tieflingtareon - Tumblr blog

tieflingtareon · 11 months ago

Text

Shelter My Fears (Reanimate My Heart)

Chapter 1 | Words: 5.8k

Summary: Driven beneath a canopy by a storm, Lith'mors found himself greeted by not the owner of the tower, but his apprentice. In an impulsive act of kindness, the drow finds himself a guest of the man's younger siblings. As much as he enjoys their company, and has a wizard to find, he can't seem to keep himself away from the eldest brother. Or the tower that seems more like a prison than a home.

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51897478/chapters/131223739

The rain wouldn't stop. It pelted harshly upon his frame, his cloak waterlogged and heavy on his shoulders. His robes were soaked through, sticking to his skin. Not even the weak warming charm he had casted was keeping the water from leeching the heat from his skin; not that there was much to give, in the first place. He was naturally suited to the cold and damp.

He would kick Gale's ass when he got his hands on him. Making them all worry like this, making him travel all the way to this city again. He didn't hold any resentment towards it, but it wasn't to his preference. He'd spent far too long in this city the last time he was here. He wished he was back in the beauty of Silverymoon or the quiet, ominous rustling of Rawlinswood - or even Neverwinter, curled up with a good book, sharing a cup of hot tea in comfortable silence with cousin Laura.

Morena, as strong as woman as she was, had fractured with her son's disappearance. Haelan was doing his best to support his wife, but he was just as worried. After all, they'd known exactly where he was for the past several years, even if they had waited anxiously for the day their son would succumb to his 'condition'. Lith'mors was certain that if the day had ever come, where Gale could no longer feed the starving orb in his chest, his parents would have allowed the blinding light of their only child's hubris and misguided affections consume them too as they held him through the pain.

A few years ago, Lith'mors probably would have considered doing the same. Sometimes, he still thought he might. As much as he loved Gale, he knew he needed more in his life than him. He had needed to see the world, to touch magic of all kinds, to read and learn until he was buried in the ground for good. He had loved Gale, but after leaving his tower, he realised that he needed more than love.

He needed to be alone, needed to sit with himself, his past, without feeling the need to share himself with another, to ignore it, if only for a time. He needed time to focus on himself, to explore, to become the wizard he desired to be, from his own efforts. To become his own man.

He succeeded. In his travels, he consumed all the knowledge he could, spoke to magic users of all kinds from various races, without falling into their beds this time, admiring their skills and learning what he could from them. No academy could teach him the experiences he'd lived, the magic he had wielded beneath guides and his own willpower. There was always more to learn, of course, more to experience, but for now - he felt somewhat sated. He supposed Gale and him had always had that in common. A gnawing hunger they couldn't sate. Gale had been cursed with it, but Lith'mors had been born with it, kept dormant until he was free of his mother.

He didn't think much of her anymore. After over a century apart, it was only natural. It would never remove the bile that arose in his throat when he thought of her cold gaze though, those red eyes forever haunting him. It would never stop the cold sweat that broke out along his skin when he saw a spider crawling along piles or stone.

Lith'mors ducked out of the rain with a shudder, looking up at the canopy above him. He hid away beneath it, pulling his sopping hood down with a sigh. He needed to find shelter for the night. Half a decade ago, he would have found a fellow wizard, man or woman, and convinced them to take him to their warm bed, to indulge him with a meal and stories of their adventures, their studies.

Even now, it was tempting. A century old habit was hard to kick. Yet, he had promised he'd give that up. When he told Gale he wanted to leave, to travel, the man had accepted the ending of their relationship with soft mourning, knowing he would not be able to follow him - but he had made him promise one thing. That he would never sleep with another who was not a genuine lover. That he would pick his partners without thinking only of the benefits their shelter, knowledge or coin could bring him.

Lith'mors wasn't sure how to explain to the man that he didn't mind his past, or what he did to live more comfortably. He hadn't minded working in the brothels, had adored his time with various wizards who offered their knowledge to him as well as their kisses. Almost every person he had slept with had been beautiful - at least, to him. Perhaps his standards were lower than most, but he believed their was beauty in everyone. Making them feel as beautiful on the outside as they were on the inside, with his own body, had been a privilige.

He knew knowledge had a price, just as most things did. He couldn't afford fancy wizarding schools like Gale, but he had been able to learn from the same professors who taught at them, tasting the Weave on his tongue as they guided him. He supposed in a way, he was manipulating them, but was it really manipulation if they both got what they wanted in the end? If his affections for many of them had been true? They got to bed a pretty, exotic thing from below the surface world, to have companionship, and he got access to their personal libraries, to their spells. Maybe he'd taken a scroll or two, but more often than not, they had been gifted to him.

Lith'mors sighed softly as he took a seat on the ground, tucked away from the rain. He supposed he could simply sleep there tonight. He had slept outside more than once, even if he'd gotten used to having a place to rest his head without worries. He tilted his head back and let it thump softly against the door.

Gale told him once that Baldur's Gate was the place he'd go when he wanted to clear his head. When he wanted to escape his mother's scolding and his father's near-patronising lectures. It was the only place he could think to go when Gale disappeared. Vanished without a trace. Seeing the Dekarios' so distraught - he couldn't sit around and do nothing. They were his family, as much as Gale was. To others, it may seem strange, your ex lover being like family, but he'd offered him a place amongst the Dekarios' years ago.

No matter where he went, he'd always had a Dekarios nearby who was willing to shelter him for as long as he needed. Gale's family was his, and they accepted him as another member without question; the Dekarios name was simply another word for 'home' in his mind. A much better house than the one he came from, the one he shed a century ago.

"If you're dead, I swear I will reanimate you and make you dig your own grave. Fill it with spiders for you to eat, bastard." Lith'mors muttered bitterly, but the bitterness was simply to shield himself from the deep ache in his heart. Wherever Gale was...he had to be alive. It would be hard to miss his explosive end, after all. He was alive, just missing. Lith'mors simply had to find him and bring him home. Back to Waterdeep - back to Morena and Haelan.

He heard a soft creak and moved his hood back up, if only to covered his telltale drow features with the enchantment he'd placed on his cloak to obscure his face, glancing up as the door beside him opened just enough for a figure to stand in it's entryway. The gentle yellow glow of eyes were the first thing he noticed.

"...Are you another lost soul that stumbled into Baldur's Gate?" Lith'mors single red eye could make out the man's features with ease in the dark, and he could tell that the other could see him just fine as well. His darkvision was superior to a tieflings, but he supposed missing one eye might even the scores.

"More like I'm looking for one. He alludes me, this time." Lith'mors hummed, focused on the other's face. There was a light bruise against his temple, a small wound than looked more like a tear than a cut, across his brow. There was the slightest discolouration to his mouth, the skin of his lip split and still bleeding faintly. The man licked away his own blood discreetly and looked out towards the rain.

"There's a tavern not far from here. You should go there."

"They barely accept the coin of you tieflings. I doubt they'd take mine. I'd rather sleep outside." He had tried the Elfsong already. The moment he stepped in, he had known he wasn't welcome. He was used to that reaction, he'd dealt with the stares and whispers all his life on the surface, even dealt with the violence that came with some peoples prejudice, but he refused to indulge their hatred. At first glance, he knew he appeared to be like most drow, Lolth-sworn and dangerous. He'd be wary of one of his kind too with their reputation.

Lith'mors eased himself up onto his feet with a soft sigh, pulling his hood down as he turned to face the other properly. The others expression was guarded, but there was a hint of nervous energy in the flexing of his fingers in the door handle, in the way the end of his tail flicked side to side, jerking rather than swaying.

"Look, you can't stay here. Lorro- the master of this tower doesn't like squatters." He stated, attempting to sound firm, but there was a gentle quiver to the words ‘master’. Lith'mors eye took in the other, attempting to decipher him, to figure out where that nervous energy stemmed from. The longer he took him in, the more obvious it became that he was shaken. The bruises were fresh. Lith'mors wondered if they still throbbed or if they were starting to settle into a soft ache. He wondered if this was the first time he'd been struck.

The first time always left you the most shaken, ruining your perception of self, crumbling the notion of your own strength.

Lith'mors stepped closer and the other took half a step back, but he wasn't as quick to scurry away as some might be when in this state. That period where the shock was still fading and the fear began to settle in, the questions of 'why' beginning to creep in and drive a man mad. Lith'mors hadn't been faced with such an expression in over a century, and even then, he'd only ever seen it on his own face in the mirror of his old bedroom. His father's face had simply held resignation, so used to taking the blame so he wouldn't have to keep asking why he deserved it, or question if he might not.

"I know I may look like a threat, but I assure you, I'm not. Let me help you with that..." Lith'mors reached out gently and whispered a healing incantation, a spell he was taught by an old Druid friend many decades ago. It required little magical prowess, but it was handy on his journeys. He traced two fingers down the others cheekbone, blue healing magic soaking into the right side of his face and fading out like a dying nightlight as the others eyes widened. The bruising on his face aged out as they grew darker before lightening to nothing, the cuts on his skin sealing themselves up.

The tiefling stepped back, reaching up to touch his face. His yellow eyes quickly looked away, gaze downcast as he cleared his throat.

"Don't expect me to thank you. You still have to leave."

"Where shall I go?" Lith'mors turned to the rain outside, gesturing to it as it continued to thunder down onto the stone ground of the city. "I'm afraid I'm not as hot blooded as you. I have nothing to keep me warm in this weather. The least I deserve is the shelter of a tarp, until it ends."

"You-" The tiefling scowled and huffed, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I can't have you here. He'll- this isn't my shop. I don't make the rules. He does." The mans irritation grew tenfold on his expression. This time though, it did not seem aimed at Lith'mors. "Wait here."

Lith'mors tilted his head and waited as instructed as the man closed the door and slipped away deeper into the tower. He turned to the rain and watched it, allowing time to pass as he entertained the idea of finding a wizard at the Elfsong who didn't entirely despise his kind. Old habits were hard to kill. The door opened once more and the tiefling offered out an envelop to him.

"I...I understand your struggle." He sounded like he was struggling to admit it. "The city isn't in favour of my kind at the moment either. Finding a place to rest your head isn't as easy as some might think in these parts. I have a brother and sister, Cal and Lia, who live on the edge of the slums - it'll be the shack with an orange cat statue by the door. Knock thrice, and tell them I sent you. They'll make a space for you, provide you with something warm to wear until your clothes are dry. The letter is for theirs eyes only, so I suggest you keep your nose out of it." He narrowed his eyes, daring him to disobey his only rule after his kind offer.

Lith'mors looked down at the letter.

