhaalists left in their wake.

Bhaal was being honoured in every corner of the hall. Acolytes flashed into visibility, attacked with blurred speed, and disappeared again. Visitors were stabbed, strangled, beaten, dismembered, flayed. The air was ripe with a rich slaughterhouse perfume he could taste on the back of his tongue.

Two more guards armed with bows appeared on a balcony that overlooked the ground floor and began to loose arrows at the attackers below. Villi ducked behind a display of small Gondian clockwork contraptions that, according to the plaque beside them, were used to predict earthquakes. So, the Hall of Wonders was a museum dedicated to inventions. 

No wonder Gortash is on the Board of Trustees, he thought.

A cheap arrow buzzed past his ear like an extraordinarily large and angry wasp.

With a growl he was out of cover and running towards a side room, searching for a way up. He found a staircase, took the stairs two at a time, and rounded the balcony just as a man with a crossbow on the opposite side of the hall took aim at the guards. The man’s face was obscured by a cowl but Villi recognised his broad shoulders and the emerald green heartwood of the crossbow.  

Gortash pulled the trigger.

The half-orc guard furthest from Villi jerked suddenly, her tusked mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ of surprise as her leg exploded below the knee with a firecracker BANG. A second bolt took off half of her face as she fell to the floor, leaving one eye rolling madly in a mess of red gore.

Villi realised he was being treated to an up-close and personal demonstration of Gortash’s genius, a smokepowder projectile that could be used in close quarters to cause precise injuries while leaving nearby allies with nothing more than the odd singed eyebrow and splattering of gristle. It was brilliant.

He raised his gaze from the mewling soon-to-be-corpse, locking eyes with the remaining guard. It was time to show Gortash what he could do.

Endbringer sang as he looped the sword in a series of wide figure eights. The guard desperately tried to nock another arrow with an unsteady hand, finally finding purchase and drawing the string in time for Villi to cleave clean through his outstretched arm. The Bhaalspawn twisted in a ghastly pirouette and brought the sword down again, hacking nearly all the way through the guard’s neck and shoulder. Warm blood sprayed, the guard gurgled. Villi tugged the blade free and turned back to the balcony to give Gortash a small bow.

Gortash returned the gesture, sweeping an arm across his body and dipping low.

Grinning, Villi pushed away from the railing to make his way back to the ground floor.

The Bhaalists carved their way deeper into the museum, finding victims in the side rooms, galleries, lecture halls, and storage rooms.

A large group converged in the gallery that housed the torture exhibition. By the time Villi arrived two of the racks had already been carried out of the museum’s rear exit, where a number of horse-drawn wagons waited for their grim cargo. Brother Owain had smashed the glass display case that held the skeletal remains of Brother Toop, a lesser Bhaalspawn who had been slain during the Time of Troubles one hundred and twenty years ago, and was now scooping the bits into a burlap sack so they could be added to the ancestral bone pile back in the temple where they belonged.

The plan had not been abandoned. Villi felt a welling of pride in his chest.

Gortash swapped his crossbow for a selection of hand tools after volunteering to help to dismantle the racks. The remaining racks were taken apart in short order, a combination of his expert guidance and, as he explained to Villi while admiring the stretching cuffs, the racks’ own clever design. They had been built to be portable, so that on no occasion should a spot of light torture be missed for want of a handy rack.

Villi lingered in the gallery for longer than he probably should have, watching the Banite’s deft hands at work. Then came the message relayed from the entrance hall; the Flaming Fist were on their way. A mercenary company that strove to keep the peace in the Gate, well-trained and tough, they were the real opponents Villi had been looking forward to facing.

When he called a small band of Deathdealers to follow him and head back towards the main foyer, Gortash picked up his crossbow and joined him by his side.

‘I thought you would travel back with the relics,’ Villi said.

‘I’m with you to the end, my friend,’ Gortash said.

The marble rooms and corridors were silent now save for the purposeful thud of Villi and Gortash’s boots. The assassins with them moved in a whisper. Bhaal’s name and his symbol were painted in blood all over the museum’s walls and floors. Crumpled bodies mainly lay where they fell, but a few had been ‘artistically’ arranged in a series of grisly tableaus around the displays.

Villi and his group just had to keep the Fist occupied outside the entrance for long enough so that the wagons could get lost in the ratways of the Lower City. Then they could make a run for it and celebrate a raid well executed.

‘What is that tune you’re humming?’ Gortash asked as they approached the giant bronze doors.

‘Hm? Oh! I didn’t realise I was,’ Villi said, clearing his throat, pushing the old tribal drinking song to the back of his mind. He was feeling alive , invigorated, and had quite forgotten himself for a moment.

‘You didn’t have to stop. I thought it was quite jaunty.’

‘I’m sure my Butler would disapprove of me singing anything jaunty.’

‘Bollocks to your butler,’ Gortash said.

Villi stifled a bark of laughter behind his hand, covering it with another cough. He chanced a quick glance at Gortash, unsure of what he was looking for, and the man held his gaze for a moment. A moment that was broken when Villi’s followers, invisible once more, ran past them and through the doors and out to the grounds of the museum, like a cabal of blood-stinking spectres to fall upon the closest members of the Flaming Fist.

Gortash raised his crossbow and Villi levelled his sword. Together they charged out into the daylight.

