#nameless durge

[tieflingtareon]

Resistance Is Futile | Wyll x M!Durge Oneshot

“This is wrong.” Wyll knows it deep within his bones, and it does not need to be said, yet it does all at once. It was wrong, to curl up in the arms of Bhaal’s Chosen. The one who damned the Sword Coast he had sworn to protect.

“Shh…Rest. Your mind is far too active for the hour it is.” All Wyll could see when he closed his eyes was blood and gore, caked upon hands that once held his own so gently in a dance. Even now, they cradle him like he was something precious, and not just another body he could ravage with his blade. It churned his stomach, and he was forced to pull away, sitting up with a shake of his head, falling forward into his hands and digging the heel into his eye like he might be able to squash the memory, the knowledge that he was no longer the man he knew.

“You accepted him. After all that talk of resisting, of being better, you faltered when it matter most.” Wyll grimaced. “I can’t say I haven’t done the same…but this is- this is madness, my love. Pure madness. You have become your Fathers slayer - do you intend to damn the city like you once planned? My home?”

“Never.” He sat up beside him and gently took his hands in his, warm and large, forehead gently knocking against one horn. “This city is our home. I will help you return it to glory, Wyll. I will.”

Wyll closed his eyes, unable to bare the gentle affection, knowing what cruelties laid beneath. What urges would manifest and bite him in time. There had been rebels once. Bhaalspawns who ignored Bhaal’s call. He still believed that perhaps he could still be the man he travelled with. The man he’d fallen for. If he could keep resisting, Bhaal’s Chosen or not…maybe not all was for naught. Maybe he could still have his love.

It was a damningly hopeful thought. One that may very well be the end of him one day. Yet he still held faith in the stories of romance, forbidden or wrought with pain. He wanted this to work. He…he couldn’t afford for this not to.

“Damn it all!” Wyll pulled away abruptly and stood, pacing a few steps before crossing his arms, unable to look at him. He could only stare at the stone beneath his feet, trying not to let his grief overwhelm him. It wasn’t grief for the now, but for the future. The grief he knew he would feel much more potently once all his fears were proven right and his hand was forced to choose between his love and his city. Both held his heart in a vice. Their importance to him was indistinguishable, woven too tightly into the valves of his beating heart. To choose one over the other was to kill a part of himself he wasn’t sure he’d ever get back.

“…I can’t understand why. Why you would return to him. We were so close-“

“You would do anything for your father. To regain his love. Do not hate me for choosing mine.” His love narrowed his eyes at him. “Especially when faced with his wrath. You saw what he did to Orin.”

“We could have found a way. We could have freed you. We’re strongest together - you know this. I wouldn’t have let him hurt you.”

“You are but a mortal man, Wyll. You are not a god, even if you are…more divine of heart than any god I could conjure to mind.” He sighed softly and stood, reaching for the other with gentle hands, coaxing the devil-changed man to face him. The look in Wyll’s eye was more heartbreaking than any tragedy he could write upon the earth with his blade.

He looked so conflicted, yet hopeful. Yearning for the gentle touch to his face, leaning into his hand even as his face screwed up like he was in pain.

“Damn it…I hate this. I want to hate you. This would easier if you were just…another enemy. Another devil I was pointed towards, another foe that needed to be slayed - you’ve put me in a position where I feel like the ground beneath me is breaking. Cracking.” His voice cracked upon the very word. “So rarely do I falter…”

“I’m sorry. I’m still myself, even…even if Father has claimed me. Please try to understand.”

“I can’t. I can’t understand choosing the god of murder over freedom.”

“You chose your fathers city over freedom. It’s not much different. You damned yourself so he could come back to a city unscathed, to his people unharmed. I damned myself so I could live to fix what I broke.”

“And what will happen, when you do unravel all the plans Bhaal gave you? You think he will be happy?”

“I think the city will be safe. I think you will be safe - and that’s enough for me. Whatever the punishment Bhaal bestows upon me once the brain is dead…That will be dealt with when it comes.”

“Gods above…” Wyll shook his head softly, gaze full of sorrow. “I thought I understood my father when he sent me away. Casting out his only son, the one who brought a devil to his door…But if his heart that night hurt half as much as mine does right now - he’s either a heartless man, or far stronger than I ever will be. I cannot banish you from my side, from my arms…from my heart.”

Wyll lowered his head in shame, his eye shining with tears before he closed them and rested his head upon his lovers chest.

“Gods, forgive me…”

Warm arms encircled him and Wyll relaxed despite his mind screaming that that was the wrong choice. After several years upon Mizora’s leash, it was hard to tell anymore where the line in the sand must be drawn, he supposed.

One day, he would be forced to choose. His love or his city. When that day came, he only prayed he was killed first so he would not have to make that choice, or see the ruins which his hearts choice would havoc upon his home.

[poreyneel]

Just a Dark Urge romance in a nutshell

[leona-florianova]

For a good chunk of BG3, I couldnt stop myself from comparing it to Planescape Torment, and thinking that maybe... I should be playing Planescape Torment instead..but then some delightfully fragged up things happened and I really enjoyed that.. so

[daemon-in-my-head]

Ik its confusing, but I wholly enjoy Elli having 2 names. Cuz to me it just makes sense yk?

Bhaal killed off Durges entire family/those they knew. Almost eradicating their entire existence as soon as the Urge awakened. So it makes sense to me Durge would drop their real name the second Bhaal reveals himself and his plans. 'Father wanted them to die, so die they shall,' kinda way.

But ofc you can't simply exist with just a title, even if just for your own sanity and sense of individuality/humanity. So you need an alias. An alias is no name. It's alright. It's not the same name either. Father would tolerate that. If you want the world to end, you need to play politics and shit lest you get caught beforehand, so an alias is required even.

But then, when everything's lost to them, when barely anything of them remains, and Orin performs a Durge factory reset... They lose those memories, too. The ones of them killing their own being. Their own person. Abandoning their true name. So they can remember it again, use it again. It's theirs again, simply because they don't remember the sin it would be to reclaim it.

Also the whole true name holding powers and all that. And while it's not a 'true name' in the sense that you actually hold power over them and that it's smth inherent and absolutely unique, it's still powerful in that it would allow wizards or clerics to perform a true resurrection and shit. It's still their name. Their real name. It's their person summarised.

Names hold meaning, after all—much more than we usually contribute to them. So Durge surrendering their name to Bhaal is perhaps their greatest sacrifice and act of devotion. It's the moment in which whatever person they once were without the Urge truly stoppdd existing for good. Just how the Lord of Murder wanted. And them receiving a new name, perhaps from Gortash even, was the moment that marked their inevitable rebellion and fall.