"You're offering me your home?"

"It's...more theirs than mine. I just know they'd never let me hear the end of it if I turned a soul in need away after everything." He sighed, sounding exasperated and exhausted. "Take it or don't. It's not of concern to me. I just need you gone."

He hesitated before taking the letter and smiling softly.

"Thank you."

"Gods, don't. I'm a fool, letting a stranger into my siblings home." He looked away, tail flicking behind him in obvious frustration. "If you hurt them, I will use every drop of magic I have to incinerate you." His eyes glowed fiercely as he turned them back on him in a glare and Lith'mors nodded.

"I do not doubt it."

"And don't forget this." The tiefling pulled out an umbrella and Lith'mors smiled, taking it. He opened it up and glanced at the other man.

"What's your name?"

"Hm? Well, if you must know...My name is Rolan. I'm going to be an even more proficient wizard one day than I already am after my apprenticeship, so you should remember it." His voice gained a haughty lint and Lith'mors' eye gained an amused shine.

"I look forward to seeing the wizard you become, Rolan the Resplendent." He chuckled lowly and bowed his head. Rolan's brows jumped up before something akin to embarrassment coloured his expression, but he was so obviously pleased to be given such a title. The previous slouch of his shoulders had righted itself, the wizard clearing his throat.

"It seems only fair after an introduction to be awarded the same courtesy. If you would...?" He gestured for him to go ahead and Lith'mors chuckled, taking a step back towards the harsh rains.

"Lith'mors. Lith'mors Dekarios. A fellow wizard."

"Lith'mors...Almost sounds like 'little death'." Rolan remarked, a small furrow between his brows, like he was trying to decipher if his parents chose the name for ominous reasons or if drow were just that dramatic with baby names. The tiefling didn't have to know he chose the name himself.

"It does, doesn't it? A little death certainly helps my talents." Lith'mors chuckled and allowed the rain to pelt upon his umbrella as he stepped into the street. "I'll remember this, Rolan."

"I'd prefer you didn't." The door closed behind the other after a glance over his shoulder, disappearing within the tower.

Lith'mors wondered if the tower was his home, or his prison.

****

The walk was cold and windy, but the promise of shelter and warmth was enough to keep him moving. He managed to eye an orange cat statue just as Rolan had told him, the tiny shack in front of him barely a house by any means. More like a shed. He knocked thrice and waited, pulling the letter out of his robes. He winced a little at the dampness of the envelope. Hopefully it would still be readable. Magical ink was superior in the sense that it was smudge proof, but he wasn’t sure if all of them were waterproof.

“Rolan? You’re back already, what—?” A young tiefling woman looked up at the drow as she opened the door and frowned. “Oh. Sorry, I thought you were someone else…can I help you?” She tilted her head, looking rightfully suspicious. A drow at her door in this weather, at this time of night, in the outskirts of the slum of Baldur’s Gate? It was a recipe for trouble.

“Hopefully. Your brother, Rolan, he sent me.” Lith’mors bowed his head to her out of respect and handed the envelope over. “For your eyes only. He said you could offer me refuge for the night, if you’d be so kind. Lia, I'm guessing?”

“Oh - yes. That’s...me. Rolan - he really sent you?” Lia sounded surprised. “I didn’t think that bastard had it in him to be nice.” She joked, but he could tell from her tone that she meant none of it. She probably viewed her brother as having a good heart even if abrasive on the surface.

“Who is it, Lia?” Another man came up behind the woman, his face unmistakably kind, the expression naturally friendly. He was the kind of man who could not forgo a good deed when it was presented as an option. Lith’mors could tell. He'd met thousands of faces in his lifetime, and after living so long, you get a good grasp on one's character.

“A stray.” Lia chuckled. “Rolan sent him. Please - come in.” She stepped aside and allowed him inside. Lith’mors shook the umbrella off outside and set it aside by the door, looking inside the tiny room. There was a bed, a couch, and a tiny kitchen along the wall, as well as a bathtub in the corner. It was abysmally small. It was suited for one person rather than three, yet they still invited him inside with smiles on their faces.

“Rolan sent him? Well, he must be a good egg then." Cal grinned, hands on his hips. "That brother of ours never lets us down where it counts; doubt he'd send someone dangerous." He tacked on, for his sister's sake as she opened the damp letter.

"What’s your name?” He asked, his tone fairly polite, cheerful, even when burdened with extra company that they hadn't been expecting.

��Lith’mors. You may call me Lith, if you wish.”

“Lith. I like it. I’m Cal, Rolan’s younger brother - also the more handsome brother, if it matters.” Cal offered his hand to the drow with a playful smile and Lith’mors shook it politely, mildly amused by the other man. "By the Gods, you're soaked to the bone. The summer has been good to us on our journey, but I suppose a storm was to be expected eventually."

“I apologise, I’m dripping everywhere…” Lith’mors reached up for the clasp of his cloak and unhooked it. Cal took the coat from his hands before he could even look for a hook to hang it on, shaking his head.

“Don’t worry about it. I was about to give the old hearth here a shot, so hopefully you can warm up sooner rather than later.” Lia made an inquisitive sound as she read the letter before looking up at the drow.

"The tavern turned you away? In a storm like this? Bastards. Gods, I was really hoping to apply there for work..." She scowled.

"There's always the Blushing Mermaid! You always wanted to go there, right, sis?" Cal reassured quickly, patting his sisters shoulder as thunder rumbled loudly outside. His tail gave a nervous flick from side to side as he watched the ceiling, moving towards the hearth. There was a small pile of wood beside it.

"I guess so..." Lia didn't seem happy though, looking from her brother to the newcomer. "Guess we're not the only ones in this city that are getting the short end of the stick."

"If it helps, I think my kind probably deserve it, compared yours." Lith'mors spare her a small smile. "I know intimately why they should fear drow. I've been on the surface a century, and if I stumbled upon a fellow drow at night, I'd probably think they'd want my blood too."

"But you don't. I'll admit, I've never met a drow before." Lia beckoned Lith'mors towards the hearth Cal was attempting to light, but every roll of thunder was making the poor man jump and lose his concentration mid-spell. Lia sat on the arm of the couch and smiled at her younger brother.

"Don't tell me you're still scared of thunder, Cal. We're not eight anymore."

"It's not- It's just...loud." Cal looked embarrassed to admit. "I can't help it."

"Here, let me." Lith'mors offered and stepped forward to ignite the wood, watching it catch and burn. After that was done, he whispered an incantation, the sound of thunder and rain disappearing as the room was encased in a gentle silence.

"You..." Cal's eyes widened. "I didn't realise you were a wizard too. No wonder Rolan sent you our way."

"I thought he'd rather give any competition pneumonia." Lia smirked, arms crossed over her chest. "Do you have any clothing to change into?"

"Nothing particularly modest." Lith'mors admitted. "I don't typically have to worry about bunking with others these days."

"I might have something that'll fit you, if you don't mind wearing something less prestigious than your fancy robes." Cal joked, getting up to grab his pack. He fished through it and pulled out a plain green shirt, along with some plain brown trousers. "I'm afraid they're uh...pre-worn. We haven't had much of a chance to do any laundry just yet. We only arrived to Baldur's Gate late last night."

"I don't mind. It's just for a night." Lith'mors assured and accepted the clothes with a polite smile, placing them in the top of the couch. "I doubt there's any room for privacy?"

"Not...really." Cal grimaced and Lia rolled her eyes.

"I'm not interested in looking, so don't worry. Just hang your stuff on the edge of the bathtub when you're done." Lia made a point of turning away and Cal laughed, going back to his pack, sorting through it as Lith'mors undressed out of his sopping robes and boots. It wasn't as if he hadn't stripped in front of others before. He'd done so a million times in the past. He simply didn't want to make them uncomfortable, as his hosts.

He did wonder if they'd like what they'd see. He knew himself to be attractive, despite his ghoulish pallor and scars. His black glass eye could be quite strange looking, he supposed, even eerie - he hadn't exactly been a 'guest' to anyone since that incident, if he didn't count his past relationship with Gale. He stripped off his soaked underwear as well and slipped the trousers on, feeling the fabric stick to his damp skin in some places, but he was sure the fire would help with drying off. He slipped the shirt on, covering up the dark ink that expanded down each side of his chest like claw marks until it because two solid black streaks across his ribs that morphed into a raven between his shoulder blades. He'd had it done half a century ago, and it was the only ink on his skin.

He placed his things over the edge of the tub to hang and dry before sitting in front of the fire, watching the flames.

"So...how old are you exactly?"

"After a while, the years kind of blur. About...two and a half centuries old, I'd wager." Lith'mors hummed. "And you two?"

"Much younger." Lia scoffed. "Tieflings don't live nearly as long as the Elven races."

"I suppose you don't." He chuckled. "I like to think we elves only live so long because we take far too long to emotionally mature." Cal laughed, and Lith'mors found he was quite happy with himself at his little joke.

"Considering the elves we've met? Probably." Lia smirked. "So...where did you come from? Before Baldur's Gate, I mean. Were you...cast out too?"

"As much as I'd love to indulge your curiosities, I find I'm quite tired. I think I might rest. If you want to prod at me for answers about my person, it can wait until morning." He chuckled and Lia nodded, looking between him and Cal.

"Cal and I will bunk up tonight. We used to do it all the time as kids, so it's not a bother. Your Rolan's honoured guest, so...take the couch. Get some rest, Lith."

"I appreciate it. Thank you." Lith'mors smiled softly. The couch was closest to the hearth, so he'd prefer that to a bed tonight.

"Thank you for blocking the thunder out and lighting the fire. We could have a worse guest." Cal shrugged.

"Like Rolan?" Lia sat on the bed beside her brother, smirking.

"Rolan's not a guest. He's family."

"Oh I'm just pulling your tail, Cal. We all know Rolan's family." She rolled her eyes. "Even if he is a stubborn prick. I can't believe that bastard Lorroakan wouldn't let us stay in the tower. All that space, and he can't let us even bunk with our brother?" She scoffed. "Not that I'd want to. Rolan's always smacking me with his tail in his sleep."

"At least he doesn't tear up your leg with his toe talons." Cal rolled his eyes. Lith'mors made himself comfortable on the couch as the siblings spoke.

"Lorroakan...is that the master of the tower he resides in?"

"Hm?" Cal quirked a brow. "Oh, yeah. Rolan's got some fancy apprenticeship with the guy. He's been clinging to his letter for months. Always talking about the fortune he was going to make once he started working in the city, how he's going to be a true wizard once he gets the chance to actually learn from another studied in the Weave. Our mum could never afford to send him to some fancy academy when we were kids, so...He's really hoping to learn something under this Lorroakan guy. I'm proud of him, honestly, even if he can be a giant idiot sometimes."

