Chapter Text

Opening Edit Link: As the World Caves In

It was the end of the world. The city below him was begging to be decimated. The river did not yet run red, but it will; and he will be above it all, watching, as his Father smiles in approval. The journey was significantly harder than expected. There were some… inconveniences that needed to be dealt with. But all of them fell under the Lash of Bhaal. As they should. Next was the rest of Faerun, and then all of the planes. 

Cyril stood atop the crown, as the dominated Netherbrain floated above the city, casting a dark shadow over its once hallowed streets. The roar of distant screams met his ears like a sweet melody. Cyril took a deep breath and lifted the corners of his mouth in a smile. He was free. There was no need to hide the Urges. No need to pretend he was equal with that Banite trash. No need to listen to Thorm’s endless complaints. It was just him, his followers and his Father. And he was unlimited. He tipped himself over the ledge of the crown and fell.  

He felt the rush of the wind against his long, black hair. His robes billowed around him like wings. Father’s daggers erupted from the flesh of the terrified citizens as he floated to land on the cobbled street below. They sprayed warm, delicious blood on the street and the walls of the buildings. If he got close enough, the blood could paint his breastplate and coat the tip of his tail like a brush. It was glorious. 

As Cyril surveyed the beauty of his massacre, he spotted it . 

A pile of flesh dressed in black and gold. His ritual dagger stuck out from its middle like a flag on a castle parapet. His flag. Blood continued to flow from the wound, forming a pool beneath the corpse. Cyril strode over to it, clenching his hand to cut off the screams from the doomed ones nearby. He paused to look at his reflection in the pool of blood. Blood that he could remember the taste of from the countless acts of heresy that some mortals might call trysts. Blood that gleamed so brightly under the reddening sun. Blood that marked the honor of his first sacrifice at the end of the world. 

The corpse’s eyes stayed open, communicating the deep fear and betrayal it had felt in its final moments. Cyril had called it in for a final kiss, promised it that the world would be under its control. How pathetic it was, to believe him. After all its unholy exercises of power over him; its lying tongue speaking blasphemous venom in an effort to gain control. As if any man could ever control the most unholy Chosen of Bhaal. Cyril yanked the curved blade from the corpse’s stomach, and a gush of blood followed it. He roughly tugged off the tyrant’s gauntlets and stowed them in his pack as a trophy. He bent down to close its pathetic, needy eyes, and fold its hands across its chest. And then he spat on its face, saliva mixing with blood and grime and running down its cheeks like tears.

Cyril turned to leave, stepping over the corpses on the upper city street, his dagger clutched in his bloodied hand, dreaming in red. A flash of purple appeared 50 feet in front of him, where a man stood. The man was clad in purple robes, wearing a leather pointed hat, with some sort of quarterstaff strapped to his back. His clean face sported a short beard and a pleasant smile. One of his arms was a stump, and appeared to be chopped or bitten off, but he lifted his off hand and… waved .

Without a thought, Cyril’s dagger went flying in the direction of the hand. Cyril had aimed for the palm, between the third and fourth fingers so that it would impale the friendly man’s hand. He thought of how he might kill the intruder, and thought it would be ever so delightful to slit the man’s throat with the dagger still attached to his hand. What a beautiful murder that would be. One that Father would appreciate, given that the man dared to wave at him in his greatest hour. The dagger flew right past the hand and clattered on the street behind the man. Cyril’s eye twitched. It missed?! Impossible. His ritual dagger always found its mark. Then… what happened?

Cyril reached for his second dagger, sheathed at his hip. He stood his ground against the stranger, who hadn’t even flinched from the attack. Who was this ingrate? No mortals were able to challenge the unleashed power of Bhaal now that the red sun had risen. And yet this thing still lives. Might as well play, since the stranger had unwisely challenged him to a game.

“Would you like to die feeling the blood drain from your pathetic skull, or shall I suffocate you with your own insolent hand?” Cyril shouted through gritted teeth, trying not to let his embarrassing miss get the better of him. “Consider yourself blessed that I am giving you the choice.”

The man smiled, as if he were an old friend. Had they met before? Cyril didn’t make a habit of memorizing the faces of those he killed, only the ones special to him. Sacrifices he made for the Murder Lord. Granted, most of those faces remained in display cases around the temple, so they would be easily recognized by anyone who frequented those hallowed caverns. He took a brief mental note to retrieve his former kindred ally’s face before returning to the temple to engage in proper worship with the remaining Bhaalists. The man spoke, taking Cyril out of his thoughts.

“Well met! I am a magical projection of Gale of Waterdeep, and if you see this manifestation, that means I have prematurely perished.”

Cyril’s second dagger sped toward the man’s throat. It flew right through the image as if it weren’t there. The voice continued.

“However, for reasons that cannot be disclosed, it is of vital importance that my death be remedied at your earliest convenience.” Another dagger. Another miss. “You may rest assured that I do not speak out of self preservation alone; many lives depend on my return to the living within the span of…” 

A fourth dagger flew straight into the projections stomach, but once again missed its mark. Cyril’s patience was stretched to a thread, eyes twitching in almost-anger. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the figure.

“Since I am but a reflection, saer, I must request that you desist from attacking me, as it is wasting both of our precious time. As I have stated before, if you are see-”

“Silence! ” Cyril’s voice echoed down the empty street. “You will show due respect to the Scion of Bhaal. Take me to your caster so that I might grind its guts beneath my feet.” Cyril didn’t have time for this. He had unholy work to do. But it appeared that this… thing … would continue to pester him if he did not do something about it. Cyril paused, massaging the ritual scars between his eyebrows and ivory horns, waiting for the projection to continue.

“Ah. I understand the frustration, but unfortunately, I am not aware of the exact location of the real Gale of Waterdeep. This projection is sent to the person who most recently interacted with Gale, er, me before my untimely demise. I would assume you would know where my body is located.”

So they had met before. Cyril scanned the area for purple clad wizards, a surprisingly difficult task, considering that the bodies in the streets were bathed in red blood. Upon seeing no signs of such a person, Cyril gazed upon the projection with piercing eyes. The hazy man remained expressionless. “If you are experiencing difficulty recalling where you might have interacted with me, I can offer a solution to this problem! Using this incantation, you can retrace your proverbial steps by searching the memories of those who you have interacted with in the past weeks, to seek clues to my location. If these acquaintances happen to be deceased as well, please refer to this incantation to sift through their post-mortem memories.” Gale offered with a smile.

Cyril had enough and walked straight through the silhouette of the projection. There were bodies ready for the harvest, and one self-indulgent wizard was not going to get in his way. He came to a halt when the projection appeared in front of him once more.

“I must insist that you find and revive my body. Should I live, I can provide you with valuable connections and power that you could not possibly fathom. I can prove to be quite the useful ally, with the powerful goddess Mystra guiding my steps. I am willing to share my, and consequently her, power with you if you were to retrieve my body and revive me.”

“I am carved from the divine gore of the Dread Lord. Whatever Mystra could offer, I am free to take for myself.” Cyril humored the mirage by speaking to it. He wasn’t quite sure why.

“I have come across quite the tough negotiator! It appears that you are in need of a different kind of convincing.” The figure cleared its nonexistent throat. “I have, on my person, a powerful weapon that is capable of leveling an entire city with its blast. If you retrieve my body, you could use this weapon as you please. If my body remains unattended, the weapon will most certainly be inefficiently used, perhaps completely wasted.”

Cyril paused. His blood-spattered tail raising in congruence with his eyebrows. A weapon to level a city . Certainly not the most glamorous of methods, but it could be efficient. And how delicious it would be to use Gale of Waterdeep’s weapon on Waterdeep itself. Yes. This could work. Anything to rid himself of that damned projection.

Cyril sighed, deeply. The words needed to be forced from his prideful tongue.

“Tell me what I must do."

Chapter Text

Cum mortuis in lingua mortua

The corpse regarded Cyril, lifelessly. 

His corpse. Having finally sated the wizard’s request by promising to retrace his steps, he thought that the blasphemous little tyrant would be a good place to start. Besides, something was drawing Cyril to him. Something… unexplained, and dangerous if left unchecked. The wizard had instructed him to first ask a few questions, and then cast a modified version of Detect Thoughts to be thrown in their memories to search further. The wizard had even provided a workaround to the ‘the dead do not speak to their killers’ problem, seeing as many of the lost souls he would be contacting on this quest had died by his hand, if not indirectly. Seemed simple enough, but the acid boiling in Cyril’s stomach caused him to retch at the thought of seeing him again, even in memories. 

Perhaps this was a waste of his time. All of this effort to potentially obtain a weapon when he could kill plenty with his hands. But his backtracking promised more death, and he could set his followers on the rest of the city while he was gone. Father also did not seem to mind the diversion. The job in front of him needed to be done. Cyril gritted his teeth, and began to speak.

“Who are you?”

There was quite a delay before the corpse spoke. Cyril had not bothered to speak with many corpses, but when he had seen the ritual performed before, he didn’t remember there being so much time between question and response. “Answer me, worm !” Cyril kicked into the body’s side. He could feel Father’s presence momentarily creep into his consciousness. The resonance reminded him of an arm wrestling match. For the briefest of moments, it appeared that Bhaal was fighting Bane for the use of his Chosen’s soul. Curious… The corpse let out a gasp, as if brought to life, and finally spoke:

“ Enver… Gortash… Archduke of Baldur’s Gate… Chosen of Bane… Lov-”

Cyril stomped the man’s face in and ended the spell. This was impossible! The sound of his voice stung like nails grinding against stone. Every cell of his Bhaal-given flesh rejected the sight of his body, the smell of his blood. They way he dared to utter the word “lover” to his killer and rival. Cyril turned to leave, he had had enough. The wizard’s words lingered in his mind, “ If my body remains unattended, the weapon will most certainly be inefficiently used, perhaps completely wasted. ” He could not allow this… pretender… to take credit for souls that were subject to his mercy. With a yell of frustration at the corpses surrounding him, he turned back toward it , and uttered the incantation again.

Cyril decided to skip the “who are you” part, for his own sanity, and instead settled on a more specific question. “What was the last thing we did together?” As if he didn’t know. As if it didn't happen not half a day ago. But, the wizard said this was the method, and Cyril was too annoyed to come up with any solid alternatives.

“ We conquered… fulfilled the Grand Design… I was betrayed… Such a fool… Unworthy… ”

Yes. Unworthy was right. The slime never spoke the truth, always wanted to get the upper hand. As if he could. “What do you remember of my companions?”

“ My old guard… Drow True Soul…”

This seemed as good a place as any to start. If Gale of Waterdeep was known by any of his former companions, that could narrow the search for his body. Cyril prepared the magic for the next spell.

Veritas Visio!

Cyril’s eyes rolled back, vision darkening. He was plunged into the pool of his own mind, communing with the corpse’s soul and memories. The pressure increased as Cyril poked and prodded for something of use. A moment when his companions might have crossed paths with Bane’s former chosen. He selected one from after he had taken back his birthright and returned with Sister’s Netherstone, and the memory zoomed into focus.

###

“My favorite assassin, you have returned at last! You know I never doubted that you would be able to best Orin. She was always so careless, immature.” Gortash gestured proudly with open arms to his attendants, as if presenting Cyril to them. 

Gortash played his stupid game, where he demanded all the Netherstones, only to congratulate him for passing his test if– when he said no. As more and more memories had flooded back to Cyril, he recalled countless interactions where Gortash would try to steal power, only for the greedy Black Hand to be swatted away. Or stabbed at, depending on Cyril’s mood. When the plan to confront the Netherbrain was put in place, Gortash requested a moment alone with his former partner. Cyril seemed in a giving mood, and obliged.

“Be careful, soldier,” Karlach warned him with crossed arms and spite carved into her face. “This bastard only seeks his own gain, and will not hesitate to turn on the ones he calls ‘friends.’” Vengeance didn’t look good on the tiefling. Perhaps there would be time to talk about that later. Karlach took her leave, begrudgingly, along with the drow woman. Gortash shooed his servants and guards away. They left with little resistance. This sort of thing had happened many, many times before, or so Cyril had been told.

Gortash appeared to be scanning Cyril, looking him up and down as if he were one of his experiments. Perhaps, in a way, he was. “Paint a picture, it’ll last longer.” Cyril sneered at his smug face. Cyril had plenty of experience sneering on this journey he had taken. There were so many idiots who deserved to look upon the frowning face of their better, including the slimy Banite. Yet, Cyril’s face betrayed a sort of happiness that he was not intending. Was he really that happy to see Gortash?

The human let out an arrogant chuckle. “Perhaps I will one day,” Gortash offered. “After we have conquered the world together. Though it wouldn’t do to have you painted in… this outfit.” Gortash gestured toward the hodgepodge of his armor. Various magical clothing items most likely plucked from his foe’s corpses. More for function than fashion.

“Oh? I refuse to be judged based on my apparel choices when you flaunt that Gods-awful coat wherever you go. Tell me. Do you ever wash it? Or do you spend real gold to commission multiple copies?” Cyril retorted with a smile. Why did he smile? 

“Well then I suppose we will both have to discard our clothing. Keeps it equal that way.”

Cyril rolled his eyes, the smile wiped from his face. He sank into the chaise in the corner of Gortash’s office and narrowed his eyes at this vexing man. “Enlighten me, Archduke, for my memory has not fully returned. Was I so weak to your sickening charms before my fall?”

Gortash paused a moment, sensing the rising tension in the room. “Rest assured, Bhaalspawn , I am not at all trying to charm y-” 

A dagger zinged past Gortash’s face, barely missing his ear. It stuck itself firmly into the wooden support beam behind him. “Do not lie to me.” Cyril growled. Any sense of playfulness in the room had evaporated into hot, murderous steam. 

Gortash cleared his throat, maintaining his composure. “You exuded as much strength then as you do now. That was one of the many traits I admired as your ally. Why I trusted you so much. You refused to allow me any more power in our relationship than was strictly necessary.”

Cyril’s eyebrows creased as he continued to stare at the man. Waiting for him to continue. He did. “Our partnership laid the groundwork for the Grand Design. When I saw that you had been… replaced by Orin, I-”

“Flagello!” An invisible rope of thorns grasped Gortash’s waist and yanked him toward the tiefling. Cyril stood and walked toward him, their faces mere inches apart. Cyril hissed as his black and glowing red eyes bored into those of his former ally. “ Tell me why you are not dead where you stand for your treachery.”  

Gortash’s eyes began to wander, perhaps searching in vain for an escape route. Cyril caught Gortash’s jawbone in his left hand and yanked his face back to focus on him. “You knew I had been overthrown, likely dead. Yet you did not look for me. Did not seek to avenge me. This was our design; it only came to be through our combined efforts. When I had been taken, toyed with, desecrated , you did not seek the restoration of Bhaal’s true Chosen! No, you sought to continue the plan with my incompetent, thieving Sister instead of expending even an ounce of energy to restore our alliance. My Urge should be screaming in my rotten skull to rip out your spine and strangle you with it so you can truly understand what it’s like to lack a backbone!” Cyril turned Gortash away from him and pushed him to the floor so he was laying on his stomach. Then, he crouched next to the Banite’s head and lifted it by his hair. “Yet Father does not call for your blood. You are to tell me why that is, before I consider defying his will.”

Gortash gasped for air, still reeling from the fall. “I had no choice, I-”

“ DO NOT LIE TO ME! ” Cyril mashed Gortash’s face into the floor, then released his grip on the tyrant’s hair and slumped back on the chaise, waiting for a response. “Worthless Banite scum…”

Gortash was a fool, of course, but smart enough to know when he had lost. “You are correct. I should have gone after you. A mistake I will no doubt pay for with my life, if not now, then later. The truth is…” Gortash hesitated. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had told the complete truth about anything. Everything was always sprinkled with a hint of a lie to keep up appearances. But now was not the time for ruses and twisted words. Not when his life was in the hands of a very angry Bhaalspawn. “The truth is… We shared a bond unlike any other I had experienced. What we had made me feel accepted for who I was. Not nobleman, not Banite, not Gortash, but Enver. You cursed my deity, refused my authority, threatened my safety, yet you remained loyal to our common goals. To me. When I learned I had lost you, I became despondent. I didn’t want to search for you only to confirm for myself that you were dead, or damaged beyond repair. I deemed it preferable to keep you in my heart than to accept the reality that you were truly gone. I never dreamed that you would appear before me again with a desire to rekindle our alliance.  I- I… humbly apologize for my lack of faith.”

He expected to hear Bane’s disapproval roar through him at the humble, submissive words he had just spoken. Yet his mind was quiet, left to consider his limited options.

It was several beats before Cyril took a breath and spoke. “So you do know how to speak plainly,” he said gravely. “Your candor makes my hatred of you more inconvenient.” He rose from his lounging position and retrieved his dagger from across the room. He offered a hand to the human, who took it hesitantly. His nose was bleeding. Cyril took his finger and wiped some of the blood off of Gortash’s face, then licked his finger, closing his eyes. He had forgotten many things, but the taste of his blood was as familiar to him as the sound of his own heartbeat. “You will join us.” 

Gortash balked. “You want me to join your camp of ragtag refugees? Cyril, I am grateful for the offer, but-”

“That was not a request.” Cyril stared down the tyrant.

“I am more valuable to you if I remain here to keep order in the city, I-” Gortash cut himself off, feeling the piercing gaze of Bhaal’s Chosen nearly slicing him from the other side of the room.

“We confront the brain in two days. You are more knowledgeable about how it behaves than the rest of us. You will help us create a strategy to regain control of the brain and fulfill our Gods-given purpose. You will do this to prove your faith to your patron, and regain my trust.”

Gortash remained silent, stunned. Bane buzzed his begrudging approval, so Gortash politely nodded. “I look forward to our renewed partnership. Though you might want to get comfortable with losing an ally. I know of someone in your camp who will certainly not tolerate my presence there.”

…

Karlach’s chest and hair glowed hotter and hotter as she watched Cyril and Gortash enter their camp. She was practically catching on fire before their very eyes. “ YOU! Leave this place, NOW!” Karlach reached for her greataxe and adopted an attack stance. 

“Stand down, Karlach.” Cyril raised his hand to her, causing her to pause mid attack. She smiled sheepishly.

“Oh, I get it. You brought him here so we could get information before we kill him. I see what you’re doing, soldier, pretty smart.” Karlach winked at her companion, maintaining a hold on her weapon. “Well, I’ve never been good at torture, but there’s always a first time for everything. Which body part should I start with first to get ‘im talking?” 

“Drop the weapon. Gortash will not be harmed.” Cyril calmly instructed her, and Karlach complied with a quizzical look, the flames surrounding her body fading. The drow woman emerged from her tent and walked slowly toward the fire, watching passively. 

“I’m impressed,” Gortash smirked, “I didn’t think anyone would be able to leash her.”

Karlach snarled, once again forgetting herself and reaching for her weapon. She seemed to freeze mid-air as an incantation calmly slid from Cyril’s lips as he pointed his finger at her. “ Impero Tibi. ”

A command spell? Gortash watched Karlach’s eyes continue to blaze at him. It was an odd sensation, being protected in this way by someone who had threatened to rip out his spine not hours before. Cyril calmly walked up to her, and spoke to her as if they were kindred spirits.

“You have two choices. Stay with us, leave Gortash unharmed, and we will work with you to fix your engine after this is all over. Or leave this camp for good. I would prefer not to lose you, as you are such a valuable asset. But lay so much as a strand of hair on him, and I will not hesitate to end you. ” Cyril spoke the threat as a whisper. Karlach’s frozen body began to shake. Whether it was out of anger or fear, Gortash couldn’t tell. 

Cyril released the command, and Karlach dropped to the ground, eyes flitting between the two men standing before her. There were a few moments of tense silence. Then Karlach stood, gathered her pack, and left without a word, the glow of her hair and engine slowly fading into the darkness.

“Well then! A charmer til the very end, isn’t she?” Gortash smiled deviously. 

“That’s enough,” Cyril shot back at him, “Do not make me regret my decision. You may take Karlach’s tent for now.” 

The drow, Minthara, a disgraced True Soul by Gortash’s recollection, swaggered up to Cyril. “Ever the power-hungry beast,” she nodded, needing to look up at him just a little to make eye contact. Her own thirst for power was shimmering in her red eyes. “I believe the three of us will be fantastic rulers,” she stated confidently. 

Cyril did not respond, and instead wandered slowly to his tent, rubbing his temples.

Gortash followed suit, a small voice in his mind wishing he was joining Cyril, rather than sleeping in his own hand-me-down bedroll.

###

Cyril gasped and fought for balance as he was flung from the memory. After taking a deep breath and reorienting himself, he took stock of his emotions. What was happening? He had promised Father a sacrifice worthy of thanking him when their plan became reality. The timing was perfect, right ? At the climax of all the work they had done together, they stood on the crown together, hand in hand. Bane’s slave thought he had won, but Cyril got the last laugh, the first stab, the sweetest betrayal. Cyril had never regretted a sacrifice before, so why did he feel such attachment to this corpse? This piece of his past.

This regret stretched itself over the tips of his horns and down to his toes. What would Father say? Cyril had gained control over the world, yes, but maintained such a frivolous tie to a disgusting pile of flesh. The Scion of Bhaal was not created for such feelings! Remorse after a kill? 

Heresy . 

Cyril sank to his knees in prayer. He would have preferred to do this at the temple, but there was no time. The issue was too pressing. He slit his palm with his ritual dagger and let his blood flow to the stone below him. Bhaal’s likeness reflected back at him in the resulting pool.

“Gore of my gore. My most beloved spawn. You wish to consult me on such a triumphant day?”

Cyril looked upon Bhaal’s skull-like visage with adoration. “Father, you have given me everything and more. You have instated me in command over all of the souls in this land, and they will all die for you. But the soul of Bane’s Chosen continues to vex me so. I seek your guidance and will on what to do with him.”

“There is nothing I can say to you concerning this matter that you have not already told me.”

Bhaal paused, Cyril flashed a confused expression.

“You wrote a pledge to me, long before this journey started, that you would slaughter the Chosens of Myrkul and Bane upon my altar when the time was right, did you not? Your passion for Bane’s slave bled from your prayers and penances. And while I accepted him as your loving sacrifice atop the crown, I understand your regret, as that sacrifice was not performed on my altar as you had so vowed.”

