#it didnt save anything i used italics or bold on ANNND i had to hit enter a bunch so itd post to tumblr 🫶

[majorasnightmare]

The Dark Urge Performs an Autopsy and Does Not Think of His Father (W.I.P.)

Exploring the brief stint of time in between Gortash and Dirge forming the beginnings of the Absolute's plan, and Ketheric formally joining the alliance to unite the Dead Three in single purpose. Isobel's resurrection was the sole request Ketheric made of Myrkul in return for his service, and was required before Ketheric would acquiesce to delving below Moonrise.

However. Gortash commands the deaths of others. Ketheric leads an army set upon devastation. Bound to a necromancer god, how skilled is Ketheric actually with the task at hand? Unwilling to trust a matter of such import to two amateurs, the Dark Urge is forced to take matters into his own hands, and prepare Isobel's corpse for Resurrection himself.

Handling the body of the Moonmaiden's Cleric, whos revival will seal the doom of the world, the Chosen of Bhaal tries very hard not to think about the father Isobel has, that he does not.

4000+ words as of right now! currently unfinished but polished enough to post

Ketheric stands, fingers splayed across the surface of the coffin. The nameplate beneath, beautiful and elegantly carved, reads isobel thorm. The justiciar’s daughter. The lynchpin to bring forth the death of the world. The Dark Urge leans against a back wall, tail switching back and forth in impatient irritation, waiting, for something. It never comes. Sentimentality holds Ketheric paralyzed. Or perhaps fear. A century has she slept within a bed of stone, and rot always finds a crack through which to claim its dues. Even Gortash’s near infinite (comparatively) sympathies run short, and he strides to Ketherics side, smooth voice undercut by the gravel of barely restrained frustration. 

"Are we merely here to stand idle as your daughter resurrects herself? If so, one would appreciate being informed beforehand, to avoid making hazardous, unnecessary excursions-"

Ketherics curt tone cuts him short. 

"The Doctrine of Bane must certainly teach the values of patience? Or is there a habit of blindly rushing forth in your practice?" 

Gortash makes a dismissive noise through his teeth, but Ketherics hand refuses to move. The Chosen of Bhaal cocks his head to the side, focused on a small detail on the sarcophagus centered in the room. He makes an interested click, loud enough to catch attention, and once both heads have started to twist towards his claimed corner, he graces the fetid stale air with the scratchings of his voice.

"There's a crack, there in the lid. Near the seam, where it connects with the base." Keterics attention predictably snaps to the spot in question, keen eyes quickly finding the miniscule detail. The implied meaning behind the bhaalspawn’s comment makes itself obvious. How long has it been there? When did it begin to splinter? How deep does it go? How long has his daughter's body been exposed to rotting cursed air? As Ketheric's thoughts tumble down the train of questions, panic predictably breaks him from his mournful reverie and strong hands fasten themselves to either side of the tomb's lid. Sturdy fingers crack into stone, and the Chosen of Bhaal watches as the muscles in Ketheric's shoulders clench and strain, as the man grips, and then rips the sarcophagus's lid right off. As he does so, it takes some of the base's sides with it, jagged wounds blasted through carved stone. Ketheric tosses it aside, and while the bhaalspawn cannot see his expression, he hears Gortash's low whistle. Curiosity is enough to move him from his spot against the wall, and Ketheric is silent for a long moment before his voice, heavy with grief, punctuates the empty air. 

"Like a day had never passed...She's..." 

Gortash sidles up against the coffin to stare down below, breaking Ketheric's trailed silence.

"Impressive! I must say, typically most corpses I see certainly show their wear after a few days, let alone a century." 

Ketherics head snaps towards Gortash's in irritation, but before he says anything, the Dark Urge finishes his languid prowl towards the center, and stares down into the coffin's depths.

She's beautiful. All corpses are, in their way. The thin veneer of skin pulled back, insides out, arcs of crimson marking the walls and floors. The muted deep hues of a liver, exposed to air for the first time in its existence. What he does not reveal, decay takes upon itself, pulling away facade and persona alike to gracefully display what these rotting bags of viscera and skin take such great pains to keep hidden. But the corpse of Isobel Thorm is in no such condition. Skin pulled ever so slightly taut against the skeleton, the washed out tone of a body devoid of flowing blood. Hands folded gracefully over her center, eyes gently closed. Were he not so intimate with death, he could be forgiven for an initial assumption of ailing sleep. But no. There, in the background, hidden beneath the musty smell of rotting cloth and stagnant air that so filled the Thorm Mausoleum, was but a single note of sweet putrefaction. It was enough to spark a pang of hunger through his core. But this corpse was more than just a lump of rotting meat. This corpse was his harbinger of apocalypse. Once this corpse rose from its slumber, the Dead Three would be united in single purpose once more, and upon the throne of their triumph, he would personally raise the eclipse of slaughter upon this blighted earth himself. None of which could happen, of course, if this corpse did not get up. 