"Oh yeah, I'd never say it to his face, he's arrogant enough, but he's got talent. I...really do hope this apprenticeship works out for him." Lia looked genuine, if a bit concerned. "He's been gushing about it for months, and I'd hate for it to fall through. If only because he's either super depressing or super annoying when he's upset. He's the kind of guy who will have too much wine and run his mouth off, or worse, do that 'I'm not crying' act while he complains about the wine going down the wrong pipe."

Lia rolled her eyes and Cal chuckled.

"Our brother can be a pain, but he's our pain. Lia doesn't exactly help his bad temper." He looked at her pointedly.

"He doesn't help mine." She scowled. "He's a stubborn, arrogant prat who always complains when we help him with anything."

"But we love him. And we know he loves us too. We're family; Rolan and Lia have their tiffs, and I make sure they don't curse or stab each other." Cal grinned, and Lith'mors laughed, finding the youngest rather charming.

"And what do you do when you're annoyed at them, hm?"

"Silent treatment." Cal smirked.

"Gods, and it fucking works too." Lia admitted, disgruntled, shoving her brother off the bed. Cal yelped and rolled off the mattress and onto the floor with a snort. "He literally will not say a word until we apologise. I think once when we were teenagers, he didn't speak to Rolan or I for a whole week!"

"And what exactly did you do to deserve that?"

"Well..." Lia looked away, scratching the back of her neck.

"I broke my arm because they couldn't stop bickering about how to get me out of a tree I'd climbed because they were fighting about something I can't even remember. So I fell out of the tree trying to save myself. Mum threw a fit, and Rolan felt awful." Cal laughed, like it was a fond memory, and perhaps to him, it was. "He's always had it in his head that he's supposed to protect us, since he's the oldest. He practically nursed me back to health himself."

"And you didn't talk to him the whole week after?" Lith'mors chuckled quietly. "How cruel."

"Nope. My arm bloody hurt! I only let up after a week because I couldn't stand those sad eyes he kept giving me." Cal army-crawled his way back up into the bed and tilted his head at the drow who was starting to relax, the room growing warm from the fire, the conversation like a storybook trying to lull him to sleep. "Do you have any siblings?"

"Ah...I do, but I haven't spoke to them in a long time. My blood sisters never bothered to heal my broken bones, I'm afraid." He joked, eyes falling shut. "The family I have now don't have a drop of drow blood in them. But I'm family, nonetheless."

"Sometimes family is just the people you stumble upon and can't seem to leave behind, huh?" Cal's voice sounded soft, understanding.

"Sometimes family is just a stubborn bastard you're too attached to." Lia muttered and Lith'mors chuckled, thinking of Gale.

"Yes. Sometimes...it's both." He murmured, slowly falling into a trance, exhaustion taking over him. He slept easy, with the fire crackling softly and gentle snores of his hosts only a few steps away.

****

The next morning was humid, the rain on the streets warming beneath the heat of the summer sun. Lith'mors awoke with a soft sigh, wiping at his brow as he shifted to get up. The tiefling siblings were still fast asleep, the barbs at the end of their tails both trapped under Cal's legs, the brothers face buried in the pillow and Lia's arm flopped upwards, wrist hooked on a horn as she slept, half sprawled out with a leg off the bed. He couldn't help but smile, a little endeared by the pair.

He slipped off the couch, quiet as a mouse as he checked on his clothes. The robes and trousers were dry, but the cloak and boots were a touch damp. With the heat outside, he was sure that was a blessing rather than a misfortune. He slipped out of the borrowed clothes and redressed himself in his own, tucking the tie of his robes into his pants when he heard a shift behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see Cal prying his sister's dead arm away from his horns, looking up at the necromancer.

"Are you leaving already...?" Cal scrubbed the sleep from his eyes and Lith'mors hummed.

"Thank you for your hospitality, but I won't burden your home much longer." Lith'mors picked up his bag of holding, reaching inside for his pouch of gold. He opened it up and placed twenty gold on the counter of the tiny kitchen.

"Oh, you- you don't have to pay us or anything for last night. All we did was let you sleep on the couch." Cal looked embarrassed, like accepting his money was shameful in some way. "We get it, being rejected by strangers, by establishments. It was an honour to have a guest like yourself, I swear."

"I have gold to spare, do not worry. This is simply how much I would have paid to rent a room at the Elfsong. It felt only fair after the kindness you both showed me." Cal fidgeted with his claws, picking dirt out from under them before he stood.

"How long are you staying in Baldur's Gate?"

"I'm not certain. I'm looking for a friend. Gale Dekarios - well, he calls himself Gale of Waterdeep."

"Gale of..." Cal frowned before his eyes widened. "Oh! I know him. I met him at Last Light, in the Shadowlands - that's where we were before we arrived in the city. He shouldn't be far behind. He's travelling with some adventurers, so I can't be certain."

"You saw him? Is he alright?" Lith'mors asked, concern blossoming in his chest.

"Uh, I think so? We didn't talk much, but he's a presence, that's for sure." Cal smiled cheekily. "Look, I doubt you're going to find anywhere else accepting drow travellers, unless you plan on renting a room in a brothel. Our place is small, but it's open to you, should you need somewhere to sleep. If I'm honest...I don't know how successful we'll be, finding work here. Rolan said he'd be happy to send us whatever we need from his own paychecks, but I know it bugs Lia to rely on him like that. Hells, it bugs me. But..."

Cal's eyes drifted to the gold on the counter, and Lith'mors could see where he was getting at. Cal looked a touch ashamed.

"We'd offer you a place here for free, really, we would, but...if you do have gold to spare, it would be much appreciated, if only to chip in for meals. At least - until we get onto our feet. We can't really afford to feed one right now, let alone three."

"Do not feel ashamed for asking for a fee. All things come with a price, as much as I appreciated your generosity." Lith'mors smiled faintly in hopes of easing the other man's guilt. "I greatly appreciate your offer, and I will keep your abode in mind should I not find my friend in the city soon. For now - the gold is yours. I wish you both the best." He bowed his head to extend his respects, a hand on his chest.

"Hopefully we'll see each other again soon." Cal offered a hand to him and Lith'mors took it, shaking it firmly before picking up his cloak and donning it once more, the hood obscuring his face.

"Give your sister my thanks, Cal. Until we meet again." With that, he slipped away into the streets once more, hoping to find Gale and hopefully, bring him home.

#bg3 tav #baldurs gate tav #wizard tav #lith'mors dekarios #bg3 fanfiction #rolan bg3 #rolan #bg3 rolan #rolan x tav #tav x rolan #lia bg3 #cal bg3

17 notes · View notes

tieflingtareon · 1 year ago

Text

There's Nothing Wrong Contemplating Gods (You're in the wind, I'm in the water)

[A 'My Love, Are You the Devil' prequel]

Chapter 3 | Words: 12k

Summary: "The past is lost to you. Let me clear up some mysteries, then. We share so much history." The history between Tir'yal, Child of Bhaal, and Enver, the Chosen of Bane explained in a non-linear format.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51625999/chapters/130498312

(Pre-Game Tir’yal :) in case anyone was curious)

The Dark Urge. What a ridiculous name. Is that truly what this 'Heir of Bhaal' went by? The fact that it took three of his own spies to even get that much information on him irked him. The first two had perished and been strung up by the docks - something he should have done himself, honestly, being bested so easily was shameful as a Banite - while the third had managed to make it back to him, enough to spill his findings in the sewers of all places. Of the man who lead the other group of cultists he had no reign over. Bhaal worshippers. Bane had insisted he keep an eye on them, and Enver had. The best way to keep an eye on a possible enemy was to find their home base. To stalk their shadow; which the Bhaalists made quite hard for him.

He wasn't quite sure yet what to make of the Bhaal cult, but so far, no one in his own cult had been targeted - outside of the ones he sent, but could he really call them true Banite's anymore? - and none of them had interfered with his own plans so...They weren't enemies just yet. This task felt beneath his status in the church, but if Bane wanted him to keep an eye on the Bhaslspawn, he would.

Though...it was exciting. A Bhaalspawn, roaming Baldur's Gate, leading a little congress of worshippers. He hadn't even been aware of any Bhaalspawns in the area. The moment he'd been told of the leaders heritage, he'd hit the shelves, reading up on whatever he could find about their history. It was interesting enough, but it made him weary. Most described them as compulsive killers, drunk on the euphoria of murder and intensely loyal to their God. Like always, there were exceptions, but...he wondered if this man was any different, if he could find any use of him. The spy that did return after a confrontation with one of his cultists had mentioned he spoke with a 'monotonous' voice compared to the frenzied murder hoard he led. He wasn't sure why, but that made him curious, for the man to use that descriptor of all things. Not 'chilling', or 'calm', or even 'curt'. Just...monotonous.

He sighed as he snapped his book shut and placed it aside.

He needed a way to breech the gap between them, without the Bhaalspawn or his cultists attempting to kill him point blank like the others. Something to create a bridge, create conversation - after all, with the resurgence of Bhaal worship, he couldn't afford to be on their bad side. This city was only so big. It would be a shame to have Bhaal's assassins slaughtering all he's worked for, all he'd done to rebuild Bane's church and gather it's worshippers beneath his order.

He may not be Bane's Chosen yet, but he made sure they all knew he would be, and he would be. He made sure they knew that he deserved their respect. He left the supreme title with another devotee, someone with more time on their hands, but even she answered to him, and Bane in turn, who often spoke his desires through him. He knew that's why the other Banite's heeded his words. Because they saw them as Bane's own, and he didn't bother to change their perception. His and Bane's interests were intertwined after all.

Power.

This Bhaalspawn could be a wrench in the cog of his well oiled machine if he went and killed someone important. Like himself. What could he possibly offer a child of a Dread Lord to gain his attention? To get him to stow away his blade? If only until Enver could find a weakness in his cult and take it out himself. Though, if the man proved useful, perhaps even open to an alliance...it wouldn't be the worst alliance he'd found himself in. Connections were connections, official business or otherwise. This could be an opportunity like no other.

The cult of Bane and the cult of Bhaal, in an alliance. Banites would have the spotlight, and Bhaalists would have their shadows. One could kill, one could cover up, could direct their blades into the right hearts...Enver could see it now. Murder and Tyranny; you could not have a bloodless ruling, a war without gore, and you could not have murder without the upper-hand, without power.

