#durgetash angst

[the-tomato-patch]

Art comm from @infernaldaydreams ✨️ They did such a beautiful job capturing this scene from a Durgetash one-shot I'm working on in which Wyll, Karlach and Cardinal ( my redeemed durge ) steal/find a spacejammer and break into Banehold to rescue Gortash. It looks so good! ✨️❤️ ahhhhhhhh!

[kawareo]

Bhaalist Unholy Communion

This post has been living in my brain rent free and then it hit me in just the right headspace to turn into a vent thing and made me write poetry for the first time since eight grade anyway enjoy my ramblings under cut

because isn't it fucked up that Durge has no bodily autonomy? That he's nothing (using he/him because im looking at my Durge specifically) without Bhaal because not even his own body is his own but still a part of Bhaal?

And sure it is an honor to be Bhaal's Chosen, but is it really if you never got the chance to choose yourself? Strike, my Durge, was born a Bhaalspawn and grew up in the cult since he was eight. It's all he's ever known, he's worshiped for being a demi-god, he's powerful and on top, and in the end, literally everything he has is only because his Father lets him have it.

The Communion especially shows that, with Strike being still worshiped, but it hurts him, the Bhaalists rip his body apart, use it, consume it, and he needs to think of it as a blessing because how lucky is he, to be the soul that was loaned piece of a god to guard? He'd think of his own body like that.

And it hurts Bhaalists, too! It works both ways! His blood is poisonous and his flesh aches in their throats, but it's a blessing! God of Murder loves his son and his love hurts, and if you love him back, you must let yourself be hurt and know how lucky you are to be allowed to be hurt by Bhaal or his mortal flesh itself!

I'm just very into the whole 'no bodily autonomy' thing that we have going on with Durge, like his father not only can take control of his body via the Urge, but he has Sceleritas to guide him away from anything that could be not by Bhaal's books, Orin and Saverok to be a (although messed up as hell) family to him so he'll never look for another, and to some degree, Bhaal can control Durge's mind...

No wonder he'd run to Gortash in the end. The first one who sees more than a Bhaalspawn when he looks at Strike, more than Bhaal's scion, he sees a person and ngl it's totally Bhaal's fault that Strike ended up like that

[web-spinning]

Imagine your parents never loved you, and you were abused by a devil for the first couple of years of your life, never had anyone that looked out for you, had to fought your own freedom, all your issues made you an awful person, one you could call a tyrant.

Then you meet a person even more deranged than you. But that doesn't matter, because they care. They're the first person in your life who shows you love. They're the first person in your life who look into your eyes and instead of disgust they feel love.

Then they dissapear. The only person that was able to love you, even when your own family couldn't.

The next thing you know you see them again. But they don't remember you. And they've already found a new partner in their new travelling party.

You were replaced, again. No one will ever be able to love you.

No one.

[feniksido]

is this anything

[fortheghostsinmycloset]

I love how some of The Dark Urge's dialogue (and Orin's) is so eloquent, almost Shakespearian. The dichotomy of pre-tadpole Dark Urge as a monstrous killer, but also a passionate wordsmith, is such a fun idea to explore. The Prayer for Forgiveness is just the tip of the iceberg. I'm imagining Durge coming back to the temple of Bhaal drenched in blood, fresh from a murder spree, and sitting down to write another flowery love poem to Gortash. They then stash it in a chest full of unsent love letters, most smeared with various levels of dried blood, never to be seen again.

[cats-obsessions]

Anyways I’m going to get emotional if I think too much about Durge’s self talk like “wretched thing, pull yourself together”. Combined with their confessional letter to their father, fucking begging forgiveness because they feel fondness, I think it’s very clear Durge has some experience and expectations of disdain and punishment from others. They’re a wretched thing who failed their god only a little and felt fear. And some of that thought follows them even without memory. Even Balthazar wrote that Durge would have wished to die after what happend to them- all while calling Durge “it” and “thing”- “feral thing”.