Tears welled in Cyril’s devout eyes. His vow! How could he have forgotten? He really had no choice but to kill Ketheric at Moonrise. He had simply gotten in the way. But Gortash? There was no excuse. Cyril had failed his Father and defied His will. And he knew that he would be severely punished for it. He deserved the fullest extent of Bhaal’s divine wrath. And nothing less. 

Cyril cut his other palm, with such force that it grazed bone, smearing the blood over his facial scars. He cried out as the flesh split. He must feel the pain, he deserved it. He laid face down on the bloody street, submitting to whatever retribution would come from this grave error. He began to beg in Infernal: “ Father may my lungs burn from the inside so that I cough up ash for the rest of time. For ash and blood are of more value than the scores of meaningless excuses I may spew for the iniquity I have committed against you. I broke a solemn oath, and for that I must be punished to the fullest measure. I am at the mercy of your will and I beg you to enact it upon me in-”

“Child, fret not. I am nothing but merciful to those I have deemed worthy of my favor. I do accept your sacrifice, though perhaps you would be more satisfied if you were able to try again.”

“Father, you surely do not mean…”

Bhaal’s avatar appeared to… smile? Only for a moment. “I can bargain with the Tyrant Lord for the boy’s soul, if you wish. He will not mind, for he has already tucked his tail between his legs and begun searching for another Chosen in the Feywilds.”

Cyril’s face lit up. Why was this happening? He was being punished seconds ago! “Father, I am unworthy of your blessing. To ask for a soul to be returned from a domain, especially as accursed as Bane’s, is far too much for a wretched, disobedient spawn.”

“Only I determine what is too much for my children. You have proven your worth to me on this day, so I will allow for a contract between his soul and yours. He will be bound to you in my name, and he must not die until the time I have appointed for him. Go forth, be mortal with him, and send his soul to me as the last on this plane.” 

Bhaal’s face was replaced with Cyril’s reflection in the blood pool. The tiefling rolled over to his back and wept , his own blood soaking into his hair. A divine resurrection, for no other reason than to please him. The slimy little tyrant would live, and be the last soul alive in the whole of Faerun. The feelings of happiness, companionship, and lust flooded back to him, held back by the levees of disgust he had used to contain them. They would be together, until the bitter end of the world.

Cyril gathered himself and stood, walking over to his lover’s corpse, Enver’s corpse. A hint of terror sunk behind his eyes. He had to get this right. It meant everything. He knelt beside him, looking at his crushed-in face and now stagnant stab wound. His hands shook as he placed them on Enver’s chest.

Te curo.

Chapter Text

A heinous gasp exploded from Gortash’s bloodied lips. Revivify only returned the soul to the body, and didn’t do much in the way of healing, so his face remained bashed in, and the stab wound in his stomach remained open. Unable to move, Gortash slowly opened his eyes, and blinked for a moment as he stared at the reddening sun. He looked to his left, and saw piles of corpses, citizens of Baldur’s Gate, sprawled and bleeding on the cobblestones. Then he looked to his right, and saw the face of his murderer. His killer’s face bore splatters of blood and beads of sweat. His mouth was curled in a way he had never seen it before, and– were those tears in his eyes? Gortash’s eyes widened with a mix of shock, fear, anger, and something else he couldn’t quite place. 

Gortash tried to suck in a deep breath, but as he tried to pull air through his nose, he found it decimated and smelled his own blood that had been running down his face. He tried to breathe in through his mouth, but the movement caused the deep stab wound in his stomach to stretch and sear in pain. He settled for shallow breaths through his mouth, which was quickly filling up with saliva, snot, and blood. All he could do was try to think. Was he in the hells? Bane’s domain? No. He seemed to have just left Bane’s domain, and had lived in the hells long enough to know that this wasn’t what they felt like. Then… was he… alive?

Alive was putting it generously. Gortash thought that he might just die again in a minute if he did not receive help. Loathe to admit it, he had no other choice, and slightly rotated his head toward his killer. His villainous, beautiful murderer.

“ Help…me…” Gortash practically gurgled, whatever was collecting in his mouth spritzing into the air. “ Can’t… breathe…”

Cyril raised his eyebrows and briefly shook his head to regain focus. “Ah! Yes… Right…” He produced a vial of healing potion, but upon looking at the mess of fluid continuing to build up in the poor man’s mouth, he set it down in favor of placing his hands on Gortash’s chest. It ached as Cyril pressed down on what Gortash assumed were several broken ribs. “Now, I am not very good at healing things, so I’m sorry if this goes horribly wrong. But you can’t blame a Bhaalspawn for trying, eh? Here goes nothing… Vis medicatrix. ”

Fuzzy warmth emanated over Gortash’s body, he could feel the stab wound close itself, his ribs pieced themselves together, and his vessels began to fill with the blood that he had lost. The healing magic worked its way up to his face, soothing his throat and diminishing the swelling on his cheeks and forehead. It began to repair his forsaken nose, but the magic didn't quite reach the end of his nose, and a bit of pink flesh dangled over his otherwise restored face.

Cyril examined the half-healed nose and knitted his eyebrows, but then let out a half smile and shrugged. “Well that’s what I get for leaving my cleric to die. Hope you don’t mind a bit of a makeover. Could be worse…”

Gortash rolled to one side and coughed up the veritable cocktail of bodily fluids in his throat with heaving and uneven breaths. He stayed curled up for a moment before turning his face toward the tiefling. Disoriented as he was, he knew the Bhaalspawn well enough to sense something was off. The only time Cyril cracked jokes like that was when he was nervous. His only other moods were called ‘business,’ ‘sultry,’ and ‘murderous.’ With Gortash, it was usually a mix of all three. Or, perhaps this was a mood that he had not encountered yet, one of unadulterated joy .

After clearing his throat enough to feel comfortable talking, he rolled onto his back, maintaining eye contact with his killer. “Would you like to explain to me what in Bane’s name is going on?” Normally, Gortash would begin spinning lies or threats to soften his opponent and get his point across. But he was barely able to move, and in no position to act in enmity when the towering tiefling held all the cards.

“Shhh.” Cyril laid a gentle finger on the tip of Gortash’s broken nose. He winced. “You’ll scare the locals.” The madman giggled, that enrapturing insanity overflowing from his eyes. “Do not worry. You are safe. Perhaps the safest man in the world, aside from me of course.”

With a sudden, fluid movement, Cyril picked Gortash up by his waist and slung him over his shoulder like a potato sack. “Your house isn’t far from here is it? Let’s get you washed and rested. Then I will explain everything ! Oh Enver, this is such a glorious day!” Gortash groaned in pain as Cyril practically skipped down the upper city streets. Gortash was too occupied trying to breathe through his confusion to notice the sounds of screams and bodies falling to the ground around them. It wasn’t until he was carried over the threshold of his front door that he noticed the absolute silence of the street and stifling smell of death. He was gently set down in a standing position on the floor of his washroom.

“Can you walk?” 

Gortash crumpled over after a flimsy attempt at taking a step. “That’s a no… Can you stand?”  He attempted to balance himself over his feet, and his knees buckled yet again beneath him. “Alright then. How about leaning?” He was propped up and leaned against the wall, and Cyril patted him on the shoulders a few times as if to secure him there. Gortash couldn’t help but notice the Bhaalspawn’s telltale slashed palms sporting new cuts, gradually healing, with a thick crust of dried blood forming on top. He had been praying… a lot …

Cyril handled him with such delicate, practiced care. This was a skill that Gortash wasn’t aware the mass murderer was capable of, and one that was certainly not exercised in the encounters and trysts at the prime of their affair. “Don’t go anywhere, heh. I will return with some water and soap.” The tiefling floated out of the room, his cape billowing behind him.

Gortash was left to his thoughts. His mind was swirling with questions about why, in all of the Planes, he was brought back here to Faerun, to his home, as it drew its final breath. His main concern, however, was why he felt so overjoyed to see the man who had stabbed him and pushed him off of the Crown. He should be furious. He should wish to be back in Bane’s realm, receiving the torture he deserved for his failures. Yet the spark in his old lover’s piercing eyes sent butterflies to the pit of his scarred stomach. He was not nearly as communicative with Bane as Cyril was to his progenitor, but he felt the need to seek his God out for some answers before asking more questions. 

An ominous haze set in as he searched his mind for Bane’s presence, muttering a barely audible prayer with what little rasp in his vocal cords was available to him. Perhaps it was due to his exhaustion and pain, but for the first time since he was a child, he did not feel him there. This was worrying. Extricated from his God’s realm, prayers met with silence, Gortash was beginning to fear if his God had abandoned him. Bane, he whose Hand rested above all. He who controlled the hearts of the ambitious and held the strings of tyrants. If Bane’s Hand did not guide him, then who was he? Surely this had an explanation, and he supposed it could be addressed with Cyril. 

As if on cue, the pale tiefling whooshed into the washroom with two large pails of water, using a mage hand to balance towels and soaps. “Ah! You’re still upright! I’m so proud of you. Now you relax and let me take care of you.” Cyril gave him a thorough sponge bath, removing all the dried blood and dirt from his weakened body. He was so uncharacteristically gentle. The monster carried him to his bed, tucked him in like a child, and planted a light kiss on his forehead. “Sleep now. We will speak when you wake. I must leave for a while. Bodies for the harvest and all!” The moment Cyril vanished from sight, Gortash fell asleep.

###

While Cyril might have been overjoyed about the return of a life, the Urge was not . Little spindles in his mind pulled, scraped, scratched his muscles, bidding them go faster, harder, more killing, more blood, more harvest. Blades sliced and incantations echoed, cutting off screams and heralding Father’s Embrace to all living things. Sometimes a simple thrown dagger was all the Urge required. Other times, it demanded creativity. A tiefling impaled on its own broken horn. A couple drowning in a pool of their shared blood. A chef fileting his own stomach until his hands go slack. The compelled murders were always the most fun; Watching their eyes widen with fear and pain as their body moved against its will. Watching them… suffer… knowing that they have no…

Cyril mirrored the panic in the chef’s eyes. This scene was too familiar. A weakened man holding a blade to his own stomach, while others ogled with sadistic glee. Pink undulating material composed the walls of his prison. But the table was cold and unforgiving. There was no need for chains this time. The doll had been broken, prepared. Mindlessly cutting ragged designs into his own flesh as manic tittering pulsed right into his ear. “You have been molded into such a delightful little knife-holder for me, Brother! I wonder if this is what Daddy–”

The splatter of warm blood on his face drew the Bhaalspawn back to the present. He had apparently been sloppily decapitating the chef during his harrowing reverie. His life essence sprayed across the counters and the ceilings, dotting the white china and applying a new stain to the wooden countertop. The beauty of the scene brought his attention away from the memory. Father had graciously returned the vast majority of Cyril’s memories upon reclaiming his birthright, but a few had leaked through every so often since then. He ran his hand over the area with the scars he apparently made himself and briefly thought to himself that this was a memory he would have preferred to stay hidden. 

The relentless, roiling Urge continued banging at Cyril’s cranium. It had been such a long day, and while his body was optimized to reserve energy, and he could literally do this all day, making so many decisions about how to kill boring people was wearing him down. So he gave in and allowed his eyes to roll back red. His mind entered an elven, trance-like state, while his body zipped around, spilling as much Baldurian blood as it could, snapping necks, slitting throats, throwing daggers. For the beast, to sleep was to murder. It would take a hell of a lot more than a long day to take him out.

The Urge murmured in contentment, but the rest of Cyril’s mind stirred and sloshed as he once again returned to the table. There were chains this time, and that particular pattern of cuts had yet to appear, so this must have occurred before the previous painful memory. That damned Myrkulite peered over his face with what might have been confused with a gentle smile, if it weren’t for the morbid gray aura surrounding her eyes. It appeared that Cyril had been lucid for much of the time spent in that oubliette. Cyril heard his own screams through his diced brain matter. They were not of fear, or pain, but consuming, unrelenting fury. 

The ire extended far beyond the Myrkulite, who was likely only following orders, if not with heightened enthusiasm, beyond Ketheric for turning a blind eye. There was rage at Orin, yes, for the irrevocable damage done to his marble flesh. He spouted countless blasphemies at Father, cursing Him for forsaking His child, lamenting His lost favor, bleeding pointless prayers out of the incisions covering his imprisoned almost-corpse. And one step further, he was livid with Enver. His tragic lover. They had vowed to end the world together, and instead, the little world they had built for themselves was ending while they were apart. Cyril would not die . He WOULD NOT DIE! He could not let it end like this. Orin hadn’t even given him the honor of being slain on Father’s altar! Wordless howls continued to echo off of the sentient walls as the Myrkulite continued to desecrate his unholy flesh.

The red sun marked mid afternoon. Cyril had found himself by Heapside Strand, a trail of bleeding corpses in his wake. The Urge had been ravenous, but was quiet for now. He must get back to his lover, his everything. It would be easier to talk to Gortash now that the Urge had been quelled, and he couldn’t wait to share the good news.

###

Gortash sat agog, leaning against his pillows as Cyril, who was somehow more caked with blood than before, swirled the tale around him. Half of his words did not make it past his ears, the other half were too ludicrous to believe. Bhaal himself had bargained for his soul? His fears were confirmed that Bane no longer had his Hand on him? He was brought back to be the final sacrifice to Bhaal when all of Faerun had perished under his Scion’s hand? Cyril continued to pace around the room, waving his arms and adding to his rubbish story. The stew of Gortash’s thoughts was boiling dangerously close to the top of the pot, and soon enough it spilled out into a single angry accusation.

“You did not ask if I wanted this.” Gortash was too weak to manage a commanding tone, so the remark came out with less ferocity and volume than intended.

“Pardon?” Cyril faced his partner, with almost blissful ignorance. As if he didn’t know exactly what was going on.

Taking a few deep breaths and a swig of water from a cup that must have been placed by his bed while he was asleep, the man prepared to speak. His voice caught in his throat at first, but found its footing as the pot continued to boil over:

“You did not consider whether I wanted any of this. I had worked myself to the bone to complete our mission, and you quite literally backstabbed me at the moment of our triumph! I was brought to reckoning with my Master and shown my many, many failures…” an angry cough escaped, “...including trusting you I might add. I resigned myself to the endless torture to pay for my sins. Then I am pulled back to my body, only to find out that bloody Bhaal… ” Gortash paused to spit, both to curse for effect and to clear his throat of lingering blood. “...has bargained for my soul to be returned; and for what? To be your plaything as I watch all of the people I was meant to rule over die before my very eyes? My city has crumbled, my power is gone, my God has abandoned me, and I’m stuck with a bloody monster until the end of days!”

More coughs erupted, and Cyril used the break to calmly interject. “Enver, I-”

“Don’t you dare ‘ Enver ’ me! You have never thought of anyone but yourself. From the start of our partnership, you have only thought of when you would kill me as a sacrifice to your accursed Father.” Another hack. No. That wasn’t true. “You finally give me the release of death, to come to terms with a battle that I knew I had lost long ago. And now you bring me back without my consent to flaunt around to all your precious offerings.” His weakened throat could not take much more of this. This wasn’t how he felt… was it? “Perhaps I should have killed you when I had a chance, when you were still weak, you fucking pathetic, selfish, foul-blooded, revolting PIECE OF SHIT !” 

The final reproach came out as more of a mucusy, rothe-like bellow followed by a series of futile, screeching coughs. Gortash rolled from his bed and stumbled toward Cyril grabbing at his horns in a frail attempt to attack. His weakened legs betrayed him, and he once again found himself tumbling to the ground, only to be caught by the monster. Gortash tensed up, preparing for an attack that never came. Instead he was lifted back onto the bed. Cyril looked at him thoughtfully for a few moments before quietly responding.

“I have fashioned a contract with my Father so that you would be the last soul alive on this Plane. That is my word of honor and I will not break it. I hope that my actions have made my feelings clear to you, but I understand if you do not wish to travel with me. If you choose to go with me, I will be overjoyed by your presence and we will conquer the world together as equals. If you choose to stay here, I will ensure that you are cared for and your every need is met until that final day comes. I will accept either choice without question. Please take all the time you need to consider.”

Cyril left the room in silence. Gortash was perplexed to say the least. His heart was racing as more and more emotions and questions stuffed themselves into his weary, splitting head. He somehow felt that he was both the luckiest and unluckiest man alive . He should both love and hate his beautiful, precious, despicable murderer at the same time. He gathered himself enough to analyze his options.

Should he choose to forsake his lover, he would likely be provided with the utmost care. Bhaal’s unholy Scion seemed to take this very seriously, so he had no doubt that he would have access to excellent cuisine, the finest of wines, and only the best women or men to satiate his every desire. It was the end of the world anyway, so there would be no reason to spare any expense. Gortash smirked at the prospect of being treated like royalty, even if there were no subjects to rule. Yet…would that be enough for him? What was the value of food and wine if he had no one important to share it with? What good were courtesans when the one he desired would never be among them?

As he considered the possibility of choosing to stay with him, other concerns began to arise. Could he trust a man who had betrayed and killed him, only to bring him back for seemingly selfish reasons? As much as Cyril might lie and say they were equals, Gortash no longer possessed the power of Bane, so he was basically at the Bhaalspawn’s mercy. The tyrant did not like to be at the mercy of anyone , much less the most powerful killer in existence. But the tiefling had given him his word that he would be safe… Was Gortash a fool for believing him? This terrible, splendid, monstrous man was offering him a place by his side, to have a front row seat to the end of the world. This is what they promised to do together all those years ago, was it not? Was he willing to let murderous bygones be bygones and travel with the fanatic? Surely he wasn’t able to swallow his pride and admit-

His murderer popped his head in the room with a scheming smile. “Oh! In a little while I will be looking for Karlach to conduct some… business. Give me a shout if you would like to tag along.”

Karlach ? She was most likely dead by now, burnt to a crisp by her own innards. He forced himself to admit that he had rather hoped she would stay in camp with them. The delicious irony of the two of them traveling together still squeezed a smile onto Gortash’s face. He had been very careful not to introduce them to each other. At the early stages of their bloodthirsty romance, Cyril had been known to leave Banite corpses as gifts on Gortash’s doorstep. And while Karlach was nowhere close to a Banite, he preferred her alive, not only to preserve his upcoming trade with Zariel, but also due to a somewhat childish attachment to the girl. Knowing her gentle heart (well…), it was surprising that they hadn’t chopped each other’s heads off due to value differences before they had even entered the Emerald Grove.

Cyril had shown nothing but disregard for the needs of his allies, yet he had somehow amassed a gaggle of them on his journey. He had most likely viewed them as precious sacrifices to be displayed at his temple more than real people with needs. This was a trait he admired when it was not directed at himself. So, now that she was dead, what could Cyril possibly want with– oh.

“ Bhaalspa–! ” Gortash refused to speak the brute’s name as he gathered enough strength to project his voice across the house. The creature opened the door before he could finish the word. He must have been waiting right outside.

“You rang?” A smile slithered across the little shit’s face. He already knew what Gortash was thinking.

“You will not touch her! You disgusting-”

“Oh Gods . No no no! I would never dream of…” The monster- Cyril - trailed off. “No this is for a little… side project I have. It’s a long story, but I can tell you on the way.”

It was bold of him to assume that Gortash had already agreed to come along. The man released a long, heavy sigh as his eyes betrayed the tiniest hint of a smile. Damn that conniving brat . “I won’t be able to walk there myself, you know.”

“Nary a problem, my prince!” Cyril swept in to kiss Gortash’s cheek, and lifted him off the bed to stand, supporting him with his shoulder. He grabbed a dagger that was hiding Bhaal-knows-where with his other hand. “I’ve got two arms for a reason,” he winked. “Well… more if you count the Slayer, but it’s not quite time for that.” Cyril had never appeared this happy before, and Gortash couldn’t help but smile back at his nauseating lover.

Chapter Text

Cum mortuis in lingua mortua.

Karlach’s charred corpse regarded Cyril, lifelessly.

It was right where Gortash thought it would be; on the docks of the lower city looking out over the calm waters, not a terrible place to die… Especially now that the sun reflected crimson on the sparkling surface, and the water was beginning to dye itself with blood from the dozens of magnificent kills he had casually made on the way. He was of course pleased by the ending of countless lives, but something about corpse hunting with the love of his life set his spirits ablaze. Father had not communicated any preference for how the world should die, or how long it should take, so Cyril figured that a diversion would not earn any ill will, at least for now. 

Though, he had recently misinterpreted Father’s mood concerning his lover’s untimely sacrifice. As he felt the gaze of the object of his contract on his back, he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of guilt and trepidation. He wasn’t sure how Gortash would react to the news, but he thought there would at least be a little gratitude for the second lease on his life. But the man’s mood was confounding. He was at best perturbed by the whole situation, and at worst resentful and ready to leave at his first mistake. But why? Cyril hadn’t done anything wrong! He just…

Cyril realized he had forgotten about the task at hand and refocused, asking his first question, “Who are you?”

“ Karlach… Cliffgate… Z-Zariel’s Slave… Demonsbane. ” Karlach’s answer seemed to be held back by gritted teeth. She was angry, even in death. Cyril felt the need to finish this quickly, in case her rage somehow grew legs and attacked him.

“What was the nature of our relationship?”

“ Allies… fighting Absolute…  I was betrayed… Such a fool… Unworthy…”

Cyril paused. That was the same phrase Gortash had used in their conversation. “What do you remember of our companions?”

“ So many were lost… Evil drow… Hungry vampire… My Blade of Frontiers …but more before.”

Gortash and Karlach both had mentioned the drow woman, so this seemed like a good place for his next investigation. Cyril turned to Gortash, who was propped up on one of the dock’s support pillars “You sure you don’t want to join me?”

“I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of journey yet. Go have your fun and I’ll keep watch,” Gortash said with a weak smile.

“Suit yourself,” Cyril shrugged, “ Veritas Visio! ” Once again plunged into a pool of memories, Cyril found a suitable choice.

###

“Soooo, um, Minthara, right?” Karlach was a brave woman, by her own estimations, but something about the drow that had accompanied them after the battle at Moonrise unsettled her. Absolutist deserter or not, Minthara had plotted to kill all of the tiefling refugees and the druids, and very nearly got away with it too. Karlach was still hesitant around her deathly cold temperament, but if she knew anything, it was how to warm someone up, quite literally. So she did her best to make an attempt at small talk as the group traveled through the city sewers. Astarion was regaling Cyril with stories from his life avoiding the sun, so now seemed like the perfect time to engage in some light ‘girl talk.’