There might be use of the other yet. Bane was right to tell him to keep his eye on the cult. He would have happily discarded them without a second thought if not for spying in on them first. Now, he just needed to find a way to draw the Bhaalspawns attention. No point going through his followers - Enver would much prefer to speak to the leader, not his loyal mutts. It would be a waste of his precious time.

He looked down at his map of the House of Wonders, the notes he'd made when he visited last to look at the displays. Not all of it had been interesting, but he enjoyed note taking, not wanting to forget the minor details. His goal at the time was to look inconspicuous, like a standard journalist, but the true task at hand was mapping out exits and entrances. He wanted deeper inside. He wanted to see the technology they hid deeper within, what the Gondians were working on behind the scenes.

He wanted to see it for himself, to put it simply. And take whatever might be useful to him. His mind hungered to expand his knowledge, and his hands itched to touch the creations they made in their holy temple. He was certain he'd find something worthwhile inside once there. He rarely came out of a heist empty-handed or dissatisfied.

The tip of his quill stopped beside one note and smirked.

Ah. That might just work. A common goal.

He pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and got to drafting out a letter to the Bhaalspawn. Compulsive killer or not, every man had some amount of pride in their legacy, and their history.

****

His messenger had not returned. He didn't expect him too. But he damn well expect the Bhaalspawn to read and respond to his letter, especially after a tenday had passed. He'd told the young man very strictly to hold it out to the 'tallest horned figure' when he entered the sewers - the only description he got out of his spy. To ask for the 'heir' should he come across any masked figures. He supposed there was no guarantee of it getting to him, realistically, but it annoyed him nonetheless. If he knew where the temple was, it wouldn't be an issue, but he didn't. The secret was wrapped up tight, and anyone who went looking did not come back. All he knew was that it was likely in the sewers, because the Bhaalists did not seem to reside above ground unless out for a cull. Not that he'd be able to check for their residence anyway, not with all of them wearing masks like most assassins, shielding their identities.

How on Toril was he supposed to get his message to him? Go down there himself?

He grimaced at the idea. He thought he'd gotten to the stage in his life where he was above slums and sewers, but apparently not. Was he truly willing to give it a shot for some half-assed chance of an alliance? He gave it a long thought and sighed. Yes. Yes, he was. He'd done far worse things for less fruitful alliances in his youth. That should be taken as a lesson, but he supposed even he had his follies.

Having a Bhaalspawn owe him a minor debt for making him aware of his ancestors things being displayed for others to gawk at, even if there was no alliance, wouldn't hurt. Being on neutral terms alone would be enough, as long as he wasn't on his bad side. His spy had described the other as sounding rather young, yet he was leading the cult, and probably had for some time now, under his nose. Enver himself had come into leadership fairly young, both in his church and his profession as an arms dealer, so he could respect another young leader. He only hoped the other would live up to his expectations.

If he didn't, he'd find a way to remove him off the lanceboard, along with his cultists.

Enver picked up his quill once more and rewrote his previous letter, pausing at the bottom of the page when he went to mark his name. He hummed. Perhaps the man had received his letter and simply thought nothing of him. After all, who was Enver Gortash to a spawn of Bhaal, the child of a God?

He smirked. Was it truly a lie if he knew it was his destiny? When it had been promised to him years ago?

With utmost sincerity,

The Chosen of Bane,

Enver Gortash

****

As expected, the sewers smelt awful. He wrinkled his nose and took out a vial of peppermint oil from his pocket, dabbing some beneath his nose, if only to avoid a headache. He supposed he'd become a touch spoilt since his urchin days. He had much more money to work with now, finer things to wear, tastier things to eat. He didn't have to go cold or hungry or bruised.

He worked hard, and he still worked hard, but now he got to enjoy the benefits of all his labour. Like vintage wine and a tailor; and a cold, damp room that didn't smell like mould and rot.

Enver stepped cautiously over the slippery grime beneath his feet and grimaced, thankful that he had chosen an older pair of boots for this journey. He still tried to dress decently though. He was meeting someone quite important after all! Or, he wanted the other to feel as if they were important. Important enough to warrant him treading all the way down into the sewers of all places. The first rule of any dealing, any negotiation, was always to put your best perceived foot forward, but conceal your true playing cards. Look your best, talk eloquently, but don't give away respect until it is earned. Be polite, be humble but not too humble, one needs to be confident if they want others to be confident in them, what they can provide.

And of course, always get your end of the bargain before the other. Always keep your head about you. It's a hassle to chase up loose ends.

It was all a dance, really, and one Enver had spent years studying first hand, knowing his true goal, his destiny, was to sit upon a throne. Grand Duke of Baldur's Gate, Lord Enver Gortash. Perhaps one day, he'd even hold all of Fae'run in his hand. King Enver Gortash sounded just as delightful as Lord. Arms dealing was just another form of politics to him, and that's where he truly belonged. On top of the hierarchy.

Enver felt a change in the air, and trusting his instincts, he waited in anticipation. He didn't speak, looking out into the darkness. He should have taken a darkvision potion, he supposed, but what did it matter now? He strained his eyes as he searched the shadows. The drains above allowed moonlight to drench down upon him, helping somewhat, but not by much. If anything, the spotlight was on him, marking him a target to whatever was prowling around the rust and grime. His heart began to race, if only on instinct, before he pressed a hand to his chest, pressing down like he might be able to silence it.

"Tell me; do I have the privilege of being in the presence of divine royalty, or are you simply one of his many jesters?" He finally spoke up, going for an unimpressed tone. He did not appreciate being circled like prey.

He saw the pinpricks of orange and blue before he saw the man himself, the colour vanishing and the large body closing the distance between them with the swiftness of a feline despite the slippery terrain. He barely managed to throw up a barrier before the assassin was before him. The tip of his blade bounced off the surface, a low rumbling sound escaping the man. He was larger than Enver imagined, both in height and mass, his thick horns growing up towards the sky and curving outwards. Like scythes. Appropriate for a man who left a trail of death behind him.

The Bhaalspawn was a tiefling, he realised. He supposed it made sense. Bhaal had died, he had no more 'seeds' he could sow. Perhaps he dealt with a devil to make himself a new heir. An heir Enver had no idea about until recently. Why had it taken so long for his murders to be caught, to become spectacle?

The Bhaalspawn was wearing a mask that only left his eyes and a dark slope of hair that ran across his orange, almost red, eye for the world to see. He ran his blade along the barrier, digging into it, but it wouldn't budge. He looked at Enver, looking highly unimpressed.

"Wizard."

"I did not need a spell to keep you at bay. Not today." Enver nodded to the small contraption at his feet, one foot pressed on top of it, keeping the barrier alive. "It's magical, yes, but it requires almost no energy than creating a true barrier from scratch. Handy to ones who aren't as proficient with magic."

"Like yourself?"

"I consider myself proficient in anything I put my hands on, or my mind to." Enver smirked. "You were going to kill me, I assume?"

"Yes. Though, now you've quipped my interest. I think I'll take you back home and kill you slowly, open up your inside and take a look at your brain matter." The Bhaalspawn sounded almost amused, but his voice still held a monotonous edge to it. Unchanging, spoke clear and precise, with no room for emotion to effect it. He continued to test the barrier with hand and blade, curiosity in his glowing, mismatched eyes.

He seemed level-headed despite the blade in his hand, already bloodied by someone else's blood. Compared to the compulsive killers he'd read about in the line of Bhaalspawns, he seemed eerily calm. This was no mindless, murderous monster that the textbooks might lead others to believe Bhaalspawns to be. Enver was almost glad he came to visit him himself rather than leave another errand boy to it.

"That would be a waste. For the both of us." Enver pulled out the letter he'd written and quirked a brow. "I have something I think you'd rather like. Information on some...family heirlooms."

The Bhaalspawn glanced down at the letter and quirked a brow.

"...Are you 'Gortash'?"

"Ah, so you did receive my letter. It's typically frowned upon to not give a response, dear-" He paused and frowned. "What exactly do I call you?"

"The Dark Urge." Enver couldn't refrain from scoffing at the ridiculous alias.

"I'm not calling you that."

"Spawn of Bhaal works too. Prince of Bhaal is used occasionally." The Bhaalspawn walked around the sphere, dragging his knife along the surface. Enver watched him from the corner of his eye. Sphere or not, a threat was a threat. He would be a fool to treat the man like he wasn't one.

"I'm not asking for a title. I'm asking for a name. You know mine. It's only fair, to share yours."

"...Tar'eon, is a name I used to use. If that works for you. My true name can be hard for those who only know of the Common Tongue." Tar'eon came to stand before him, tilting his head. Those glowing eyes were rather pretty, when Enver let himself stare back into them. Terrifying, but in a beautiful sense. "I didn't read your letter. I didn't recognise your name, so it did not matter to me. I typically...receive mail to begin with. You're a persist man."

"I'll have you know, I am proficient in several languages." Enver smirked, something in his mind trying to wrap around the name and squeeze out it's meaning. Somehow, it felt familiar. "Infernal happens to be a favourite of mine." He glanced up at his horns pointedly, but the man did not react.

"What do you know?"

"Ah, ah, I've played this game before. You will not get the information unless I'm promised my life. I'll have to drop my barrier to hand it over, and we both know you'll have the advantage." His eyes travelled down the massive tieflings body and shook his head, as well as any passing thoughts that came with the glance over.

"I can't promise you much in return right now, but do believe me when I say we could be very good for each other." He smirked. "Two leaders, running two separate cults, hidden from the outside world? We're more alike than most would ever consider. The Spawn of Bhaal...and the Chosen of Bane. Wouldn't it be fun to see what we could do, if we worked together?"

"Now why would I ever work with a worshipper of Bane?" Tar'eon narrowed his eyes and Enver laughed. Even now, something was scratching at the back of his mind, demanding answers he couldn't remember.

"Why would I ever work with a Bhaalspawn? Simple. Because it benefits me, and in this case, it also benefits you. This letter will have the details. I'm sure you'll find me, should you agree to what I'm offering. I'm not the only one with spies after all." Enver doubted he would be left unwatched after tonight.

"So you're the one who keeps sending them."

"I wanted to keep an eye on you. I thought perhaps I'd be able to find your base of operations, watch you closely to make sure my own fellow worshippers or important people weren't being targeted - purposefully at least. The others you killed were barely Banite material, if they were bested so easily." He turned his nose up at the very mention of them.

The Bhaalspawn watched him closely, coming to stand as close as possible to the barrier, steel boots scrapping the floor.