And then there’s Gortash who is so happy to see them. He’s not mad. He should be mad they failed him. They failed the plan. They let their guard down and Orin got them. Sure he doesn’t intervene, how could he without destroying Durge’s chances of gaining their fathers approval again and risking his own soul and the fate of Baldurs Gate? He’s not sugarcoating what happened, but I honestly think Durge would describe it as humiliation too. I just wonder if he was the only person to offer Durge that kind of grace to not blame them or try to threaten them into compliance, to still call them an equal. He could hate them, but he doesn’t.

Durge thought of themselves as dangerous, but did they ever consider themselves worthy?

[flymmsy]

"What have you done?" Durge laughs as Gortash leads them through the streets of the Lower City under the cover of night. He glances back with a smirk as they reach a large warehouse near the Grey Harbor Docks. Eagerly, Gortash unlocks the gates and leads Durge inside. On the walls of the warehouse are blueprints of Gortash's Steel Watcher design, another part of their brilliant plan. Durge stares wide eyed in awe as they realize their dreams have materialized. Gortash comes up behind them, wrapping his arms around them and placing a kiss to their neck as he whispers, "I did this for us."

"What have you done?" Hot tears stream down Durge's face, deep within the bowels of the Steel Watch Foundry. Every corner is strewn with viscera and mechanical cogs - a factory of nightmares. He said it would make them remember - why would they ever want to remember this?

Gortash has their face in his hands, desperately searching their eyes for some recognition. When he speaks, his voice betrays his own distress, "I did this for us."

[vonderful-time]

looking at the series of events that the dark urge went through in their semi-odd forty ish years of life in baldur’s gate, it really is no wonder why they felt so utterly terrified at showing even a modicum of affection towards another person.

they were made to kill their foster family at such a young age, likely barely even a teenager, if even that. the only family they had ever known, having no memory of their birth, and the urge that plagued them — the urge which is likely a manifestation of bhaal himself — makes them eviscerate their closest support system.

they were rushed towards a temple, an underground sanctum filled with only envious slaughter-siblings and devout worshippers, both of which treated them as an outsider to varying degrees. slaughter-siblings who were rife with jealousy, eager to see them fail and to use them as a stepping stone to prove their worth to either the oldest living bhaalspawn or bhaal himself. worshippers who would kill and maim for even a feeling of the gods divine worship on their skin, likely tearing and violating the dark urge from the minute the god-child was put in front of them. an environment filled to the brim with hostility and oppression, and through this entire experience the dark urge’s only support and love they have access too comes from a loveless god.

a god that is so deeply revered and feared in equal measure in the halls they stalk. a god whose dominion demands reverent sacrifice, a constant debasing of the self, and sickening display of self-violation to fuel his dark rituals. a god whose domain of murder allows for no softness, no weakness, no compassion, no room for anything but the god himself.

and then the dark urge begins to admire enver gortash. a man who, like him, is subjected to the domineering hand of a god. a man who shares his intense worship and faith. a man who understands the burden and pressures of living up to a gods expectation. a man who lives with the same fear that the dark urge has constantly been trying to squash and squander. a man who understands.

it really is no wonder that the dark urge becomes terrified when the depth of feeling they are experiencing becomes known to them. to have your entire life’s purpose uprooted and destroyed. to have your entire life revolve around the fact that everything in this world that was not for bhaal does not have a place in it, and yet the feelings you are having are not for your object of worship. those feelings are for yourself, and isn’t that selfish?

the dark urge was not made to have personhood. they were not made for individualism. the luxury of choice was never theirs to have or make, a fact they have been intimately aware of since their knife-hand first took the lives of their mother and father — their real mother and father. the first people who loved them, unconditionally, with a wholehearted abandon. and the dark urge was made to kill them for it.

no wonder the dark urge is terrified.

i’d be terrified too, if i knew i’d be destined to have anything i claimed as my own taken from me. even if the thing i claimed wasn’t mine to claim in the first place.

[bhaalbust]

How about a Durge with some artistic ability filling up a sketchbook with etchings of faces they only vaguely remember in their mind's eye. Entire pages of a pale woman with milky eyes, long hair and a manic grin splattered in blood, an older elf with tired eyes and sad faraway expression...