[sequesteredbhaalspawn]

Slight Spoilers for Planescape Torment.

But I just had a deliciously awful idea!

I really like the idea that the one writing the "Journal" entries for The Dark Urge is actually who the "were" before their memory loss.

Sort of like The Nameless One, before his latest death and resurrection, left a Message for himself tattooed on his back (since he always comes back to life without his memories) "I know you feel like you've been drinking a few kegs of Styx wash, but you need to CENTER yourself. Among your possessions is a JOURNAL that'll she some light on the dark of the matter. PHAROD can fill you on the rest of the chant, if he's not in the dead-book already. Don't lose the journal or we;ll be up the Styx again. And whatever you do, DO NOT tell anyone WHO you are or WHAT happens to you, or they'll put you on a quick pilgrimage to the crematorium. Do what I tell you: READ the journal, then FIND Pharod."

It's Durge's only psyche trying to guide them back into who they where before. LIKE I know a some people like to think it's Bhaal (which would be funny, tbh, but some of the lines make me think its not).

To me it seems like the quest log is Old Durge trying to convince memoriless Durge into becoming "theirself" again.

There is just something about the quest log that reads very much like the tattoo message on the Nameless One's back.

(I personally do not consider pre-memory loss Durge and post-memory Durge to be different people, I think that's weird. But I like the idea of the quest log being how brain and body still remember things even if you don't. trying to guide Durge back into their familiar habits, even if they don't know why.)

[grey-wardens]

wip wsaturday - wyll/default durge bad ending fic, warning for some typical durge talk of violence

-

And so, when Mizora had come to their camp, offering his father’s life, Wyll had taken it. How could he ever have done anything else? 

After, he had lain in his tent, a tempest of emotions in him. To know that his father was saved, that he finally knew the truth, that they had finally reconciled–and yet, to be bound to Mizora for the rest of his life. To know that after death, the Hells awaited him.

And then the flap of his tent had parted and the love of his young life had crawled into the tent to lay beside him, to hold him. As his lover’s arms had drawn him into their embrace, Wyll had run his hands over those warm scales, wanting to wrap himself tight in that heat and never leave.

“My love, we’ll wrench her skeleton from her body and paint the earth with her infernal blood, I swear it,” his love had said in his low voice, sharp as knives, deep as tombs. But then he’d paused. “But that’s not what you need to hear, is it?” 

Wyll had looked into his love’s eyes, those deep pools of crimson that he could lose himself in. Had lost himself in, so often. 

“In truth, your words are a balm to knowing that I’ll be bound to her for the rest of my life. But your simple presence at my side is enough.” 

“Then I shall stay,” his nameless love had said, pulling him closer. “I shan’t swear on my festering blood that yearns for slaughter, nor my twisted brain with its mangled visions. But my heart will always remain true, true to you.” 

And there, briefly safe in his love’s arms, Wyll Ravengard had felt free for a single solitary moment, despite the devil that had him in her clutches, despite the approaching Absolute, despite his love’s vile Father. He had felt free enough to let himself cry after so long, eye stinging and mouth tasting of salt, as his nameless love held him tightly.

[y-rhywbeth2]

Gods and Clergy: Bane

Link: Disclaimer regarding D&D "canon" & Index [tldr: D&D lore is a giant conflicting mess. Larian's lore is also a conflicting mess. You learn to take what you want and leave the rest]

Religion | Gods | Shar | Selûne | Bhaal | Mystra | Jergal | Bane #1 | Bane #2 | Bane #3 | Myrkul | Lathander | Kelemvor | Tyr | Helm | Ilmater | Mielikki | Oghma | Gond | Tempus | Silvanus | Talos | Umberlee | Corellon | Moradin | Yondalla | Garl Glittergold | Eilistraee | Lolth | Laduguer | Gruumsh | Bahamut | Tiamat | Amodeus | The rest of the Faerûnian Pantheon --WIP

Well, I did the murderhobos, might as well cover the deity and daily business of our favourite hot-topic-shopping dictator and co. now? Ahahahahaaaaa There is too much goddamn material on Bane, I'm going to kill Ed Greenwood-

Intro: If you're not consumed with fear and hatred while trying to take over a city which you intend to rule with cruelty and an iron fist then this is not the religion/political party for you. If this is not the religion/party for you, please lower your neck so that I can attach this slave collar to it.

Banites: The hierarchy and rituals and stupid toys of the church of Bane is what you get when Lawful Evil and Lawful Stupid have a horrible, overcomplicated offspring called Lawful Sadistic. Bring me the avatar of Bane I'm going to stab this fucker Also, being goth is mandatory.

Dreadmasters: More teleporting! Bossy, immune to fear and fond of magic rods. Also, do you remember that "divine oath" Durge and Gortash swore...?

The Chosen: Should be way more impressive than what we saw in game. Forging unbreakable oaths! Pet beholders! Detachable shadow spies! Etcetera!

Bane: Boy, the world (and my sanity) would've been a much better off if this dude had gotten intensive therapy instead of divine power!

(This thing is too fucking long and should perhaps be split into two posts but ooooh my god am I not editing this anymore.)

---

Bane's clergy often hear their god whispering his dogma in their dreams:

"Serve no one but me. Fear me always - and make others fear me even more than you do. The Black Hand always strikes down on those who stand against it in the end. Defy me and die - or in your death find loyalty, for I shall compel it. Submit to my will, [as uttered by my ranking clergy] since true power can only be gained through service to me. [Spread the dark fear of Bane.] It is the doom of those unguided by me to let power spill through their hands. [Those who cross the Black Hand meet their dooms earlier and more harshly than those who worship other deities.]" - Bane's Dogma [with 14th century addendums in brackets]

Bane is basically the quintessential villain of the Realms. When a person pictures the face of evil, they picture this god and his followers.

The most important thing to know about Bane and his religion, in my opinion, is summed up here:

"The summons [from Ao] had come wearing the face and form of that which each of the gods feared most. [...] To the Black Lord, Bane, the summons came in the guise of absolute love and understanding, its light searing his essence as it carried him from his kingdom." - Shadowdale

You want to give one of the most evil bastard in the pantheon a panic attack? Give him a hug.

Following a brief version of a backstory that has been given for him; the mortal who would be Bane was born on Abeir, Toril's linked twin planet/parallel universe. There he was a nameless battle slave to Maram of the Great Spear - an ancient primordial being of absolute evil whom the Netherese had summoned into the world, where it broke free and started inflicting horrors upon the world. While in the service of said horrifying evil, the young slave nurtured ambitions of having absolute power for himself.