"I'll let you live, and I'll read your letter, as long as you promise to end your search for my Father's temple. It's forbidden to outsiders. Unless you're dead." This close, Enver could see the hint of green within the glowing blue iris, the other like a flame. Those eyes...

It struck him like a hammer to metal, the realisation ringing in his ears. He knew those eyes. He knew that name. That scrap of steel was more familiar than anything else. Gods, to think after all this time...Even with the mask covering his lower face, the hood drawn up over his dark hair, he knew it was him.

How funny fate could be, to draw them back together after so long apart. The last time he saw him, he was been only eight years old. They had said goodnight outside the door of his house, his friend tall enough to steady the flower pot hanging from above the door, and he had ruffled his hair, before Enver walked back home alone. That was his last night in Baldur's Gate, before he was taken to the House of Hope.

He had never been the gentle sort, even back then. He had been just as 'wretched' as he was. They knew they were better than others, knew they were meant for more, both smarter than their peers. He had been stronger, sure, but it was Enver who aided his strengths. He used his skilled hands to craft things, even against his parents wishes. Like boots. Steel boots, worthy of a knight.

Enver smiled faintly. He might not recognise him anymore, it had been two decades after all. Remembering him was a miracle in itself. This changed nothing though. People changed, and so had he. If he stood in his way, he'd pick him off the board and toss him into sea, even if he'd feel a small ache at a wasted chance of renewed friendship. Recognising him had opened a flood gate of old memories he hadn't touched in years.

"Of course." Enver promised. "Consider it an oath. I keep my life, and you keep your temples secrecy."

"I suppose I have to honour it then. Consider the oath sworn."

Enver eased his foot off the device slowly, the barrier falling away. As promised, the Bhaalspawn didn't jump to stab him. He watched him as he leaned down to pick up the device, tucking it away and offering out the letter. A clawed hand took it, glowing eyes falling to the envelope before looking back at him, gaze feeling impenetrable. He obviously wanted to read it, but he was waiting for him to leave first.

"May our paths align, and may our endeavours be fruitful for the both of us." He bowed his head ever so slightly and smirked, taking a few steps back before chancing turning his back to the other and reaching for the ladder that would take him back up to the surface. He climbed up it and shoved the manhole aside before looking back down at the tiefling who was watching him. Like a panther, looking for a moment to strike.

"Have a good night, Tir'yal." He pulled himself out and closed the manhole.

He didn't even notice his slip of the tongue until he was back home, chuckling to himself. The little robot on his shelf gave a cheerful greeting to its master as he placed the barrier device on his pillow. He smiled at the robot and picked it up, thumbing over the gentle glowing light of its chest.

"Hello to you too, Borot. No visitors?"

"Not today, Creator!"

"Good." He placed the robot back on the shelf and idly undressed himself, considering what his slip of the tongue might cost him.

"He didn't tell me his true name, did he?" He was rarely that careless. He'd blame it on the surprise. It wasn't every day you met your childhood friend after two decades apart, and found out he was now a Bhaalspawn. Or, he supposed he always was.

"Not today, Creator!" Borot repeated. He only had a select amount of phrases now, but Enver intended to expand his vocabulary soon.

"You're right. Not today. But he did once...Set your alarm, Borot."

"Alarm set, Creator!"

"Good." With a sweep of his hand and soft incantation, the torches around the room died. He crawled into bed and sighed softly, holding the small square device in his hand, thumbing the pressure mechanism. Borot's light was as gentle as moonlight in his dark room, and he found himself drifting, slowly but surely. Borot would warn his master if anyone entered. He had his protection in hand.

He would just have to wait and see if the other even noticed. Wait for his answer. He'd be ready for him, should he come. When he came.

****

Tir'yal wasn't used to being caught off guard. It was unsettling to him. He was quiet as he peeled back the skin of a human man's submental space beneath his chin, more distracted than he liked while examining the man's inflamed thyrohyoid. He was long dead, but that didn't mean he didn't still have his uses. He killed in his Father's name, yes, but that didn't mean he could waste all the bodies he created to show his adoration, his devotion. There was always something new to discover.

Humans were common amongst these parts. He almost wished he had more variety in bodies in this city, but there was always travellers from all around Fae'run stopping in. They weren't missed, more often than not. With nimble fingers, he picked up his scalpel and sliced the inflamed muscle out slowly, careful not to disrupt the rest of the throats interior. Once he had it, he looked at it in the light closely, admiring the swollen texture between his thumb.

"Fel."

"Yes, Milord?" His butler appeared at his call and Tir'yal turned to look at him from over his shoulder.

"Put it in a jar for me. Keep it fresh." He'd have a closer look at it later, behind one of his microscopes.

"Oh ho, whatever my young Master desires." Fel chuckled and whisked away with the muscle. Tir'yal turned back to the body and continued to slice deeper into the throat, trying to find the cause behind the swelling, to find where it began, testing the movement of the larynx with two fingers.

He heard sopping wet footsteps against stone and turned to look at his sister.

"Blood kin!" Orin threw her arms open but he knew she would cut him if he dared to hug her. She was showing off the gore on her body, soaked in it. "I saw what you did with the spies. A splendid touch to your morose slaughters. I almost approve. I think I have you beat though, after tonight." She grinned, looking awfully proud of herself.

"I have no desire to challenge your creativity, sister. My artistic abilities still only apply to music and paint." He assured, but she only scowled. He never knew the right thing to say with her. Her emotions flickered from one end of the spectrum to the other in seconds.

"I should paint with your blood, brother." Orin dragged her feet forward and looked upon the body. "Playing doctor again?" She mocked in a sweet voice.

"Not doctor. More...mortician meets scientist." Tir'yal smirked. He enjoyed talking to her - sometimes. He supposed he never stopped looking for a sibling after he gave up his own to Bhaal. Orin wouldn't ever be Aelath'nus, but...nobody would, not really. Killing her would never fill him with the same feeling he'd felt when he killed his older brother.

He'd loved him. Perhaps more than a brother, but not exactly a lover either. He wasn't sure if that made him a worse person than he already was, or like every other Bhaalspawn. Incest wasn't exactly uncommon from what he had learnt in his own studies. You either lived long enough to fuck a fellow Bhaalspawn, or you were killed by them. Sometimes both.

Orin's hand run up his arm and she chuckled, looking down at the body with her pale eyes.

"I crave nothing more than to put your body on this very table and peel your skin from your muscle, to tear your sinews, to reach inside and twist your organs up into one big heart..." Orin's nails dug deep into his shoulder, but he did not flinch away, used to her antics. He looked down at her, watching for the moment when she'd choose to strike or step back. He would be ready for either, and he was used to both. Tonight, she simply laughed and walked back, hips swaying in tandem with her long braid.

"I have sated my thirst for one night. A crowd of noble drunkards, who squealed like filthy pigs as I scraped muscle from bone." She pressed her hands to her stomach, still wet with blood, and smeared it up her form, over her breasts and up her neck as she relished in the blood. Even if it was from pigheaded men who couldn't hold their liquor. "You may live to see another day, blood kin."

"Enjoy your rest, sister. I'm sure your murders were as beautiful as you are." He smiled faintly and looked back down at the body, slicing down the man's chest. He wondered how his rib bones would sound when snapping. If it would be more hollow or sharp, given his elder age. "Do not disturb me again unless you've come to ask me to wash your back."

Orin's expression twisted into something fierce, lips downturned and eyes murderous.

"Forget the days of youthful follies, brother. I need not for your help any longer."

"Yet I will still offer it to you, little sister." When he arrived, she had still been young. Barely thirteen. It had been a three year difference, but he always liked the idea of being an older brother, like Aelath'nus. Had he been like Orin as a child? So emotionally driven, so quick to anger, pouting and whining...

He didn't like to think too much on the past anymore. His home was with Bhaal, and he had given up everything he knew to have his love. His unconditional love, reserved only for the monster born from his gore. His one, true pureblooded child.

He couldn't exactly expect strangers to love him for forever, though they tried to assure him of that. But his blood belonged to Bhaal, and he was his Father's son. He could not deny his heritage. At least his foster parents would be remembered kindly. Nobody would remember them quite as fondly if he'd refused Bhaal's call back to home. That's what he liked to think, on nights were he got a touch too sentimental about it all. When he dreamt of the past.

He knew though, that what really drove him to Bhaal was the fact that he was offering answers, as well as love. All those urges, all the times people had called him a heartless child, a cruel child, had been explained simply by the sweet whisper of his Father's voice. Every time he'd lost control, where his vision had gone black if only for a few moments, were explained.

He sacrificed one family for another, another full of monsters like himself. This was where he belonged. This was his home. This was where he was truly loved, for all the rotten parts of him. They may not love the humane part of him that could not be banished or squashed, but it was easier to cover up the good in one's soul than the bad. All one had to do was take a moment to pause, to think, and you could turn away from doing a good deed. He could forget the voice inside that didn't belong to Father, but instead to the him that had died that day with his family.

Evil was not instinctive to him. It always required thought. At least, that's what he believed.

He snatched Orin's wrist before she could stab him and twisted her around, wrapping an arm around her throat as he squeezed hard enough to break her wrist should she not drop the knife. She didn't, and howled when her wrist snapped, the blade clattering to the floor as she struggled against him. He held her tightly though, arm moving down to trapped the other against her side.

"I will accept no challenge from you, little one, until you learn to show me some damn respect." Tir'yal growled into her ear and Orin whimpered, silence following the sound before she chuckled lowly.

"You broke my blade-hand, brother. I shall string you up by your sinews, should you let me go."

"Perhaps another day, when your blade hand can no longer be broken so easily." Tir'yal mused, not threatened in the slightest. He was used to threats against his life. He was either worshipped or loathed, or a mix of both. That was simply the fate of a Bhaalspawn. Orin's immature mind and diluted blood would never understand.

He eased his grip slowly and he raised her wrist up, larger hand still wrapped around the tiny thing.

"Shall I help you wash tonight, little sister? Like the old days?" He mused and she scowled, ripping out of his grasp and picking her blade up with her left hand.

"We aren't children anymore, brother. Should you desire this form in the nude, or any other, you will have to beg for it, like the pig you are." Orin smirked, hips swaying with the confidence of a woman as she left the room. Tir'yal could only see her as that little girl though, the one who had stared up at him with so much awe and envy when he came to the temple. She was still so immature and unable to see reason, to change in anyway that wasn't her surface skin, to learn...he had no interest in any form she could take.