Maybe next to portraits of past victims they're overcome by muscle memory and write down notes pertaining to vivisections and cruel experiments half remembered. They hold out a hand, reverting to what must have been habit before their loss of memory, expecting to have their pen taken and replaced with a sharpened scalpel by the clawed green hand of their butler.

When doing a hand study they realise they're drawing a specific pair, strong and scarred and adorned with a gilded gauntlet. It brings up a memory of being held tight and securely as those same hands print themselves across their body in congealing blood and black engine grease — a mess that was getting all over the workshop table, staining the schematics for his tin soldiers. A name sits heavily on the tip of their tongue and a horrible feeling of homesickness overtakes them, quickly followed by unexplained guilt and paranoia.

The need to ask forgiveness nags at the back of their mind for the rest of the day.

[the-timid-birb]

Riding on the heels of the idea that Durge screeches for Withers to bring Gortash back from the dead in the Astral Plane...

I don't think the totally-not-Jergal skeleton would be thrilled about being asked to bring back one of the Dead Three's Chosen, especially if it's someone unapologetically a villain, so he likely refuses (at least at first) however then imagine, with however much black humor or gravity you wish,

Durge just stares at him, brings up Stillmaker, and stabs his own throat repeatedly maintaining eye contact with the scribe of the dead, before any of the companions can stop him/heal him enough.

does Jergal say fuck it, he wishes to be dead, you guys can handle it on your own? Would that be the end of all three Chosen? Would the ragtag group left over suddenly have to cooperate together without a clear leader and just, somehow deal with the Brain as they are, still shellshocked at what they just saw, needing to leave both their friend's and the tyrant's body laying in the Astral Plane side by side?

or is the player character important enough to be brought back despite their wishes? what if he offs himself repeatedly. They waste revivify scrolls before Jergal relents and says "FINE, I'll yank your boyfriend back from Bane, STOP KILLING YOURSELF WE NEED YOU!!"

or he does not agree. It's just not what fate has in store. Gortash made his choice when becoming Bane's Chosen.

The group need to tie the howling, cursing, blood drenched bhaalspawn up, because obviously they can't take them along to fight the Brain like this but they don't want him to die AGAIN!! and he refuses to cooperate. Too lost in his own grief to be able to, or even want to, fight, except them, clawing and biting and wasting spells just for the chance to die, because it's not worth it going on without the one person they ever loved

[daemon-in-my-head]

I very much like to believe that Gortash was still in the Colony when Kressa got her hands on Durge. That he heard the screams, maybe even saw Kressas subject.

But he simply didn't know. He simply could not identify that poor soul on Kressas table who was his nearest and dearest thanks to all the torture she put Durge through.

I like to believe that Gortash saw that body, felt pity for it, maybe even disgust or another bout of his sadism rise within. That Gortash saw Durge, without recognising them, and then simply left to attend his business, not yet realising what a horrible mistake he'd made.

And maybe Durge noticed it too, saw it, felt his presence. Tried to call out for him, but whatever Kressa did left them unable to. They clung to that idea, the thought that maybe Gortash would return, that Gortash could truly become their hero and save them. They desperately held onto it, the thoughts about him until the damage was too severe and everything vanished into nothingness.

And eventually Gortash found out. A taunting note was delivered by a poor servant as he sat at his desk yet again. A note delivered alongside the guilt that he failed as a hero, failed at saving Durge, failed at recognising his equal alongside the desperation and grief of losing them, knowing its too late now.

[vermilionskiinmorning]

Promises | Durgetash

Pairing: Durgetash

Summary: This is for the “Grieve” prompt from the write November 2024 prompt list

Enver finds out his durge is “dead”.

Words: 1.8 k

————

After a week of hearing nothing from Feravel, it was Orin of all people had turned up in Enver’s office to inform him: she now spoke for the temple of Bhaal.