“You wish to consult me?” Minthara, ever the haughty noble, looked up at Karlach passively.

“Well, no not really, soldier. I just thought we could, you know, talk! Bond , get to know each other. We are traveling together and I realized that I hardly know anything about you…”

Minthara’s eyes flashed with a hint of… opportunity?... and somehow appeared more unsettling than before. After a brief pause, her voice raised in pitch just a little and said, “I agree, Karlach. But why talk here, in these filthy sewers? Let’s go back to camp and freshen up, these men can surely handle themselves.” Minthara’s smile was uncanny, and incongruent with what Karlach assumed her face to have looked like before. 

“Yeah! That sounds great! Just you and me, it’ll be fun!” Karlach shouted their plans at the tiefling Bhaalspawn and vampiric elf (hells, she kept strange company these days). They barely seemed to register her words as they were deep in conversation. Well, if Astarion doing all the talking counted as conversation, that is. The women turned the opposite way and headed back in the direction of their camp. “Don’t worry, I know these sewers like the back of my hand, so I’ve got a shortcut we can take.” Karlach smiled at Minthara, excited to finally make an attempt at a new friend.

Once the pair were out of eye- and earshot, the drow grasped her cold hand around Karlach’s arm and took a sharp turn around one of the twisting corridors of the sewers.

“Oh! This isn’t the way, Minthara. You see, my shortcut has us going through the lower city to get back to camp and that way-” Karlach felt the blunt clash of the hilt of a dagger against her head, and her vision darkened as she fell unconscious.

…

The first thing Karlach felt was a cold slab under her warm body. Then the manacles that were secured around her ankles and wrists, then the ache of a head injury, then the cool sting of a knife cutting her flesh near her collarbone. Her eyes shot open and beheld a nightmare. Minthara held a curved red dagger and was going to work cutting at the piercings on her shoulder. Karlach squirmed in an attempt to escape the drow, but she responded by stabbing the knife into the flesh just above where her engine had been installed. 

Karlach hollered in pain, “You don’t have to do this! I’m not sure what you want from me but I promise that I never had any hard feelings toward you. I understand why you did what you did to the tieflings, I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me, Minth-”

Karlach cut herself off. Something wasn’t right. She seemed to be in some sort of temple with the icon of a skull inlaid on the cavern wall above her. Minthara was giving her that same, uncanny wide grin as before. Then she remembered the shapeshifter the group had encountered a few times before. Could she…? Karlach’s eyebrows scrunched and the drow let out a high-pitched giggle.

"You see through my Minthara-mask, pretty little flesh thing.” Minthara’s face melted and reformed into the pale woman from before. This must be Orin, Cyril’s… sister? The woman licked her lips, “It’s a pity that devil has already destroyed so much of your inside bits. I was soooo looking forward to playing with them. Oh well! I guess we’ll have to improvise a little! I wonder, is that engine of yours hot enough to grill your tail?”

If Karlach still had a heart, it would be in her throat. Of all the godsdamned ways to die. She would have preferred Zariel’s laboratory table, the battlefield of Elturel, hells, even the brain-death of a mind-flayer to being dissected and tormented by this sadistic bitch until she finally decided to let her slip into death. Rage began boiling in her stomach. She wouldn’t go without a fight, it was against her nature, and not even adamantine chains would be able to hold her if Orin got to her tail. She would have to figure out a way to take the demented woman down with her, or at least stall until her companions came to the rescue. Either way, she would need to shore up her strength.

“You won’t get away with this. My companions will notice I’m gone. They’ll come to find you. The real Minthara? Ohhh hoh she’s got a real hard-on for making you suffer for what you did to her…”

Karlach paused, thinking about the one companion she wished was coming to save her. She imagined him, cutting through the Bhaalist’s with valiant slices, striking true with each attack. His stone eye saw through the hearts of men and devils. He saw her. Wyll’s face swirled around in her mind; a face that would likely only live on in her memories. He had left her, dead set on finding some fabled dragon somewhere in Wyrm’s Rock. ‘I will come back for you! That is my word.’ Now would be a fucking fantastic time for him to make his heroic return, even if it was just in her dream before she breathed her last.

She returned her thoughts to the companion who was much more likely to come to her rescue: “And Cyril? Yeah you know ‘im! He’s gonna-”

“You will not speak of my foul-blooded slaughter-kin in this place!” Orin stuck her knife into the opposite shoulder, eliciting a sharp scream from the tiefling. “After all, Daddy’s watching! And Daddy is so so so proud of me for cleansing His temple of rot like him.”

There was a hideous pause. Orin’s face was scrunched up like a petulant child. She was toying with her gigantic braid and swaying from side to side. Karlach didn’t know what to make of these movements, mostly because her mind was flooded with endless waves of pain. But something about her sudden change in demeanor reminded Karlach of a lost little girl, not dissimilar from her own youth. Maybe this was an opportunity to stall for time…

“Y’know I’m pretty decent at killin’ too,” Karlach said with shallow, pained breaths. “I’ve sliced through demons and devils like butter, and ohhh baby did that feel good. But that good feeling always went away. I was a slave, you see. I never wanted to fight, never asked for this engine for a heart. I only did that bitch’s bidding because I knew that someday I would be free. Do you feel free, Orin? Or are you just trying to please Daddy dearest so you won’t hurt anymore?”

It was a bargain. This appeal to Orin’s emotions, however deranged they might be, could work, but there would be deadly consequences if the wrong nerve had been struck. Karlach’s throat constricted as she held her breath, examining Orin, waiting for a response.

“Youuuuu you you you know NOTHING!” Orin’s face reddened and a sickly smile ran across it. “See I’m already free! Free to do this,” she stabbed into Karach’s upper thigh. “And this,” another stab a few inches lower. “And this and this and this and this and…”

Karlach could feel about five more stab wounds open along her legs before she passed out.

…

A warm fuzz encircled Karlach’s body. Her eyes flitted open to see Minthara’s real face bearing a worried expression. The drow’s eyes softened upon seeing Karlach stir. “Good. You’re alive. I was considering sending a prayer to the spider bitch, curse her name, if that didn’t work. Now, look lively! There’s vengeance afoot.”

Karlach was stunned to see Minthara in such good spirits. She had always assumed that the drow had never given her much thought, but perhaps Karlach was the one who was doing the ignoring. She sat up slowly, noticing that she had been freed from her bonds. Minthara was sitting at the end of the altar near her head with a gentle, determined expression.

“You are truly a brave soul, Karlach.” Minthara smiled. “No surface dweller deserves to experience the torment you have. And yet you press on, ever courageous, into whatever this life throws at you. Even death on the altar of a Murder God could not stop you. I practically exited the womb with a sword in my hand and became a lethal fighter as a matter of instinct. But you… you have turned the pain and betrayal you have experienced into righteous rage and unyielding strength. I could live ten times your lifetime and never dream of developing those virtues.”

Karlach didn’t know what to say, so she flashed a shy smile at the drow. She looked around the room to see what exactly had happened while she was out. Astarion was keeping a safe distance, occasionally bending over the dead cultists and snatching odds and ends to put in his pack. Typical. There was also a withered, impish man huddled near the edge of the platform wringing his hands and staring intently at something behind her with a smile on his wrinkled face. Karlach turned her head to look.

Cyril was caked in blood, standing over a pile of viscera and hair that she could only assume to be what was left of Orin. His black hair glowed red in the foggy light of Bhaal’s icon. He was holding Orin’s dagger, now separated from the Netherstone, and appeared to be deep in prayer. She couldn’t see his face, but the murderous aura that emanated from his body drove needles of terror into her skull. She snapped her head to look away.

Minthara grinned at her. “Marvelous, isn’t it?” She spoke in a reverent whisper. “He’s taking back his inheritance.”

So this was how it was gonna be. Karlach had hoped that Cyril would see the good in himself, and find a reason to live beyond the Urge for murder. But it looked like he had made his choice. She considered finding a way to leave the group, try her luck on her own. To be honest, she had toyed with doing that many times throughout this journey, but had never worked up the engine to. Maybe now was the time. Maybe Cyril was truly beyond saving.

The aura fizzled abruptly as Bhaal’s reinstated Chosen turned away from the stone skull. His face lit up at the sight of Karlach sitting up, healed.

“Karlach! You pulled through!” He said, whisking over to kneel by her side. Cyril meticulously surveyed the closing cuts, softly running his clawed finger along the jagged scar lines on her shoulders and legs from where the worst of the stabbing had occurred. Scars tell stories… she supposed. Seeing the jarring transition between the telltale murderous aura of a Bhaalist to such a loving and gentle presence almost made Karlach believe that this ‘inheritance’ was just another way to get into the Absolutist’s good graces so they could take the plot down from the inside.

“For being Father’s illegitimate, former Chosen, Orin is not very good at killing. Worry not. She will no longer be a problem for us. I’m so glad to see you’re okay.” Cyril may as well have been coated in sugar, rather than blood.

With a deep breath to gather her courage, Karlach scrunched her eyebrows. “What was all that? I thought you were suppressing your Urge, not giving into it completely!”

Her puzzling ally’s expression remained neutral. “I am not giving in to anything, Karlach. I am learning to better control the Urge so we can use it for our purposes. Besides, we’ve now got a God on our side! That will be a big help to us when we take down that Banite slime Gortash and end this.”

“A-and Cazador! We will take him down, too!” Astarion’s shrill voice interrupted the conversation and rang across the cavern.

“Yes…” Cyril sighed, and appeared to roll his eyes, just a little. “And Cazador.” The annoyance was understandable. Astarion was becoming more and more pushy about infiltrating the Szarr palace. While Karlach conceded that hacking the head off of the horrid vampire’s neck would be satisfying, it was unfortunately low on the group’s priority list. No one quite had the heart, or… engine, to tell him.

She was still not convinced, and needed to get answers before deciding to continue with them. “But…it’s Bhaal …” 

The sorcerer sighed patiently, uttering some sort of incantation under his breath, then smiled. It must have been some sort of healing spell because that fuzzy feeling focused itself around her head, making Cyril's face look a little blurry, and his voice sound a little muffled. “If Shadowheart hadn’t taken her leave, it would have been Shar at our side. Bhaal? Shar? Practically the same thing, right?” He looked like he had to keep vomit down after comparing the two notoriously hostile deities. He did make a good point, however, as their group was not beyond playing dirty at the best of times. “Karlach, you have nothing to worry about. You are safe. You all are!” There was something so entrancing about the way Cyril spoke to her. He seemed to always know how she felt and what to do to encourage her. She was beginning to feel that there might still be good in him after all. Besides, she wouldn’t miss the upcoming battle with Gortash for the world. 

Satisfied, she joined the group as they packed their things and started to head out. Their leader trailed behind, whispering something to the imp. “Tell…that when this is all over…she can take…that should satisfy…” Karlach was in too much of a haze to understand the conversation, and focused on her goal: getting rid of that motherfucker once and for all.

###

“Well that was deeply unhelpful,” Cyril exhaled an annoyed groan and rubbed his temples. He was panting as if he had been trapped in the memory for hours, when in reality it had been a matter of seconds from when Gortash saw Cyril’s eyes roll back to when he stumbled to the present. Gortash had never been the expert in magic. He had performed a few cantrips here and there, mostly for utility or torture, but preferred to do his work with his hands. So watching the terrifying murder beast bend the laws of nature at will so easily was always fascinating to him. Even if this mysterious wizard was the one to teach him the spell, the way he spoke those nonsense words in such a natural, commanding tone made it seem that Cyril was the one who had invented the whole thing himself. 

“Well you did drive her out of our camp before she had the chance to repair herself. So I wouldn’t imagine she would want to help you now.” Gortash let a hint of playful reproach slip into his reply. 

“No, no it wasn’t that. Just that there were no purple wizards anywhere in that memory,” Cyril scowled. “And I didn’t drive her out . I gave her a choice and she left of her own free will. It’s not my fault that she couldn’t stand the sight of you. And who could blame her? I mean look at you!”

“Ah yes, because I can control the knife wound in my stomach and the shitty nose job.” Gortash was secretly pleased. Cyril was back in business mode, and it suited him splendidly. It was almost enough to make him forget how much he despised the monster. Almost . By no means did this little divertissement make up for the very real indignation he felt about this whole situation, but the banter helped him to adjust to reality; to grasp at strands of their romance. “So where to now on your wild wizard chase?”

“I seem to have put myself in quite the bind. I have to ask Orin to share her toy.”

“Orin’s alive?” Gortash felt an edge of trepidation creep along his skin. “I thought you-”

“I took back my birthright as Bhaal’s true Chosen. Only Father can permanently end the life of one of His spawn. Cut us down and we spring right back up like weeds! If He so chooses, that is. Orin is valuable to our cause, so she stays.”

“Wonderful…” Gortash had made his feelings about Orin abundantly clear over the years. And they had not changed post-postmortem. He had barely tolerated her while working on the Absolute plot, and was beyond thrilled when Cyril showed up to reclaim his rightful place. Since Orin apparently survived the encounter, she would most certainly be livid to see him alive and on Cyril’s arm. This was sure to go poorly.

“You’ll be fiiine.” Cyril seemed to read his thoughts again. “Remember, you are Bhaal-bound to me until the end of time. No one will be able to even touch you.” The reminder of Gortash’s sorry fate did little to assuage his concerns.

…

Gortash could count the number of times he had been to Bhaal’s temple on one hand. He was more than content to host both their business meetings and romantic escapades in his home or office. He of course held a stomach for gore, but that place always seemed a little… too much. Besides, there were always so many perverse onlookers.

The two were never what one might call ‘exclusive’ in their affair. Outside of their relationship, the Banite used sexual favors as bargaining chips, which proved quite effective with the…morally ambiguous…nature of the city’s more notable families. These favors meant little to him, as long as they accomplished their goal. The Bhaalist, however, used sex as an opportunity for exploration. Of all sorts of things. How long would it take for someone to choke to death on his cock? How many consecutive climaxes could a person handle until blood stopped flowing to their brain? Could someone still cum while disemboweled? These ‘experiments’ would often occur at the temple with most of the congregation gathered, to watch or to help. Gortash preferred their bloody affairs to maintain some semblance of decorum, even if the two despots’ activities often resembled quite the opposite. (Not to mention, forgoing a visit to the temple lessened the risk of his premature death should the Urge take over.)

He was recovering nicely now, only resorting to a jaunty limp to stay on his feet, and requiring some assistance with inclines and stairs. The pair did not have to travel far, though, as Cyril had enchanted a magic sigil near the entrance to the temple for ease of access years ago. As they entered the temple, various cultists hummed prayers of adoration to Bhaal’s Scion. They didn’t seem to notice the human supported on his shoulder as they traveled toward the staircase leading to the dais. It was odd seeing so many people alive in one place. The streets above grew emptier by the second, yet these people seemed to creep out of the ancient stonework, all bug-eyes and toothy sneers until their leader passed by and their faces straightened in reverence, or fear, or both.

Most cults would be in shambles by now: Either attempting to make their escape or remaining in the city in fervent prayer for salvation. A salvation that would never come. Bane’s church was, of course, no more. It was not difficult to imagine why, considering the state of its Chosen. Exterminating the Banites was likely top priority for the Bhaalists, now that they were fair game. The loss of the church that Gortash had rebuilt from nothing was disappointing to be sure… but now that he had been abandoned by his God, and apparently bound by another, he found that it didn’t really matter… did it? Bhaal’s temple was astir and electric. Cultists dotted about, drinking from goblets of what he hoped was wine, but assuredly was not. Gortash was even offered such a beverage, but politely refused.

The scene on the main floor unfolded as they approached. They heard the screaming first, a deep female voice that abruptly gave out mid-shriek. Likely her last. A figure with black hair and black robes stood over the altar and appeared to be cutting aimlessly at the poor soul chained to it. Upon closer inspection, ivory horns tipped with red curled out of the figure’s hair, and the silhouette of a tail waggled underneath the robes. Gortash looked to Cyril, who had long since pieced together what was happening. His face had sharpened and an angry grimace replaced the authoritative smile he had been sporting earlier. He gently slipped out from under Gortash’s arm and helped him to a seat on the stairs before whirring at incredible speed toward his copy. His robes stirred a slight draft that lightly ruffled Gortash’s messy hair.

He grabbed Orin by a faux horn and snapped her head back to look up at him in a motion that would have broken a regular mortal’s neck, or at least done significant damage to the spine. “You dare to use my image on a day like today? Pathetic slaughter-filth! The red sun rises over the Chionthar and you choose to degrade yourself by playing with your toys in my likeness? You will supplicate to Lord Father and beg forgiveness for your insolence over a tenday, then proclaim your deference to His unholy Son with tears of blood oozing from your wretched, unworthy eye-sockets.”

The murderous aura that filled the sanctuary made Gortash forget who or what or where he was. It was asphyxiating . He had gotten so used to the more restrained, yet still terrifying, demeanor Cyril tended to display on their business that he had forgotten how he acted among his own kind. His heart needed to be forced to beat, his lungs to breathe. Gortash squinted to get a better look at Orin’s face as it melted into her own. She was grinning, of course ( how was she even moving?! ), but there was just a hint of submission in her eyes that she was trying desperately to cover over with fluttering of her eyelashes.

“But lowly sister Orin has ever so much fun when her toys think she’s the person they fear the most.” The deranged woman pouted and wriggled in Cyril’s grip on her shoulders as the aura let up a little. Her eyes met Gortash’s for a split second and lit up. “Oh, Brother! Look at your shiny new lover-toy!! Did you bring him here to share with us? I promise promise promise I won’t wear your face when I play with him. I’ll find someone else equally as terrifying and then I’ll-”

Orin’s glee was temporarily wiped off her face with the crack of a backhand across her cheek. Then a swift kick in the stomach sent her flying to the floor in front of Gortash. She looked up at him with a slithering smile. He instinctively scooted up a stair, which only widened the grin and caused a little giggle to sneak out of her lips. Cyril strode to her calmly and dug his foot into her midsection.

“Enver, love , my sister is not behaving in a way that reflects Bhaal’s triumph and glory. She has threatened a precious, Bhaal-bound life, and for that there must be penance paid. Now you know I am a man overflowing with mercy, but I am having trouble restraining myself after seeing her commit such a grievous transgression. So I leave the choice of whether to stay my hand to you.”

Gortash’s breaths were shaky. His beautiful monster was looking at him with such grace and care. As if he had just asked him whether he wanted red or white wine with his supper, not threatened obscene torture. And Orin’s face betrayed a perverse excitement, eyes rolled back into her head. She was practically trembling like some neglected urchin whore. Gortash did not feel remotely qualified to intervene in family matters, but was seemingly given no other choice. He considered the appropriate measure for the situation, and proclaimed his verdict in his most fatherly tone.

“I would ask that you exercise mercy for now. We have far more important work to do than punishing the brat.”

Orin’s face fell. Perfect . As much as Gortash would have liked to see Orin inside out, he knew that she would probably enjoy it more than he did. Cyril removed his foot from her stomach and she stood up and crossed her arms, stomping away into the depths of the temple. Gortash let out a sigh and looked up at Cyril, who was beaming at him.

“My my. You never disappoint. Glad to see your sadistic talents have survived past your death. That’ll keep Orin in check for a few hours or so. Plenty of time for our purposes.” He gestured to the body on the altar, now recognizable as Minthara the drow, and prepared the ritual.

Chapter Text

Cum mortuis in lingua mortua.

Nothing happened. 

Minthara’s eyes did not glow and there was no deathly gasp for air. Cyril was positive he had made the proper preparations and spoke the incantation correctly. Then why wasn’t the drow responding? Cyril tried a couple more times, puzzled as each iteration produced no effect.

“I’m no expert on magic,” Gortash interjected from his perch on the stairs, a hint of arrogance peppering his tone. “But wouldn’t you use Speak With Dead on someone who is no longer alive?”

Cyril looked to his partner, who gestured to Minthara’s chest. Despite being covered in surface cuts and lacerations, it was rising and falling ever so slightly. It would be hard to spot if not directly pointed out. Pompous bastard . He probably had known the whole time and watched his failed attempts with that slimy grin of his. 

“Bhaal below, that murder-slut could not kill a starving rat even if it brought her poison! Do I have to do EVERYTHING around here myself?!” Cyril’s voice echoed and boomed through the chamber. He was met with some genuflections of ‘No, Prince of Bhaal!’ and ‘We answer the Murder Lord’s call!’ Good. At least in his absence his congregants had not completely lost themselves. Orin, however, seemed to have forgotten her place, yet again.

“Fel!” His butler appeared when called, swirling out of the dust of the chamber.

“Your evil-ness?” The grating voice awaited command. Cyril found that he had grown even more irritated by his servant after losing his memory, and now that they had almost completely returned, he couldn’t help but scrunch his face at the sight of the creature.

“Tell me. How long did Orin play with her new soul-toy before I arrived?”

“Oh! Well… it had to have been, and I may be wrong, your villainous-ness, but-”

“ Spit it out, puny imp. ”  

“About two and a half days by my count.” Sceleritas hunched forward and looked up at him, “A-and Lady Orin did not sleep, or even take a break to wipe her brow, she was so hard at work that-”

“You will ensure that my snivelling death-bitch sister does not see, feel, taste or smell even a drop of blood, her own or otherwise, for the same amount of time that she kept this precious soul-toy from experiencing Father’s Embrace!”

“Of course, Murder Prince! It shall be done! Anything else?”

“Die now.” Cyril pointed a finger at his repulsive servant, who exploded into a puddle of gore instantly. A smile slid onto Cyril’s face. Back to business.

“What a lovely family you have,” Gortash jeered.

“Fools, the lot of them.” Cyril inclined his head to the drow, took out a dagger and prepared to slit the woman’s throat.

“ Wait- ” The smallest of pleas crept from the drow’s ragged throat. Cyril paused, with the flat of the blade resting gently on her esophagus. “ Mer-cy ”

Mercy… a word that he thought he would never hear out of Minthara’s mouth. Of course she didn’t understand that the real mercy would be to allow him to continue his execution, but the novelty of it all caused Cyril to lift the knife from her neck. She was not dead, but perhaps she could still be of use on his hunt for the purple wizard. And since Cyril was brimming with mercy, he decided to heed her miserable appeal.