He turned back to the body before him and stripped away muscle slowly from the bone, snapping them and setting them aside. Perhaps he'd make a new instrument from them. Indulge in the true music of this humans being. He reached for the cold heart in his chest and smiled, holding it in his palm before parting his lips and digging his teeth into the muscle and fat, letting the blood gush down his chin and wrist.

Not a single part of this flesh would go to waste. That was his promise to his victims. The ones who deserves it would serve a purpose after death, but they would all invoke something special within him. This ones purpose would be to sate his curiosity, and fill his stomach.

Once he was done, he'd spare a thought to the Chosen of Bane who knew his true name, and spoke it with haunting familiarity.

****

It took four days. Enver knew he'd find him eventually.

He felt a sharp zap of awareness as he woke from his rest, the warding hidden beneath the rug alerting him of an intruder. He whipped around and slammed the butt of his cane into the trespassers chest before he realised who it was, the Bhaalspsawn holding the other end tightly. Enver gripped the silver handle tightly and narrowed his eyes.

"It's rude to wake someone from their well-deserved rest."

"Couldn't risk you getting drool all over your papers." Enver tugged on his cane gently to test the give, but the masked man kept a firm grip. His brow twitched and with a proper tug, the Bhaalspawn relinquishing it to him.

"I don't drool."

"You do snore though."

"A couple of broken noses over a lifetime have natural consequences." Enver shrugged, standing tall before the other. He would not lie to the man. His business was a rough one at times. He had suffered more than his fair share of injuries in the past.

"I see." Tir'yals gaze fell down to his desk and rounded his chair to look at the hand sketched plans. He'd been marking entry and exit points, as well as where he'd noticed guards. The day prior he had watched them for hours, checking their rotations for a weak point. He'd found one. Alone, he could probably sneak through the mission, but if Tir'yal was to join him - he'd need to know how to avoid the most bloodshed. Not that that was necessary. He didn't care who they killed if it meant he got inside and got his hands on all that Gondian technology.

"Brother Toop's bones and Brother Eler's racks are on floor one. Why have you marked the opposite wing?"

"This heist isn't just to get your heirlooms back." Enver scoffed. "I have my own goals."

"Which are, wizard?"

"Artificer." Enver corrected with a scowl and Tir'yals brows slowly raised upwards.

"Ah. A tinkerer. You want the Gondian's tech." He was quick as ever. Enver's pinched brows smoothed out, expression more pleasant.

"Some tech, a couple books, maybe some blueprints..." Enver waved his hand like it didn't matter, stepping closer and tapping the entrance he had marked off. "They leave this door vulnerable during change over in the noon. It's a ten minute interval. We'll go in through there, and stealthily make our way in, and out, with what we both want."

"That's it?"

"It's a simplified version of the plan, yes." Enver shrugged. "I'll indulge you in the details after you assure me you're all in."

"I'm here, aren't I?" Tir'yal looked down his nose at the man and Enver felt a stirring of irritation. He did not appreciate the arrogance, but he supposed it made sense. He was a Bhaalspawn now, the leader of a cult. His old friend deserved a touch of arrogance. Even in the old days he'd been rather blunt and coarse, but always softer with him. Not kinder, simply...softer. Curbing the sharp edges of his personality just enough to not cut the younger boy.

He could set aside his impertinence, just this once.

"Yes. But I prefer verbal agreements. Written is even better." Enver smirked.

"Fine. I'm all in. The idea of Baldurian's gawping at Brother Eler's work, allowing it to rot, displaying Brother Toop's bones like the unwashed scum they are beneath my boot...I want to cut their eyes out and remove their tongues." He growled. It was the highest measure of disrespect in his mind, to be displayed after death and gawked at by those who would never appreciate the true beauty of murder, to be stared at by strangers with no love for the history of Bhaal's spawns. Little Toop the Brave should be home, amongst his collection, the bones of the kobold cleansed and respected, in the most beautiful mahogany grandfather clock so he may be remembered with every hourly chime. Eler Had's racks should be restored and put back to use, to honour his memory, to honour all the work he did in the name of their Father.

"I don't want this to be a stealth mission. I wish to savage the guards for entertaining the public with what belongs to my family. They made fools of us, turned us into tourist attractions - I shall give them all the entertainment they desire. The most bloody kind."

Enver frowned slightly. It didn't change much for him, honestly. He preferred skirting around fights, if only because he was more focused on getting what he wanted and leaving, but if his old friend truly wanted to get his revenge...well, he couldn't deny him that. It would be nice to see what he was truly up against, should things go south.

"I'll help you get your things back, but stealth would be preferable once we're in the Gondians quarters." He explained. "I'd rather not risk anything getting destroyed before I can make use of it. The Gondians are not on my 'need to die' list."

"You intend to make use of the Gondians?" Tir'yal tilted his head curiously.

"Perhaps. Depends on what I find." Enver smirked and offered his hand to the other. "For the time being, we're allies. Partners, if you will. It's a pleasure to have you on board, Tir'yal."

The tiefling narrowed his eyes and took his hand, shaking it firmly, grip tighter than he appreciated.

"How do you know that name? I never told you."

"Let's just say...we have history, you and I." He admitted before shaking his head. "But that's not important right now. The mission is. Should you still be curious once it's all over, perhaps I'll divulge more of our history to you, over a cup of wine." What better way to loosen one’s tongue and see their true intentions. A truth serum perhaps, or maybe he’d hide a mind reading potion in his own; take a peek into Tir’yals mind while they conversed. He would hate to jeopardise a good thing by forcing his tongue - it would be simpler to slip into that mind of his.

Tir'yals brows pinched, looking unimpressed. Enver attempted to pull his hand away, but the other did not let go.

"I'd prefer to know now."

"Have patience, Tir'yal. A good alliance is built on trust.” Enver chuckled, eyes narrowing ever so slightly despite his smile. He did not trust anyone as far as he could throw them. “I do hope you intend to return my hand. I quite like my hands, as do many others.”

Tir’yal gave a small growling huff before he released his hand, tail whipping behind him as he dragged steel boots across stone floors, looking around the office.

“I don’t like this. Allying with a Chosen of Bane.”

“Well, if it puts you at ease, I'm not. Not yet.” Enver admitted, hoping it would not lose him points with the other. “But I will be, in time.”

“You sound confident in that.” Tir’yal mused, a single claw dragging along the spines of his books. “Banites. Always so cocky.”

“I simply used the title to my advantage. You’re Bhaal’s spawn. I figured you’d only respect my request if I was a Chosen.”

“I’ll admit…I was curious. I’ve never met a Chosen before.” Tir’yal turned his gaze to Enver and the human tilted his head ever so slightly.

“You do seem rather sheltered, if you don’t mind me saying. I hadn’t heard of you until just a few months ago. The Bhaalspawn, Bhaal’s Chosen-"

“I’m not his Chosen.”

“Oh?” Well, that explained why his falsified title had not been considered by the other. “I’m surprised. Are you not his heir?”

“I am. I am the first pureblooded Bhaalspawn, and I will be the last. But I’m not his Chosen. Father says I am not ready. Not yet.”

“Well, I suppose I empathise with that. Bane insists that his blessing with come with time - but a mortal man can only be so patient.” He chuckled, trying not to let his resentment slip in. He had to bide his time until Bane finally bestowed his blessing onto him. Then, he'd truly be free. Once he was his Chosen, no devil would ever be able to touch him.

“I respect my Father’s wishes. He will let me know when he needs use of me. He often does.” Tir'yals tail gave a flick, something akin to annoyance before he turned towards Enver's window, still open from his entry. He climbed up and over the sill, crouching outside on the roof as he spared Enver a look. "I will meet you outside the House of Wonders tomorrow, at noon sharp. Do not be late, Banite, or I'll kill those Gondians too before you can make use of them."

"I am never tardy, my friend. I pride myself in being one step ahead. Of even the clock." He smirked.

"Just be there, Banite."

"You know, you could always use my name." Enver offered, irked by Tir'yals tone but not showing it. "We're allies now, aren't we? Temporarily, at least."

Tir'yal frowned but slowly, he nodded.

"I will see you tomorrow...Enver." He closed the window sharply and disappeared. Enver frowned a moment before a smile tugged onto his lips. Usually, he'd remove a finger or two for anyone daring to use his first name. He wasn't close enough to anyone to allow such a thing. Only Bane had the right, and that was because he was his master. His God.

But...whether he remembered or not, Tir'yal had gained the right to his first name decades ago. Enver could hardly be annoyed, even if he wanted to be. Tir'yal was his ally now, and hopefully would stay as such. He suppose one thing he could give him, was the right to use his true name, just as Tir'yal had given him the right all those years ago.

****

There wasn't much to it, in the grand scheme of things. He had met Tir'yal outside the House of Wonders, Tir'yal wearing his respective mask and Enver wearing his own hood to cover his identity. They had slaughtered their way through guards as the few civilians there ran for their lives. He had slipped away once they found the racks and bones, using an invisibility ring to hide himself as he explored the wing of labouring Gondians, Tir'yal assuring him he was standing guard of the door as he went through. Enver didn't need his assurance, if the man decided he couldn't be bothered to guard him, it would be no sweat off his back. He was more than capable by himself.

He managed to nick a few things without getting caught, but what really stuck with him was the craftsmanship of their work, their productivity. He had noticed many of them had pictures on their desks of family, of lovers. Enver had many ideas of his own, but it was hard to make them come to life when he had so little time to himself and only two hands. His fellow Banites had no knack for his talents in engineering. With a dozen or so extra hands on board, hands that knew what they were doing...

He'd keep their usefulness in mind. Their families. People were sentimental, even people who spent their whole lives creating non-sentimental machines. He was specialised in blackmail, and he had a very obvious angle he could work off when it came to the artificers working within the temple. The desire to create, and the desire to keep their families safe, should he even need to go that far.

When he finally left the wing and returned to Tir'yal, he kept himself hidden for a few moments longer than necessary to watch the tiefling who looked vigilant despite not needing to be. The Bhaalspawn was crouched over a fresh body he didn't remember leaving, the dead guard bleeding over silver boots.

"...You're not worth being savoured. Rot." He gave the body a sharp kick, his tail whipping wildly in obvious anger as he stepped back to his post beside the door. Enver waited another moment before he pulled the ring off his finger and tucked it away.

"I got what I came for. This partnership of ours has been most fruitful, son of Bhaal." Enver gave a dramatic bow of his head, hand raised as if to exalt him. "May we find reason yet to work together again."

"You still owe me answers." Tir'yal narrowed his eyes. "I expect them. You'll see me again. For now, I take my leave. I have to return my Brother home, as well as the racks."