Ketheric took a breath to steady himself. His hand, steady save for the smallest of trembles, reached out overtop her body. He sucked in a gulp of air, and then carefully began to give voice to the foul incantation that would restore life-

A hand, fast as a whip with a grip like iron, fastened itself around Ketheric's wrist. The bhaalspawn’s voice carved through the air with an authority profound enough to cut the words out of Ketheric's mouth.

"What are you doing?"

Ketheric made a dismissive tone and made to yank his hand out of the bhaalspawn's grasp, but those fingers remained clasped around Ketheric's wrist.

"I am going to revive my daughter."

The disdain in his voice was liquid venom, dripped into the surrounding stagnant silence. The bhaalspawn's grip relaxed slightly, making a dismissive *tchk* sound as he rolled his eyes.

"I know why you are doing this, Ketheric. What I asked was what?"

"I... I am invoking my lord Myrkul to call upon his power to restore life to my daughter's flesh, and call her soul back to inhabit it once again."

"As she is?"

Ketheric pulled his hand free at last, and once again looked down at the body before him. When he didn't answer, the Chosen of Bhaal folded his arms across his chest, oozing irritation at some perceived slight both Ketheric and Gortash had yet to grasp. The bhaalspawn jabbed a single clawed finger towards the body of Isobel.

"What, exactly, do you think would happen, if life were restored to a century old corpse fresh from its coffin? Do you imagine it'd go over well?"

Ketheric answered only with his silence. The spawn paused only for a beat before continuing on in disdain.

"All you can tell upon looking at her, is merely that her skin has preserved itself fairly well. There is no telling what the state of her organs is. I can make some broad assumptions given the condition, but nothing I would stake something as important as this on. Not without confirming first, that is." 

He punctuated his usage of *this* with a sneer, lip curling to reveal just a hint of the canines Gortash had seen cleave through a man's arm. 

Ketheric's body language shifted to something noticeably more uncertain. The spawn quirked a scarred eyebrow in question, and when Ketheric refused to deign him with elaboration, he pressed the paladin again.

"You... do know how to disassemble a corpse, yes? In such a fashion as to allow *re*-assembly. Yes?"

Gortash folded his arms across his chest and rolled back slightly on his heels.

"Such a skillset isn't particularly useful in my line of work. And far too messy for my tastes anyways. Grease, ink, and oil are enough for my tolerances, I'm not too keen on adding "rotting viscera" to that list."

Ketheric shifted uneasily on his feet.

"...Necromancy was not an aspect of Shar's doctrine I was familiar with. My lord Myrkul's knowledge is great, but... My hands are not yet experienced to my satisfaction."

Gortash clicked his tongue. 

"Will we have to call in your pet zombie for the matter-"

"NO. No. Balthazar will not touch her." Ketheric's voice cracked with a single note of unexpected rage that took both Gortash and the spawn slightly aback. Gortash recovered from the interruption fast enough to retort.

"Then who, exactly, will prepare your daughter for resurrection?"

"....I will-"

"And risk reducing her insides to a paste? I'm sure necromancy will take perfectly well to animating that."

"Then you, Gortash? Certainly you can stitch together an intestinal tract as neatly as a gear train."

Gortash raised his hands in a motion of appeasement.

"I never offered. I'm well aware of my deficiencies."

"Then we are back where we started."

The two of them sat in silence for a long moment. The bhaalspawn carefully leaned forward so as to be in view of both of them, and flicked two fingers forward in a gesture of offering.

Ketheric's scowl could crack mountains. 

"No. Absolutely not. You will not touch her."

Gortash rolled his eyes as he spoke up.

"Oh and you have any better options. Let me remind you that every second we dilly dally, your daughter spends more and more time exposed to your lands curse laden miasma."

"I am NOT letting some misbegotten murderous freak-"

"That "misbegotten freak" is more intimately familiar with the insides of a living person than either of us."