___

‘Let me take a look at that cut,’ Villi said, breathing heavily.

‘I assure you; it’s nothing,’ Gortash panted. Blood dripped from underneath the face mask of his cowl onto his neck.

They were hiding in the back garden of a humble cottage in the Lower City, trying to catch their breath after running from what seemed like an entire battalion of Flaming Fist.

‘Gods, they just kept coming,’ Villi said with a laugh.

Gortash tore off his headpiece in an effort to get more air. ‘Flaming cockroaches. How many did you slay?’

‘I fear I lost count. You?’

‘Twelve and a half.’

‘And a half?’

‘That man will be dead by the ‘morrow.’

‘Doesn’t count,’ Villi said goodnaturedly, straightening up. He cast a knowledgeable eye over the deep gash now visible on Gortash’s chin. The Fist that had managed to slip a blade under Gortash’s mask had appeared from nowhere and disappeared just as quickly. Villi had his suspicions that it might have been Orin, toying with him. It left him feeling rattled. ‘That’s going to scar. I can stitch it up for you, if you’d like. You won’t even know it was there. I’ve had a lot of practice.’

‘No need. I want to keep a memento of today,’ Gortash said.

‘You should at least try to stem the bleeding…here.’ Villi held out a clean pocket square onto which Sceleritas had embroidered his initials in crimson thread. The Butler always insisted that he take a handkerchief before heading out for the day (or night).

‘That is most kind of you,’ Gortash said, tipping his chin up. When he made no move to take the handkerchief, Villi realised that he was waiting for him to do it.

His pulse quickened as he stepped closer and pressed the white cloth to Gortash’s skin, watching as the blood seeped through almost instantly. He pressed harder and Gortash hissed in pain.

‘Don’t stop,’ Gortash said in a low voice, catching Villi’s wrist as he started to pull his hand away.

Villi’s heart was racing.

‘Do you like it when it hurts?’

‘Sometimes.’

Villi pushed his thumb against the damp red patch, feeling a thrill deep in his core when Gortash groaned softly. He didn’t know what they were doing. It felt intimate, sexy. Many years ago, before his time in the temple, he had found a book of ‘romantic literature’ during a raid on a small hamlet. He had devoured it, reading it from cover to cover so many times the spine started to disintegrate. In a camp full of goblins where animalistic coupling took place in plain sight for the most part, often during supper, retiring to his tent and reading about pleasure - slow soft touches, breathless sighs, mouths seeking skin - felt downright perverse. He had enjoyed it immensely.

This was nothing like those stories, but the undertones were there, Villi was sure of it. Or maybe he just hoped they were.

Dread Father forgive him, he hoped they were.

‘You fight well, better than I expected from a Banite,’ Villi said.

‘Coming from you, that sounds like the highest praise,’ Gortash said with a lazy smile. ‘You were magnificent , Villiame. Getting to watch you kill - what a privilege. So lethal, so powerful, beautiful…’ His hands moved to Villi’s waist, and Villi found himself leaning closer, his mouth suddenly dry.

‘I think I want to kiss you,’ Villi said in a rush, not wanting to miss this chance. 

‘I want that too.’

‘Only…I’ve never done it before.’

Gortash looked at him in interest as he took the bloody handkerchief from Villi’s hand to tuck it into his own pocket. ‘Truly?’

‘Truly.’

‘Then it would be my honour to tutor you. Just follow what I do, and relax.’

Relax? Villi was wound tighter than a lyre’s sixth string. He managed to nod, and dragged in a shuddering breath as Gortash’s lips covered his own, lips so warm all other thoughts stuttered to a stop. Gortash pressed the full length of his body against him, from chest to thighs to hips. They fit together as if made for one another.

It took a few moments for Villi to adjust to the flood of new sensations, to reclaim enough of his mind to try to return the kiss instead of just standing there like a marble statue. Gortash made an approving noise when Villi slipped his arms around his waist and softened under him.

‘That’s good, try opening your mouth a little,’ he breathed against Villi’s lips, parting them wider with his tongue as soon as he complied.

The intrusion was odd; it made his legs weak. Villi tightened his grip on Gortash, pulling him closer, understanding now why there were so many references to melting in the book he read. Gortash was well practised, skillfully coaxing him into a deeper kiss that left him balancing on the edge of breathlessness.

It was over far too soon. Gortash broke away, chuckling at Villi’s disappointed groan before pressing a consoling peck to his lips. ‘That’s quite enough for your first time, my friend. Besides, this isn’t the ideal place or time for a more in depth lesson.’

Villi took a breath, savouring the way his lips still tingled from the contact. Feeling emboldened, he leaned in and nudged Gortash’s nose with his own. ‘So, where and when would be ideal?’ he asked.

And there it was again - that analytical, careful way Gortash had of looking at him. Like he was dissecting him in his mind. Measuring him up, weighing his organs. Villi shivered, not unpleasantly.

‘If you want more…come to the house tomorrow, say, early evening?’ Gortash said after a moment. ‘I will teach you everything I know, or as much as you can handle.’

‘I–’ Villi paused, willed his voice to stay steady. ‘That sounds– Of course. Yes. Tomorrow.’

Gortash pressed his lips together, as if he was attempting to smother a wider smile. ‘Until tomorrow, then.’