"Well, do not let me stop you then. I will see you when you decide to grace me with your presence again. Ah, do be mindful of the window, though. I can't allow just anyone sneaking in, now that I know it's an option. A knock on the front door should suffice." He hadn't thought the window to be an option, it was hardly the easiest way into his office. Though, he had already booby-trapped the balcony, so...

"A door sounds mundane. I'd rather you not know I'm there until you do." He could almost hear the smirk in his voice before the tiefling walked away down the hall and vanished around the corner, leaving Enver alone. The artificer huffed a soft sound of amusement at the threat that didn't quite land like one. It felt more like an inside joke than a threat.

****

Enver had expected the Bhaalspawn to show up that night, but he was left feeling quite disappointed when he didn't. It wasn't until the next night that he slunk through his window once more, dropping his traps onto his desk where he'd just been writing. The Banite glared, annoyed by the petty action.

"You know tieflings have a natural resistance to fire." It was common knowledge, and he could tell Enver wasn't stupid.

"Resistance is not an immunity." Enver let the annoyance slip away, an easy smile curling onto his lips as he raised himself from his desk, picking up the disarmed traps and moving them aside as not to dirty his papers. He turned back to the tiefling and clasped his hands together in front of him.

"Care for some wine?"

"You promised me answers."

"I also promised you a drink. Come." Enver beckoned him to follow and didn't bother waiting to see if he would, moving over to a drawer. He opened it and pulled out a bottle of wine from the portable larder, before opening the cabinet beside the rack drawer to pull out two silver goblets. He only kept those two silver cups in the cabinet, along with one black chalice. That one wasn't available to guests though. That was purely for him to enjoy his wine during his midnight prayers. Bane may not be able to drink anymore, but Enver could indulge him through his own mortal palate, Chosen or not. Bane held his being tightly within his black hand, and he had ever since he answered his prayers in the House of Hope.

The least he could do was allow his God to taste an excellent vintage through him and his tongue. In exchange, he dealt with the sickening taste of smoke and thanked him for it. Small sacrifices were necessary in the grand scheme of things. They were worth the protection of his God.

"Do you prefer red or white?"

"I don't drink wine."

"Oh? Do you prefer beer?" Enver didn't have any, but he was curious. He had more than his fair share of beer and liquor in his life; sometimes a shot of whiskey was the only thing that could keep him warm for a night. It wasn't preference though. He much preferred wine, or even champagne.

"No. I don't drink alcohol." Tir'yal corrected.

"Well, I guess I'll have the honour of introducing you to the tastiest version of it." He chuckled and closed the drawer, the cork popping quietly as he opened it. He poured the wine into the two cups and offered one out to the other as he leaned against the small counter. "Go on. I'm surprised a man of your age hasn't had a sip."

"I have. I just don't like it." Tir'yal frowned and looked at the red liquid. It was Enver's personal favourite, but he was willing to share. If only to broaden Tir'yals horizons.

"Maybe you'll like this one." Enver nodded for him to take it and the tiefling huffed softly before taking the cup and hesitating. He turned away from the other and lowered his mask to take a sip. There was a visible shudder in his tail and Enver bit his lip to stifle a laugh. "Not to your taste?"

"No, it's...it's better than what I've tried, but not by much." Tir'yal admitted, glancing over his shoulder at the human. It was a surprisingly demure gesture for the large man.

"If you don't like it, don't drink it." Enver was many things, but he was not one to force inebriation on an ally. "I will happily finish it for you."

"No. I'll drink it." Tir'yal said with finality and wandered off from his spot in the room, his curious eyes falling back to the shelves of books. Enver watched his back, seeing as that was all he could see of the other as the Bhaalspawn continued to take small sips from the goblet. Enver slowly made his way towards his desk, leaning back against it as the tiefling scanned over titles. He still considered his option of using a mind reading potion, but he wanted to see how Tir'yal would react to their past first.

"Well?" The Bhaalspawn looked over to him, tilting his head, mask back in place. "Aren't you going to ask me what I know?"

"I was...distracted. You have an impressive collection. I can tell you enjoy reading."

"I do. I have since I was a child." Enver said, taking a swallow of his own wine. It was an ice wine from Neverwinter, one he had imported in for his own enjoyment. It was honeyed and richly sweet, leaving his breath feeling cold when he exhaled despite it being left at room temperature. That was the magic of Neverwinter wine. It kept it's rich flavour without growing acidic, and left a cold, refreshing aftertaste like drinking iced water.

"How do you know my name? Nobody else knows it, or uses it for that matter. Not even my Father."

"Is that why you go by 'The Dark Urge'?" Enver scoffed. "That's a ridiculous name."

"It's a title, more than a name. I didn't need one when I came to Father's door. Everyone knew who I was. I am my Father's creation. When I came to him, I was told to shed my old life and leave it behind me. So I did. I am Bhaal's spawn. His heir. That's all I need to be. I don't need a name." Tir'yal did not seem upset by this notion, simply accepting of it.

"I understand the worship of your Father, I do, but a name is necessary. An identity outside our masters is necessary. We may work in their names, but it's important to also work for ourselves." Enver took another sip. "How can we offer anything substantial to our Gods if we have no purpose, no sense of self? Blind worship is for the dimwits who have no ambition or intelligence, or anything real to offer in the first place, outside another empty soul."

"You seem rather confidant that that's what all Gods desire. Individuality." Tir'yal was looking at him now, and Enver chuckled.

"Bane likes that I have a mind of my own. We think similarly, of course, our values align, but...he knows I worship him for a reason. Sure, partly because he's helped me to get where I am, but also because I want his blessing. I want to be his Chosen, to have the power that comes with that, and I'm willing to work for it. I want to work with him, to create a brighter horizon for this city that I call home. I want to conquer it. Eventually." Enver shrugged with one shoulder and Tir'yal hummed, turning away once more to take a sip of his wine. His tail gave another small shudder and the menace in him wanted to pull it to see how he'd react.

"I suppose we're different, you and I. My God is my Father. Bane is not yours, and you aren't his, not in the way I am Bhaal's. I am still being raised to become the Chosen he desires. My purpose is Bhaal." Tir'yal shook his head softly. "I do not need a sense of self, or a name. I only need to be of service of him, until he gives me my final task."

"How dreary." Enver frowned and finished his cup before walking off to the bottle and bringing it back with him, pouring more wine into his goblet. "Whether you need a name or not, you have one. You have a brain, and a heart, and a body. Not sure on the soul thing, considering Bhaal made you, but nevertheless..." He smirked.

"What do you consider to be a 'sense of self' then?" Tir'yal asked, glowing eyes flickering over the other mans features.

"Simple. Who you are, who you believe yourself to be. Things that are unable to be striped away, because they are inherently ones nature. It's about the roles we take, the attributes we have, inherent behaviours we can't break. It's about what we consider most important about ourselves." Enver gestured with one hand as he spoke, a habit he'd had since childhood. Talking with ones hands distracted those who didn't care, and drew in others who did, making them focus more on what he was saying. He was finding himself quite enjoying the conversation, if he was honest. He rarely got to talk so openly about subjects that fascinated him, like technology and the human psyche.

"I consider my intelligence to be a very important part of myself, and it's something no one can take from me. I was born a genius, and I will continue to be. But, the life I've lead has shaped my behaviours as well. I'm hard working because I have ambition. My ambition is not Bane's, and I don't have them because I worship him. I like luxuries because I didn't grow up with them, not because Bane demands me to drink fine wine and wear expensive clothes. And I loathe small talk because I find it demeaning and pointless, not because Bane doesn't know the concept of small talk. These are things I can't deny about myself, that are not influenced by my God, so they must be a part of me - they must make up who I am, and that's the big question we all ask at some point. 'Who am I? And who do I want to be?'"

"...I had a life before Bhaal. I don't like to think too much on it. It's not who I am anymore."

"But who are you now?"

"I...I'm Bhaal's heir. A Bhaalspawn." He reverted to his previous answer, not meeting his eyes.

"I didn't ask what you are. I asked who you are." Enver shook his head, wondering if the hopeless man would ever understand what he was actually asking. It was no wonder he didn't remember him, if he didn't enjoy thinking about the past. Enver usually wasn't the type he enjoyed looking back either. Tir'yals tail wrapped around his ankle as he tapped a claw on the shelf before hesitantly pulling his mask down, the hood slipping down with it. He sipped the wine, bitter and sweet all at once.

"I am my Father's son. But I suppose I am also...Tir'yal. I like anatomical science. Figuring out how people work, internally. Looking at their brains, their organs, the muscles and bones..." He shook his head slightly and Enver soaked up the new features offered to him. He had definitely changed since he last saw him, features sharper, stronger - the skin was paler than when he was a child, probably because he stayed inside so much now. There was discoloration beneath his lips, and he wondered what it was from. He had noticed it on his hands, but he hadn't realised it was on his chin as well.

"I also like music. I can play almost any instrument given to me, but I prefer the flute...because it was the first thing my mother taught me to play. I like the colour green, but I wear red and black because it's easier to hide the bloodstains. I...I like killing only for a reason, rather than mindlessly and in droves like Father wants. I don't like wasting my victims, so I try to give them purpose, after death. I like to keep parts of them and wonder what life they led before I ended it."

"Is that who Tir'yal is?" Enver smiled softly and sipped his wine. He should be put off by his words, but somehow, it just reminded him of the boy he once knew, in a strange way. Quieter, softer, but still blunt and jagged around the edges.

"I'm not sure. I suppose so." Tir'yal looked down at his cup and finished his glass, coming closer and holding it out. Enver quirked a brow and picked up the bottle, letting the neck of it touch the chalice before he poured the other some more.

"Good?"

"Mm. It is, once you get past the bitterness."

"Bitterness? This is a desert wine, Tir'yal. It's supposed to be sweet."

"It is sweet. But also bitter." Tir'yal sipped slowly at the wine and looked at Enver from over the rim of his cup. He swallowed and tilted his horn ever so slightly to the right. "Who am I to you?"

"Ah, well...You're Tir'yal." Enver smiled, an easy smile he wore for many as he drained his cup and poured another. He never went past three, so it would be his last. He intended to savour it. "We knew each other before Bhaal. Before Bane. It was a long time ago; I doubt you'd remember. I don't remember much myself."

"How long ago?" Enver looked up, trying to calculate the years in his mind.

"Well...I think I was eight the last time I saw you. You're older than me, but not by much. You would have been about ten, I think. It's normal, not to remember that far back."

"Unless it's a core memory." Tir'yal corrected. "I was a core memory for you."