Enver clenched his fists tightly behind his back with such force that the claws of his gauntlets pricked his palms. The pain of it grounded him -kept him from lashing out and he so wanted to. He should’ve known something was wrong when he hadn’t heard from her for so long, but Enver was always loath to check in on Feravel. The last time he had she’d threatened him in no uncertain terms and disappeared without word for a month. That had been years ago though, before she regularly started staying in his lower city home.

“And what of Feravel?” Enver questioned careful to keep his tone in check.

A wicked smile twisted Orin’s lips.

“My blood kin has been returned to our father.”

Her expression of manic pleasure as she spoke nearly drove him over the edge.

What he wouldn’t do to take the skinny mad bitch by her throat and squeeze, but there was an agreement. One which had been made under a different chosen, but he had no choice but to abide by it nonetheless. All acolytes of Bane were bound to this alliance with the damned temple of Bhaal. Enver could not lay a finger on Orin’s insane head -at least for now. Who bore the title of Bhaal’s chosen was not his business to meddle in.

Despite how much it enraged him to see the smugness in Orin’s eyes. There was no doubt in Enver’s mind Orin had killed Feravel. Now she’d come to gloat.

“Well, I thank you for informing me promptly then of the change.”

Suddenly Orin lunged for him drawing Bloodthirst swiftly from her belt and pressing the flat of the blade to his cheek. Its curved edge was sharp enough that it would only take a twist of her wrist to cut a slash across his face.

“We’ll be working together from now on Banite. But my blade is thirsty . How it longs to hear you scream!”

Enver scowled sharply jerking her from him by the wrist. He would not accept threats from the likes of Orin. She laughed.

“You’re forgetting yourself.” He snapped. “I am Bane’s chosen and we are allies.”

“Allies! Yes, yes, thanks to mine foolish slaughter kin!”

Orin cackled before changing her appearance and disappearing from his office.

Alone, Enver stood stock still for a few moments until he was certain she’d truly gone before crossing the room to his desk and sinking into his chair. Another few seconds passed before the weight of it sank in. His shoulders slumped and he leaned forward to press the heels of his hands over his eyes.

In his mind’s eye he could picture Feravel as he’d last seen her: tucked against his side, tangled up in the black satin sheets of his bed, messy hair, and half asleep. They’d been up late discussing their most recent trip to Moonrise after an evening spent reveling in each other. She’d fallen asleep before him, but he’d still had to be up early for a meeting. He had hoped that she’d be at his home in the lower city that evening. They’d made no such plans, but usually, they didn’t outside of their formal partnership. Things between them just fell into place -they had just fallen into place in truth. Still, his expectation was warranted as it had become Feravel’s habit to return to the lower city house. So he’d been disappointed, but not concerned when Blinky informed him Feravel had not been to the house at all since their return. That had been almost a week ago. And now, she was dead.

What had happened between then and now? He wondered. How long has she been dead?

Enver tasted bile on his tongue.

Feravel was utilitarian and artful when it came to dealing death. She enjoyed it as it was in her nature, but she was not a rabid animal like Orin. Orin who had killed her. Horribly no doubt. Enver pressed the heels of his hands so hard against his eyes that he saw stars.

He slammed his hands onto the desk. No . Feravel couldn’t be dead. She just couldn’t. Any moment, he thought, she’d come like a whirlwind into his office teasing him for believing a pitiable creature like Orin could best her. He glanced toward the door, the windows, and even the ceiling. But she wasn’t there. Deep down Enver probably knew she wouldn’t be, but still, he’d had to look. Keeping an eye out for her appearance was second nature.

But Orin had had her ancestral dagger. Feravel would’ve never let Orin get her hands on it -not while she lived. How could she have let this happen? They were partners! More than partners. Anger raced through him elevating his pulse. Enver stood and strode across the room unthinking no destination in mind just feeling compelled to move . How could he be idle now?

Then as he came to a halt in front of his bookshelf, her voice came to him from a memory.

“Promise me.” Feravel whispered. “If one of us dies, the other will see this through to fruition. No matter what happens, you will remain focused on our goals.”