It wouldn’t do for her to be unable to speak, so Cyril prepared the most cursory of healing spells. Enough for her voice to return, but not so much that Father’s Embrace wouldn’t be but a single slice away. Minthara let out a few shallow coughs as the deep, cold voice he had once respected began to ring into Cyril’s ears.

“Please, Chosen of Bhaal, I am so happy to see that you have triumphed over the brain and the fruits of our labors are being reaped as we speak. Your power is truly a wonder, and m- mmh- ”

Cyril clasped a hand over Minthara’s mouth and leaned in for a whisper. “Please remove your nose from my arse, soul-toy. It is against your nature.” Minthara gave the slightest of nods as her eyes fell, and Cyril sat back up to look at her plainly. “I will not tarry, my dear , as I fear my blood-brained sister has not given you the mercy you so deeply deserve. I am working on an investigation, and I would like the use of your memories to locate some clues. My previous interviewees have been of the decaying variety and were not much for conversation. However, you have the opportunity to be of great use to me, and I will give you the overflowing bliss of Father’s mercy as a reward. Are you willing to help a poor man like me?”

Minthara was an intelligent woman. Cyril could tell she knew exactly how she was being manipulated. That’s why this was so fun. He could bend and stretch her weakened body and mind however he pleased. Whether she lived or died was of no consequence, he would get his answers all the same. His own little soul-toy. What was left of her pride flashed in her eyes. She was still restrained on the altar, wounded beyond repair, and being stared down by the most powerful mortal on the plane. This was a battle that she could not win. And she knew it.

“I do not wish to die by a man’s hand. You will procure one of your woman followers to deliver Bhaal’s mercy unto me . ”

“As you wish,” Cyril smiled.

“And she will do it when I tell her to. Not before, not after.”

Cyril always enjoyed the stubborn ones. The ones that tried to grasp for any power they could in their final moments. Knowing Gortash, he probably held the same sentiments. Cyril faked a pause to consider, then deeply nodded. “Not before, not after.” 

He beckoned Tyra, a young, lower ranked Night Blade girl, to come to him. She stood hesitantly on the last stair before the dais and waited for permission to step foot on it. Good girl . He nodded in Minthara’s direction, and Tyra quietly took her place at the end of the altar near the drow’s head. 

“Night Blade Tyra, this is Minthara, my honored guest. Put your knife at her throat, now. That’s a good girl. You are to watch over her and do as she tells you. And only as she tells you. You will not follow orders from me until we are done here. Are you ready?”

Tyra nodded sheepishly. It was understandable for her to be nervous. “Now, kill her, Tyra. ” The girl’s knife-wielding hand shook for a moment, but did not move. Cyril was pleased to have such a faithful and obedient follower. Gortash was visibly boiling over with arousal at the scene, expression ablaze and sweat beading on his brow. Minthara’s eyes burned with rage upon seeing this girl be so easily dominated by him. Cyril returned from his power trip to get to work. There was much to be done.

###

Minthara was many things, but she was not a coward. She had been disrespected, shunned, and betrayed more times than she could count. She found that those who had scorned and slighted her were the cowardly ones, unable to competently wield the power they had. She had gotten this far through sheer strength of will and unyielding focus on her goals. If she set her mind to something, she would accomplish it. There was no doubt.

However, laying on this altar, with a knife at her throat held by a dominated female child, being called ‘toy’ by this duk-tak , a feeling arose in Minthara’s chest that she had never experienced before: Defeat. The crushing weight that this would be a mountain that she could not climb, an enemy she could not smite, buried itself in her chest and began to spread through her veins. She was of course no stranger to torture, but her dominion had been within her reach, only to be snatched from her grasp, which stung more than any of Orin’s intricate carvings. She no longer needed chains to stay on this stone slab. Her body and mind did all the restraining for her.

She was tempted to take the easy way and instruct her killer to end it right then. But Minthara was not a coward. She would not allow herself the release into whatever Lolth, curse her name, had in store for her. Not yet. Her last moments would count as a testament to her strength of will, despite how broken she had allowed herself to become. 

Bhaal’s monster (the real one and not Orin’s sloppy caricature) sat at her side. Most of his face held a pleasant, if not grateful expression, but his eyes gleamed with the most predatory of gazes. She was nothing more than flesh that could talk to him. And to think she once considered him an ally. That’s what she got for trusting a man… He was unarmed, and reached one hand out to straighten some of her hair. She hissed at him for the disrespect, and he calmly, slowly, returned his hand to his lap. Minthara’s jaw tensed reflexively, causing an evil smile to settle on his face.

“I am not here to hurt you, my dear .” The vile tiefling’s voice floated above her. “You alone control the pain you receive. I just want to talk.”

Minthara stared at him in silence, she would not hinder his cause, but would certainly not do anything to help it along too quickly.

The beast continued, “I have been approached by a strange wizard who is asking me to find his body so I can obtain the weapon he possesses. He seems to think that we have met before, but I have no such recollection. I am consulting my former companions to see if they have any recollections of this wizard, or any other salient information they have on the subject. Any thoughts? Anything at all…”

“It is greatly unfortunate that you have left all of your allies to perish, is it not? I am sure they would have loved to help you on your little chase had you the brains to recognize the value of loyalty, iblith .” Minthara couldn’t keep the insult from spilling out. The duk-tak allowed a flash of anger on his face for just a moment, so she drove the knife deeper. “You are a man of many talents to be sure, but it sounds like you even betrayed your lover at the moment of your triumph. Or at least, that is what I heard from your- oh how did you put it? Snivelling murder-bitch sister ?”

“Tyra! Cut off her right thumb and feed it to me! ” There was a certain performative tone to his voice.

Minthara reflexively balled up her fist in preparation for the attack, but the cold metal of the girl’s blade on her throat did not move. Looking up, Minthara found the girl staring back at her, eyes glazed over, following orders without question. His orders. She darted her eyes back to the Bhaalspawn, whose evil grin intensified. How dare he treat a female like this?

“Are you done?” Cyril blinked at her wearily.

“I do not keep the company of wizards . And by the time I joined your little entourage, the only ones left were the scared little vampling, the noble devil boy, and the bisected cleric. And of course the brave advocatus diaboli , whom you so flippantly exiled.”

The duk-tak threw his hands up in frustration, turning toward his living lover as he complained. “Both of you fail to see that Karlach left of her own free will! I gave her the choice and she chose what she wanted!”

“I am so very sorry that I, your little soul-toy , do not carry the knowledge you seek.” Minthara’s patience for this abhorrent man was growing thin. She needed to end this, and she knew exactly how to lead him astray. She creased her mouth and waited for his full attention. “If it is more power you are searching for, I seem to remember a weapon… of sorts… that snuffed out 7,000 lives in one shot. I have no doubt it would help you on your quest to make the world bleed.”

The tiefling’s eyebrows raised in interest. This was it. The last moments of her life lay before her, within her reach. All of the betrayal, the affronts to her pride mattered not as she staked her life’s goal on making this detestable creature’s life even a little harder. Cazador, having ascended, would not be so easily broken. And if it meant relying on a man, a faerie even, to accomplish her final wish, she could die with a smile, knowing that she had bested the monster, even for a second.

“So many bodies for Father’s harvest! Where can I find this weapon, my dear? ”

Minthara took a deep breath, her last, and performed a long, dramatic pause. 

“ Cut my throat, Tyra. ”

Minthara smiled at the intimate honor of being killed by a woman on her own terms. The final sounds she heard were the duk-tak ’s groans of childish frustration overshadowed by Gortash’s raucous laughter.

###

“Damn that vainglorious Lolth-sworn insect . I hope the spider-bitch dissects her mulish soul into pieces so small that they won’t even attach to her despicable web!” Cyril spat. “Tyra! Get out of my sight! You will be punished for your insubordination!”

Gortash observed the scene with fiendish glee. It was so enjoyable to see his monster sweat. Cyril had fallen right into her trap, and she had the last laugh. A hard thing to do when in the center of his murderous sights. Cyril frantically prepared the components for Speak with Dead as Gortash continued to chuckle.

“Having fun are you? Well I am pleased that you are enjoying this little shitshow . Please leave your tips in Sceleritas’ gore-pile.” The tiefling rushed around some more to prepare his magic. Then cast the spell to speak with the drow that had died not five minutes before. 

Gortash had little interest in what they had to say. The fun was over now. He had a few moments to reflect  on his situation, and tendrils of doubt once again seeped into his mind. Cyril had surrounded himself with activity from the moment that Gortash had opened his eyes in rebirth. The man couldn’t sit still, and was clearly avoiding his thoughts. 

Gortash, however, had significant amounts of time to examine himself. He wasn’t in the habit of doing such things, but his new lease on life could allow for the practice of new activities. He gazed wistfully at his murderous lover’s demonstration of magical expertise and domineering presence. He of course admired Cyril greatly, and had treasured their romance before the Bhaalspawn’s fall. He even fondly remembered the brief moments of passion they shared before defeating the brain. But now. He couldn’t place a finger on it, but the dynamic seemed… off.

He was yanked from his thoughts as cold touches worked their way up his arm, and he felt a warm breath on the back of his neck. He whipped his head around to see Orin’s pale, crazed face. She pulled her hands back away from him with feigned guilt. “Oops, I’m not allowed to touch Brother’s Bhaal-bound Bitch-Babe.” Her sing-songy voice was barely above a whisper. “You won’t tattle on me, will you, love-slave?”

Gortash had spoken to Orin enough to know that the vast majority of the things she said were absolute nonsensical drivel. But something about the way she spoke these words to him made him believe her. Even if he had no idea what she was talking about.

“You know,” Orin continued, “Father devised such a cruel punishment for Brother. This one might be his harshest one yet…” She looked him up and down with fake pity.

“Orin, could you make sense for once ? I tire of your constant riddles.”

Gortash wasn’t sure if Orin knew how to express a real emotion, as faux shock and offense flashed across her face. “Little ex-tyrant, I would never lie to you! After all we’ve been through and done together? I’m hurt that you think so little of me! But if your little blood brain must know what’s going on, I suppose I will tell you. Because Brother most certainly won’t.”

Gortash’s fears grew from pebbles to rocks in his stomach. He steadied himself for whatever awful truth he was about to hear.

“You, Bane-slave, are now Bhaal-bound. That means that Brother has struck a contract with Daddy, and your silly soul is the seal. You see when Brother killed you, he broke a promise he made to Daddy a long time ago. Big Brother swore that he would kill you on Daddy’s altar, but youuuu know he didn’t do that.” Orin poked at Gortash’s stomach for effect. “This made the Murder Lord verrry angry with him. So to punish him, Daddy brought you back and said that you were to be-”

“-The last soul alive on the plane. Yes I got that part.” Gortash rolled his eyes, his fear sinking deeper into his guts. “You have yet to explain to me why this is a punishment.” 

“Well, think with that genius brain-meat of yours. You’re the most powerful man in the world, and you are given your lover back. But something is different. Lover-bitch Enver isn’t a very fun toy anymore. You’re weak , and godless. Your little affairs aren’t forbidden. He’s not even allowed to hurt you in a moment of passion for fear of breaking his big-Daddy’s contract. So Brother gets bored of his lover-doll, but he can’t get rid of you!

“And then of course there’s the little Bhaal-Bound Boy. He is brought back to a dying world without his consent and is verrry cross with Brother for staking a contract on his soul. Brother offered him an alternative of course, but he's too prideful to take it. So he chooses to travel with a Murder Prince who has grown to despise his guts, but can’t rip them out! Honestly, I’d feel sad for Big Brother if he didn’t deserve this, but he doessss, so I can feel a little sad for you instead. No wonder blasphemer Bane so easily gave up your soul! This is far worse than any torment he could have given you. Poor, poor Enver-toy .” Orin stood up and left with a smile.

Gortash was stunned, he took a moment to offer a prayer to Lord Bane, before remembering that He was not there to listen. Orin loved to twist words, but so did Cyril. They were both monsters after all. He himself was no stranger to showering his truth with lies. He had no idea what to believe. It did seem like pieces were falling into place, though. Bhaal wasn’t exactly known for his benevolence, even toward his children. The Urge was proof of that. But Cyril had not been treating him like he was a penance, perhaps his lover hadn’t even paused to think about it because he was afraid of the truth, or simply had no idea this was the purpose of Bhaal’s unusual actions. Either way, they would need to talk this through. He needed to get Cyril to stop fluttering about and think through their situation.

The conversation with Minthara had long since ended, but the tiefling had been running around consulting various books and maps and selecting weapons. He came running back to the dais with all sorts of supplies haphazardly jammed into a backpack. He was bouncing on his tip-toes. “Prepare the drow’s face for display while I’m gone!” he called out to a nearby cultist. “Enver! We’re going vampire hunting!”

Chapter Text

Gortash looked up at Cyril with angry eyes. Odd . He had seemed fine before. What changed?

“We will be doing no such thing, Bhaalspawn , until we have a chat.” Gortash only called Cyril ‘Bhaalspawn’ when he was cross with him. What had he done wrong?

“I’m very sorry for leaving you alone for a little while. I know it must have been boring watching from all the way over here. But I’d love for you to join the fun next time if you’re feeling-”

“No. It’s not that.” Gortash’s tone churned with gravel. “We will go to my house and rest. Now.”

“Oh but of course, my love, your deepest desire is my command.” If all Gortash needed was a rest, and perhaps some… other activities… why didn’t he just say so? He was right after all, it had been a long couple of days, and some time was required to blow off some steam. Cyril extended his arm to his little tyrant. Gortash pushed it away.

“I can walk myself. I don’t need your help.”

They walked together in puzzling silence. Gortash still sported a heavy limp, but was correct in assessing that he could walk on his own; he was healing quite nicely indeed. Through the sigil networks, the pair reached the Lord’s mansion quickly. Gortash opened the door for him, but closed the door on his tail. What has gotten into him? He seemed so entertained with Minthara’s spectacle, but now acted like he couldn’t stand the sight of him. This needed to be remedied quickly. They needed to pay Cazador a visit at daybreak, he couldn’t afford adding more to his steadily growing pile of distractions. 

“Shall I put the kettle on? Or have you quenched your thirst with blood enough today?” 

Cyril had seen Gortash angry many times before. Sometimes, he would intentionally incite the tyrant’s ire by sending him various Banite body parts through the post, or perhaps being a little too affectionate in front of Ketheric. The appropriate expression of anger was an acquired skill that often benefited their cause, and certainly made their romance more interesting. This was not one such time. There was sadness dripping from every word he spoke. Weakness . These were the remarks of a scorned wife, not a tyrant-lover. Cyril wrangled every drop of empathy he possessed to try to deduce what was wrong, but he came up dry. This conversation would have to be handled the hard way. A scowl crawled onto Cyril’s lips, and he started rubbing his temples.

“Tea is just fine, thank you.”

There was a pause as Gortash clattered around the kitchen. His servants were no longer in the house. Cyril had most likely killed them unknowingly on his way here, so his lover was left to his own devices. Cyril thought to offer help, but decided against it considering the mood he was in. When the tea was ready, Gortash sat across the dining table from him with sad eyes staring him down.

“Are you quite pleased with yourself, Bhaalspawn?”

“Is there a reason I should be?”

“I know how much you like to play with toys. You have mastered the art of playing with mortal fear in such beautiful ways for which I have nothing but admiration. Are you pleased that you will have me as a toy for the rest of time?”

“Enver, I have never considered you to be a-”

Gortash’s teacup smashed on the table breaking into shards and spilling tan liquid onto its wood veneer. “ Do not lie to me. ” 

The similarities between this conversation and the one in Gortash’s office not a tenday ago were not lost on Cyril. He would need to tread carefully, so as not to lose Father’s gift. “Could you help me to understand where this is coming from? I do not wish to lie to you out of misunderstanding.”

Gortash acquiesced. “Orin told me everything. About your contract, your punishment, your motives.”

Oh. That conniving sister-bitch.

“It would not help my cause if I immediately refuted your concerns, as Orin is half-correct.”

“I seem to remember a time when you found me unbearable for my half-truths. But at least I had a motive to lie! You all have already won! There is no one left to convince of your strength! Why is it so difficult for you to speak plainly to me now?”

Gortash was right. There was no reason to hide the truth, but he and Orin did such things as a matter of course. Running under the mostly accurate assumption that outsiders wouldn’t understand Father’s decisions, they spun the meanings of their choices to work in their favor. Theirs was a church of manipulation as much as it was murder. And Cyril was its Master. 

Of course any good manipulator would start by saying what their victim thought they wanted to hear. Gortash thought he wanted the truth. But he did not, they never do. He wanted Cyril to confirm whatever version of the truth he had already decided upon after piecing together the very little information he had on the situation. No, if Cyril was to be successful in recovering this relationship, he would have to lie, and be prepared to suffer the consequences for it.

“Enver, I can see the pain I have caused you and I will do anything I can to rectify it.” Truth. “I will tell you everything now.” Lie . “And I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me. If not now, then someday. Orin is correct: you are Bhaal-bound to me until the bitter end of the world.” Truth . “But not as a toy, for soul or sex or torture or anything.” Lie. “I deeply regretted killing you on top of the crown, and Father saw that regret as disobedience to Him.” Truth . “As I began filling the streets with blood, I felt no pleasure.” Lie . “And when I found you, I was reminded of my failures in much the same way as Bane was likely reminding you of yours.” Truth . “I considered how awful you must feel in that Tyrant’s domain, paying penance for my mistakes, and I wanted to save you.” Lie. “I couldn’t let that be the end of us, so I pleaded with Father to help both of us.” Truth. “Father is rarely kind, but he saw my grief and took mercy on me, allowing for this bond so you would be safe from Bane, and from me.” Lie, lie, lie. “I have done so much to hurt you, and I am not good at healing things, but you can’t blame a Bhaalspawn for trying, right? I will do everything in my power to earn your trust. Because what’s done is done, this binding cannot be broken. But I vow to make sure you no longer suffer on my account.” Truth, truth, truth. “I love you, Enver.” … Lie…

Cyril spent the long moment of silence in miserable prayer. He wasn’t even sure if it was to Father or not, some of it may have even gone to Bane. He just wanted this to work. He wanted to buy time until he could figure out what he truly felt. He knew that some of the things he said were lies, but he didn’t know what exactly the truth was. It was all a jumble in his mind. 

Gortash was not prone to act in sudden violence. He usually kept his cool like any good politician and preferred his wounds to be sourced in the quiet moments of betrayal and power plays. These were no normal circumstances, however, and Gortash could do any number of unpredictable things. Cyril consciously allowed his guard to go down. If his partner was to attack, he wanted it to land. To hurt. He deserved it. This would be part of his penance. 

He had not miscalculated the situation.

###

There was a time for quiet words spoken across a dining table. A time for slightly louder words sobbed out from a torture rack. A time for shouted words out of the mouths of heralds and paperboys. A time for whispered words of scandal and gossip between nobility for blackmail. Gortash had used each of these methods to its fullest advantage. They were what got him to his position as Archduke and Bane’s Chosen. Words spoken at the right time in the right way were what made Gortash who he was.

Now was not the time for words. His monstrous lover had fed him heinous lies and called them the whole truth. Cyril had belittled him and stripped him of his power at every turn, and then told him that he was there to protect him with a smile on his face. Gortash had run out of petty insults to call him, flowery displays of emotion. Now was the time for action.

Bane’s disgraced Chosen possessed more power than he let on. He had healed back to near full function hours ago, and of course virtually every surface in his home was trapped or secured in some way, for emergencies. He may have lost Bane’s Boon, but he had not lost his skills as a fighter and inventor. This suited him all the better since his partner thought him so weak. 

The Steel Watch Foundry had fallen days ago, but the original prototype for the Watchers stood proudly in the corner of the room closest to Cyril. It was disconnected from the main network in the foundry and instead hooked up to a smaller unit in Gortash’s workshop. The prototype was not very strong, and had limited uses (it had been mainly used to entertain guests and donors at parties), but it would suit his purposes. 

An unspoken command to his prized invention sprung it to life. The machine lunged toward the tiefling and plucked him from his seat. Disregarding caution, the Watcher swung Cyril at the wall where he impacted with a crash that rattled the dishware stored in the hutch nearby, knocking the wind out of the monster. 

This bought Gortash precious seconds to cross the room as the Watcher kept Cyril pinned to the wall by his shoulders. He wasted no time digging his knee into the tiefling’s thigh, snapping manacles hanging from the Watcher’s hip on his wrists and securing them to the wall above his head. There were strategically placed, multipurpose slits in the wall’s paneling, for hanging shelves or decorations, but also perfectly housed the other end of restraints such as these. He had gotten the idea from the pegged boards on which he hung his tools in his workshop. He had used this function once before during a Banite leadership dinner party when one of his higher ranking members had a bit too much to drink and started spilling too many secrets.

This design was meant to send a message; that when they were in his house, his city, Archduke Gortash was in control. They did a decent job holding the inebriated Fist, but Gortash knew that his crafty wall mounted cuffs would do little to subdue the full power of Bhaal’s masterpiece. The only reason Cyril would remain there was if he wanted to. 

And the smug little bastard stayed put, giving no struggle when Gortash moved to secure his legs, and his tail for good measure. He dismissed the Watcher back to its post. He searched Cyril’s seemingly endless robes for his ritual dagger, holding it aloft, which brought great displeasure to the Bhaalspawn’s eyes. That dagger was a bound weapon, and never left his hip unless it was embedded blade-first into a target. 

Actions had been taken. Not enough yet, but that would come in time. Now was the time for words. He had a lot of them, but tried his best to be as succinct as possible, a difficult task. 

“Do you wish me to play the part of a doting fool for the rest of my days? Shall I use this knife to castrate myself so you can fuck me and use me without feeling the need to bend over and take it ? You may have rid me of my Accursed Slaver, but that does not make me any less of a tyrant . I will not allow such blatant disrespect to fall upon my ears in my house. It matters not to me what you and your forsaken family get up to with your disgusting blood-pacts and soul-toys. But you will not vomit your blood-bathed lies and fanatical prayers upon my carpet. You dare to swirl your sickly-sweet manipulations at me again, and I will end my own life and make you watch as your soul-contract bleeds out onto the desecrated cobbles! Do not speak, but nod your head if I have made myself quite clear.”