Enver resisted the urge to snarl, to tell him to shut his mouth, to silence the truth from his lips. He didn't like that he was the only one who remembered, not when it was put like that. Like he'd been hung up on Tir'yal for two decades, when he simply had good memory.

"My memory is superior to most. It's a part of why I'm a genius." He assured. "We lived near each other. Neither of our families were particularly wealthy, but I preferred what your mother made for dinner compared to mine." He smirked and swirled the wine in his glass, looking down at the tiny whirlpool.

"We were friends?" Tir'yal asked, eyes trying to pick out the others expression, to extract answers. "When we were children?"

"We were. We were each others...only friends." Enver admitted softly before scoffing. "Nobody else was like us. Nobody understood that we were made for greater things. Look at us now; we were right. You're the son of a God, and I am to be another Gods Chosen. We were right not to listen to them, to let them force us into their tiny boxes of mindless idiocy."

Enver barely suppressed a sneer, shaking his head and allowing the hatred of the past and his anger to fall away to the back of his mind. Cool and collected, as a Banite should be.

"We didn't need anyone else. We had each other." Enver explained before a smile curled onto his lips. "And we can have that again, Tir'yal. We worked well together the other day. We're useful to each other, and we already have an old foundation we can build off. Let us put aside our Gods and think for ourselves on this one. You have a mind of your own, even if you insist you and your Father are one in the same. An alliance like ours...what would it hurt to give it a try?"

Tir'yal watched the other intensely for a long moment before turning away and walking alongside the bookcase, scanning titles as he thought of a response. Enver scowled, not appreciating his offer being ignored, but refusing to be the one who spoke up first, lest the man assume he'd gotten under his skin.

"I don't remember our past. I can't say there's a foundation on my end, but...your offer is tempting. You're good at that, offering things - getting people to accept your offers." Like some sort of devil, luring others in with a deal too good to be true. Tir’yals thoughts were halted as he spotted a book of interest and pulled it off the shelf, reading the title.

“This book...In Father's dreadful name, it’s a first edition too. How did you get your hands on it?” Enver quirked a brow at the topic change and glanced at the cover, taking a sip of wine.

“Oh, it was a…parting gift, if you will.” Yes, a gift. That he took, before setting the mans house alight. That would teach the charlatan to try and go behind his back.

“…What would you like for it?” Tir’yal asked curiously, opening the cover to admire the signature on the first page. His eyes gained a gleam. He itched to take it home, to devour it ravenously. A book on Genasi's powers and differing biology wasn't easy to get his hands on naturally. He hadn't been able to kill one himself yet, they weren't exactly as common as some other races in the city, so he hadn't the chance to study one himself either. “I’d like to add this to my collection.”

“You mentioned enjoy anatomical science...are you a scholar of some sorts?”

“Hmm…in my own way.” He was more of a hoarder of knowledge, especially when it came to the scientific beauty of anatomy and biology. “What would you like for the book?”

“What are you willing to give?” Enver chuckled, amused by the others obvious desire to covet the book for himself. It was only habit to negotiate rather than give a direct price. After all, he cared little for the intricate workings of people, let alone Genasi's - he preferred machines. Machines were infallibly loyal to their creators, could be controlled without pesky things like emotions and sentiment getting in the way. They couldn't betray or kill you, unless you were stupid, which he wasn't.

Tir'yal seemed to consider his question, tracing a single claw along the edge of the hardcover.

"I could kill you for it." Enver barked a laugh.

"Now, that's no way to bargain. You need me alive - if you're intending to accept my offer. An alliance isn't much good if one of us is dead."

"Maybe I want the book more than I want your promises." Tir'yal snapped it shut and Enver refused to flinch even if instinct almost got the better of him. The Bhaalspawn stared at him long enough for him to wonder if he'd actually do it, but the tiefling smiled. "I don't carry gold. It's worthless to me. I can't imagine I'd ever be able to afford a book like this - a signed first edition on Genasi's of all creatures, even if by an author I have no recognition of."

"Then what can you give me that isn't gold? That would be of the same value of such a...treasured piece of literature." Enver was pulling the mans tail. If he wanted it, he could have it, but it didn't hurt to see if he could get something out of this exchange.

Tir'yal stepped closer, crossing over the warding of his desk once more. Enver could feel the tingling of magic that warned him of danger, of 'ill-intent'. He subtly slipped his fingers under his desk for his emergency 'firecracker', looking away to appear more demure than he was. It was closer an explosive than a typical firecracker. He didn't have to win a fight against the other, he simply had to outsmart him. Enver had quick reflexes even with two cups in his system, was resilient to pain, and he was good at gaining the upper hand before striking deadly blows.

When you're an urchin, with no money to your name, you're willing to do odd jobs. 'Dog fighting' was a common practice in the slums. Except 'dog' didn't always mean the literal kind. He might be rusty, but he never forgot how to fight for his life, cage or no cage, collar or no collar. Smuggling put food on his plate and put a roof over his head, but it didn't feed the hearth that kept him alive in the winter, or came in handy when someone pulled a knife. Nights of bloody fists and a bruised face did that.

Despite the invasion into his space, Tir'yal did not attack. He simply looked down his nose at him, looking thoughtful before Tir'yal tucked the book beneath his arm to free a hand, reaching his right hand up to his mouth and baring eight sharp canines as he parted his lips, catching a ring between his teeth. He slipped it off and let it fall into his palm; a silver chain-like band with a square blue jewel in the centre. Enver quirked a brow, curious, and allowed the other to take his wrist in hand, moving his hand away from the explosive hidden beneath the desk. He clenched his jaw, watching closely as the tiefling slipped the ring upon his middle finger, the enchantment on it feeling like crisp winter air before it seemed to attune, adjusting to fit it's new wearer.

"That should suffice." Tir'yal hummed and stepped away. Enver hadn't realised how warm the other man was until his body heat disappeared from his personal bubble.

"And this is...?"

"A gift from one of Father's faithful. It originally belonged to a traveller. He boasted about traversing all kinds of terrain with the help of his magical ring. I probably would have let him live - he didn't draw my attention the way his orc friend had, but he grabbed one of my fellow assassins rather indecently, so...I took him home and tortured him. For days." Tir'yals lips quirked up in a satisfied smile. Enver wondered if the other considered his fellow cultists to be friends, or simply showed loyalty to them because they were devoted to Bhaal as well.

"I let her watch, and learn. She got the killing blow, and his body was hers to do with, but...she offered me the ring. She said she wanted nothing to hold me back from my murderous duties." Tir'yal nodded to the hand. "It happens to also be useful against any spell that intend to restrain or paralyse it's wearer."

"An invaluable gift..." One Enver was quite pleased with. "Do you not have your concerns that that might come to bite you in the arse later?"

"I don't need magic to restrain you." Enver couldn't tell if the half-mast gaze the other was giving him was simply from knowledge of his physical superiority, or because he was considering other ways he could restrain him. To kill him, or to do other, more depraved things. Perhaps the third glass was too much for him tonight, if he was interpreting such things from a single expression. If he was imagining killing him, then Enver could respect the restrain he was showing, at the very least.

He hummed to break the tension.

"Don't underestimate your allies...or your enemies, should we come to that. Though, I don't intend to make an enemy out of you, Tir'yal." He meant it. Knowing who he was now...it's not like he wanted him dead. If anything, he wanted the opposite. He had wondered how Tir'yal had changed over the years, and what about him stayed the same, and he found so far he liked what changed, and what stayed.

"I truly do think we could be good for each other. Putting our past aside, we can both benefit from this. You like to kill, and I have people I'd like dead. I have many enemies, given my profession. As for what I can do for you in return...I have an arsenal of weaponry and people at my disposal, many skills you're free to ask use of, and I can make sure your night time fun doesn't cause too much scandal. Enough scandal to threaten your Father's temple. People are like cattle, Tir'yal. They panic when they see the slaughter that awaits them. A panic that often leads to chaos. That benefits no one. I can make it so they don't see it. So they're blind to the slaughter that awaits them at your hand." Enver smirked and glanced down to the book that now belonged to the tiefling.

"You've already found something interesting just by meeting me. I can see you're as hungry for knowledge as you are for blood and gore. I'll admit, you show miraculous restrain despite what I've read on Bhaalspawns. Especially ones who stand by Bhaal and praise his name. I can respect a fellow intellect who knows the meaning of self control."

"Just because I have restrain, doesn't mean I'm in control of my urges." Tir'yal admitted with a soft scoff, looking away from the other as he opened the book to skim the first page.

"Your urges?" Enver pried, unable to help himself. It was all so fascinating, even if he was a touch irked to be ignored in favour of parchment.

"It's...the best word for it." Tir'yal relented, a clawed finger underlining the sentences as his eyes followed the words. "I was created by Bhaal, and I have the same compulsions that all of my brothers and sisters had. I am no different from them. The urges are simply...stronger than theirs was. There is more of Bhaal in me than anyone else has ever been blessed with."

"I've seen regular men with less restraint against murder. Count me impressed."

"I am no regular man." Tir'yal glanced back up at him before looking back at the page. "I sated my urges prior to our meeting. I didn't want to kill you before I got my answers."

"Funny. I had a similar idea, to discard you if you posed a problem - if you ended up being useless. I suppose we'll have to remain useful to each other then." Enver chuckled, not bothering to hold the truth back from the other. Neither of them had liked liars as children, and even now, Enver still didn't. So he would not lie to his oldest friend.

"Whether I had known you as a child or not, I would have offered you this alliance to begin with. I feel we're similar people, that we...understand each other. That we could have much more than we already do if we simply work together."

"Not very Banite of you, wanting to work with someone."

"Oh no, it's very much within our nature to latch onto potential and help it thrive. To use it to our benefit. I know this alliance will benefit me. It just happens that it will benefit you too. What do you say?"

He placed his cup down and offered his hand to the other, a small smile on his lips.

"Shall we make a new era for ourselves, old friend?"

Tir'yal looked down at his hand and rapped the books backing slowly with his claws. He took a gulp of the ice wine and finished the cup before placing it down beside Enver's. If Father asked, he'd blame it on the wine. The wine made him slip his hand into the Banite's own and swipe his thumb over scarred knuckles, wondering how they came to be.

He could only blame his own curiosity for accepting the alliance though. His curiosity was sure to get him killed - but he didn't dare to pray to Father that the satisfaction of knowing would bring him back.

#bg3 fanfiction #durge #durgetash #gortash #Enver gortash #bhaalspawn #the dark urge #cw cannibalism #cw emotional incest?#cw minor gore

11 notes · View notes