Enver did not meet her eyes. He was busy considering her words as he trailed a finger along her jaw. “Of course, my dear.”

“Promise.” Her tone was colder than he could recall it being in some time . For a moment it caused him a flare of concern. “Swear on the Black Hand of your Lord.”

He frowned. “What’s this about?”

“Insurance.”

Enver looked down at her with an arched w was eyebrow. “Insurance against what?”

“You?” A playful grin flitted onto her lips.

“Me?” He laughed.

“Yes, you going soft without me around. Mortals can get so tied up in their feelings after all.” Her tone was only half joking.

Enver furrowed his brow. Feravel sighed and reached up to card her fingers through his hair in a placating manner. He didn’t buy it. There was more to this.

“Just promise me. Should something happen, you will stay focused.”

He sighed and leaned in to kiss her. “I will.”

“Swear.”

Enver frowned, but he knew she wouldn’t let it go unless he conceded.

“I swear. I will carry out our plan with or without you.”

She smiled in a more relaxed manner than before and leaned in to kiss him.

“Good. And should it come to that, don’t futz around trying to bring me back like Ketheric with his daughter. Alright?”

He’d laughed in the moment, but now Enver couldn’t help wondering if Feravel had known things with Orin had been about to come to a head. Nothing had seemed off though before or since that conversation. It had been months ago. Despite being odd, he’d eventually let it go when nothing came of it.

They had spoken about Orin’s ambitions on occasion, but those too Feravel had been dismissive of the issue. She had it in hand, she’d said.

“Orin is a dog. So long as I keep her close I can control her. Allow her to wander and who knows what she’ll get up to.” Feravel paused, thoughtful. “I keep her leash short.”

“Keep your friends close. Keep your enemies closer.” Enver tucked a strand of hair behind her pointed ear.

“Yes. That is the idea. Except in this particular case, I think I’ll make an exception concerning my friends . I’d prefer to keep you closer.” She stifled a giggle. “It would be rather awkward don’t you think.”

Enver choked slightly on his laugh. “Yes, I think I’d prefer it remain just the two of us.”

She nuzzled his cheek. “For these sorts of meetings at least.”

His chest felt tight. He’s seen the signs. Orin was a problem. She had been for a while, but any time he’d tried to broach the topic he’s been rebuffed. It was business within the temple of Bhaal. She did not tell him how to order about his Banites. But would she be here still if he’d neglected to heed her wishes? Her anger might’ve been worth it were she at least alive to be angry. The ‘what if’ felt like a knife in his chest.

Feravel was capable. Whatever had occurred…Orin must’ve been planning longer than they’d known. But Orin didn’t have the capacity for plotting on that sort of scale. Had it come down to chance?

But Feravel was Bhaal’s chosen.

It didn’t make sense.

Unbidden, Enver let out a roar of frustration and hurled a brass bookend across the room. The heavy thwack of it hitting the wood paneling did nothing to quell the storm of emotions building inside him. If anything, he felt compelled to throw something heavier or harder, perhaps even punch the wall. What he really wanted though was to kill Orin.

He’d have to plan it carefully. Even from a practical perspective, she was a liability. Where Feravel was reasonable and thoughtful Orin was simply a bloodthirsty lunatic who’d usurped her. It would not be good for their plans to allow Orin to lead the cult of Bhaal.

He could have his revenge for Feravel and still keep his promise to her. Removing Orin before she caused too much damage would be a necessity. Feravel would agree. And if she would’ve turned her nose up at the idea of him involving himself with Bhaalist temple affairs…well she ought to have handled it herself.

Perhaps once he dealt with Orin and Bauldur’s Gate was securely under his rule…

Then he could find her body. Surely Orin had taken it to the temple if that wasn’t where the murder occurred. The thought made him wrinkle his nose with disgust at the idea of what depraved things Orin might do with Feravel’s body. Well if it wasn’t horribly mutilated then perhaps at that time he could contact a wizard. It wouldn’t be wasting time.

Enver tried to ignore the single tear that rolled down his cheek. Feravel being gone didn’t feel real, but the anger was beginning to wane and he could feel a weight settling on his heart. A heart he’d once thought too damaged to know love, but that had piece by piece begun to love her.