While on Toril he teamed up with his two future frenemies, Bhaal and Myrkul, and they killed (or possibly subjugated) his master and took his power for themselves, before heading off to nag Jergal for his job. After bickering, the ex-slave known only as "the Bane of the Ancients" wins the draw and gets to be what he always wanted - the epitome of tyranny with godlike power. The next step for him is to conquer the mortal world and destroy all the other gods so that none have power and control over him.

Banite religion is founded on the principle of making Bane's dream of global domination possible. Every Banite is a link in the chains of Bane's power. What they rule, he rules. All Banites strive to take over something (village, city, kingdom, army, whatever). All Banites are expected to aid and obey their superiors in this domination.

When in control, a Banite is to use their power to "further the cause of hate, fear, destruction and strife." Doing so within the control of the law is preferable, but chaos is tolerated as long as that chaos is wielded as a tool with perfect control. You can get voted into power by stirring up people's fears of minorities, or start the apocalypse and present yourself as the saviour - but you must not be overwhelmed, or you have failed.

The world is divided into slaves who have no power and exist to serve, and the powerful who command them. Bane is the rightful master of all and all are to serve him, and by extension his followers (those with the strength to seek, take and hold power), willingly or by force. Control is the key virtue in the eyes of the faith. Always be in control and/or be controlled by somebody more capable/deserving of power than you. As their lessers are expected to obey every order perfectly, the superiors are expected to be competent in their leadership and wield perfect command.

Banites pride themselves on being cold and decisive in all that they say and do. They also enjoy cutting sarcasm. It's vital to appear in command of yourself and the world around you - shouting, loss of temper and other outbursts of behaviour that suggest a lack of control/power are avoided like the plague. Two Banites on the brink of killing each other may appear to be in the midst of only a polite, but insistent disagreement.

Bane used to enjoy watching his power hungry idiots backstabbing each other to climb the ranks while overzealous worshippers splintered into factions and started killing each other (most notably a divide between the divine-magic based orthodoxy and the arcane-magic based reformers/"Transformers".) Then Mystra technically killed him during a fight with Torm in the Time of Troubles, and Cyric took over his church. When Bane made a comeback in the 14th century he immediately decided they wouldn't be doing that anymore. Now it's an united rigid hierarchy from top to bottom, and Banites are a well organised, well equipped unit.

The laws of the heathens are irrelevant, but a Banite who gets caught breaking those law trying to achieve their goals is expected to suck it up and do the time for failure - unless they've been doing such a good job that everybody's too far under their control to try and punish them for it, in which case great job. A+ in Bane worship.

Banites typically establish themselves in an area by finding a location out of sight of a civilisation and building a fortress, where they build their power until they are too strong a force to drive off. Taking over an existing fort is also a possibility. The temple is run like a military base: spartan, with only tapestries showing Bane's symbol and religious texts on it for decoration. The courtyard is meant for military drills and rituals, and there's a mass hall for dining and holding prayer. They like pointy architecture. And black. Oh, and the torture basements! Can't forget those. It's also where they keep a variety of trained monsters in pens. You may end up sharing your cell with a displacer beast or something, but don't worry about it.

Banites have a secret network of teleporting spells. The actual "portals" will be any space of stone big enough to stand on, which are magically connected to other points (also stone). If you stand on one and speak the correct password, then it will teleport you to the destination designated by that password. There are no spells or barriers that can prevent the teleporter from arriving at their destination. Banites can bring others along with them if they are physically connected when the password is said. They can't bring more than 100lbs of inanimate matter with them.

All are welcome to convert to Bane. There will be an interview where your intentions are checked, although if it turns out you're not actually evil-aligned you can still join. There's a good chance that they'll use magic to turn you into an "incorruptible champion of evil and uncompromising disciple of order" anyway; "for Bane recognizes the value of those who have seen the lure of good and turned away from it to serve evil."

Or just use dark magic to twist you from a person into a weapon/guard/servant bound to the service of Bane anyway.

Banites are also able to ensure loyalty with a magically binding divine oath called the Dark Promise, cast by his favoured priests (Dreadmasters). It's an old spell, back from the early days when Bane was a new god and his followers were vulnerable, and is not used as often. When the spell is cast and the oath is made, a set of circumstances are set into motion that targets of the spell must follow to the letter. The promise must have Bane's interests at heart and the conditions and stipulations cannot be endanger the individuals' lives. If the oath is violated, it drains the oath breaker's life force. The damage done by this spell cannot be healed, and if the oath breaking does not cease then they will die.

Bane is one of the few exceptions amongst the gods in that his worshippers are all henotheistic rather than polytheistic. Banites consider worship of other deities "foolish," Bane is the only master you should truly serve. All under Banite rule will be forced to convert to the worship of Bane. They are however willing to cooperate with the followers of Loviatar (pain), Talona (disease), Malar (predation), and Mask (thievery) as Bane has terrified these gods into allying with him. From a certain school of Banite thought, this means that they and their followers are part of the chains of Bane's will (the gods/faithful in question probably wouldn't agree). Bhaal was, or perhaps still is, a servant of Bane and he and Myrkul have also been counted amongst Bane's allies in the past, despite their tendency to squabble, so cooperation with Bhaalists and Myrkulites is not unimaginable when it serves both their deities.

Banites do not get on so well with... anybody, but they particularly hate worshippers of Ilmater (compassion), Tyr (justice), Helm (non-Banite order), Lathander (optimism/renewal), Torm (champion of the innocent), Oghma (knowledge) and Mystra. If they get their hands on one they'll usually torture them and leave their mutilated bodies somewhere for the distressed public to find. Bane and Cyric are still at war, both due to humiliation and the fact that they're still fighting over areas of divine power that the other has stolen/reclaimed from the other, and the corpses of Cyricists that fall into Banite hands are usually found with "heretic" branded on their foreheads as a warning to others who worship the usurper.

Banite clergy are expected to always be armed, and it is mandatory that you at least wear something black at all times. For ceremonial purposes, Banites wear black armour or robes with a blood-red cape. Wizards like to enchant their robes so that they swirl and give off illusions of glittering with "black stars" and have blood dripping off the hem. The higher in the ranks you go, the fancier the clothes get. Banites used to have facial tattooing, although this made them rather easy to identify and kill off when Cyric took over and some purges took place. The highest ranking Banites can be identified by a gem that they wear on their forehead. Banites are not expected to wear anything that would identify their religious affiliations if it would get them persecuted, but they do like decorating their clothes with spikes and are are expected to dress in a certain specific colour that I'm getting sick of typing out. When Bane rules the world we will all be dressing as goths under threat of execution...