A horned head nodded. There was no sign of mischief behind his eyes, just a knowing look of penitence. He knew exactly why he was here, chained to Gortash’s wall like an insubordinate slave; he knew and he accepted it. Domineering cult leader or no, he knew how to lower his head to authority when it presented itself. He was in perfect submission.

Thousands of arrogant quips flooded into Gortash’s head. But he held his tongue. While it was true that much of his strength had returned, the events of the day and the cathartic show of force had worn him out. Gortash conjured a scrying eye and set it at a distance that would capture Cyril’s entire body in its gaze. He waited a few moments before delivering his next instruction, holding the tiefling’s chin in his hand to ensure eye contact.

“I must rest now. You will keep your head bowed and remain perfectly still until I wake. If you so much as clench your fist, my scrying eye will see you and alert me. If this happens, I will leave. You will not see even the top of my head or my bloody boot prints until my day of reckoning comes. I will not do anything to jeopardize your soul-contract, but I refuse to spend the rest of my days with someone who does not respect my authority. You are, of course, free to leave at any time, but in doing so you will sever all ties with me. You are to take this time to remain motionless and think about what you have done. You may speak if you understand.”

“Yes…sir…” a whisper crackled its way out of Cyril’s throat.

Gortash raised his eyebrows. He could do better than that.

“Yes, Master.” 

Better… More confident this time, but not quite what he was looking for. Gortash continued to stare at him expectantly.

“Yes, my love. I understand.”

Gortash let go of Cyril’s chin, and his head immediately bowed to him. If Gortash wasn’t so utterly pissed off, he would be intensely aroused. But he was angry and tired, so he extinguished the lights and returned to his bedroom. There had been precious moments like this when they had been in the prime of their relationship, but they had been few and far between, and always when there was at least a little more balance of power between them. Gortash couldn’t help but feel immense tenderness and love when he snuck a glance back at his monster on his way to bed.

…

Gortash slept without interruption. Because of the mass death in the streets, there was no sound from outside. Not even his Steel Watch were clattering around. Gortash felt more upset about the destruction of his greatest invention than the countless lives of his would-be subjects that were being cut down left and right. Gortash would never tell Cyril this, but he had not, in fact, set up the scrying eye to record every movement. He knew that with his monster, it would be all or nothing, no cheeky attempts at easing any discomfort. He would either be there following orders, or he would be gone forever. Gortash dismissed the scrying screen before he could look at it. He wanted to find out for himself. The tiniest shimmer of light was pushing past the curtains, and if Cyril had chosen to stay, he would surely be anxious to get going on his hunt for Cazador, so he did not tarry in preparing himself for the day. He descended the stairs and rounded the corner into the dining room, more nervous than he expected he’d be. 

There he was, arms hanging limply from their restraints, standing squarely, with his head bowed. Exactly the way he had left him hours ago. Gortash paused in the doorway to take it in. He was pleased, of course. His ploy had worked to slow the man down. He was also concerned about precisely how much reserved strength the monster possessed, considering the likely unbearable strain being put on his upper body and arms. He noticed a third emotion, hesitation. What now? Cyril had paid his penance to him, earning his trust. Gortash had not stopped to consider what that meant going forward. That would have to wait for another time, because the fourth emotion, love , was what caused his feet to move closer to his bound Bhaalspawn. 

Cyril did not move, or even twitch as he approached. “You may look up at me,” Gortash was gentle in his instructions. He may look the part of an unforgiving tyrant to an outsider, but the care he displayed in this priceless moment with his monster was beyond power of expression.

Cyril slowly lifted his face and let his eyes meet his partner’s. Gortash wasn’t sure what he was expecting to see, but puffy cheeks and watery eyes were not part of his vision. There was a small puddle of tears on the floor between his feet. He must have been crying for quite some time, and seemed to still be doing so. His eyes showed evidence of the deepest of sorrows, nearing despondence. Perhaps this situation was a horrendous punishment for him after all. The man looked like he had been broken, becoming moldable in Gortash’s hands. This would not do.

“You will cease your blubbering, as it is below your station. I expect you to clean the mess you made on my floor. Do you have anything to say to me?”

Cyril took several breaths to collect himself, his bleary eyes clearing up with each exhale. Once his face regained its focus, he cleared his throat and spoke. “I am sorry . Perhaps the most sorry I have ever been in my wretched, miserable life. I do not deserve your grace, as I am worse than the sewer rats bathing in blood-braided shit for the way I have dishonored you. I could spend eternity on my knees, flogging my shoulders until there is no blood left to draw and still not be worthy to look upon your face. Please allow me to beg for your forgiveness until my lying, treacherous throat dries up and my despicable, horrid tongue falls out of my mouth to be ground into nothingness under your resplendent, tyrannical heel.”

Gortash had caused many to beg before. For mercy in his torture rooms. For a better deal on whatever trade he was most assuredly swindling them on. For his cock in their mouth so that they could swallow his seed and hope to earn his good graces. Sometimes, begging amused him; lately the appeal had grown stale. However, this genuine plea from his lover, his partner, his monster, captured his heart in a way that it had not been caught before. The pathetic, ridiculous Son of a Murder God chained to his wall had belittled and degraded himself to the highest degree, and believed every word of his miserable apology. What was he to do with this weeping mess? Gortash wanted to cry himself, but there would be nothing accomplished by that. He had to stay strong for now.

“You will not speak so little of yourself. Have you no shame? I only wished you to take a moment to think, and this was the only way I could ensure you would do it. If you insist on being degraded, I am more than happy to provide my services, but you will not receive them if you remain in this state. I will not allow you to forsake your well-deserved, Gods-given pride in an effort to placate me. You are to fulfill your purpose as the Lash to end all worlds. And if you wish to grovel at my feet and submit to my tyranny when the red sun sets on another day of sumptuous murder, you will do so with a smile on your face, knowing that you deserve everything this world will give you.”

Cyril cracked a sheepish smile, adoration encircling his expression.

“Have you learned your lesson?”

“Yes, my love.”

Gortash began to release Cyril’s restraints, starting with his hands, which flopped down to his sides, and working downward. He swooped in to kiss the tiefling on his mouth, which was still quivering with a hint of sadness. It was a short kiss, but it filled them both with a warmth that they had not experienced in ages. After releasing him, Cyril fell limply onto Gortash’s supporting shoulder. How quickly had their roles been reversed.

“What do you need to recover?” Gortash carried the weakened Bhaalspawn toward the kitchen, but found that he was beginning to support himself more and more at an astounding rate. 

“Water would be nice. Perhaps some fruit or bread if you have it.” Though the fruit that had been sitting in a bowl on the table had grown over-ripe, almost to the point of rotting, Cyril munched and hummed gratefully. He gulped down a goblet of water

“Oh!” He added with a mouthful of soggy apple, “And I will indulge myself in a few sips of blood on the way.” Cyril’s business tone had returned. Gortash was quite sure that the blood alone would restore him to full functioning, and that he was requesting the food and water so as not to refuse his hospitality, damned liar , but he decided to let it go. It was not the most egregious of falsehoods. “Not yours of course. But one must eat like a vampire to defeat one!” 

“Well then! Let’s go vampire hunting!”

Chapter Text

Cyril beamed with glee during his morning murder spree on the way to the Szarr palace. His lover was by his side, the red sun warmed his skin, and the Urge had finally quieted down after the twelfth or so killing of the day. The night of penance had done him good, and he was back, and better than ever. This was a distraction, and a risky one at that, but it indirectly led to Astarion, so there could be some answers lying somewhere around the vampire den.

He had never killed a vampire before, and had barely met any before encountering Astarion. This was out of character for him, as he found the practice of blood drinking quite titillating. A Vampire Ascendant, seeing as there was only one and they were on their way to meet him, was a subject completely unknown to him. Could he be killed? Was there a reason to? Minthara had indicated that this ‘weapon’ was the ascension ritual itself. An intriguing option, but it seemed to be quite a laborious endeavor, considering the amount of centuries Cazador spent working on it. And Cyril had been in the business of actively making enemies with devils, so it might be difficult to strike up such a contract with one now. 

As he continued to think, Cyril was starting to wonder if any of this would be worth his time. But upon seeing the contented face of his lover beside him, and licking his lips to savor the sample of blood he had taken from a fresh victim, he considered that doing this would just be fun. Astarion had made it beyond clear that Cazador was a vile man and not to be trifled with, but so was Cyril. Gortash had met the Vampire Lord a few times in some high society soirées, and was also curious to see how the bloodsucker exercised his power in his own home. Perhaps they could compare notes, or compete. The Bhaalspawn would win of course. But it would be enjoyable all the same.

The pair of conquerors shared wicked grins as they approached the castle grounds, uninvited.

###

It had been a loathsome tenday for the Vampire Ascendant. He had finally secured his disobedient spawn to finish his preparations for the rite. The pitiful boy did not even bring his friends when he stormed in with empty threats to ‘take him down’ and ‘end this profane ritual.’ It would have been laughable if it weren’t so incredibly sad. The ritual continued without interruption, of course. But not hours after he had completed his naissance into the all-powerful Vampire Ascendant, chaos overtook the city as a hideous elder-brain emerged from below it. His runaway spawn had made mention of the brain and the Absolute Plot while whimpering his excuses under Godey’s care. This must be the result of it. It appeared that his plans for vampiric domination would need to wait until this creature was dealt with, one way or another. There was no need to rush after all.

Then the red sun rose.

Cazador had never taken much stock in the dealings of gods before, he rather considered himself to be his own god. But he had lived long enough to know what the red sun meant. And he was not pleased. How dare the puny Bhaalspawn he had heard so much about and his band of nobodies take his dominion from him, right as he had started to stake his claim? 

There had been a little more chaos in the house since the rite, as all of his spawn had been consumed by it, and what was left of his servants were too lazy to pick up the pieces fast enough. But Cazador was a patient man, he would come up with something in time. It was his destiny after all. 

Cazador was lounging in his office chair, now positioned near an open window so he could soak up the sun, no matter its color, after spending so much time in the dark. The streets to the North were all but silent, the scent of spilt blood so pungent that it reached his sharpened nose in his castle at the edge of the upper city. The streets lower down were getting quieter, occasionally marked by the screams of victims being hunted by the sickening illithids or the even more repulsive Bhaalists. So much wasted blood. So many lives that should have been his to claim. The din of screams had been tuned to a dull roar from his daily perch at his window, and the change in their pattern, frequency, and volume drew Cazador’s attention.

Sharp cries of horror followed by ghastly, maniacal laughter echoed through the park below him. Why people were out of doors at a time like this was beyond him, but they were dead now, so he supposed it did not matter. The wails grew closer, and Cazador peered out the window to see a trail of bodies from the upper city wall right to his doorstep. He stood suddenly, and winced as he heard the unmistakable death-cry of a servant he had tasked with minding the door, and the sharp rap of its knocker. He had never batted an eye when one of his slaves had found their way into trouble before. They were not strong enough to continue living, it was as simple as that. So why did he suddenly feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and notice the tiniest of quivers in his staff-bearing hand?

Gliding to the door, the vampire waved away the gathering mist of undoubtedly irrational fear. He would have none of this weak behavior in his own house. He would face whatever paltry threat that had foolishly trespassed onto his property and dispatched his slave, and make it regret ever doing so. He gripped his staff and opened the door, and was unfortunately wholly unprepared for what would happen next.

###

“Catch!” As soon as the Vampire Lord’s hands were in sight, Cyril lobbed the unfortunate servant’s still-bleeding head right at his chest. Out of instinct alone, the elf released his grip on the staff and caught the head. As soon as the staff left his clutches and began its descent to the ground, Gortash dove for it, the clever bastard. Now that the elven vampire had foolishly traded his precious staff for a mere severed head (and not even a pretty one at that), Cyril greeted him with a warm smile. This was going to be easier than he thought…

“I must say, your reflexes are quite admirable!” Cyril taunted. “Did you engage in sport as a child? Or have you always been this ugly and pointy?” 

“ Bhaalspawn… ” the man’s voice took on an animalistic growl, not unlike his own on particularly difficult hunts.

“I see my reputation precedes me! Well met, oh great Vampire Ascendant, first and last of his kind.” Cyril performed a fake bow. Cazador bared his fangs and widened his stance. “Now, now, is that a way to treat your honored guests? For a vampire, you practice poor entryway etiquette. We even brought you a gift!” He gestured pointedly at the servant’s head, which had been dropped to the floor.

“Are you here to kill me? You’re welcome to try.” Cazador did his best to sound intimidating. “I will warn you that I-”

Cyril fixed his eyes at the center of the vampire’s forehead, and summoned the fullest measure of his murderous aura. Before he had been named Chosen, he had used his magic, more specifically a Fear spell, to control the emotions and reactions of his prey. Now, the ability had become more natural, and tailored to his specific needs. The aura made his opponents more… vulnerable and easier to manipulate. Since he wasn’t sure how much power this enemy possessed, he thought it would be better to overdo it. Cazador froze where he stood, fangs still on display, sharp nails curled at his side, with panicked eyes trying to sink into themselves. This aura would not last forever, so he would need to make this quick. 

“If I wanted to kill you, you would be dead. This is my Father’s world, under his sun. And He has placed it in my care. I own this plane, this land, this city, and this house. I own you. And it is only by my grace that it is not your head I am throwing around for sport.” Cyril released the aura, but Cazador stayed put. He gave a sweet smile to the immortal vampire-god. “May we come in?”

Gortash had leaned against the outer wall of the house, panting. The aura at full power was harder to control, so Gortash must have gotten caught in the crossfire. He would surely pay ‘penance’ for that tonight. Cyril extended a consoling hand to his lover, who took it as the vampire ushered them in. As they walked through musty corridors, Gortash was examining the staff’s craftsmanship, Cyril had his gaze trained on the back of the elf’s head, and Cazador was doing everything in his power to keep from collapsing in fear. 

“It’s awfully quiet around here,” Cyril prodded, “I suppose all those nasty little rumors about you running a particularly deadly brothel must have been wrong. Unless… something happened to all your spawn-whores… You know killing all of your employees is bad for business. Even I know that, and I am the Prince of killing.”

Cyril didn’t think he had it in him, but Cazador actually spoke. “My little runaway regaled us all with fairy tales of a deadly Bhaalpawn sorcerer, a cutthroat drow and a woman with an engine for a heart who would come to rescue him and put an end to my ‘reign of terror.’ He was always too stupid to know when he was being used. Perhaps if you hadn’t betrayed him, I would have heeded your business advice .”

“ Master Szarr! You offend me! I would never betray anyone I considered a friend.” 

Gortash spat and looked at him pointedly. He was apparently keeping track of all the little stray arrows and insults Cyril sent his way. Good.

“I tried to tell him that he did not have any friends, but he did not believe me. As usual I was right.” Cazador was bold indeed to question the strength of Cyril’s character twice in a row.

The truth was that Astarion had left camp in the middle of the night after defeating Orin. He had decided that he was done waiting and left to confront Cazador himself. An objectively stupid thing to do, and it was plain to see how that turned out, but it was a decision made entirely out of Cyril’s hands. He had enough honor to recognize the countless betrayals he had wrought on his comrades, Karlach included, but refused to be held responsible for an action that he could not control. They could have gone after him, yes, but with one ally down and an increasingly angry Netherbrain, there was simply no time. Cyril had greatly respected Astarion, more than he had ever expressed to him, and looked forward to having him as a sacrifice one day. Instead he wound up consumed in a ritual performed by this twat .

Cyril’s nostrils began to flare in an anger that quite closely resembled vengeance. As they arrived in the sitting room, none of them sat, and he started to forget why they were even here, why this blood-waster still stood. Gortash’s hand gently tapped his own, and he came back into focus. He further came to the rescue by continuing the conversation. “Master Szarr, we understand that it has been quite some time since you have seen the sun, and would love for you to continue to do so, as it burns red in the sky in honor of my lover’s triumph. We would ask that if you wish to live out your ascendant undeath, you will not besmirch our good will as a matter of general courtesy.” He had such a beautiful way with words.

“But of course, gentlemen. I would not wish to incite the wrath of Bane and Bhaal by impugning on your moral fiber .” 

Cazador’s provocation set Cyril over the edge. He lunged at the vampire, grappling him by the neck from behind and putting his mouth right up against his pointed ear. “I do not give two bloody shits about Bane’s wrath, but if my unholy Father’s name comes out of your putrid mouth again, I will rip out your jaw and use it to-”

Gortash walked into his sightline and held up his hand to stop him. “My partner is simply trying to ask some questions. I politely request that you do not invoke powers that do not belong in this conversation.”

“So the Bhaalspawn has a mouth, but does it have teeth?” Cazador sneered. “Or has its handler filed them down so he doesn’t get bitten while it sucks his cock?”

“I WILL SHOW YOU TEETH, BLOOD-SLAVE!” Cyril’s eyes rolled red and he lost control. He opened his mouth as far as it would go and dug his teeth into the flesh of the decaying elf’s neck. Cazador yelped in pain and tried to shift out of the grapple, which only made the Bhaalspawn sink his canines deeper into the cold skin and hard muscle. It was not a pleasant experience. He tightened his grip around the vampire’s collarbones and intended to continue biting along the neck moving toward his throat, when suddenly, the man vanished out from under him and left Cyril careening toward the ground. 

A disembodied voice rang from the opposite corner of the room. “I am not impressed by your show of teeth, little doggy. You imply your steadfastness and honor with those you call friends. I wonder if you will be able to prioritize them over your precious prey.” Cazador materialized a few yards away. With a wicked smile, he threw his dagger straight at Gortash’s back. 

There was no time to push Gortash out of the way, but plenty of time to pounce on Cazador, since he was no longer armed. He was not willing to put his lover’s life in danger, but it would be difficult to find another opportunity where Cazador would provide an opening. He had to think quickly, and acted on the first plan that came to mind, one that would hopefully accomplish both objectives.

“Inveniam Viam! ” Cyril instantly teleported directly in the path of the dagger. “Enver! Leave! Now! ”

Gortash did not need to be told twice and bolted for the door, reaching it right as the dagger lodged itself in Cyril’s lower gut. He cried out, in pain at first, but then in divine rage as his skin shed and the monster inside burst forth in a fountain of blood.

###

So the little mutt was as ugly as his soul. A shame, really, as the tiefling was quite pretty, and could have made for a delightful spawn. At least now that it had shown its true form, Cazador held no qualms about putting the beast down. Its four arms, bearing dozens of spines, encircled him, most likely in an attempt to block any escape routes. The beast was correct in assuming that he was not ready to use his mist again, and so he would have to fight this one out in the flesh. A repulsive screech barreled out of the Bhaalspawn’s jagged maw. Despite Cazador’s confidence boost after knocking the monster down a few pegs, fear began to set in again, and he noticed his blood from the bite mark in his neck flowing more freely than before, as if it was being called.

Having foolishly dropped his staff and thrown his dagger before the fight, Cazador found himself at a severe disadvantage. His only hope was to somehow escape the brute’s notice and retrieve his dagger that was still lodged in its gut before it could be used against him. “Enough, wretch !” He dragged his right claws against the beast’s shoulder while yanking the dagger out of its flesh with his left hand in a twisting motion. 

The beast pawed at Cazador’s dagger-wielding hand with considerable force, knocking the weapon to the floor with a clatter. It then bared its own claws at the vampire. The four arms scratched frantically at his chest. They weren’t deep cuts, but there were a lot of them. His embroidered shirt was in tatters, and his cold, scratched up front was exposed and beading up with blood. 

Cazador’s regeneration got to work, but not fast enough, as some sort of poison was fighting the healing power back. The thought disgusted him, but he was going to need more blood to make it out of this fight alive. He wasn’t sure if he could even get close to the monster’s head and neck without losing his own, so he settled on biting a meaty chunk under the lower left arm and bit as hard as he could through the tough skin. This surprised the monster for just long enough to let out a ghastly wail as the cold fangs dug into its skin and he began to draw blood. The blood was rich, and not as fetid as he was expecting, so his chest wounds began to heal at a quicker rate. While he was here, and the beast was in pain, he thought he would indulge himself in a little more blood than he needed. Perhaps it would be a worthwhile spawn after all…He would just have to tame the mutt a little. 

Claws scratched frantically at Cazador’s back, screeches echoed through the room, but the vampire had positioned himself just out of reach of the beast’s maw, and continued to draw blood. He knew that even a Bhaalspawn only had so much of it, and its absence would cause weakening effects any second now. He just had to bide his time, and endure the endless clawing. At long last, the monster shrunk back into the form of the man. The tiefling was so pale, he almost appeared a ghostly blue. Good. He was close. 

The Vampire Ascendant who enslaved a Bhaalspawn. He would be known throughout the realms, and even praised as a hero for saving countless lives from their assured execution. The power he would possess in his thrall would be beyond measure, and it was his for the taking. Cazador repositioned himself after the beast transformed to kneel above his weakened body and bite at his neck. “Do not worry, little pup. I own you now . And I will take care of you far better than Papa ever could.”

The boy’s bloodshot eyes widened in anger and he opened his mouth to scratch out a deathly whisper.

“ De- to- no. ”

A crack of thunder shook the walls of the sitting room, and Cazador found himself flying into the air, the chunk of the Bhaalspawn’s flesh he was biting down on remained in his mouth. He then felt the piercing shot of an arrow at his back, and was dragged in the direction of its shooter by some kind of rope affixed to the end. The Archduke, having seemingly returned to the room, caught Cazador’s flailing body into a submission hold and held his long forsaken dagger at his throat.

“I see that we have resorted to petty tricks and self-indulgence in lieu of civil conversation. Honestly, you both are better than this and you must be punished.” 

Cazador sneered at the pretender. “It was your dog who came into my home and disrespected me! It is my house, and he thinks himself in charge!”

“I assure you my pet will reap the consequences of his disgraceful conduct.” Gortash was assuredly full of shit. No one could tame that thing, much less punish it. “That does not absolve you from attempting to abduct and kill the Scion of a God. This is an inexcusable affront to Bhaal’s power, and I doubt he will take kindly to seeing your face in his domain after what you have done.” 

Blood was still dribbling from Cazador’s lips. “You have no more insight into the whims of Bhaal than I do, handler ,” Cazador spat. “You have no way of sending my soul to him either.” 