He should mourn her. Let her go. It would be the smart thing to do. He’d always have their memories, but not having her would leave him no weaknesses for an enemy to exploit. Even with that in mind, the thought of never seeing her face -her smile- again was like a physical blow.

And he’d never even told her.

“I love you,” Enver murmured to the empty room.

[banes-favourite]

little gortash in the house of hope, learning to master his anger and frustration by turning it against himself. feeling in control and finding a way to vent by hurting himself, with punches and pinches and slaps. something he forces himself to unlearn once he escapes

but also, adult gortash going at it with durge and being pushed too far during a kink session, frustration at being helpless bubbling and bubbling and bubbling until he's crying and hitting his head and pulling his hair as if he's 10 years old again

[katyakurae]

Everyone's favourite Astarion/Durge || Gortash/Durge

"How about if I say these little words? Everyone's favourite..."

"I love you."

It's just a second. Another face, one familiar but unknown, is in front of you. He looks at you like you were more than a murderous feral puppet. He looks at you like you were... his dearest.

"I love you."

You see red. The urges shout. Everything you want is erase the pain of those cursed words. Sink your teeth into Astarion's throat and tore him apart.

You freeze.

"I love you."

The last time you hear that, it was a lie. One told in his bed, when everything was perfect. Or maybe it wasn't, you can't know. But it was a sweet and cruel lie that maybe, if things were different, you could belive.

You wanted to belive.

This time is also a lie. This time is also sweet and cruel and carries that sadnes... Different in every kind and... the same.

A quick smile. A handsome young man. One you cannot kill, you cannot hurt, no matter what. The same. The fucking opposite.

"Impressed?" Astarion smiles, pleased with himself. All the vulnerability gone. "You should be, my sweet."

In the moment he looks at you again, though, his mask falls a little. He frowns.

"Everything alright? It... it was just in a manner of speaking, you know?"

Nothing is alright. The flash, the dark eyes and the sad lies pass. Astarion and his not-so-easy (almost insecure now) smile it's the only one who remains.

That man, that human, is no more. You don't even know his name. It just... hurts.

"My sweet?"

You say nothing. You do nothing. (The urge cries. Kill him kill him killhimkillhimkillhimkill...)

Walk away without a word. Tonight you will sleep alone.

[maleficore]

While I really like the way Gortash just airs out Durge's dirty laundry in front of the entire party in attempt to alienate them, I would like it even more if they actually went to talk in private and Durge came back from his office all dishevelled. Maybe even with a split lip or something because then the natural assumption for anyone to have would be that the murder freak went and murdered the freshly ordained archduke, right? He put up a bit of a fight, but the problem's dealt with now and they can move on. Then Gortash walks downstairs after them and they apparently have an alliance now??

I just think it would be really funny.

[crossdressingdeath]

Sad Durgetash thought for the evening: thinking about what Gortash must have felt, watching his old friend walk into the audience chamber and look at him like a stranger. Thinking about him having to keep himself together and keep the performance going even as he's having to face the fact that his friend and ally and partner in crime and (potentially) lover doesn't know him anymore. They shared so much history and Durge has forgotten all of it! Everything they did together Durge is now trying to undo with their little band of adventurers who don't know them the way Gortash does!

This is also so much better if you bring Karlach along because she hates him, and Durge is on her side. Once upon a time they would've sided with him against the world, even if they disapproved of him giving her to Zariel they still would've had his back in public, and now they hate him for it. ...It's also as far as I know technically possible that he and they were already acquainted when he sold Karlach, I don't think we've got an actual date for when they met, which means it's possible he's now looking at a ghost of a discussion they've had before.

But it really is like. these two had years of history, they've done so much together, shared so many things, and suddenly it's all just gone and Gortash has to face that in front of all the most important nobles of Baldur's Gate and Durge and their party without skipping a beat. It's really impressive that his only slip is making heart eyes at Durge the whole way through, I would've been on the floor.