Each priest has a ceremonial staff denoting their rank, which they will have at these rituals. When a Banite dies they are buried with it. They are unenchanted and purely for ceremony, at most being used to light braziers. It starts with a simple black wood staff [level 1], which at higher ranks has an ivory skull at the top [lvl 2-4]. Higher yet they add silver plating, and the skull is the size of a fist [lvl 5], and the even higher level priests that skull has ram horns [lvl 6]. After that you get real human skulls! [at lvl 7+]! They're allowed to decorate theirs how they like, as well as adding enchantments. So gemstones, magic runes, etc.

Bane's holy symbol is the Black Hand, a symbol of terror recognisable to the entire Realms. Versions include a black handprint, a black claw or a metal gauntlet embedded with jewels. Priests usually wear a replica of the hand as a carved pendant of black stone. There is another Black Hand seen on his high-ranking priests: elbow-length gloves crafted of flexible metal mesh or chainmail, usually worn on the left hand. It emits an eerie dark radiance, i's supposed to be black, and a non-Banite found wearing one can expect every Banite on the planet to hunt them to the ends of the world for this blasphemy (also it's about 50,000gp in value jfc). The gauntlet cannot be damaged by force and absorbs all spells of third level or less. Area of effect spells are not negated, but cannot affect the wearer. It can drain magic out of items, should the wearer touch them with intent to do so. The wearer can then discharge all of the absorbed magic into the body of another by touching them, causing them damage. They can also paralyze undead and living beings via touch.

To question or disobey a superior is to question or disobey Bane himself, and is answered by torture, disfigurement and/or death. The word of a Banite of superior rank is law, and you will do literally anything they ask you to do.

Banites have invented a magic whip (a mystic lash) that does all sorts of fun nonsense in case that happens. It's made of glowing red energy. If the priest needs their hands free then the whip can actually wield itself (need to scourge that annoying initiate, but you don't want to look up from your book? Then good news!) If the wielder choses, a lash of the whip may cause one of the following; paralysis, memory loss, seizures, extra damage plus the disintegration of equipment, or electrocution.

One is expected to greet those of higher rank by kneeling in front of them and kissing their boots

At the bottom of the hierarchy are the novices, who are addressed by the title of "slave." If they're good enough, Bane will send them a dream vision or manifest as a voice speaking from one of his altars - he will name them, and they are allowed to enter the first rank of the priesthood… of which there are 12 ranks with their own unique addresses, which everybody is expected to memorise. Disrespect to a higher rank will, as mentioned, involve insulting Bane and lead to torture, disfigurement and potential death.

The only time you're not expected to use the titles is when in the presence of heathens, Banites will address each other as Brother/Sister Faithful (when speaking to an equal/lesser) or Dread Brother/Sister (when addressing a superior).

Banites do not refer to each other by name, only by the name of their rank (unless there are too many individuals of the same rank. In the case you had a room full of Black Fangs, you would address them individually as Black Fang [Surname].) It's generally impossible for eavesdroppers to learn the names or personal details of a Banite.

The rankings are determined by character level, and are as follows:

Watchful Brother/Sister/Sibling

Deadly Adept

Trusted Servant

Willing Whip

Hooded Menace

Black Fang

Striking Hand

Vigilant Talon

Masked Death

Dark Doom

Higher Doom

Deep Mystery

The Deep Mysteries include the Deeper Mysteries… which have their own ranks! Secret, higher levels which are unknown to those of the first 11 levels who must address all higher ranking Banites as "Deep Mystery." There is no official means by which a Banite is bestowed this title, they bestow them upon themselves if they believe they should have the rank. The test lies in the fact that in order to keep the title their fellow Banites must also begin using them - in other words if you are not a pretender and truly have the power and authority to hold this title, then your siblings in the faith will follow.

The ranks of the Deep Mysteries, in order of authority, from lowest to highest:

Vigilator

Lord/Lady of Mysteries

Lord/Lady of the Hand

Imperceptor

Dark Imperceptor

Grand Bloodletter

High Inquisitor

The High Imperceptor is the Banite of highest rank of the Deep Mysteries, supreme living servant of Bane, and unlike the prior titles this one cannot be self-bestowed. I haven't seen any explanation for how it is bestowed, but I imagine Bane decides.

Banites don't bother with set holy days. We will have a holy day whenever the leading priest decides we're having one, and it will be called whatever they decide it is. This usually means a) somebody fucked up, time for a public punishment; or b) we've got an enemy/traitor, time for human sacrifice.

Rituals are to be held in as close to pitch darkness as is possible, gathered around the Black Altar (a wood table covered in a black cloth, a block of black stone - whatever, just so long as it's black so we can give it an ominous name). The Black Altar is to be made holy by having a replica of the Holy Hand of Bane floating above it (this too has to be black in colour). This is a levitating 6 foot tall stone hand that can sense alignments within a 60 foot radius, and it will attack good-aligned people on encountering them. When not in use it patrols Banite locations, seeking out spies and intruders and killing them.

And that the Seat of Bane will be placed in front of the Black Altar. The chair is black, its back is carved into the shape of a hand. Senior clergy sit in the throne when acting as Bane's voice for the rest of the congregation. So the leader of the area's Banites sits in the chair, and that means Bane is sitting in the chair. While sitting in it, the seated can read the thoughts of all beings within 90 yards. it can project a forcefield around the chair; can nullify magic in the area; allows the seated to see through illusions and invisibility; know the alignment of everyone present; allow the seated to speak with dead; and also conjure walls of fire. If the chair is knocked over, it causes a massive explosion of fire that kills everyone around it.

Then the party. With minimum partying and maximum solemn, ominous chanting and deep, heavy drum beats. Those guilty of disobedience or other failures will be chained to the altar and whipped in front of the congregation. And then there's the human sacrifice: "Sacrifices had to be humiliated, tortured, and made to show fear before dying to be acceptable to Bane, and they usually met their deaths through slashing, flogging, or being crushed by the Hand of Bane."

The traditional power base of the Banite faith was Zhentil Keep, the base of operations for the Zhentarim. The Black Network has once again been taken from Bane by Cyricists however, after the death of Fzoul Chembryl a few decades back - Fzoul was a Chosen of Bane and basically his favourite servant (who has since been made into a quasi-deity bearing some of Bane's divine power, that he may continue to serve) and Zhentil Keep is currently in ruins. The loss of the Keep (for a second time) destroyed Zhentarim power, and now they're mostly just a bunch of mercenaries with good connections on the black market trade routes (slaves, drugs, weapons, etc) as far as I can find.