"I refuse-"

"Refuse what? To allow an experienced hand to carefully attend to the flesh of your beloved daughter? Will you refuse her a doctor, next time she falls ill, as well?"

"..."

Ketheric's scowl settled into something the bhaalspawn could have almost sworn was sulking. 

"...Fine. But if you even think of defiling-"

The Chosen of Bhaal unfolded his arms to make a dismissive hand gesture towards Ketheric, cutting him off.

"Yes yes, no defilement or desecration of any sort, of course. Luckily for you I had the foresight we'd find ourselves in such a position and ensured my equipment made its way into our preparations. Now leave me to it."

"You brought your-? No, I most certainly will not be leaving you alone here with my daughter-"

Gortash chimed in while examining the nails on his un-gauntleted hand.

"You can tell how excited he is just from how much he's speaking. I think this is the most our murderous companion has graced us with his voice since we embarked from Moonrise."

"You aren’t any better. If either if you think I’ll be leaving you alone with my most cherished child-"

The Chosen of Bhaal levelled the full force of a gaze that had crumpled initiates to the floor. 

"If you wish to see Isobel's intestines stretched wormlike from her corpse to a table, please do not allow me to stop you."

Ketheric pursed his mouth into a thin line.

"Furthermore. I do not. Appreciate. An audience. While I work."

"..."

"This is holy work. Your daughter will realize the glorious ambitions of my Father. Rest assured I shall treat the task with the gravity such a thing is due."

Ketheric met his gaze head on, holding eye contact as the bhaalspawn finished speaking. 

"...Very well. At the very least, I can trust you won't bring any dishonor to your father's name. And if that is enough to stay your hand from anything...untoward, thennthat is enough for me. Alert me when the work is finished."

As he finished speaking, Ketheric turned sharp on his heel and began to walk out. Gortash waited a moment for Ketheric's back to face him, before pointing an exaggerated eye roll towards the Dark Urge, an amused smirk playing on his lips. Gortash gave a loose wave as he followed behind out of the mausoleum. The bhaalspawn spared a brief moment to wonder where, exactly, they'd be going that was both nearby and shielded from the curse, and then decided he didn't care. There was a matter he must attend to.

The corpse lay as still and silent as when he first gazed upon it minutes ago. Isobel. The syllables of her name seemed to float in the air, weightless. It had an airy feeling on his tongue, in his thoughts. It suited her perfectly. His gaze softened, staring down at her. What a blasphemous thing he was about to do. To pull this sweet, lifeless body back into the forsaken blighted land of the living. His Father had already graced his hands for the foul task at hand, so there was no question of heresy. Despite this, his mind remained disquieted. Even with his Father's blessing, how could he call himself the Scion of Bhaal if he did not have any misgivings? Or...perhaps this itself was another expression of the immutable flaws within him. After all, if his lord Father was assured in His purpose, what right did he have to doubt, even in service to His doctrine? He shook the train of thought from his head, although it did not clear the familiar lump of dread in his stomach. He reassured himself in the knowledge that she would only have to walk this world again for a scant few months, before the broken backs of an oath-sworn army performed their service to his Father and dragged all the world beneath a bloodied sky. And still. At least she didn't talk. That was always nice.

The Dark Urge rolled his shoulders to loosen them up, and then set about to gather an idea of what, exactly, he'd be working with here. He traced a gentle line against her cheek, the skin taut and dry against the pad of his finger. The flesh was firm, as it did not yield even as he began to place pressure upon it. A quick sniff confirmed his suspicions. Upon her death, her sealed coffin had retained enough humidity to allow the formation of corpse wax. At least partially. Clearly not everything had been preserved, for the sweet decay of rot still danced in the air, subtle but unmistakable. He was mostly grateful that at the very least her face had preserved. While he was well acquainted with the varied layouts of vital organs, he was much less confident in his ability to safely cut away any rotten portions of brain, without carving out something important. Wasn't even that enjoyable to look at anyways, at least not whole. Made a beautiful splatter when coming into contact with the blunt end of a blacksmith's hammer though. He shook his head. Not relevant, focus. He gently tested the exposed extremities, thankfully all similarly waxy. Ideally he might be able to get away with minimal clean up. His hopes were dashed though when, upon carefully moving her hands, a gentle press against the flat of her stomach made way for an unpleasant amount of give. The elements had preserved her face, her hands, but beneath her clothing, the rot had taken her organs. The source of the decay he had been smelling. Clearly it hadn't progressed overmuch, as the scent was incredibly faint. Typically, by this point, the scent should be unmistakable, overwhelming, enough to send his lessers stumbling and gagging away from the promise of spoilage that awaited all of them. Well. This is about as far as he'd get relying on his senses alone. Time for the work to begin. 