They extracted themselves from their embrace, only getting caught in a snag once when a stud on Gortash’s arm guard hooked into an eyelet on the side of Villi’s torso. Then they parted ways.

Villi’s step was light, despite the ache in his limbs that was starting to set in as every muscle complained about the way he had treated them. He wondered if he looked any different, if Sceleritas would be able to tell at a glance that he now knew what it felt like to be kissed.

Bollocks to his Butler, he thought.

[troutberryspoon]

Madlads.

[troutberryspoon]

Unhallowed Heart - Chapter 4 - 'Planning the first heist'

Dark Urge/Enver Gortash

Fourth chapter - Gortash tells Villi about an upcoming museum exhibition

Word count - 2284

Full fic here on AO3

___

A few days later.

‘...And I swear to bring no harm unto you or any who follow you,’ Villi said. Words of peace that felt alien in his mouth, rolling around like loose and rotten teeth.

‘Likewise. I swear to bring no harm unto you or any who follow you,’ Gortash said, finishing their pact.

With that, it was sealed. The new Chosen of Bane and the Son of Bhaal. Two of the Dead Three reunited once more, in an alliance that was almost certainly as doomed as any that had come before it. Villi was already daydreaming about Gortash’s death (it must be somewhere public, Villi was adamant on that point), and no doubt Gortash had numerous schemes stashed in his gilded sleeves for when and how he planned to stab Villi in the back.

And gilded was not a metaphorical description. The man was wearing a black moleskin coat that dripped in gold. Apparently it was a gift from his god.

Yes, Enver Gortash was now Bane’s Chosen among mortals. A fact he had been most eager to reveal, judging by how quickly he had managed to bring it up in conversation when Villi had arrived at his manor less than an hour ago for the informal and very private ceremony.

Villi wasn’t Bhaal’s Chosen. Not yet. Not officially. The prodigal child still had to prove himself, it seemed. And the prodigal child was feeling rather sour about it.

‘Now that that necessary bit of formality is out of the way, can I give you a tour of my favourite room in the house?’ Gortash asked.

‘I didn’t intend on staying for–’

‘Nonsense. We have much to discuss, my friend.’

Villi bit back a growl. Took a breath. Said; ‘Then lead on, friend.’

For this tour, Gortash began by leading him downstairs. The cellars of Baxendall House were deep. The stairs corkscrewed down in a disorienting spiral, and Villi was glad to finally reach the bottom where a vast workshop sprawled out in every direction.

The acrid tang of smokepowder and weapon oil hung in the air, catching at the back of the throat like a dish overseasoned with black pepper.

‘You’re an inventor?’ Villi asked.

‘A tinkerer,’ Gortash replied.

Gortash headed over to a desk that was piled high with books and scraps of paper. ‘Please, take a look around, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t touch anything. I’ll be with you in one moment, I just need to find something first…’

A tinkerer? That must be false modesty.

Villi couldn’t even put a name to half of the contraptions he could see. The most familiar items included a whole wall dedicated to crossbows of all sizes, ranging from the bard’s perennial favourite, the handheld, up to heavy arbalests that needed to be cranked by two people before firing.

Of the less familiar items, Villi could only guess. Parts of what looked to be humanoid automatons were laid out on a number of workbenches, in various states of construction (or deconstruction, Villi didn’t have a clue). It was the complexity of the models that had him staring in wonder.

He moved over to one large mechanical arm. It lacked skin, or an outer covering, showing the ropes of finely wrought chains that someone, presumably Gortash, had decided to use as a proxy for the muscles and tendons found in a true, living limb.

Ignoring Gortash’s request for him not to touch, Villi poked through the bundles of chains in interest.

Oh, how delicious. Gortash had made a mistake.

‘You’re missing a connection here,’ Villi said.

‘Hm?’ Gortash looked up from the stack of paper he was searching through.

‘In this arm. The little finger will be lacking grip strength without it.’

‘Is that so? Now you’ve piqued my interest because that is exactly the issue I’ve been having with that piece. Please, show me what you mean,’ Gortash said. He moved to stand beside Villi.

Villi raised his own arm and pointed to a spot near the crook of his elbow. ‘There’s a small muscle here that your model is missing. I met a bard once, a lute player, who had the most beautiful forearms. She made a fascinating subject to study. That muscle was particularly well-developed.’

‘Study? Do you mean in an artistic sense?’

‘I mean in a ‘what lies beneath the skin when you peel it away’ sense,’ Villi said.

‘Ah, so you’re interested in anatomy?’

‘Of course,’ Villi said, as if it should be obvious. ‘Put your thumb there, on your own arm. Press deep, and move your little finger in isolation.’

Gortash watched Villi’s demonstration, a small crease of concentration forming between his brows. He reached inside his sleeve to detach a long gauntlet of beautiful, but highly impractical, gold metal filigree and set it aside. Now that his flesh was exposed, he could follow along.

‘Can you feel it?’ Villi asked.

Gortash wiggled his fingers and said; ‘You know, I’m not sure.’

‘Try slightly higher. May I?’ Villi paused with his hand hovering over Gortash’s, waiting for the man’s approval before he touched him.

‘By all means,’ Gortash said.

Villi moved so that he was standing just behind Gortash and took his hand. The hand of a craftsman, he thought, feeling roughened skin and strong tendons under his fingers. ‘Can you feel this long muscle on top?’ he asked, using his thumb to guide Gortash’s.