-

The Dreadmasters are Bane's specialty priests, making up 10% of all Banites. Dreadmaster is a unisex title. They spend their time doing all the spellwork and making all the delightful inventions that have been giving me a headache. They have a stupid number of spells given to them. Nobody else's specialty priests have this many fucking spells.

They cannot feel fear from sources other than Bane

They can, however, project the feeling of absolute terror into every being within 10 feet of them, usually causing everyone to run screaming.

They can completely destroy the souls of the dying

Create extra evil undead

Create powerful, still sapient undead servants from dead Banites (from ghouls up to vampires)

Create animated suits of armour that serve the Banites, powered by people's souls

Make a warding symbol drawn with a mixture containing three drops of blood from a collection made by sacrificing 30 people. The ward is invisible and cannot be detected, and when activated it drains the life out of everyone present.

They have a supernatural knack for reading other's true moods and intentions They have a supernatural level of charisma and authority over their servants, who cannot help but be fanatically loyal

They are exceptionally skilled in the artificing of magical wands, rods and staves. When they use them the magic of the items is increased.

They're the ones who cast the stonewalk spells that make the teleport network run.

They're also the priests responsible for binding the Dark Promise.

-

"The Chosen of Bane are tyrants in every sense of the word, consumed with the quest for absolute power. Hand-picked by the deity of tyranny and fear, [they] are both charismatic and filled with hate [...] They seek only to rule with absolute, unchallenged authority over every living and undead create across the world."

They are unbothered by temperature, both hot and cold, as well as resistant to being burned or electrocuted.

They do not age, though they will still die at an age where they would've died if they did age.

Supernatural insight into motives and emotions, and a massive boost to their charisma.

They can mind control people, are immune to fear, can share this immunity with others or increase the fear they feel.

They can also cast gaes, which is basically exactly the same as the Dark Promise, but doesn't necessarily have to benefit Bane (blasphemous as that sounds).

They can summon undead beholders to serve them

They can grant their own shadows independence as an undead creature of the same name (shadows), While separate the shadow is free-willed, though the two remain telepathically linked.

They are served by a retinue of their own master's servants including: doppelgangers; helmed horrors; beholders; undead Banites; hell hounds; imps; displacer beasts; Banelar nagas (evil snake things with human faces)

-

Bane doesn't like using avatars, if he needs to manifest on Toril he just possesses people in positions of wealth and power who transform into handsome, yet "oily" looking black haired men as long as he's inhabiting them. The souls of these people are forced to watch as the god does what he wants. Once the body is "worn out" from all the punishment he puts them through (mortal shells, so fragile) he'll move to another evil or neutral mortal via touch.

If he strikes out with his gauntleted hand, then there is a good chance that the person stuck will drop dead.

In combat he warps the face into a more beastial visage. His hands become talons capable of "rending flesh and bone" and in the Time of Troubles when he was first forced to manifest as a normal human he immediately started editing the body into a more demonic visage although that might've been because he'd just crash landed in his own temple and destroyed it, and only had a few moments until his torture happy zealots turned up to find what seemed to be some random dude standing in the wreckage. He was in kind of a panic trying to make sure they saw Bane, God of Tyranny not... that.

His other manifestations as a pair of blazing red eyes staring out from the darkness, and a black, taloned hand which was the temperature of ice to the touch. They work exactly like his other manifestation.

Bane sometimes announces his presence, and that he is paying attention to you, with the sudden manifestation of the giant footprint of a boot, scorched into the earth. He shows his approval of his followers through their sudden discovery of a black sapphire. His disapproval is shown through the sudden appearance of red carnelian, ground into dust.

He is served by various devils, beholders, death tyrants (the undead remains of beholders that failed him), black dragons, banelar nagas and pride incarnates

Bane can cast any spell at will, save those that heal or create.

Bane was slain in the Time of Troubles. After his death his followers had an even bigger row between those who were loyal to Bane (orthodoxy) and those who worshipped his portfolio instead of the god himself and switched to Cyric. Many of the Orthodoxy began worshipping Iyachtu Xvim the Godson, son of Bane (whose mother was either a fiend or a fallen human paladin, nobody's sure).

Xvim was doing a pretty ok job in his nascent godhood up until 1372 DR, when Bane hijacked the essence of himself he'd left in his son and destroyed him - being reborn within his body and immediately regaining the rank of Greater Deity. About a few years following the Bhaalspawn Crisis, the year where Bhaal was supposed to be reborn from the death of his kids but failed.

Bane went on to continue being one of the most infamous, powerful and dangerous gods on Faerûn up until the Second Sundering, when suddenly we've got confusion.

In BG3 canon, the Dead Three are clearly greater than quasi-deity status. Due to new rules that WotC pulled out of their ass, gods of lesser deity status or higher cannot manifest avatars. Bane can still empower clerics and have Chosen, so he's most likely still a Greater Deity in BG3.

In Descent into Avernus, the Dead Three are apparently quasi-deities now, forced to exist in permanent avatars on Toril and unable to grant spells of have Chosen.

I think this nicely explains what I mean when I say D&D has no fucking "real" canon, it's all just a mountain of everyone's headcanons.

[avocado-writing]

hi!! ive.. gone and read so much of ur work in one sitting. its all so much to take in, IN A GOOD WAY, and i absolutely adore every single word

would u be so kind.. to bless my angst durge needs..

Durge Resist tav, was strong for all until the brain was finally defeated but now, with what she believed her only purpose/chance at redemption (brain), they can't help but feel utterly empty and,, unredeemed. They mourn all those they have robbed from this world, nameless, and countless numbers of people they robbed of the life that they were now being given the chance at living. Surely they don't deserve it(Is what they think..)

They are pathetically in love, and if they deserve anything, its to tell their special one just how much they are adored before casting themselves out of society (or taking their own life, if ur comfortable writing such things-)

Rolan, Dammon, Zevlor, maybe even Rugan if u write for that loser LMAO. just.. whoever u write for, its the tieflings i adore most ahegege

if this didnt make sense IM SORRY i havent slept in so long and sleep is not choosing me. i just crave angst, perhaps with a happy ending if u would indulge me so..!! thank u if u read this, so much!!

hi, I don't write fics about suicide, but here's the tiefling bachelors with a durge who's planning to disappear after the absolute is gone and giving them one final confession:

Dammon

senses something is wrong when you take him aside for a heart-to-heart.

it isn't that you avoid these sorts of moments per se, he just knows you only affirm your affections when something big is going to happen (you did it before you went off to fight the elder brain)

he holds your hand tightly, gets you to look him in the eye.