Ketheric had clearly spent a fair bit of time in preparation for his role as envoy of Myrkul, as the mausoleum already had a fair collection of tools littering the side rooms containing his ancestors. Clearly there was no love lost in the Thorm family. The Urge spent a moment wondering if Thorm would bother cleaning up his workstations when he was satisfied with his results, then decided again he didn't care. He wouldn't trust the tools of a hobbyist butcher anyways. And while it took a fair bit of convincing to make Sceleritas mind the temple, at least the butler had remembered his request for the well worn tools of his taxidermy, minus that which wasn't really portable. He drummed his fingers against the side of the sarcophagus, considering. There was no getting around it. The body was too deep below him. She'd have to be moved. His gaze landed on one of the varying tables left out as whoever had set about their foul work beforehand clearly wasn't of a mind to tidy up. Wide enough to hold a body, though not much else. It would suffice. Decision made, he carefully leaned down towards her still form.

Delicately taking the back of her neck in his hand, fingers brushing through the strands of her hair. Still soft, still fine. Her neck fit so perfectly in his hand. He briefly entertained the thought of closing his fingers up and around her throat, then decided against it. Windpipes were so fragile, and it'd be a pain if he got too enraptured and gripped with too much force. Instead he slid his hand down and out so as to support her weight by the shoulders, slipping his other arm underneath her knees. Taking a moment to get a good feel for her weight, he exhaled and then carefully pulled Isobel up and out of her sarcophagus and into his arms. Held close to his chest, her head limply lolled into his shoulder. Not nearly as stiff as she should be. That was odd. Thankfully Isobel was just as light as her name. Moving her would pose no problem at all. And yet, something in the small motion, gravity pulling her corpse against the warmth of his flesh, stirred some unnameable emotion in his chest. Pausing, without fully knowing why, the Dark Urge stared down at the young woman he held.

Gentle features, a delicate build, so light in his arms. Is this how Ketheric felt, carrying her dead weight to her (presumed) final resting place? What did it mean for a Father to mourn His Creation so deeply he would burn all he knew upon a pyre just for her sake? A sacrifice she could never ask for. Blissful ignorance of the atrocities bestowed upon the land in her name. The pit in his stomach intensified. How cruel, to steal her from this. To bring her back to a world where her father had rendered her home wholly unrecognizable. The Chosen of Bhaal harbored no illusions about his own nature. That he, and his kind, were alone in their holy calling. That most others felt an irresistible draw towards prolonging their own wretched sufferings. They clung to false promises of "home" and "family" and "camaraderie". The bonds they formed between each other weighed down by love and connection. No, he was not ignorant of such things at all. How often had he relied on such delusions to sow death in his wake? Taking a surgeon's knife to those bowstring-taut bonds such that another may be unknowingly gifted the holy all-consuming blood passion? The aftershocks were often too much for their unaccustomed minds and untrained bodies, falling into wreck and ruin, filtered through a lens of heartbreak and betrayal to distance themselves from the sacred truth they had glimpsed for but a moment. And here he was, holding the corpse of Ketheric's daughter, about to call her back from the slaughtersweet world beyond, to...what? That same ruin he inflicted to push them towards that final calling? Surely she would feel betrayed? Daughters loved their fathers, didn't they? Children craved protection and peace, didn't they? Stability, familiarity, a home just how they remembered it, illusions and lies and false promises. Someone had already done her the kindness of tearing them all away, and here he was about to thrust Isobel back into their midst. When the call of life beckoned her back with its siren song, could she ever forgive the man who ensnared her so? After glimpsing a truth now fading from memory? Why did such a thought stir him so? What point was there in asking forgiveness from the dead?

"Not dead." a voice in his mind whispered. "The not-yet living." 

How foul. His mouth curled into a sour snarl. Blasphemy indeed. He'd swallow it down, for Father. It was one thing to call the rotting sacks of meat and bone to walk and slaughter. A dark unlife, devoid of delusion. There was sense in that. But this was true life. If he did not kill her, she would... She would live, he supposed. Grow old, years and years from now. Grow sick, grow frail. How long until the void beyond beckoned her back? Sickening to imagine. His fingers tightened against her body. 