Gortash made a soft noise of confirmation.

‘This one aligns with the one you’ve built in your model, here, see?’

‘I see.’

‘The one you’re missing is just underneath…there. Pinch your little finger and thumb together. Can you feel that as it moves?’

‘I can. You’re right.’ Gortash looked at him over his shoulder. ‘You are full of surprises.’ 

There was an intensity to his gaze that Villi couldn’t decipher. It made him feel like a moth pinned to a piece of card under glass.

‘Is it really so surprising? I like to take people apart, find out how their bodies work. From my experiments I’ve learned how to kill more quickly and more slowly. How to make death painless and silent, or how to make it agonising.’

‘Making you a better assassin.’

‘And a better torturer,’ Villi agreed. He was still holding Gortash’s arm. He released him quickly and stepped away.

‘Hold that thought. You have just reminded me what I was looking for. I have a gift for you.’

‘A gift?’

‘I am a benefactor of the Hall of Wonders museum in the Western district. Have you visited?’

Villi gave him a look.

Gortash continued; ‘I’ll assume that’s a no. Well, as a benefactor, I get advance notice about upcoming exhibitions, and there’s a collection opening to the public on Thirdday that I think you will be very interested in.’ He handed Villi a printed pamphlet.

The Rack Pack: Chronicles of Bhaalyn Punishment Through the Ages Step right up to the most bone-chilling, spine-tingling show in town!  Wander through a world where the rack isn’t for drying your clothes! Prepare to be gruesomely delighted with the largest collection of Bhaalyn torture implements in the whole of Faerûn! None escape Bhaal!

‘We’re…a tourist attraction?’ Villi forced out each word, pushing them past the seething ball of rage that glowed in his chest. The paper scrunched into his tightly clenched fist. ‘This is your museum?’

As always, Gortash remained as cool as a flowing stream in the face of Villi’s murderous anger. ‘I don’t own the museum. Villiame, please don’t misunderstand my intentions in showing this to you–’ 

‘Then speak quickly. How is this a gift?’

‘It’s the greatest gift. It’s information. Those items have been lost to your family for how many years? Now you know where they are. You can reclaim them.’

Information as a gift. It was an unfamiliar concept. To Villi, a good gift was one he could hold and use. Something of material value, like a well-forged sword or a ruby the size of his fist. But he wasn’t blind to the value in what Gortash had given him. He assumed it wouldn’t have been beyond Gortash’s means to simply procure the exhibition items and send them directly to the temple. Instead, he presented Villi with an opportunity to bring terror to the ignorant, gawking wretches who thought that Bhaal’s bloody legacy was an appropriate subject for their afternoon entertainment.

Step right up to the most bone-chilling, spine-tingling show in town!

‘If they want a show I will give it to them,’ Villi said.

‘Perfect,’ Gortash said, pressing his hands together in a pleased little gesture.

‘On the opening day I’ll tear them apart and take back what is ours.’ Villi pointed at Gortash. ‘And you’ll be fighting by my side.’

‘That sounds wond– steady on. Me? What do you mean?’

The prospect of a decent battle had already buoyed Villi’s mood. There would be guards at the museum, armed and armoured, hopefully with enough training to provide him with a bit of a challenge. Taking back a haul of Bhaalist artefacts should put him in his Father’s good graces, too. His blood was up, and he shot Gortash a grin.

‘We’re allies, now. Partners. I need to see how you fare in a fight. You favour the crossbow, yes? Judging from your collection here.’

‘I do. But I am a member of the museum’s Board of Trustees–’

‘We’ll cover your face, fret not about your position,’ Villi said, waving a hand dismissively. ‘This attack will be in Bhaal’s name, I don’t want to divert attention away from that.’

‘It has been a while since I got my own hands dirty…’ Gortash was watching him again, studying him with that eerie calm in his dark eyes.

‘Sounds like you need to blow away the cobwebs. A bit of bloodletting does the soul a world of good,’ Villi said. ‘Tell me how you like to kill.’

The man seemed to be warming up in the face of the Bhaalspawn’s enthusiasm. With an enigmatic smile he led Villi over to the wall of crossbows and showed him several cases of bolts that had been modified to carry a small payload of smokepowder within the shaft.

‘I’m fond of explosives,’ Gortash said. ‘As you probably know, most crossbow bolts are designed to be as rigid as possible, to reduce the risk of them bending and becoming unusable after one or two shots. These ones, however, are specifically designed to crumple on impact. It ignites the smokepowder within, causing a localised explosion that’s very effective at dismembering a target.’

‘You can blow someone’s leg off with one of these?’

‘At the knee, certainly. With a shot to the hip it becomes…more of a mess.’

Villi picked up one of the bolts and twirled it between his fingers. He saw Gortash’s hands move as if he was going to try to stop him, but he clasped them behind his back instead.

‘So, you like to set yourself away from the main fray, and take off people’s arms and legs?’ Villi asked. ‘Watch from afar as they crawl around screaming?’

‘Yes.’

Gortash liked to stoke fear. That was Villi’s interpretation.

‘Hm. I think you’re starting to grow on me, Banite.’