"I love you, no matter what, and I never want to be without you. tell me you'll be there when I wake up tomorrow. in our bed. swear it to me."

you can see the utter adoration he looks at you with, and you think: maybe you aren't so bad if a man like this can truly love you.

the next morning Dammon wakes up. you're not in bed next to him. he panics, getting to his feet - only to find you in the kitchen making breakfast.

he's never been so relieved. walks up behind you and wraps you in his arms. he loves you so dearly, and will keep on loving you until you believe yourself worthy of it.

Rolan

Rolan doesn't quite understand why you're having this great outburst, but chalks it down to emotions running high after the final battle.

says goodnight, kisses you, and heads off to his tower - he has a lot of admin to do after all.

the next morning he comes to meet you at the elfsong, only to be met with the realisation that you aren't there. he curses himself for not understanding why you were so melancholic last night.

he tracks you down. uses all of his resources to scry on you, grease palms with the money the tower has. he's up all night for weeks. Cal and Lia worry about him but he is determined.

and find you he does. manages to locate where you're hiding out, a little hamlet in the middle of nowhere. you burst into tears when you see him, and he just pulls you into his arms.

"come home with me."

you do, moving into his tower. and you never leave him again.

Zevlor

immediately knows something is wrong. takes you to a quiet place where the two of you can be alone and talk things out.

discusses how he feels like being a failure for breaking his oath -- but you always saw past that. saw the goodness in his soul. he wishes you would treat yourself with that kindness.

you begin to cry, softly at first, and then with sobs which wrack your whole body. he holds you ever so tightly.

"I love you. you are not who you were. you have strived to be better every day, fought against your own family, and always chosen a righteous path. you deserve to be happy. I'd want to make you happy, if you'd let me."

eventually your tears run dry and you look up into his face. his eyes are so sincere. he means every word.

when you kiss him, it's a promise: that you're with him for good. that whatever comes next, it will be faced together.

[meanbossart]

So like- I also happen to have a nameless drow durge. Perchance I could have your permission to draw our drows interacting? Btw I fuck with your art so hard and I actively look forward to your posts 💖

You have my permission you have my blessing you have claim to my first-born child please by all means go right ahead LOL AND THANK YOU!

[neofeliis]

Chokehold

Summary: After the coronation, after forging a deceitful pact, after the Steel Watch is destroyed, Durge and her shattered mind return to Wyrm's Rock. She has not slept a single night without being able to see the face of the stranger who looked upon her with nothing short of admiration at their first meeting. She needed answers, with or without the third Netherstone, and somehow she still knows the way to his chambers. She's ready to do whatever she has to, but with nothing but his presence and his words, he's got her in a chokehold.

Characters: Dark Urge/ Enver Gortash

Rating: idk M for violence and death threats.

Notes: Oh hey I wrote the thing the voices have been screaming about.

Read on Ao3

--

Durge hates how naturally this comes to her. She hates how easy it had been to slip out of camp, not just the act itself but the art of leaving her sleeping companions behind. The streets of Baldur’s Gate were wholly unfamiliar to her fractured mind, yet she did not hesitate through its alleys. The way to Wyrm’s rock seemed to sit in her bones, with some nameless guide whispering to her. Turn here. The shadows are thickest here. Cross here. Remember your kill here?

She stops, rather trips over her own boot. Cold dread winds its way up her spine, curling icy digits around her ribs, then makes itself home in her chest. The memory, flashes of carrion, her hands wrist deep, rattled through her thoughts and her stomach twists with the hunger. It would be just as easy as everything else so far to recreate it, to submit, to leave an offering to her father.

With a crack, she snaps her teeth together and pushes forward. She has places to be, and she needed to be there before dawn. This was her only chance to open one more scar on her own time, without the eyes of her companions, who knew no part of the person she was before the nautiloid. No, she was on her way to the one person...correction, the one reasonable person who understood her in the before. There was no talking to Orin, it was clear from the get-go that bloodshed and her devotion to their father was her only purpose but Gortash laid her bare with no pretense in front of her allies. He saw her. Rather, a version of her that she was not acquainted with.

She was eager to leave her urges behind, but to do so she needed to know what he knew. There was more he did not say, which was hard to believe with all he did say to her at his coronation. His assassin, his equal, his partner in their Grand Design. And something else. Something in the way he looked at her.

Durge lingers under a shadowed awning, and eyes up the pathway into Wyrm’s Rock. Where steel watchers once stood guard, Flaming Fist guards linger instead. The tiefling blows out a breath, relieved at the confirmation that their exploits in the day before had paid off.  The Watch was disabled, and her quarry now stood guarded only by flesh and blood. 

Emboldened by this, she moves. To a certain point, there would be little resistance to her. That was their deal after all, his guards would provide no resistance and she would bring him the Netherstone. 

She had come in and out of this crossing so many times before, entered the coronation hall and ascended the stairs. It was habit, and coming in the night to him was commonplace. The guards, at least those at ground level, knew this. Knew her. And only cautious glances came her way.

The tiefling misses a step and stumbles into the wall as the ground suddenly feels unsteady. The space was steeped in memories, and the further in she got, the more they swam to the surface. She had never been up these stairs before. Not prior to this night, not in what she remembers. Nothing here was commonplace or habitual, the guards should not know her, and yet every detail was now so vivid.

The truth, somewhere deep in her mind, whispered to her. She most certainly had. She knew these walls as though she lived here. What she did not know was the man she would find at the top of the stairs.

Not how he knew her.

Durge emerges onto the torchlit terrace, and knows for certain this space would be guarded in a way she could not simply walk past. And even if she could, she needed no witnesses to what she hoped to achieve in his chambers.

The muscle memory that took hold of her now was an icy comfort. Something crawls over her consciousness, whispers gentle encouragement to her, and then she is moving. Her dagger slides across the throat of one man posted outside the doorway she seeks. The other guard, a woman, opens her mouth to call out, and Durge is upon her in a flash.

The tiefling’s hand claps over the woman’s mouth with such force she cracks back into the stone wall behind her. Her hands fumble for her blade, trying to draw it, but Durge is faster, and her knife dives into the soft entryway in the hollow of the guard’s neck. Only a gargle escapes her, and the tiefling eases her down to the ground.