Endure it, Isobel, he silently pleaded. A higher calling beckons you towards a dark paradise. Endure this farce once again for but a brief time, and you shall be rewarded with death eternal. 

He stared down at her face, devoid of rot. Eyes gently shut in repose. 

You shall not suffer this taint for long.

A brief pause.

I promise.

Isobel lay flat upon a table stained with long dried blood. It didn't even retain a single hint of its savory metallic scent. Ugh. Myrkulites. Everything they do is so dry. Well. A blood slick surface would have made this harder anyways. He'll indulge his bloodlust on the way leaving the region. He grabbed the rim of one of those gaudy elaborate Sharran vases and pulled it to his side. A quick glance inside supported his idea. Trash can shaped. He hooked a foot around the leg of a nearby smaller table  holding his tools and dragged it over. A thought. Would he be able to strip the body without merely carving through the fabric? Such a thing rarely mattered but. This corpse would be getting back up after her autopsy. The Mausoleum was far from any settlement with unrotted cloth, and there was barely anything to be scavenged within it. Certainly Ketheric, at the very least, would be cross if he returned to his daughter to see a pile of shredded clothing beside her? Ugh. This burgeoning alliance grew more and more irritating by the day. Why, for fuck's sake, couldn't Myrkul have chosen a necromancer who knew what he was doing, instead of just learning as he went? That hypothetical chosen could do an autopsy his damn self. Or at least prepare for one in advance and bring a change of clothes for "his most cherished child." Irritation after irritation. The Dark Urge made a silent prayer to encounter a Dark Justiciar in an empty alley sometime in the near future. Bhaal knows hes earned it. Swearing quietly to himself, the bhaalspawn carefully, painstakingly, set about peeling the delicate layers of clothing off of Isobel's body. Whatever foul rites Ketheric had prepared should already cover the restoration of muscle tissue. Her legs will be fine, he's already putting more thought and effort into this than her father did. Pale blue fingers tipped in dark black claws against the backdrop of icy white flesh, carefully tugging against ancient fabric so as not to tear. A methodical process, time consuming. Immensely aggravating. If Ketheric got impatient and stormed back in, he could resurrect her by himself, putrefied organs and all. The shit he puts himself through. Satisfied both with his work disrobing the body and the plethora of curses hanging in the air, he allowed himself a moment of reprieve to collect his thoughts. Now for the fun part.

A Y-shaped incision pulling her flesh apart like a flower. Gloved hands skillfully maneuvering a scalpel with all the grace of a portrait painter. The mask he normally used in the midst of taxidermy, to help filter out the fumes of his collection of preserving chemicals, but here serving the function of blocking out the smell of liquified gore (it'd be hard to focus if he worked up an appetite after all). Rotted blood, clotted in the veins. A century spent moldering in the dark. And a plethora of oddities to puzzle through. Firstly, while the smell was intense, it wasn't nearly intense enough. It had the strength of a body shortly past the rigor mortis stage, when it still smelled sweet. Another thing. There simply just. Wasn't enough of it. Corpse wax hadn't managed to preserve nearly any of her organs, and yet despite that, it was as if he was watching them break down in slow motion. Her heart was almost entirely intact, in fact. The aorta would need to be remade, but the ventricles were fine. Lungs in near mint condition. If he wasn't focused on prepping a body for reanimation, he'd be tempted to take them back to the Temple. But on the other end, her liver was almost a puddle he had to carefully scoop out into his makeshift biohazardous waste vase. And he'd cut out a good several feet of intestine already, and might need to remove more. At least he'd be able to give Ketheric accurate diagnostics on what, exactly, he should focus on remaking through the power of Myrkul. Another pang of pity. He was rather certain he'd rather drag himself out of the grave, spilling organs and all, than let the hand of Myrkul touch his innards. Another silent apology. 

He paused for a brief break, looking down to the opened flesh upon his table. Falling again into a pool of thought without the work to occupy him, he absentmindedly traced a finger along the smooth curve of Isobel's ribcage. Skeleton in mint condition, as far as he could tell. Difficult structure to replace, more complex than most gave thought too. A dense exterior, and a spongy core. Upon making the first incisions and peeling the flesh back, a distinct aroma had hit his nostrils, a scent that called to mind the image of the moon shining through clouds, though he had no means to convey that.