‘That is gratifying to hear. Now, if you would kindly put that back– thank you.’ Gortash closed the clasp on the case of bolts after Villi replaced the one he was toying with. Was there a hint of relief there, in Gortash’s eyes? Irritation? It was going to drive Villi to distraction, trying to cajole some sort of reaction out of the man at every chance he got.

‘How about you? Do you have a favourite way to kill?’ Gortash asked.

‘I think if I attempted to choose just one, I’d be committing some kind of blasphemy,’ Villi said, leaning his hip against the workbench behind him.

‘Entirely fair. Let’s make the question broader, then. Is there a form of combat that you prefer?’

‘I was trained to fight with a greatsword. The bigger the better.’

‘Not compensating for something, surely?’ 

The way Gortash’s eyes raked over his body made him feel certain he was ignorant of some sort of hidden meaning behind the question, but he had no idea what it might be. Instead, he answered honestly; ‘Yes, actually.’

‘Oh?’ Gortash blinked.

‘Height.’

‘You’ve lost me.’

Villi savoured the confusion on the man’s face. ‘I know I’m fairly tall for a human, but the group of people I trained with were members of one of the shorter races. They compensated for their lack of height by fighting with weapons that were bigger than you’d expect them to use. Since their weapons were normal size to me, I had to scale up to use the same techniques.’

‘I see. Dwarves?’

‘None of your fucking business,’ Villi said. Fucking came out as facking, the goblin drawl trespassing into his accent simply because he had made the mistake of bringing up his past. Not that Gortash would be able to identify it, he was sure. Still, he was in danger of oversharing, and sought to change the subject, ‘We’ll need wagons to transport the artefacts from the museum back to the temple. Do you have any contacts who could help with that?’

Gortash nodded. ‘Yes…I can organise that. Look, I apologise if I offended you–’

‘Not at all. Now let’s forget about it and plan what we’re going to do on Thirdday.’

With another nod, Gortash led Villi over to a map of the museum. Together, they worked out the details of the heist, set to take place two days hence. The planning session went on until well into the night.

[troutberryspoon]

Unhallowed Heart - Chapter 3: 'An Alliance Beckons'

Dark Urge/Enver Gortash

Third chapter and we get a glimpse of Bhaal's Ecstasy of Murder as Durge Villi experiences it. So, time for some warnings: blood, violence, murder, implied sexual gratification, addiction, etc.

Word count: 1657

Full fic on AO3

___

One hour later.

The Bhaalspawn stalked through the dark streets, each footstep carrying him blessedly further away from Enver Gortash’s mansion. Villi’s shoulders were hunched beneath his cloak, tension radiating from him in palpable waves.

Ah. He spied a fat slug making its ponderous, slimy way across the damp cobbles in front of him. He diverted his path to crush it underfoot. Even gave his heel an extra half-twist to ensure it was smeared into paste.

More. He craved blood. He craved what would come after the blood.

Gods damn that man.

Gortash was clever. He was shrewd. He had played the part of simpering admirer with patience and skill and Villi had underestimated him completely.

This was all Sceleritas’s fault. It would be a bath of boiling oil for the Butler this time.

But later. Later.

For now, the Lower City called.

In its twisting rabbit warren of tight alleyways and switchback streets, Villi found his quarry soon enough. 

A young woman was huddled in a doorway, dressed in rags, her face prematurely lined by hardship and worry. On her lap rested the head of a young boy no more than eight summers old, gently sleeping. The woman hummed a lullaby while brushing her calloused fingers through the child’s curls.

How sweet. How touching.

How tragic it would be, if either one lost the other.

The woman looked up when Villi stopped and tapped his cane in front of her. Her expression was wary.

‘I’m not offering anything you’re wanting,’ she said quietly. ‘Please sir, let us be.’

‘I’d like you to hold this for a moment for me,’ he said, tipping the cane towards her.

The wariness never left her eyes, but the woman did as she was bid. Her hand left the child’s hair and wrapped around the ebony shaft. Villi wondered if she thought she could use it as a weapon against him.

Like a striking snake, his hand darted forwards, grabbing the boy by the front of his shirt and tearing him out of his mother’s grasp.

She shrieked. ‘No! STOP! Let him go!’

The boy awoke with a shudder, eyes wide, legs kicking while Villi held him aloft. The woman, now standing, froze when Villi placed the edge of his dagger against the child’s cheek.

‘I’m begging you. I’M BEGGING YOU!’

Villi pressed harder. Soft skin split. The boy and his mother both screamed as his blood began to run.

‘I’ll do anything!’ The woman’s voice was raw, as if her throat was filled with splinters. She still held onto the cane, knuckles white, but she made no move to use it. The difference between prey and predator, Villi thought.

‘Would you take his place?’ he asked.

‘Yes, yes! Let him go, please let him go! Please, PLEASE!’

‘Did you hear that, child? Look at me.’ He gave the trembling wretch a sharp shake. ‘Your mother is going to die tonight, and it’s all your fault.’

The woman moaned and sobbed. The boy cried so hard that he retched. 

It was horrible. 

It was beautiful.

Villi set the child down, turned, and pulled the woman close. ‘Bhaal awaits thee, Bhaal embraces thee, none escape Bhaal,’ he whispered tenderly in her ear before burying his blade in the yielding expanse of her abdomen. She dropped the cane the third time he stabbed her. She died around the eighth or ninth.