“Ah! But you see,” the human answered quickly, “while you two were having a play-fight and making a mess, I discovered that I could do many useful things with this staff of yours. I found a few of your lovely slaves and instructed them to find and destroy that pesky resting place of yours. They were very happy to do so, such a well ordered house you run, Master Szarr. It’s a shame they will not have you at the helm for very much longer.”

The Banite began hacking away at Cazador’s neck with his dagger, the wooden stake encased within delivering searing burns on his flesh. Blood-drunk and woozy, he surveyed the state of his sitting room, paralyzed by the irreparable damage to his spinal cord. Blood covered the upholstery, the candle fixtures were knocked over and the paintings thrown askew from the thunder. The Bhaalspawn lay sprawled on the ground, weakened and drained. His vision clouded further as the dagger continued to slice through his muscles and veins. 

How had it come to this? Taken down by a pair of immoral ingrates. After everything he had worked toward, centuries of endless toil and preparations, he had been reduced to a bobbling head attached to a useless body by a hideous mutt and its self-righteous handler. 

Once all but a hair’s breadth of his spinal cord and windpipe had been destroyed, the Banite leaned in and spoke quietly in his ear. “You are welcome to watch me deliver my discipline unto my lover from here, or I am fully prepared to take your head now as a tribute to his Murder Lord. It is up to you.”

“ Rot in the hells, loathsome beasts .” 

And thus ended the tragic tale of the first and last Vampire Ascendant.

###

Gortash made the final slice and Cazador’s body fell to the floor. “Catch!” He tossed the vanquished vampire’s head toward Cyril, who looked like death warmed over. His monster reached weak arms out in an effort to grab at the head, but they missed their mark, and the head began to roll slowly across the floor instead. The dagger was stabbed into the defeated foe’s heart, just to be sure.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Gortash raised his eyebrows. “Did you honestly not trust me to handle a single dagger thrown at me?” He lifted his lover up and they began the trip home, stopping to dispatch all of Cazador’s servants on the way. “Stupid boy. What ever am I to do with you?”

Chapter Text

How humiliating.  Cyril pouted the entire way out of the mansion. The murders were too easy, the decor was boring, and he had a pounding headache. Worst of all, his tyrant stole his kill. Life was hard for the most powerful man in the world, especially when he kept making mistakes that were sure to draw Father’s displeasure. He hadn’t felt this weak since waking up on the nautiloid.

“You’re sulking, dear.” Gortash’s calm voice floated into his ears. Come to think of it, it was really his fault that Cyril needed saving. If he hadn't given him that godsdamned penance the night before, he might have gotten proper rest. Now he was left nearly drained dry by that horrid little man. 

“Murder-thief,” Cyril stuck out his bottom lip, furrowing his brows in a haughty frown. “I could have handled myself, you know.”

“Oh, could you now? If I wasn’t there, you would be Cazador’s shriveled blood bag by now. You should thank the Gods below that I rather like having you around, otherwise, it seemed to me that the once great Vampire Ascendant could have been a useful ally.” Gortash poked at his side in jest.

“I’m exhausted!” Cyril whinged, “I’m going straight to bed when we get home. I will have none of your tricks and penances today.”

“First, I hope you are not referring to my home as yours now. Second, we are not going there.” 

The tiefling’s knees buckled as he gave Gortash a miffed grimace.

“You will have time to rest when we get there. I’ve thought of another clue that could further your hunt.” The human always had some kind of plan. Cyril would have protested, but he was too weary to put up a fight as they continued on their slow march across the city.

…

When Cyril awoke, he found himself in Wyrm’s Rock, sprawled on the bed of the adjoining suite to the Archduke’s office. He appeared to have slept all day and night, as the red morning sun filtered into the office. He had been roused by the wizard’s projection, reminding him of the ‘time-sensitive nature’ of his quest. The groggy tiefling rewarded the wizard’s admonition with a dagger in his immaterial middle, and the simulacrum took its leave.

Gortash, who was slouched in an armchair, reading and smoking his pipe, seemed to find great enjoyment in the Bhaalspawn’s distaste for the mage. “ That’s your wizard friend?” he snickered. “ He has your precious ‘weapon to raze Waterdeep to its cobbles?’”

“He’s not my friend, and yes, I do believe he does.” Cyril had recovered from the incident the day before, but residual anger and bloodlust stirred in his foul guts. Father was surely not pleased with how much time his child had been wasting on ‘side-quests,’ but the Netherbrain still hovered in the sky, and it was doing its job without need for intervention. It had been instructed to systematically wipe out the city, and it had been doing so. It would then move to the outskirts and to towns that had already been secured under the Absolute’s control. Cyril wasn’t needed for any of that, he lied to himself. He was Prince of the planes, he could do whatever he pleased.

“Ah! How could I forget! I procured a gift for you yesterday!” Gortash lit up. “Two gifts, actually.”

“I’m all horns.”

“Well the first is technically already yours. I was rifling through some old things in search of your other gift, and found your old collar. Do you remember when we used to play with it?” The man smiled. 

Cyril examined the collar. It was fashioned out of smooth, black leather, and dull pointed studs were affixed all around it, facing inside. A ring hung in the middle, presumably for attaching some sort of lead. It was beautifully crafted, likely by Gortash himself. A few memories of its use swam through his mind, never as detailed as he would like them to be. He returned the grin and beckoned his tyrant to put it on.

As the cool metal and rugged leather caressed the skin of his neck, the smallest tinge of guilt shot through his core. What would Father think of this blatant gesture of ownership? The thought soon vaporized as Gortash tugged on the collar, the spikes gently pressing into his flesh. He cooed, sandy and low, “What a beautiful collar for a beautiful pet. What do you say?”

Cyril sighed in delight. “Thank you, my love.”

The tyrant stood and crossed his arms with an arrogant huff. “When you are wearing my collar, you will refer to me as Master.”

Talk about self-indulgence. The tiefling rolled his eyes, but humored his requested honorific with a dramatic bow of his head and a sardonic reply. “My utmost gratitude for your ceaseless generosity… Master .”

Gortash chuckled and opened the office door for his lover. “Now for your other gift!” He led him down the stairs to the throne room of Wyrm’s Rock. On the throne lay the corpse of one Wyll Ravengard. He was draped over the side, almost falling off. His famous rapier hung from its curved hilt on one of his horns. Nice touch . “The Blade of Frontiers, come to rest on his father’s usurped throne.” Gortash puffed up his chest as his lips curled up in a wicked smile. 

“Where did you find him? I can hardly remember where I left him.” Cyril really had been a horrible ally…

“Well it was quite the task, so I expect to be properly thanked later. Seeing as you slept for the greater part of a day, and the entire night, I found myself exploring the fortress, looking for the files I had collected over the years on the Ravengard family. I noticed that the secret passage to the fabled ‘Wyrm’ was open. I wondered to myself, ‘Has the dragon escaped? Did someone break in to steal it?’ Either way, I needed to investigate, and see if the situation required escalation. All of Balduran’s ridiculous puzzles had been solved, the entrance to the chamber was wide open, and our poor warlock was dead on the ground next to his quarry, succumbed to his injuries. He must have died over a tenday ago, but his corpse is flawless! I've never seen such preservative magic. It must have been shared from the Wyrm himself. Quite sad really, the poor boy put in so much effort only to be killed by the very beast he thought was there to help him.”

“Mmm, tragic indeed that I did not get to watch him die. He always annoyed me with his hero act.” This wasn’t completely true. Cyril had admired the boy’s mettle, making the most of life after being disowned by his family. On top of that, he left his useless father to die when he walked back on his contract. That was a choice to be proud of. He left camp shortly after the coronation. A shame that he thought he could tame a dragon on his own. All of his allies seemed to think they would stand even a single chance without him.

“I suppose you are dying to get to work. But I’m very curious to know what you find, is there some way I could join the memory?” 

“I could certainly try, if you really want to. Though it wouldn’t do for you to just stand around and enjoy the show. You must take your seat.”

Cyril scooped Wyll’s limp body off of the throne and set it nearby. He gave a deep bow to Gortash as he gestured to the Archduke’s throne. The tyrant sat with a haughty smile. Cyril leaned in for a kiss and whispered into his lips. “Thank you for the gift, Master.” He felt a shiver run down Gortash’s spine as he kissed back. After a few seconds, the tyrant tease pushed Cyril away. 

“More later. You have work to do.”

…

Cum mortuis in lingua mortua

The corpse regarded Cyril, lifelessly. 

As Cyril had backtracked further on his journey, he needed to rely more on these questions to get helpful information. He was not known for an infallible memory after all.

“Who are you?

“ Wyll… Ravengard… Blade of Frontiers…”

“What was the nature of our relationship?”

“ Travelers… devils… chained to our pasts… I was betrayed… such a fool… unworthy…”

Chained to our pasts? Cyril was nothing like Wyll. He had a legacy worth defending, not some weakling father who never respected true power. He was not chained, he was blessed by unbreakable bonds, both with his Father and his lover. Wyll did not have the strength to own his choices, and accept their consequences. That is why he died. He had betrayed himself.

“What do you remember of our companions?”

“ Sensitive Sharran… at war with her past… made the wrong choice… Karlach… my beloved…”

Finished with his questions, Cyril began sifting through Wyll’s memories. The one of the coronation itself looked to have a lot of people in it. Yet…

He leaned away from Wyll’s body and peered at Gortash.“Did you know everyone at your coronation, Archduke? You’re sure you didn’t see any one-armed, purple-clad wizards there?” 

“Darling, I think I would remember seeing a one-armed, purple-clad wizard on the most important day of my life. But you were there, so it might have escaped my notice…”

“Hmm, that won’t do,” the tiefling sighed. “Ah! This looks promising! Shall we go to the circus?”

“Lead the way,” Gortash wore a pleasant, if not hesitant expression. 

“Veritas Visio!” Cyril twinned his spell for Gortash to join. Hopefully this would work.

###

The Circus of the Last Days brought Wyll back to his boyhood. He would run carefree through the grounds, dance with the bards, and, of course, get a front row seat to Dribbles the Clown. Those days were distant memories now, but entering the circus brought back a sugary whiff of home. It was good to be back, after so many years chasing and clawing and fighting. Making one bad decision after another, all in an attempt to do what was right in a world that only rewarded cruelty, bloodlust and self-serving cunning. 

Even among his companions, he saw such a potential for goodness wasted on souls that continued to choose the wrong path, just like him. Karlach represented the best of them, she was making an effort to account for her past and live life to the fullest. Shadowheart was caught between two sides of herself, and would likely never break herself free. Minthara and Astarion had…a long way to go. They both had endured horrible pasts, and used that to justify their wrongdoings. Wyll tried his best to see things from their perspective, but they always seemed to be so ready to turn to drastic measures than work out a problem peacefully.

And Cyril… Well. Wyll was not fooled by his charming and intimidating nature. He didn’t need to understand anything about Cyril’s hidden past to know that he was a monster . One that could rival any devil. Perhaps one of the Absolute’s Chosen even. He was pure evil, and was masquerading himself as a helpless victim of circumstance. Wyll did not believe a word of his lies, and was beginning to wonder why they were even traveling together. Now that they had gotten to the city, it might be time to part ways. 

Stormy thoughts continued to gather in Wyll’s mind, but Karlach’s shriek of enjoyment brought him back to the sunny day. She wanted him to put on face paints, and do some sort of ‘love test’ together. He smiled at the childish glee, but went along with it, seeing the joy it brought her. Perhaps they could leave camp together and try to find a way to rid themselves of the parasites on their own. It was a nice thought, but unrealistic. Karlach’s loyalty to despots seemed to follow her, and she enjoyed the safety in numbers. 

Surveying the circus, he saw so many happy people. He did not want to take happiness away from these people. He wanted to save the Gate, his home, when so many others sought to destroy it. He would find a way, and he had a pretty good idea of just what to do to push him over the edge. They say in legends there was a great dragon, living in a den under Wyrm’s rock. If Wyll was right about this, he would be able to find it and ally with it against the Absolute. It could be just the push they needed to-

“Wyllll, come onnn! I want to do the love test with you!”

The Blade of Frontiers looked to his love, who was bouncing around impatiently and gave in, leaving his thoughts for another time.

…

“You can’t be serious! Pretending to be a True Soul is one thing, but allying with one of the Absolute’s Chosen is too far. It’s Enver bloody Gortash, for Gods’ sake! You saw him tadpole my father , and you believe he actually wants to help us?” The choice was absurd. There should have been no question. Of course the coronation was not the time to engage the pretender in combat, not with Wyll’s father present. But forming an alliance with the condemnable man was continued proof that Cyril truly only cared for himself.

“We all heard what that motherfucker told you. You were the reason we are all in this mess in the first place!” Karlach was burning up. “You know what he did to me! I will DIE because of him! And you want to be all buddy-buddy.”

“There is no need to shout, Karlach.” Cyril scolded her. “I want him dead just as much as you do. But he can be… useful before then.” 

“He better be more than fuckin’ useful, arsehole. I have half a mind to go out and kill ‘im myself.” She was justifiably angry, storming to her tent as the glow from her chest brightened and flickered.

Karlach would never allow him to do this, but Wyll had to say something. He had to advocate for her when no one else did. She had suffered so much, and received so little in return. When the rest of the party had retired as well. He unsheathed his rapier and barged into Cyril’s tent, sharing his lover’s fury. He was intent on making his voice heard, and if that didn’t work, his steel would do the talking. 

“I should have known you would be the death of us all. I was trying desperately to see the good in you. I wanted to forgive you for your past, but you have gone too far. I am through with your games!”

Cyril stared at him, expressionless and unblinking, and said nothing. Wyll flourished his sword at him, maintaining distance, but making his intentions known all the same. The tiefling did not react. He was unarmed and remained in a neutral, open position, showing no signs of defence.

“It is always about using people,” the warlock continued, “and never about what they need. Look what you did to Shadowheart. You didn’t allow her to learn about her past, just to continue down the dark path that led her to leave us for good. She became too strong, too much of a threat to you, and you exiled her!”

This appeal to Cyril’s guilt was not working. He refused to care. He was as bad as the devils, perhaps he was one. 

Wyll spoke again. “You gathered us together, said we could help each other find a cure, but you’ve given over to your urges time and again. How many have died because of you? Because of us? You have made us all monsters! ”

He was met with more sickening silence. Righteous rage roiled in Wyll’s stomach. He was a monster hunter, he had promised to keep the Sword Coast safe, and he was failing miserably at it. Wyll gathered his courage. He had never killed someone he had spent so much time getting to know. The monsters he was used to hunting were clear-cut evil. There was no doubt that a demon needed to be put down, an ogre to be slain. It wasn’t until he met Karlach and Cyril that he realized good could be found in evil shapes, and villainy could be disguised behind such a charming creature.

“This ends now, foul beast! Your days of weaving lies and shedding blood are over. For the good of the Gate, and the good of Faerun, you will meet the sting of my blade, monster!” 

Cyril did not move, his glowing red eyes fixed on Wyll’s horned forehead. The Blade of Frontiers prepared for an attack, aiming the tip of his rapier at the tiefling’s heart, but the monster still did not even flinch. What was wrong with him? Had he accepted his fate? No, that couldn’t be. The beast wouldn’t know remorse if it hit him upside the head. Then what–?

“ Esurio!”

Wyll’s blade had just begun to pierce through ridged skin, when he suddenly stopped, letting go of the curved hilt. He jumped back several feet as bone-chilling fear washed over every cell in his body. His eyes widened, his breath caught in his mouth. He was paralyzed. The monster gently picked up the rapier and toyed with it in his hands. He walked slowly toward Wyll, who felt compelled to run as far away as possible, but couldn’t will his legs to move.

The men stood face to face. Cyril had to look up slightly to meet Wyll's eyes, but he may as well have been a Hill Giant for how much power and intimidation he possessed as cold fear continued to eat at Wyll’s veins. 

For the first time since earlier that evening, the monster spoke, forcing the rapier into the Blade’s shaking hands. “ Run. Run away and save your pathetic father. Run away from your little devil’s pact. Run, like you always have, little Ravengard. Run, until there is no one left to chase you. Run away before I catch you. ”

And so he ran , tears welling up in his eyes as he was once again pushed around by a power much bigger than himself, a power he thought he was ready to handle. He did not even stop by his tent to gather his things, instead making a mad dash to Karlach’s, praying to any God that would hear him that Cyril wouldn’t stop him.

“We don’t have much time!” Wyll panted an admittedly stupid question. “Would you like to run away together? You and me against the world?”

“You look sick, soldier! Have a lie-down, you’re talking crazy.” Karlach’s brow furrowed in concern.

“I can’t stay here.” The fear’s invisible tendrils pulled like puppet strings. It took all of his strength not to turn tail that instant. Half finished thoughts spilled their way out as Wyll tried desperately to convince his love to join him. “I have to find the dragon… Save the Gate… Have to go now… Can’t stay… I’m sorry!”

“What in the hells are you talking about? We can’t just leave! ” Karlach was justifiably confused, but she was wasting time he did not have. “And what’s this about a dragon?”

“There’s no time to explain. I’ll get the dragon, and I will come back for you! That is my word! We will run away together.” Wyll sobbed, desperately wanting to somehow take the woman in his arms and carry her away to safety with him. But if it was true, if Cyril did plan on hunting him, Karlach would be just as doomed as he was. The bastard.

“Wyll, what is going on? Tell me!” Karlach’s eyes pleaded with him to stay. But every muscle in his body thrashed, and soon enough, the fear won. “Wyll!” She shouted after him, her voice bouncing in his ears as they began to fill with the sounds of the passing wind.

Buildings flew by in a blur and cobbles clacked under his boots. Wyll’s head became clearer as more distance was put between himself and the camp. He would be back. He would be back with a dragon. And he would put an end to all of this mess for good.

###

“Gods! Must we stay in this sickening memory?” Gortash yanked himself out of the spell and considered what he had seen. It was clear that Wyll was all ideals and no follow-through. His pretend love games proved that. If his goal was to restore his name and reputation in the Gate, as well as re-enter his father’s good graces, a relationship with someone like Karlach would have done him no favors. Romance and partnership existed for the sole purpose of gaining power and climbing the ladder. Anyone who believed otherwise was deluding themselves.

Cyril exited the memory not long after. He made an exaggerated vomiting gesture back at him, which elicited a chuckle from both of them. “No luck, unfortunately. Ugghhh when will this end?” The Bhaalspawn was beginning to pout again, bringing his fingers to his temples to massage them, as he was so prone to do when something was on his mind. The spoiled little prince had such a bad attitude. Ever since he had dominated the brain, it seemed like he had gotten lazier. A good massacre would be in order, Gortash thought, to brighten his spirits.

“Is that any way to treat your generous gift?” the tyrant scolded. “Being the destroyer of the world does not mean you should not show due respect. I believe a bit of light genocide might fix you up in no time. We must remember our priorities.” Gortash shuddered when he realized that, for the briefest of moments, he sounded like that odious butler.

“No…I must pray today. After everything that has happened, I must atone for my sins. If you are comfortable staying here for a while, I would like to find a sacrifice and spend some time alone in the temple.” He was solemn, distracted. Gortash was aching to know why, but did not want to pry. “Perhaps while I am gone, you can think of ways for me to thank you for the gift?”

A heavy fog settled between them. Something about all of this was wrong , but neither of them dared to point it out, for fear of facing this unknown feeling. The Bhaalspawn gathered his things and began to leave. 

“Cyril…?” Gortash called out, bracing to ask the question that kept getting stuck on his tongue: ‘ What is happening to us?’ The tiefling looked back with a hesitant smile. “Do try to wash before you return. You are in quite the state.” The tyrant cursed at his cowardice.

“If you insist. I might change into a new set of clothes as well. I think you’ll like them.” Cyril winked to cover up the clear look of inexplicable grief on his face, and jogged out of the throne room.

Chapter Text

Gortash was alone. 

He sat on his throne, looking at all the dead patriars he had dispatched a tenday ago when they had outlived their use and gagging as the smell of decay set in. It was rather fitting, ruling over an ocean of corpses. After all, he never did figure out how to tame the beast who was now drawing blood by the bucketful. His purpose was to be the Hand that held the leash wrapped round the world. Instead, his hands did little more than help the beast fulfill his destiny of eternal murder. Was this what he was made for? The beatings in the hells, the ill-fated deals, the dirty cocks he had to gag on, the endless meetings, the gossip, the betrayals, the clawing, the dying, the rising again; did it all just lead to… this?

He had allowed himself to suffer so much for the sake of his cause. A heavy thought sunk into his mind as he considered that each of these parts of his life were designed specifically to torture him. They all were said to have made him stronger. So why, with every passing day, did he feel weaker ?

His grip on himself, now that he had been reborn into… whatever world this had turned out to be, was weakening. Sweaty palms were slipping from the top of a jagged cliff, and at the bottom lay the painful truth that Enver Flymm was truly made from nothing, for nothing. He was fated to this misery, a toy for others to play with and break. His parents, Raphael, Ketheric and Orin, Bane… Cyril… all of them viewed him as nothing more than the well-dressed trash he was. 

He was beyond useless, an illegitimate king of dead men he didn’t have the backbone to slay himself. Drowning in thoughts of love for someone who was barely capable of any emotion besides bloodlust and malice. He was a pile of ash and meat, to be put on display as Bane’s puppet; now discarded waste after his strings had been cut. 

He decided to take a walk. Cyril wouldn’t be back for a while, so he thought some time out of the stuffy fortress would do him good. The Archduke stepped outside, headed toward Rivington, and saw the red sun burning above him. Thick heat brought the stench of mass death to his nose. How much blood had gone into creating that scent? Distant screams still peppered the soundscape of the city as the Netherbrain’s army did its work. There were still a few signs of life in the outskirts of the town, however. Talking to someone, anyone (other than his mad murderous monster) could help him feel better, though finding them might prove a challenge.

Most of the merchants and residents had left their shops and homes to flee from the invasion. This was a pointless effort, of course. If there was any establishment that would stay open until the very last drop of blood seeped through its floors, it would be Sharess’ Caress. Perhaps a quick blowjob would do the trick. An asinine idea, but better than anything else he had. The pleasure-house was dead quiet. Madame Mamzell sat at her desk with her cat, and there was some clattering heard in the kitchen, but Hoots wasn’t tending the bar, there were no dancers or bards, and the place was completely devoid of patrons. Gortash feared he might not get his release after all, but Madame Mamzell interrupted his disappointment.