The confrontation lasts all of a minute, with barely a sound. Leaving her with the time to pick the lock. I don’t know why he thinks this will keep me out. She lurches again, nearly dropping her tools. 

Does she know what he thinks?

A soft click, and the knob turns in her hand to reveal the darkened room within.  Only a fireplace lights the room, and at this hour it’s waning. A grandiose chair is positioned in front of the fire, and with a quick scan of the room, she notes that the bed is empty. The shadows cast along the floor give away the body sitting in the chair, a pile of papers discarded on the side table next to them.

Her boots make no sound on the carpeted walkway, and every step brings her deeper into a memory. Of how many times she had entered this space, how many times she had stalked towards the man in the chair.  A memory surfaces, and it’s not a shock to her system.  No, it’s a caress.

She sees her dirty hands glide down the back of the chair and over broad shoulders.  In her dominant hand, she has a lazy grip on the handle of a knife.  A loose threat.

Her free hand comes around his front, and he says something to her, his mouth curled into an easy smile.  An indecipherable murmur of little consequence that she ignores anyway as her fingertips glance over the front of his exposed, vulnerable neck.  Durge pauses just enough to wonder, and instead grasps at a loose thread in his collar that she swiftly cuts with the knife instead. 

Sickening familiarity swirls from deep in her belly and her knuckles go white. A crack in the fireplace brings her back to the present, and the figure in the chair draws a deep breath.

“If you wanted to speak, you needed only knock.”

Durge stops mere feet behind the chair as the lordling turns his head to regard her from the corner of his eye. The dagger rattles in her betraying grip, drawing his attention down to it. 

To her surprise, he smiles. A mocking smile. “Tsk,” he tuts, “You don't look half as excited to use that as you used to.” He sounds disappointed, and just a touch cross. Something in this urges her to move again, and she stalks around the chair in a wide circle to stand in front, the fire at her back.

Gortash watches her, the image of calm patience as he folds his hands over his lap. “So, not only do you arrive to me without Orin’s stone, but you're still broken. Like my Watchers, it would seem.” The corners of his eyes crinkle just so, and he tilts his head at her knowingly.

Her jaw ticks, but words don't come. 

“But if you want to speak, then we will speak. Though it appears you’ve lost your tongue on the way here. No matter, I'm well-accustomed to speaking for us both.” The lord–archduke now, she supposes–gets to his feet and wholly turns his back on her to approach a small shelf full of bottles. “But for god's sake put away the knife if you aren't even going to look happy to use it. It's embarrassing.” She does not realize, not right away, that he is baiting her. That by turning his back, he hopes to draw out the Bhaalspawn he seems to know so well. The only thing that makes it apparent to her, is how loud her heartbeat suddenly is in her ears. 

Durge swallows hard and forces herself to stay put and watch, hands twitching, as he pours two glasses of a dark liquid. He grips both from the top to turn to face her. He pauses, his eyes sweeping over her firelit silhouette, and something unreadable flickers over his face. 

“You know me,” she finally speaks as she stows away her weapon. For now.

Gortash smiles, wide, and bites down a laugh, “A gross oversimplification.” He approaches, but stops a few feet away as he extends a drink to her, just out of reach. It's an awkward distance to offer something for her to take, and the feeling of being toyed with only grows. 

This is a game only he remembers the rules to.

The tiefling narrows her eyes, but holds her ground. “The same way Orin does? The way the fanatics on the nautiloid did?” Kressa flashes through her mind then, and she tenses as old, phantom wounds start to burn.

His offering to her falters in his grip when she doesn't take it. “I certainly hope not,” another conspiratorial smile, “When I said we were equals, I meant it. Orin and her ilk don't know the meaning of the word.”

Durge looks at the drink another moment, then closes the gap, and takes hold of it from the bottom. He does not move away from her, and in fact he seems to preen at their proximity, making infinitesimal changes to his posture. 

“Now, I expected you would come. I'd hoped with a gift of the Netherese variety but beggars, choosers, all that. You have questions, I wager.” Only her cold stare answers him. She doesn't move as he returns to his seat, but tracks his every move. “As it stands, I have answers.”

“Why,” she asks, her tone lacking the bite that she wanted to deliver. Something about the atmosphere–him in the chair, drinks in their hands, meeting near midnight to conspire–took the edge off her nerves. She expected to feel vitriol, hatred. But something in her mind both eased and roiled in equal measure. An odd mix she tries to make sense of, but the memories are beneath a veil she can't lift. 

“Because it has been quite some time since we’ve met, and I'm eager to see how much of you can be rebuilt.” Gortash takes a sip and eases back, eyes flicking to another chair near the fire. “I am nothing, if not selfish. Most of all with your time,” he replies, sliding his gaze back to her, “You used to know that about me.”

Something snaps and in an instant her glass shatters on the stone floor at the same time she all but materializes in front of him. Her left knee impacts his arm, pinning it at his side, the other hits the front edge of the chair hard enough to slide it back several inches. Her left hand braces against the back of the seat, and she drops her snarling face to his as her right wraps around his windpipe. Out of her control, her tail curls around his ankle.

He’s managed to not spill his drink. The panic, the reactive aggression she expects to see isn't there. Only a flash of eagerness.  The face of someone seeing an old friend again; exactly how he looked at her when she entered the hall of his coronation.  “Ah,” he croaks under her grip, “there she is.”

“If you don't,” her words heave out in a snarl she doesn't recognize, “stop toying with me, I’m going to take the leash off my inheritance and tear your throat out, Gortash.” Everyone was so bloody preoccupied with her heritage, and what her cursed blood would do to her.  When she would lose control over the urges and fall to Bhaal’s influence. Gortash is unarmed, his Steel Watch disabled, his guards dead. There's nothing to stop her. 

Except, as they both know perfectly well, the information she wants. 

The archduke does not balk, and grabs her forearm with his free hand, still smiling despite his strained breaths. “Yes, dear, I remember,” he swallows hard, and her grip falters enough for him to draw a greedy breath, “You alone hold the claim to my life.” He says it like he's quoting someone. Quoting her. “Though your heritage has always been the least interesting thing about you.”

She hisses and lurches back off of him, nearly tripping over her feet. Her eyes are wild, hands shaking uselessly at her sides as her tail thrashes behind her.

There’s a flash of disappointment again. “Ah, and there she goes. Off into the wind,” he rubs his stubbled neck, unable to disguise his wince despite how much he appears to be enjoying this, and takes a burning swig of his drink. “Now, let's try this again. The hours tick and I'm sure you wish to return on home before your compatriots know you're lying with the enemy, no?” He levels a swaggering grin at her and thumps back in his seat, “And please, call me Enver.”