When his arm began to grow tired, Villi stopped and let the body fall. Then, using her blood as paint, he daubed his Father’s symbol on the ground around it. He stepped back to admire his work, and noticed that the boy was still there, still staring at the lifeless ruined thing that was his mother only a short time ago. Good. Let the memory burn itself deep. Let the boy hate Villi every time he saw the scar on his face in his reflection. Let him fear the day Villi would come for him too.

Bhaal smiled on the scene. Villi’s breath hitched. He felt the veil of invisibility slip over his form, prickling his skin as he disappeared from view. He left the boy in the alleyway as he headed north, seeking a place where he could be alone.

A delicious warmth had started to pool low in his belly. Villi rounded a corner and gave thanks when he found himself in a small abandoned yard. While he might currently be invisible, he couldn’t always stay silent when his Father’s gift flooded his veins.

The murder had been well received. Villi pressed his shoulderblades against a wall and tipped his head back, sighing breathlessly as every nerve sparked alight. The steel cables of tension that wrapped his neck tight started to unwind, his cares and worries slipping away one-by-one.

It didn’t happen every time he made a kill. The secret ingredient was love. If he could shatter someone’s heart, break someone’s mind and spirit, bereave an entire community because he had chosen to end a beloved person’s life, then he got a little treat. It had to be deliberate, too. Harrowing. Depraved. Cutting down an enemy on the battlefield didn’t count, regardless of how many orphans he made that way.

His body thrummed in pleasure.

‘Oh, fuck.’ His back arched, swept up in a climax of mind-numbing bliss. An escape, a release. 

And Villi was addicted.

Afterwards he felt hollow and sluggish, but at least his mind was now calm. He could consider the alliance Gortash had offered over dinner.

Essentially, Gortash had figured out that the Bhaalists in Baldur’s Gate were rapidly running out of gold. Their influence was dwindling. They were at risk of becoming nothing more than stories parents used to scare their naughty offspring. 

Villi knew his followers were feral. There was the sense that his arrival in the temple heralded the end times. He was the armageddon-watcher, made by Bhaal to be the last soul alive. Which meant that no-one seemed to be too concerned with keeping the books balanced. They simply murdered everyone in sight.

Over a main course of venison served with crushed swede flavoured with caraway, Gortash made this point; if they couldn’t source enough gold to raise the army needed to bring about the end times, how would it ever come about?

Villi felt seen. He had argued the same point at the pulpit countless times, but it always seemed to fall on deaf ears. Or worse, scheming ears. There were whispers that the Son of Bhaal cared more about coin than bringing death to the world.

‘But we need it!’

‘But you need it!’

Villi and Gortash had made the exclamation at the same time. As if they were in sync.

Just as Villi was starting to feel the stirrings of what could be a real connection for the first time in his existence, Gortash went and ruined it all by revealing that he was a devotee of Bane, the God of Tyranny. Bhaal’s sworn enemy.

Villi had stormed out before dessert had arrived. 

The invisibility enchantment shivered away.

‘Hells,’ he muttered. He had just realised that he’d left his cane in the alley with the boy and his dead mother. If he went back to get it and the child was still there, he’d ruin the scene.

There was a ‘pop’. The stink of burned eggs. Sceleritas.

‘I believe you dropped this, Master,’ Sceleritas said, handing him the missing cane. The fiend took in the blood that covered Villi from his hair to his shoes. ‘I take it you’ve had a good night?’

‘Not really,’ Villi said. ‘I left dinner early. I was going to boil you for suggesting that I go in the first place.’

‘A wonderful idea! I shall get the fires stoked–’

‘I don’t have the energy. Did you know that Gortash is a Banite?’

‘You don’t say.’

‘Sceleritas. Did you know?’

‘Who is to say what is known and what is not…?’

‘So you knew.’

‘Yes.’

‘K’roklig.’ Villi groaned. ‘I don’t know what to do. Gortash knows we’re up to our tits in shit and he–’

Sceleritas cleared his throat. ‘Ahem.’

‘He can help us. With enough funding we could raise an army of Deathdealers and Unholy Assassins, but Gortash asks for an alliance in return. A sworn pact that we will do him no harm. If I decline the temple could collapse, literally and figuratively. I’ll fail my Father and we’ll fade into history. If I accept, am I betraying Him? Will He forsake me?’

‘Your Father sees what is in your dear, puckered heart. You don’t seek this alliance to defy Bhaal, you seek it to glorify Him. He will see. He will know,’ Sceleritas said, patting Villi’s bloodsoaked arm. ‘Trust your Butler. The plan hasn’t changed. It’s true, the Banite knows more about our current challenges than we would like, and the terms are steeper than we thought before. I still see no reason why you can’t go along with it - for now.’

After a few moments of thought, Villi nodded. ‘You’re right. I pray my Father will understand. When we’ve amassed enough power I’ll end Gortash myself. No pact can hold me forever.’

‘Exactly, my Liege. Your destiny dictates that no soul can be left alive. This alliance will be worth less than the rags I use to clean the brain matter from your boots. You’ll just have to play the part, for a while. Your suffering will bring glory to us all.’

‘Then it’s settled. I’ll send word to Gortash on the ‘morrow,’ Villi said. ‘Come, let’s head back to the temple. I’ve got a deep gnome’s forearm in the beetle tank, it should be clean by now. Would you like to assist me with the wiring? I was envisioning a new book holder for my study.’