“Archduke Gortash, m’Lord!” The stately woman stood and gave a deep bow, “I am delighted to see you have made it through this mess, and pray for your continued good health. It sure looks a fright out there. I fear the worst for us, but we prefer to live in the present and enjoy life’s pleasures while we can until the reaper comes for us. ‘Ow can I serve you? Anything at all is on the house for our Archduke.”

“So, those in your employ are here then?” Gortash was wrong to doubt his instincts about the movements of people, especially those that made their living off of debauchery.

“But of course! We live to serve after all. Though, if you’re looking for the Stern Librarian, I regret to tell ya that she’s been offed some time ago by one of those sick Bhaalists. Poor thing didn’t deserve that. But! Life goes on…”

“Ah. Those Bhaalists truly are disgusting creatures.” Gortash meant every word he said. “I’m sure I’ll make do with whomever you have.”

“You are too kind to us, m'Lord. How about Naoise up in the Nymph’s Grotto? You look like you have bricks piled up on your shoulders. The nymph could be exactly what you need to relax.”

Gortash paused. Was this how he wanted to spend his time? Receiving fake pleasure in an empty brothel? This was behavior befitting commoners. The Archduke of Baldur’s Gate should not need to solicit courtesans, they should be at his beck and call, fulfilling every desire no matter how trivial, calling him ‘Master’ because they wanted to—having a primal need to please their ruler. Nothing like this. He nearly turned around and walked out right then, but decided against it. No, he needed this. He needed someone. “Naoise would do nicely, Madame.”

“A wonderful choice, Your Grace! I shall send for her.” 

After using a sending stone to call the Nymph down, the beautiful elf with kind, if not a little weary, eyes floated into the entryway. A sheer, flowy dress that seemed to shimmer on its own clung to her pale olive frame, a stark contrast to the reds and browns and blacks of the outside world. Her head almost reached the floor as she performed a deep, fluid curtsey, her loose braids cascaded down her back. She was quite a sight, to be sure. She took his hand and pressed it to her lips in a light kiss. “It is my pleasure to serve you, Archduke Gortash.” Her voice lilted gently, quietly. “Please join me in my grotto.”

Arriving in the beautiful, woodsy room, he was met with the sweet smell of autumncrocus and fallen leaves. One could hardly believe a place like this existed in a world that looked as bleak as it did now. He sat on the bed and took a moment to breathe everything in. The nymph stood near the door with her head bowed, awaiting instruction. She appeared understandably nervous. It was not every day that the Archduke was your client. 

For once in his life, Gortash had no idea how to give someone a command. What did he want out of this? What was she willing to do? He had a nagging feeling that this was somehow breaking his monster’s trust, but why ? He didn’t owe him. If anything, Cyril owed him for being such a twat . Turning his attention back to the ‘girl,’ who was assuredly decades older than him, Gortash patted the edge of the bed next to him. “Please, sit with me.” 

Naoise began removing the sheer dress, but Gortash held up his hand to stop her. “No, leave that on. Just sit.” She did not say a word as she joined him at the edge of the bed. Gortash put his head in his hands. He was awful at this. “I’m…sorry. It’s been a while.” It had been a while. He had spent so much of the last year pouring over a desk or in meetings with Ketheric and Cyril (or Orin) that he barely had time to sleep, much less to bed someone. Of course he and his partner had their moments, but they became fewer and further between as more and more work needed to be done on the Absolute project. Then… he was gone.

“My Lord, if I may help… You look so tense. I could massage your back?” The nymph was kind and gentle, with a steady tone and soothing aura. Gortash nodded, non-committal. “If Your Grace would be comfortable removing your shirt?” 

Gortash complied. The woman’s cool, thin fingers traced his spine up and down, soft at first, then adding more pressure. Gods, he was tense. He supposed that was warranted, after having died and risen again. “Why don’t you tell me what is going on in that important head of yours?” Naoise’s lilting whisper floated above his head. He knew that everything she did and said was part of a practiced routine, none of it was real. But in that moment, the voice trickling into his ears sounded genuine, caring. And it tricked him into saying too much.

“I have nothing. I am nothing. A king without his kingdom, a Chosen without his God, a lover without love. I get what I want. I take it and I get it and no one can stop me. But I have been deceived, bested. And they have taken it all back. Such a pitiless fool I am.” Gortash refused to let tears leak into his eyes as his stomach betrayed jaunty breaths to regain composure. The nymph’s tender hand traveled to his front to soothe his trembling core. 

The man continued: “I want to love him. I do… love him. It’s just– DON’T TOUCH THAT! ”

The courtesan had grazed her fingers over his scar. Jagged, shiny and pale against his tan skin, it was the eternal reminder of a wound that should have left him a dead man. The wound that was sealed, but not with the skill of a cleric. The wound that his murderer left him like a love letter emblazoned on his flesh. Cyril’s wound. He pushed her off of him and she fell to the floor. 

“Vile woman! Don’t you know how to keep your hands to yourself?” Gortash barked at the poor nymph. The expression in her eyes was that of a frightened fawn, lost in her grotto, shrinking under the gaze of a hungry wolf. She was scared, and she should be… right? He was the Tyrant sent to rule all worlds, the Archduke of Baldur’s Gate. She had crossed him, and deserved to be punished. But why? She didn’t know better…

What was this madness he was spewing? He had gone soft. It was time to leave. He muttered threats he never intended to act upon at the nymph before slamming the door and practically running out of the building. Thousands of half-finished thoughts and unnatural emotions flooded in and out of his increasingly tumultuous psyche. He burst into the street, the red sun marking mid-afternoon. Cyril might be back at Wyrm’s Rock at any time now. Like that even mattered. 

What a cruel joke this whole thing was: a bloody contract for his soul, bound lovers for the rest of time! The myriads of sins from his wretched life crawled up his back, dissonant whispers telling him that he deserved every drop of the torment he was in. This was not the world of a conqueror! This was the world of an eternal loser. His face was being shoved into a pile of gore by Cyril’s Bhaal-damned heel, and he was foolish enough to relish every second of it.

Gortash let out a soul-rending wail at the hellish sky, and collapsed on the stones below him. He banged his fist bloody into the gritty road. He could not put his anguish into words, so he opted for hot tears and heaving cries of agony. Was this the price of loving a monster?

###

Cyril usually tried to be a little more selective when finding his sacrifices, but pickings were getting slimmer as the city’s population continued to thin. He settled on one of the merchants in the Crossing who had foolishly left its shop open, living in some wild fantasy that it would ever have customers again. It really didn’t matter who it was or what it thought, he just needed a kill, now . He put the sacrifice to sleep and scooped it up, then headed straight for the temple via the sigils.

“Everyone out! I am to be left alone until I am through with my worship.” He stormed in, hair and robes fluttering behind him, the pit in his stomach growing with every step. His cultists slowly and quietly faded into the stonework. Orin frowned in protest for a moment, but caved when she saw Cyril’s near catatonic eyes. There was a reckoning coming, and it needed to happen soon, or his smoke powder guts would explode. The weight of his mistakes over the past days pulled at his shoulders as he placed the sacrifice on the altar.

“Ehm, my Prince.” Sceleritas’ irritating screech pierced through the fog. “Welcome back! We are so glad to see you-”

“DIE! ”

His butler did as he was told.

The Bhaalspawn got to work, preparing the offering with short, breathy prayers. “ Lord Father, I give you this death to honor your glory and power. May your blood be my guide and my knife cuts be proof of my devotion.” It was still asleep. That was probably for the better. This was bound to get messy.

The prayers continued, louder this time, as he began to make deep cuts along the arms and legs of the offering. “This body and soul before me, unwillingly given, is yours as a testament to your murderous beauty.” Slice . “The blood taken from this piece of unworthy flesh is the sign of my fealty to your will.” Slice . “As your humble servant and spawn, I remain at your mercy and can only hope to prove my worth through the shedding of innocent blood.” Slice. 

The sacrifice had awakened and was beginning to struggle. Cyril had opted against the use of chains this time, and instead held it down with his off hand on its chest and a knee on one of its thighs. His heartbeat rose as he continued his ritual. “My Lord, my Father, you who give me this unholy life,” Cut. “You gave me everything I have and shaped me into everything I am.” Cut. “I am but a pile of flesh that you have blessed with your gore.” Cut, cut! “I am and forever will be nothing without you.” Cut, cut, cut!

As some of the blood from the deeper cuts began to flow more freely onto the altar, Cyril dipped his fingers in it. He painted across his facial scars, where his forehead met his horns and below his lips down his chin and throat. His hands were shaking the whole time, and the marks were not as precise as he would have liked, but they would have to do, because he and his Urge were aching in unison to feel the kill and enter their Father’s presence. The prayers became shouts.

“Father below, you created me for a purpose!” Stab! “Your will is my guiding hand, your Urge is my birthright!” Stab! “There is no reason for me to be allowed to exist after the many mistakes I have made!” Stab! Stab! “Yet your grace falls upon me and I am unfathomably blessed by your countenance!” Cyril drove the ritual knife repeatedly into the stomach of the sacrifice, its cries inaudible as the Urge squirmed with bloodlust. “My purpose is to serve, yet I am an unworthy mortal, prone to distraction, to deception.” He wasn’t even looking at where his knife was going anymore, just swinging it with abandon. “I seek to atone for my folly, and beg for your grace as I strive to accomplish your mission!” He coated his arms with blood.

The prayers crescendoed in a deep cry of devoted dolor as Cyril raggedly slit the throat of his offering. “ FORGIVE ME, FATHER!” He knelt at the altar, his forehead pressed to it. His sacrifice had long since breathed its last, and its magnificent blood pooled on the stone.

The Dread Lord’s red glow began to form behind the eyes of His icon.

“Gore of my gore, I accept your sacrifice.” Bhaal’s tone was inscrutable. This was somehow disappointing. Cyril had almost wished for his Father’s ire as a confirmation of how awful he felt.

Now that he had been granted an audience, Bhaal’s Scion paused to consider what he was so sorry for in the first place. He had gotten distracted, sure. He could be more efficient, at times. He lost a fight with a vampire. He allowed himself to be repeatedly debased and degraded by that tyrant . But none of that seemed wrong to him. They were just things , too small to even call mistakes. So why did he feel so remorseful about it all?

“Lord Father, your presence blesses me on this day. Please accept my profoundest apologies for my distracted mind and swayed thoughts. I have given myself to mortal pleasures and forsaken my duty and station.”

“You stray from your purpose, yes, but your design carries on. My domain is filled with souls given in my name. Souls you have prepared for me.”

“My duty is to kill for you, and I fear I have failed to adequately do so in these last days, electing to pick fights, indulge matters of personal interest, and get carried away with the soul that is bound to me.” Cyril felt uneasy. He would never allow such frivolity among his ranks. When Orin took too long playing, he would scold her, invoking Father’s name each time. Here he was, acting the hypocrite after wasting so much more time on far pettier things. After a pause, Cyril finally worked up the courage to ask a question that had been lingering on his mind for years, decades even:

“Father, am I allowed to love?”

“You are sculpted from my very essence, you are my spawn. Yet, there is a reason that you are mortal, child. Within your birthright I have granted you the capacity to feel, for the purpose of inflicting emotional wounds that enrich the sanctity of your offerings to me. You have fueled your skills through betrayal and manipulation, just as your Sister Orin stokes her bloodlust with the art of deception and intricate torture. If love is something you believe will further this purpose, then you must take full advantage of it.”

“If that is your will, Father, let it be so.”

Bhaal’s presence faded from the temple and the air began to flow normally. Cyril would need to ponder what he had just heard. His mind was eased, knowing that Bhaal had not outright condemned his choices and distracted nature. He must tell his tyrant- Gortash- Enver about this. He always knew what to say with his poisonous mouth.

According to Father, love was just another way to play with his toys. Was that true? Did other mortals feel the same? What about Enver? Were matters of love and control just games to him as well? He rushed to his quarters before a blasphemous thought could fully surface. What if he didn’t agree with Father? He had spent his lifetime perfecting the art of betrayal, and it had served him well time and again. But for the first time, he was confronted with a situation in which betrayal and manipulation would only sour the ‘sanctity of his sacrifice.’

What even was ‘love’ anyway? He considered the sacrifices he made to Father acts of love, an outpouring, even. However, most people that claim to love each other do not make blood offerings to show their affection. Gortash seemed to respond to acts of submission as proof of devotion and fealty. Was this love, though, since he demanded it from everybody? 

When he had paid his penance to his tyrant, he had made a vow: to leave deceit at the door. He had spent that entire night obsessing over this vow as his arms ached and his bowed head screamed at him in defiance. For anyone else, this display of deference would only serve the purpose of gaining trust that he would soon break. But Enver? There was an indescribable longing to stay true, just this once, even as his very cells rebelled against him. Was this love? Self-sacrifice for no other reason than keeping your word? Cyril decided that if sacrifice was good enough for his Father, it would be good enough for his lover. Was this the price of loving a tyrant?

…

After he had completed his prayers, Cyril had a wash and brushed his hair, as requested. He rifled through his wardrobe in search of the outfit that he had commissioned ages ago, but had never gotten the chance to wear, as it had arrived shortly before he was taken. He had intended to wear it on the day the red sun first rose, but supposed that wearing it now was better late than never. It was custom plate armor with a black finish. Red metal skulls were carved into the chestplate and belt, and rivets with small spikes were fastened around his neck. His shoulders bore real skulls with long pointed rods impaled through where their foreheads would be. The rods continued down the sides of his upper arm. The set was complete with pants, plated boots, a long, black leather loincloth, and a red cape that split at the middle to accommodate his tail. When it was all put together, he looked a treat. It was the perfect outfit for murder. It was a shame he had not been able to wear it until now.

Shadowheart was next on his list of companions, and he remembered last seeing her in Rivington, near where all the refugees were lining the streets. He gathered his pack and, using the sigil he had placed at the Crossing, headed out of the city onto the main drag filled with rows of empty houses and buildings, in search of any signs of the Sharran. He took a moment to search the houses for any survivors, and found several courtesans holed up in Sharess’ Caress. He dispatched them easily enough, and tried to make them pretty corpses. With the Urge satisfied, he continued down the street and saw a black haired, shirtless man laying on the ground in the middle of the street. He was likely already dead, but Cyril approached the crumpled body to make sure. As he got closer, he saw that the man was alive, and sobbing like a mourning dove. A few steps after that, he realized who it was.

Chapter Text

“Enver!” Cyril, in a jumbled mess of confusion, worry, rage, and relief, dropped to his knees beside his lover. “Enver, please.” Concern welled up in his guts as his lover did not seem to respond to his voice. Wails continued to spill from Gortash’s throat, and his back jolted and tensed as he gasped for air. “Enver… please…” Cyril gently laid his hand on Gortash’s quaking shoulder. So many scars… There still was no response. 

What had happened? He had only left for a few hours! Cyril cursed himself, so selfish! The Urge welled up, calling for vengeance. Whoever had done this to someone so precious would suffer. “Enver…” the tiefling lay on the street, curled up next to his sobbing tyrant. Holding back tears himself, he took a deep breath to focus. “Please let me help you… Please…”

###

Gortash gave no resistance when the Bhaalspawn lifted him up and tossed him over his armor-clad shoulder. He did not fight as they traveled down the dead street and back into his musty fortress. He did not flee when he was set gently on the bed in the room attached to his office. And he did not fuss when the man bandaged his bloodied hand. Fog enveloped his mind, making whatever the tiefling was saying sound like garbled Deep Drow nonsense. His eyes refused to focus, his face sagged and numbed as drying tears left their stiffening marks on his cheeks. Every breath was an undertaking, every movement, sluggish. 

The last time he remembered feeling like this, his partner had been taken from him. The feeling surged ever hotter as he finally mustered the strength to give it a name: despondence . He focused his gaze on the very much alive and present person sitting cross-legged on the floor before him. Red tipped ivory horns framed a face full of concern and longing, a tail curled behind him, and the tip was tap-tapping quietly on the floor. This was the face of his monster. His leathery tail, his curved horns, his charcoal hair, his gentle hands, his strong arms, his long legs, and his ridged chest, they were all there. Together. In the right order. He knew that. They had been that way forever. So why did this feel so strange?

“I’m sorry.”

That voice, that beautiful, honeyed voice twirled in and out of his ears. That was there too, it seemed. The man’s head swayed and his eyes closed, lost in the dancing tones of two simple words. He wanted to hear more. To drown in the pool of his murderer’s speech. He wanted to hear him, to feel him. More than anything in the world. He just— He had to take it. It was what he wanted, so it would be his. Because he got what he wanted— No. That wasn’t right. His monster was not something he could take for himself. The choice of companionship had to be his alone. Gortash would have to ask, and wait. That was all he could do.

“I’m sorry for leaving you.”

Once again, the blessed voice danced to his unworthy ears— He should be sorry. Sorry for all the pain he caused— No. There was no reason in the world for him to be sorry. His monster was perfect. Tears began to follow the tracks left on his cheeks. The desperate agony of a prize just out of reach, a game one move away from winning, tore into his heart. Gortash was left powerless; unyielding Hands had been replaced with frail fingers, weakly clawing at what little of his pride was left after this devil had taken it from him. The cruel irony of it all was that, for the first time in his life, he wanted something he couldn’t take. And it was the very person sitting in front of him. The very monster that had taken everything. This realization escaped through woeful sobs as his head met his hands.

“Enver…?”

His name. The spawn was calling his name.

“Can I touch you?”

Gortash’s bones begged him to say no, to reject the embrace of this demon. But his yen won out, as he gently nodded his head to receive the caress of his angel of death. 

There was some rattle of plate mail as the Bhaalist rose from his seat, the breastplate, shirt, and shoulder guards clattered to the floor beneath him. He felt the weight shift on the bed as his monster sat beside him. First, he felt a palm on his shoulder. There was pressure, but not too much. Just enough to remind him that he was still there. Then, pointed claws grazed his scalp, fingers gliding through his tangled hair. The fingers trailed down his spine, and the hand they belonged to came to rest on the small of his back. The other hand gently pried his own hands from his face, guiding his head down to a bare shoulder. His shoulder. They sat there a while in silence. The tiefling’s chest twitched as jagged breaths escaped his nose. 

Finally, after what seemed like a year and an instant all at once, Gortash’s chin lifted, and his eyes met his angel’s. They glowed like the red sun on a black sky, and were glossed over with shimmering tears. The death-bringer pulled their faces together, his hot breath swirling between their cheeks. 

“Enver… Please…”

His angel’s breath hitched.

“Please let me sacrifice myself to you.”

The supplication stole the floor out from under them. The angel’s eyes widened to bursting. Fear and yearning carved lines all over his face. He had committed heresy of the highest degree. The unholy Scion of Bhaal had offered himself freely to a mortal. It was unforgivable. 

“I’m sorry, I—”

The apology would forever remain unfinished as Enver Gortash, who had finally surfaced from drowning in despair, closed the gap between their lips and kissed away his angel’s impiety. They both refused to breathe as they became lost in each other’s desperation. The consequences be damned, he would receive his angel’s willing offering, even if it was just for tonight. There was nothing he wanted more. And he got what he wanted.

Gortash pulled Cyril back on the bed and rolled him over on his back. They finally broke the kiss and gasped for air. “Cyril, my love, my gift, my devil, I will be yours as much as you will be mine. Let us be blasphemous sacrifices together. Until the end of days.”

###

The icy wall of agony and tension the two men had built for themselves melted in each other’s embrace. Tragic lovers discovered a perfect, sacred rhythm. There was no struggle for dominance, no shame in submission, just two damned souls finding solace in the other. Hands grasped at anything within reach. Neither of them had a shirt to begin with, so the sloppy dance of unlacing britches and wriggling hips and tail out of them began. Their lips clung to each other as if bound, and once free of their garments, they began to explore each other in earnest. Hair or skin or bedding, it didn’t matter as desperate fingers clawed for purchase. Senseless movements; grabbing, squeezing, slapping, scratching, followed tender caresses and kisses. There was no plan, no motive, just unaddled adoration.

Cyril rarely allowed himself to fully let go. As he found his hands clasped above his head, held by Enver’s powerful grip, he sank into the downy mattress and suffocated himself with desire. Their mouths sang silent praises to each other. There was no blood, no Urge, no Bane, no penance, only the two of them. The world was waiting to die, but it would have to wait a bit longer. Enver moved his kisses to Cyril’s neck, nipping at the soft flesh. He had meant every word he said. He would be a sacrifice. Forever at the mercy of his Bhaal-bound lover; giving everything of himself he had and no less. At least, he would try.  

He whispered a sinful prayer into his tyrant’s ear, “I want you to own me . To take me.”

A low growl escaped Enver’s throat, and Cyril once again found himself smothered in a messy kiss. “You are already mine. Shall I prove it to you?”

The tiefling wasn’t even given the chance to nod as his tyrant sat back on his lap and pulled him up to a seat by his horns. Short fingernails scratched at his back as they kissed, and then stopped abruptly. A rough hand grabbed him by the chin. “Pet… Where are my gauntlets?” His lover’s voice maintained its slow growl.

Cyril froze, a pang of childish guilt rose up in his chest. He had forgotten about those, and they were sitting right in his pack, halfway across the room. He had intended to bring them to his temple and display them under Gortash’s face. Of course, that face remained intact and undisplayed. And it was staring at him with an accusatory smirk. Cyril was afraid to answer, perhaps he could get away with saying he didn’t know. But he knew that the hotness of his cheeks had already betrayed his iniquity. “They’re in my pack.”

Enver shoved him onto his back with a flop. He placed each of his hands on the bed above the tiefling’s shoulders and leaned in close. “In your pack?” He raised an eyebrow with a playful glare. “Now, how exactly did they get there?”

Cyril found himself giggling as he shrunk under the gaze of his tyrannical lover and shrugged. 

Enver’s eyes narrowed, but his pupils nearly swallowed the brown irises. “You do know what we do with thieves, don’t you?”

Cyril shook his head quickly, his tail swishing in excitement.

“Would you like me to show you?” Enver purred. His question was met with a wide-eyed nod. The tyrant pushed himself back up and stood at the edge of the bed. They had long since forsaken their clothes, so there was nothing available to hide his arousal. “Fetch my gauntlets for me, pet.” Gortash commanded, and it was clear that he was having difficulty holding himself together. It had been so long since they had done something like this. Cyril scooted off the bed and to his feet.