[blackjackkent]

So at Rakha's long rest earlier, Scratch brought her an animal speaking potion, which I had her use to talk to Scratch and Buddy because she never had before. I didn't write about it bc it wasn't too dramatic, although she did like being able to speak to them because I've already established that they help her calm down sometimes when her brain is noisy.

However - I forgot that it's still active! And I talked to the cat roaming the outer walls of Moonrise. And it has Durge dialogue!

"Yours is a face I shred in my dreams. One who kicked the Steelclaw, as if I were some stray. I am a champion hunter. When I lick my pelt, I taste blood. Fortunately for you, the slithering vermin I hunt has my attention... for now."

This is really getting to be a bit much - getting taunted by Ketheric and Z'Rell and the Warden was one thing, but even the local cat is getting in on the action now. (And given her aforementioned warm connection with Scratch and Buddy, she's not deeply thrilled to hear that her past incarnation apparently had a habit of kicking said cat around.)

"What do you mean I kicked you?" she asks warily. "We've never met..."

The cat hisses disdainfully. "The death-walker passed through here before. I know your scent. All were silent afore you - but I dared to snarl. You skulked like you owned the place, trespassing on my domain."

Something in Rakha's head aches, a stab of familiarity, of dark memory. What this cat says echoes what the Warden said down in the prisons - she walked here and others were made to bow before her and hated her. Even this creature.

Try to remember what was forgotten.

Narrator: You excavate the empty caverns of your useless mind. Shoveling, dozing, blasting through the smoothbrain...

Narrator: How the kitty-cat mewled when your boot stamped upon its tail!

Narrator: You are the black cat crossing the path of the living...

The memory is hazy and dim. She grasps for it, fumbling inwardly, but as she grips it, it pulls and she feels herself sliding down into the dark. The bleak blackness of her forgotten mind grips her like a vise; her vision dulls into blankness soaked in blood and cruelty.

Welcome home... something nameless whispers inside her.

Narrator: The pleasure of the memory dribbles out of your leaking skull into the very air...

Flesh gives under her fingertips, rips, tears. There's a squalling screech that grates in her ears, and then a sharp snap and a flood of heat through her.

"Rakha!" She can hear Wyll shout her name, feel his hand on her arm. She is crouched on the stone balcony and there is blood coating her palms, splashed on her face.

The cat is dead.

No. I didn't want to do this. I didn't. It wasn't me. It wasn't...

Her heart races with sudden panic and despair. She had no control at all - she did nothing but try to recall a brief moment in her past, and it was enough. The beast had full control. Everything slipped away.

She staggers backwards until her back is to the wall behind her, her shoulders hunching, her breath coming in quick, stuttering gasps.

Cower in self-disgust.

Narrator: A memory won at the cost of a piece of your mind. You were in this tower before - that much is sure.

-----

"Hells," Wyll mutters. He looks ill as he crouches at her side. "I'm-- I'm sorry, Rakha. We saw you blanking out; I tried to stop you, but you were... so fast."

She can picture it, now that it's over. What she must have done. Quick and efficient and bloody.

"I didn't want to," she whispers. "I thought for a moment I could remember something... anything..."

He frowns. "And did you?"

"Yes." She swallows. "And it took over..."

He's silent a while. Then he takes her hand between his. She relaxes just a little, involuntarily, though part of her wants to push him away. This is the opposite of everything he has tried to help her to be. The darkness of this place is seeping into her...

"Don't try to tell me it's all right," she says, squeezing her eyes shut and looking away from him.

"I won't," he says softly. "But I know it wasn't you."

She draws a shaky breath and lets it out heavily. It felt so natural, that slide down into the darkness. There was nothing to think about, nothing to do but let the beast take over and destroy...

It is not what she wants to be, not anymore. But it was so easy... "I hope you're right."

[poreyneel]

we share so much history

[unreadpoppy]

BG3 Romance Picrew Game

Rules: Show me your Tav/Durge and their BG3 romance, then give me their song. Tag some friends to share too!

Got tagged by @bearhugsandshrugs and @sky-kiss , thank you so much!

Since I got tagged by two people and this is a really fun picrew, I did it of the two couples whose campaigns I actually finished

so first up Halsin and Gwen (note: Halsin, why are you so hard to make on picrew????? pretend these blush red lines are his tattos ok) (also there was no purple option for hair, so bear with me)

Thinking of a song was complicated, also i'm using my dad's computer which doesn't have spotify so here goes a youtube link

and then i also did Galatea and Minthara

i'm gonna no-pressure-tagging @sassyandsodone and @timesthatneverwere @loveless-nameless-graceless-two @bitethedevil @adevilyoudo

[drizznt]

SO YOU GOTTA MAKE SURE YOU ACTUALLY HAVE THE MOD FIXER ACTIVE WHEN YOU MOD BG3

BECAUSE I FORGOT TO DO THAT

AND WHEN I WENT TO MAKE A CHARACTER IT TOOK ME HERE

DEFAULT DURGE, SOMEWHERE NOT IN GAME, SURROUNDED BY EIGHT NAKED MEN

FOUR ARE WHITE, NAMELESS, AND HAVE VULVAS

FOUR ARE BLACK, HAVE PENISES, AND ARE NAMED PLAYER, DUMMY, DUMMY, AND DUMMY

I CAN'T MOVE OR INTERACT WITH ANYTHING

HELP THIS IS SO FUNNY

[abyssalaerlocke]

Nameless No More

If Durge was a fey, so dehumanised as their father's tool that their only name was The Dark Urge, would Gortash give them his name?

If fey exchange names for marriage, how would DU feel knowing Enver gave them his name out of love, and they have nothing to give him in return (nothing but this sickly, trapping thing)?

[shungieshrieks]

BG3 has me by the chokehold and now I am making lore about my current playthrough. Featuring my Dark Urge, Daddy Durge Artel Dosric. Child of a nameless Bhaalspawn that was killed by Serevok before Artel was born. Grew up in a temple of of Ilmater, before a band of marauders raided them. Made a pact with a devil to survive said raid. Did some adventuring and made a name for himself, eventually rising up in high society in Neverwinter before the urges and whispers led to his inevitable downfall.

Oh, and he has two adult children, Aleta and Nedry [1][2][3]. They haven't seen him since he was imprisoned for his Bhaal worship and when their mother took them to Baldur's Gate to start anew. Funny how reunions work, especially when good ol' Dad doesn't even remember his own kids.