Sceleritas looked up at him in rapture. ‘Oh, Master!’

‘I’ll boil you afterwards.’

‘You are too kind to old Sceleritas, Master. Too kind!’

[cienie-isengardu]

marablake replied to your Clones were bred for obedience

You forgot to mention this wasn't the first time Faie had argued with Quinlan's orders. He'd also shot an unarmed, injured prisoner after Quin ordered him not to. In the same issue you quoted, Quinlan had to remind Faie that a general's orders on the field take precedence over standard directives. And that last was over a smuggler who was -helping- the Wookiees and had just saved both Jedi and troopers. Faie wasn't "by the book", he was trying to undermine his general.   

 It's ironic you mention Faie since he is proof the troopers CAN defy orders, not just in life-or-death situations like Umbara biut even if they just feel like being dickish.

To be fair, I did mention that Faie and Vos - I quote myself -  “argued” quite often through the whole arc. If that wasn’t enough precise to your taste, then sorry.

You say that Faie is a proof that clone trooper can defy orders, but when Faie did so, really?

The smuggler helping Wookies was Vilmarh​ Grahrk known better as Villie who had a long story with Vos but at the same time through the war worked with Separatists (at least Twi’lek Kh'aris Fenn and somehow made Durge mad at him). When Vos met Villie, he didn’t give specific orders - he wasn’t happy to see Devorian here and did nothing when clones aimed weapon at smuggler

It was Wookie’s elder grandson whose action forced Vos (and the Wookie) to act

Sudden appearance and help from unknown person is not enough reason to trust Villie, especially not during important campaing. Which is why commander Faie checked available data and instead of acting on his own, shared the result with his superior:

Faie here is not undermine Vos, he is following already given to him order (hunting down / killing enemies of Republic) that happens to be one of STANDING ORDERS.

Standing orders aren’t just directives ("instruction”) but a promulgated orders which remains in force until amended or cancelled. For all we know, it may comes directly from Supreme Commander, the Chancellor himself. Nature of said order Vos already knew, when he was almost killed by Bly (Republic 68)

An order that up to this point wasn’t countermanded by Vos apparently. He told Faie to leave the smuggler in his custody, something that Faie tried to argue with by saying that he has already his orders - but his stubborness has some merits since Yoda was the highest superior on Kashyyk, not to mention that Luminara is most likely the superior/senior officer between the two Jedi. Did Faie hoped the old Jedi master (or Luminara?) will agree with him? I don’t have an idea. He may as well try to workaround “insubordinate” Vos but the moment when Jedi said it’s direct order (here happens the talk about priority of orders you mentioned) Faie obeyed and since then did not make any remark about Villie’s presence.

Soon after that, clones found an injured Trandoshan and managed to get out of him only the name (Karniss) and rank (mission leader). No orders were given at this moment

Luminara wanted to heal injured Karniss to Faie’s surprise (”Why? He’s the enemy”) so Vos explained because “we’re Jedi and not clones” while suggesting clone to think about it as a chance to gain new informations.

Karniss did not want Jedi help, fearing the “witch” is gonna steal his mind and/or soul. Vos talked the Trandoshan into giving some important information. When Faie, Luminara and Vos were busy discussing what to do with the knowledge, injured enemy attacked guard, get trooper’s weapon and attacked Jedi and Faie:

The clone commander killed Karniss during that skirmish:

Mind you that nor Vos nor Luminara gave any order to Faie prior to the fight scene and look at the timing of Vos order - Jedi told “No!” when Faie already was shooting. That is hardly a disobedience. Clone did what was excepted of him - killed enemy of Republic, following standing order that his general in field did not countermand (the way it happened with Villie) and who attacked Jedi and at least injured guard.

You said: He'd also shot an unarmed, injured prisoner after Quin ordered him not to but A) the prisoner wasn’t unarmed, he was attacking them when that happened and B) Vos and Luminara decided to heal the enemy, yet they did not forbid killing the Trando in case of fight C) there was at least short moment when Vos could order Faie to not kill enemy during attack, he screamed “NO!” when Faie already was shooting.

I would agree with your statement if Vos gave order when Trandoshan lied helpless on the ground and Faie still decided to kill him. That would be disobedience, sure. But it happened under enemy fire, while no Jedi forbade Faie to eliminate enemy that proved to be too dangerous to keep alive. Faie did his duty - protected Jedi by eliminating the threat.

Later, when Faie insisted that Wookie share with GAR/Republic information about secret hyper space there is the scene

in which Vos is not even talking to Faie judging by the way his body is presented, which eyes at Luminara. Clone Commander once again reminded his general what regulations require in such situation, because he is by-the-book type of clone who wish to follow already existing directives and who is gonna arguing and pointing all wrongness of Vos doing (because Jedi action are against the law/orders) but he is gonna obey direct orders, even if those stand against all rules, thus seems illogical to the clone.

Faie followed orders to the letter and kept arguing with Vos most likely to “correct” the not-so-military decision of Jedi. Vos was annoyed by Faie and I’m sure serving under Vos wasn’t any better for the clone. Luminara once noted their difference:

Arguing with orders is not the same as disobedience. The mentioned in previous meta imperial officer, Daine Jir, argued with Vader’s orders and pointed out flaws of his superior’s plan but he obeyed when it was clear that Vader set his mind to it. The same with commander Faie - he may argue and try to “correct” his general but in the end he is following orders, even when he does not like them personally. He is doing so, because experience taught him to adhere to a strict interpretation of his orders, he is not doing it because he feels like acting dickish to his superiors.

Or at least that is my reading of Faie’s character.

[444names]

west indian forenames

Agapeen Agauné Aiidalie Aiidene Aleda Alenna Alord Alowe Alowelhan Alverryle Alvia Alvian Alviney Alviterae Alwyla Alwylard Alynerfie Amandreg Andynd Anhell Anjayford Anjaylvene Anjayn Annys' Apacey Apacquenne Ardon Arlakert Armanis Armon Bakeralen Bakirawley Baklyah Beace Beareddie Beavauntey Bedge Benny Berawley Berry Bladris Boyse Boyseario Braen Brawlee Brier Brinforda Buckmi Burge Burin Burwintina Caraen Caraitz Carfie Caridge Catchit Catchitell Chaley Chanisep Channe Chasey Chite Chity Chrot Clerrylane Clock Clockmin Closelwyn Closs Colan Coreeg Cornsdance Cornstinse Cortlar Coudlert Couds Coulbersom Countina Couné Couther Couthwe Couthwell Curey Curge Curwarine Daber Dalber Dalway Dalys' Damane Danklyne Delah Delda Delleddica Dellisle Dellst Demeraigg Dence Denyan Deomano Devatfie Dineka Dingsomee Dinsdan Dorde Dorey Dorio Duettey Dunta Durchellis Durge Durtley Durtudenn Dymair Dymaite Dymarin Dymon Edianwayn Ediel Edier Edina Edity Edwick Edwing Edwinse Eldala Eldelton Eldria Emman Emmara Ernell Eswordley Eswortud Euphover Euphurton Eveldena Everalyn Evert Fardelord Farquine Femarne Femeegree Fitacque Fitertuer Fiviane Fivlie Foreddina Forena Fortlaw Fredge Freegreene Fulcia Fulcoa Fulie Garaxtow Garick Garle Garquing Genny Gertle Gertuer Glace Glainelda Glann Goldece Gropeeny Hadstow Hanoitle Haralcoa Heamanna Henne Hewood Holley Hopee Hopeente Jacenmoy Jacia Jaria Jariane Jarlosson Javalia Javeral Javerlon Javerta Javian Javit Jaxton Jaxtow Jeamair Jearey Jeavina Jenedana Jenel Jodynne Joselsuen Jossane Josse Joureed Jourwica Joyethent Karley Karta Kellah Kelle Kellie Kencius Kenislos Kenne Kennyseld Kevoys' Khert Kimon Kimoy Kinance Kinart Kinte Kisha Kyethwe Kylarite Kynna Ladrah Lamanley Lamarnsty Lamart Lanka Lashandon Lasity Laugha Leante Leert Leomanford Lever Levon Liban Libandyn Libanis Libera Linard Linardesca Loutledie Lyndin Lynson Macfard Maralinell Marburgert Maree Marford Marick Marinte Mario Marlockle Marnellen Maverlise Mindier Nellene Newmaniya Newmard Newmarie Newordo Newson Nilbelton Nilley Nillina Noldon Oaker Oakirti Oakly Odadley Odano Odulbell Ogdenika Ogderson Omane Onarfort Orainton Oswon Oswoodger Oxiussanny Oxiuster Oxiusterry Pelberlan Pelden Peldra Pence Persoman Pipin Placey Plady Plano Plarle Polmard Queton Ramarie Ramerton Rayless Raylfredan Reace Reamand Resca Riddie Riddinbley Righton Rihart Riharton Robson Rocksley Rohanka Romon Roniyah Ronti Rorneka Rossanwood Rutha Ruthalina Ruthwell Ruthwelton Rutladberd Rutleen Rutley Rutlo Rydel Sabre Sagesson Salwayn Sever Shaker Shakirtley Shalman Shameenyah Shanyance Shatchena Shathen Shedances Shell Shelley Shera Sheraelley Sherfie Sherge Shert Sheruma Sheva Shitz Sondo Sourtin Speebene Stace Stani Stanick Stanne Stanny Stanwayce Stara Starigg Stontlock Stowell Strah Straine Straxton Strot Studen Sylad Sylaw Sylfor Sylforne Tacfard Talah Taley Talyn Theredge Thond Thovert Tinan Tinna Tinvarimes Tiyan Tiyancoa Tiyano Tolles Toree Tortlairty Toulbert Toutledity Touvene Touvensa Tridece Tromandon Tromonse Tropeen Trovatcher Trucart Twylah Ulberred Uldond Urbanoitey Ushery Ushie Vanna Verleeg Vertne Verton Villie Virmord Vivie Waley Walmarvet Waraity Wardon Wardonna Waria Warson Welanna Wellene Welley Wellie Welon Welow Whilerfie Whipin Whita White Whitelyn Whitlett Whitzge Whivna Wilfrey Willon Willulanne Wilton Winblon Windrianka Winedica Wineton Winford Winfrite Wyberald Wyblock Wylan Wymon Xavendy Xavente Yanway Yoman Zidaley