“Crawl.” The tyrant was finding more authority in his voice. The Urge bristled briefly at the order, but was quickly silenced as the monster sank to his knees, running the tip of his tail down Enver’s body. He crawled slowly, dramatically, to the pack and fished out the shiny metal gauntlets. For extra flare, he put them in his mouth and maintained eye contact on his way back to the man.

Gortash didn’t need words to direct the next steps. He held out his bare hand, palm down, and Cyril obediently began to fasten the metalwork onto it, repeating this on his off hand. He stayed on his knees the whole time, and sat back on his heels when he was done. 

“Sometimes, when someone steals something very important to me, I put them to death.” Enver squatted down, and clenched his hand around the Bhaalspawn's throat, squeezing his windpipe. The tiefling, ever the slut for pain, let out a constricted moan. “But death is too soft a punishment for you,” he whispered.

“Other times,” the man continued, “when someone steals something from me…” He grabbed the tiefling’s hand and grazed the sharpened pointer finger of his gauntlet lightly across the wrist, “I cut off their hand,” he paused, “but I’m afraid you’ll need both of those tonight.”

His tyrant stood back up and motioned to the bed. “Bend over,” his sandy commanding tone grew a little louder. Cyril did as he was told, standing at the edge and pressing his stomach and face down into the mussed blankets. He felt an armor-clad hand grip the back of his neck as Enver’s hot breath met his pointed ear. “Most times, when someone steals from me,” that sumptuous whisper graced his eardrums again, “I beat them bloody until they have learned their lesson.” Vicious claws scratched into his back, drawing blood and leaving painful cuts. “That just sounds too commonplace for a time like this.”

Every word that came out of his lover’s mouth brought Cyril closer to the edge. He needed to be taken, and it needed to happen now. “But you…” Enver’s voice had returned to his low growl, “you took something from me. So I believe I will take you until you run out of words to beg me to stop, and then I will take you again.”

Gortash followed through on his threats. 

The sex was gentle at first, full of caressing touches and caution of lovers who haven’t indulged in each other, or anything else for that matter, for a long time. Callused hands traced every inch of the tiefling’s fair body, outlining every ridge and bump in his skin, and each soft caress made the monster underneath purr. Two souls that had denied themselves the very idea of soft sensuality since they had parted the first time finally came crashing together, as they were meant to. Tendays upon tendays of missed opportunities and lost love washed away with every thrust as Cyril was taken by his torrid tyrant, again and again and again.

The pace roughened once Gortash emptied himself the first time, and Cyril took advantage of the fleeting moment of regained control to squeeze around him as he came, eliciting a satisfied grunt from his partner. The raven-haired tyrant pushed himself past his previous limits as he tore into the Bhaalspawn’s guts like a Steel Watch piston, desire fully taking precedence over safety. The edges of Cyril’s consciousness darkened, and suddenly, being debased by the second most dangerous man in the world became the only thing that mattered.

Gortash’s adorned hands gripped his pet’s tightly, wrenching them backward until they rested at the small of his back. The tiefling’s tail whipped in excitement as the man forced him to hold himself open, effectively displaying himself to his owner. His claws dug crescent moons into his own ass. The next thrust was more like a punch, and was accompanied by the thin crack of an open palm landing on Cyril’s tender flesh. Gortash ran his hands up the tiefling’s spine, sliding his fingers between his collar and the skin off his neck. He tugged, hard, wrenching his head up with a gasp and a jingle.

“Pets are meant to be on display, no?” he gloated. When Cyril opened his mouth to respond Gortash snapped his hips forward again, ending any protests before they had begun. His fingers came to rest on Cyril’s slender waist and the sharp points of the gauntlets drew pinpricks of blood where they rested. A flex from Gortash opened the wounds to a steady drip. Cyril let out an elated gasp as his eyes fell out of focus. He was so close, he could practically taste the pre-cum beginning to bead at the tip of his cock.

Where the cock stopped, the hands started. Flesh-rending scratches on his back with one, and unrelenting strokes with the other. The pressure was close to unbearable as Gortash worked Cyril’s cock in his fist, allowing the frustrations of the past tenday to work themselves out through his grip. The tiefling started his breathy pleas for mercy in Common, but soon switched to Infernal, then a jumbled mix of the two as the tension in his gut rose to cloud everything else out. His guts were destroyed, his back was covered in bloody scratches, the pierce marks on his ass were dripping blood on the floor, and his cock throbbed in Gortash’s palm.

With a cry that sounded almost pained, the monster came onto the bedsheets. Above him, Gortash continued taking what was his, hips stuttering as his own climax came closer and closer. With the last vestiges of conscious thought left to him, Cyril squeezed around his tyrant, whimpering as he felt the man fill him once more. Gortash rocked his hips, grinding himself against Cyril with a satiated sigh as he practically collapsed on top of him, breathing heavily.  It was a perfect punishment for a perfect crime.

###

Years ago, if a passerby were to stumble upon the aftermath of these two lovers’ affair in a bedroom tucked away in Wyrm’s Rock fortress, they would find a battleground. The spoils of an unholy war; blood splattered in artful arcs, arrows of blasphemous insults stuck into the walls, still echoing if one were to listen close. Years ago, one might find a tyrant seated by the fire, half-clothed, sipping a dark spirit with conceited apathy, while his partner remained chained and exposed on the bed, eyes longing for more, but also begging for release. Or perhaps this passerby would find the opposite: The pale, horned Bhaalspawn licking at wounds he had carved into the other man’s flesh with unapologetic glee and animalistic pride, while his torn up lover stared him down with feigned anger and disgust.

Tonight, if that same onlooker came upon the scene, they would not find any of those things. There was blood, yes, and unbridled longing. But there was no battle to be won, no winner to be declared. There was just a human and his tiefling. A tiefling and his human. Entwined together as if they were fashioned that way from the start. Fated, tragic lovers sharing the very essences of their beings. There were no Gods; no Tyrants or Bhaalspawns; no giving or taking; no Cyril or Enver; just them . And that was enough.

Gortash wished this moment would last forever, that reality would never circle back and pull the two of them from their embrace. That time would indeed come, but until it did, he settled for watching his angel of death’s chest rise and fall as he slept soundly. Lying like this, one could almost forget that the man was Bhaal’s unholy Scion, sent to end the world and fill the oceans with blood. When he ignored the precisely placed scars on his face and neck, likely carved in some obscene Bhaalist rite… Or closed his piercing eyes, glowing red like the sun trickling through the windows… Or looked past the sharp, devilish claws… Or avoided eye contact with his red-tipped horns (whether they were a stylistic choice or actually stained with blood, Gortash was not sure, and was at this point too afraid to ask)... If he saw past all of those beautiful, terrifying features, and dove deep, deep down, inside there was just a man. A pile of flesh. His pile of flesh.

Relishing the night they had, the human embraced his monster once more and waited for reality to return. Cyril awoke soon after to Gortash stroking his tangled hair. He gave him a soft, sleepy smile. “Good morning, my tyrant,” his voice was barely above a whisper. The tiefling yawned and stretched, but winced halfway through as the ache from his wounds and sore guts made their existence known. “Mmmm, owww…” It was a mix between a purr and a whine. “You really did take me, didn’t you?” The angel seemed much more calm than before, more sure of himself. His nerves did not overtake him and cause him to act out of fear or murderous rage. 

Cyril got out of bed and began fiddling with his armor, sporting a little limp on the way from his likely decimated insides. Enver couldn’t help but admire his handiwork as the scratches on his back stretched with his muscles. “You were all mine, pet,” he chuckled as his partner struggled with the complex outfit. “You look like you could use a Hand.”

It was an undertaking that he was not prepared for. His hands got caught on some of the spikes, and one of the pointed rods protruding from the skull shoulder guards had a close encounter with his eye, but soon enough the armor was ready and Cyril did a little twirl. “What do you think?”

“It suits you quite well, I'd say.” Gortash gave an approving nod and gestured to the shoulders.“Whose skulls are those?” 

“A couple Banites I nabbed a few years ago…” Cyril gave a taunting smile. “They were getting a little too close to my territory so I figured I’d give them a better view of it.”

Gortash had known the Bhaalist leader for a couple decades now, and was still occasionally surprised at how cavalierly his lover treated his kills. He would have taken offense to this act of religious warfare if it weren’t so damn creative. “Well I’m sure my dearly departed associates enjoyed last night’s show even more.”

Cyril swooped in for a kiss. “Shall we continue our hunt?”

“After you.” The tyrant flashed an evil grin and brought a swift hand to smack an unarmored section of his monster’s back. He yelped in pain and maintained his small limp as they ventured out of the fortress.

Chapter Text

It was a shame Cyril had not developed much of a relationship with the Sharran. Having holes in their memories could have been common ground, but Shadowheart seemed adamant that she did not want to talk about it. After their admittedly brief encounter with the Nightsong, and Cyril’s revelation about his status as Father’s pureblooded spawn, he had hoped that their relationship might improve, but to no avail. As Cyril became more and more focused on his goal, the activities of his companions were of little importance. When they had left the Shadow-Cursed Lands, they always seemed to need something.

Shadowheart was on a mission to cleanse her cloister, emboldened by Shar herself; as if any self-respecting Bhaalist would go along with such a goal. Wyll was so torn up about his dimwitted father and the devil’s contract that he couldn’t see straight, not that he could with one eye anyway. Astarion never shut up about Cazador. While Minthara shared a similar goal, she would not be allowed to enact her vengeance on Orin, as it was Cyril’s birthright, not hers, on the line.

Unfortunately, Shadowheart’s secretive nature did not provide any clues as to her corpse’s whereabouts. The Bhaalist was aware of a Sharran temple somewhere in the city, but had never been able to find it. He vaguely remembered Shadowheart speaking with one of the merchants in Rivington before taking her leave, something about a bet on her reappearance in the city. There was certainly unrest in the temple considering her…promotion. Being invited there was most certainly a trap meant to ensnare the lost cub. Cyril did not feel the need to warn the cleric, as she probably would have gone anyway. At least it got her off his arse.

He stumbled upon said merchant’s rotting corpse across the street from the circus. However, even in death, his answers were indecipherable. Damn Shar. It seemed that he would have to do this the hard way.

“Enver, do you recall tadpoling any Sharrans from the cloister in the lower city?” 

“They were a slippery group, to be sure. Even I am not privy to the location of their coven. Bane was not too keen on invoking the Night Singer’s wrath, especially with the already shaky alliance between the Dead Three. We were instructed to leave them alone for the time being.” Gortash held an apologetic expression. “Your cleric was caught up in all this because she was separated from her pack.”

“Bane was always spineless when it came down to it… No imagination, no ambition…” Cyril shot a wry smile at the tyrant, who returned an unamused glare. “No matter, Bhaal has no such compunction. Fel!” 

Loathe as he was to ask for help, there was work to do, and his snivelling butler would make things more efficient.

“I live and die to serve, Master.”

“Have we yet located and invaded the Sharran temple?” Cyril was desperately hoping that his subordinates had already prepared the way for him…

“We have retrieved its location, Villainous Prince, but have not yet darkened its doors. Many fear that they will be overpowered.”

…And once again he would be disappointed. “ By the Murder God, each day I grow more weary of the laziness displayed by those who serve Him! I wish to personally carve flesh from their slothful arses to curb their incessant penchant for sitting around! Yet, I haven’t the time, as I am left to clean up their mess once–”

“I am more than willing to provide ministrations to the Dread Lord’s followers, my–” Cyril cut off the deferent screech, his ire increasing as he grabbed the shrivelled imp by his neck.

“ Silence! You are not to speak unless spoken to! You will alert the indolent temple-dwellers of a new mission to slaughter Shar’s cloister. They may employ the Absolute’s army if they are too feckless to complete the mission alone. Then, dig out your intestines and hang yourself by them. I would like to see a gory display when I next return to the temple.”

The butler was thrown to the ground. He scrambled to attention, nodded with pitiful eyes, and dematerialized with a tip of his hat. 

…

The pair slowly made their way toward the Sharran cloister. The Urge was squirming after the news of his followers’ incompetence, so Cyril rained blood and terror upon a nearby refugee campsite to quell it. They were boring kills, though. As much as the Urge desired their severed heads stacked together upon a spear, there was no reason to humor it. He could kill whenever he wanted now. He was hesitant to admit it, but perhaps Father’s gift had outlived its purpose…

“Your missing companions are a true testament to your loyalty, pet.” Gortash chided, thankfully bringing him out of his thoughts. 

“You’re no better than Cazador. If you will recall, I did not personally have a hand in killing any of them! Well except you, of course. I didn’t even kill Minthara! She technically ended her own life…” Cyril’s eyes rolled. He had been as loyal as possible to his allies, but at the end of the day, they were simply tools that broke. 

“It’s astounding you even remember their names.”

“I run a damned church. I better be able to learn names, even if the whole memory thing was touch and go for a while.” Cyril enjoyed these conversations with Gortash. He felt at ease, able to be himself, or at least, the person that most closely resembled who he wanted to be. 

The only sound echoing in the dead streets was the clacking of the villains’ boots and the rustling of armor. This part of town had been one of the first to be leveled by the Absolute, which was why it was such a shock that the Sharrans apparently still lived after all this time. The House of Grief was up ahead, and Cyril spotted a Death’s Head posted at the entrance. Why was he keeping watch? There was no soul alive for at least 100 yards in every direction. He strode to the Death’s Head, Michal, who was wise not to open his mouth before being told to. 

“The city’s screams grow quieter every day as more fall in Father's name, yet you insist on keeping watch. Tell me, Death’s Head, did you all enjoy wasting Bhaal-given breath by lollygagging? Or is it just you that I must punish?” Cyril raised his eyebrows with a pointed expression. “Speak!”

“M-my Lord, I am the only one here. I stayed behind to tell you that when we invaded the temple, everyone there was already dead.” Michal spoke quietly, pondering every word to ensure he made no mistakes, “Perhaps the A-Absolute’s forces got to them before we–”

“I am in control of the Absolute’s forces! And you will do well to remember your place, Michal, before sullying my ears with your pointless conjectures.” He had to remind himself that he was a benevolent leader and would let this go. 

“If Your Grace would permit me to show you what we found?” Michal maintained his composure.

“That is not necessary, Death’s Head. You are dismissed. Make yourself useful elsewhere.” 

Cyril and Enver cast their shadows over the threshold into the temple that was already devoid of life. Shar’s dense perfume of loneliness filled the men's throats. The scent revealed a territorial displeasure toward Bhaal’s Scion and Bane’s former Chosen. The message was clear: Do not interfere . 

“Lux in tenebra.”

Cyril whispered a twinned darkvision spell for himself and his partner as the magical blackness swirled around them. The soft din of purple candles seen throughout Sharran architecture did little to cut through the immense fog. The pair did not have to go far to encounter the carnage that awaited them in the temple below. Bodies of Shar’s most devout splayed over the stairs and the floor and the railings of the balcony. 

Unless performing a sacrifice on Father’s altar, the Bhaalist tradition called for quick deaths; a slit throat, a knife to the stomach, potentially something more creative and gruesome if there was time. The illithids approached their kills with an even higher regard toward efficiency, decimating the minds of their victims within seconds of catching them in their thrall. The mortal wounds covering these corpses, however, were curvy and ornamental, exemplifying Shar’s precision and her propensity toward eliciting pain. These cultists had been killed by their own kind. 

“Unrest befalls even the most pious, it seems.” Enver’s voice echoed through the silent sanctum.

“ Hush! We are uninvited here!” Cyril swatted at his lover’s arm. 

They continued through the temple, with all its nooks and crannies and secret doors, Shadowheart could be anywhere, so they systematically checked the area, one trapped bookshelf at a time. The corpses were beautiful . Carefully carved despite obvious resistance, Cyril was disappointed that it was not his handiwork. As they were swallowed by more darkness, he noticed that each body had been treated with the same Sharran care, uniform and comprehensive. There were no distinctions between the wounds, no indications of victims or victors. An uneasy feeling crept over his mind: This was no ordinary theological dispute. 

This was an extinction.

From what little he had gleaned from Shadowheart’s past, the Sharran cloister in the city was always on the verge of heresy for one reason or another. The fickle Goddess assuredly would have her reasons for instructing the Baldur’s Gate coven to wipe themselves out, but they were masked in deathly silence. An investigation into the fall of what could have been a formidable roadblock in his Grand Design did not interest the Bhaalspawn. They were dead, and that’s what mattered. The matter of Shadowheart’s fate was still up in the air, however. Would Shar consider including her newest Dark Justiciar in the massacre? Or had the Mother Superior gotten to her first?

After hours of searching in the dark, the pair found an area behind the apse which held four interesting corpses. The Mother Superior herself lay by the entrance to the room. They noticed two emaciated bodies next, an elf and a human, the cleric’s parents perhaps, clothed in rags and reaching for each other’s hands. A delicious, timeless tragedy . In front of them lay the Daughter of Darkness herself. She had been stripped of her weapons and armor, wearing a tattered dress instead. Even her hair piece was missing as her black braid framed her head in a halo. None of the four of them bore visible wounds, and instead carried their death in eerie silence, the frosty air preserving their bodies in an endless stasis. Perhaps it was Shar herself who had taken their lives, considering that her perfume lay heaviest here. 

Cyril felt an odd sense of reverence for the scene. What a testament of divine intervention! This should be the example of how a church should fall, not with scattered prayers for salvation and scrabbled attempts to flee. This cloister faced their fate under the hand of the object of their worship. All the same, Cyril thought it best to conduct his business and leave as soon as possible.

…

Cum mortuis in lingua mortua.

Shadowheart’s corpse regarded him, lifelessly.

Their hunt so far had led them to the edge of the city, but no one had mentioned the Shadow-Cursed Lands in their memories. The cleric, ever split between the two Goddess sisters, might have some insight or memories of the area that was eternally shrouded in darkness. Though he couldn’t say he was looking forward to traversing the region again, it seemed that the backtracking had to continue. He made it a point to focus his questioning on that.

“Who are you?”

“ Shadow…heart…”

This was going to be arduous. Shar had assuredly rid her of the majority of her memories, so tugging at something, anything , would be an undertaking in its own right. 

“What was the nature of our relationship?”

“Acquaintances… memories forbidden… I was betrayed… Such a fool… Unworthy…”

Not even awarded the title of ally now? Cyril sneered, “Who did we meet in the Shadow-Cursed Lands?”

“ The Last Light… Selûnite cleric… Should have listened…”

The woman’s answers were soaked in regret. The Lady of Loss certainly did not spare her. There were many stragglers at the Last Light, faces he didn’t remember. A memory of their time there might prove the most helpful. Enver accepted Cyril’s invitation into the memory, and they both dove into the magical pool together.

Veritas Visio!

The memories were blurred and filled with holes, jumping from one topic to another.

###

The blessing stuck to Shadowheart like fuzzy mold. What would Lady Shar say? The ache in her hand made Her response clear. As much as the respite (and the ale) at the inn was welcome, it came at the cost of refuge delivered by the moon-bitch. Her cleric was about what she expected a Selûnite would be, very much like [----------]. Not unbearable, but certainly a bit bright for her tastes. 

After initial introductions were made, and a particularly gruesome battle with Fist Marcus and his monstrous companions, Shadowheart found a perch at the bar while the others began to explore the inn and its grounds. Karlach was drooling over Jaheira, Wyll was chatting with that one Fist leader they had [-----------], and Astarion was making friends with the cat. She all but jumped out of her skin when their tiefling leader appeared on a stool beside her and prodded her shoulder.

“Lady of Sorrows guide us! Cyril?!” Shadowheart snapped, “You should know better than to touch a woman when she’s armed for battle.” She took a deep breath, “Sorry, you can’t blame me for being a bit on edge. This whole place reeks of Selûne, and I thought it was bad at that abandoned temple…”

“Are you speaking of that woman upstairs?” Cyril flared his nose in disgust. While the tiefling’s background was unknown, he seemed to share a few ideals with her. 

“Repulsively sweet, isn’t she?” 

Cyril looked like he was running a fever. Sweat dripped on his brow, his cheek and jaw muscles twitched, his breaths were jagged. He gave no response as he tried to cover his condition with an extended swig of ale. 

“Are you ill? You should go get some rest. Here, let me–”

“I’m fi-INE!” Cyril threw back more alcohol and choked on the dregs of the mug. 

Shadowheart knew a thing or two about keeping secrets, so she decided to keep her mouth shut for now. She had been hoping to make a friend in Cyril, like she had with [---------]. There was just something so unsettling about him and the way he interacted with others that reminded her of [----------]. Cyril was muttering something under his breath while his bloodshot eyes widened. They had not slept since entering the Shadow-Curse, and she herself was ready to turn in, drowsiness aided by the haze of the beer. 

“I… kiLL her.” His voice came out in a scratchy, feral whisper. Barbed, hot breaths shot through his bottom teeth as they scratched at his upper lip. She had seen him like this before, most recently when [--------]. “ Cover…blood…lick it…baaaathe…Fatherrrrrrrr…”

“Cyril…” Shadowheart tried to hide her apprehension behind care. She dared not touch him, for fear of losing a hand, so she opted for a calming tone. “It’s those dark thoughts again, isn’t it?”

A twitching face met her worried expression. They stared at each other for longer than they should have. The tiefling did not blink, but his pupils eventually returned to their normal size and his breathing adopted a normal rhythm. 

“Sorry… Gods . Look at me in this state,” Cyril picked up the beer mug and lamented its emptiness. There was the faintest hint of a lie in his voice. “Whatever I said, I promise I didn’t mean it. You will forgive me won’t you?” The man was using the same tone he used on Karlach. The slimy one. Shadowheart was beginning to think that she had just about enough of the… whatever he was…

“You know you don’t have to lie every time you talk, right?” She scrunched her brows, “You might be able to get away with whatever you pull with Karlach, and Astarion is stuck to you like a tick, but you do not have me fooled for a second. Wyll thinks so too, by the way. The Dark Lady teaches that secrets must have purpose, and your little secrets have only led us into more trouble so far. If you really feel the need to satiate that bloodlust of yours, there are plenty of shadow beasts outside who I’m sure would gladly take you up on your offer. There is no need to lie to me about it.”

Cyril’s expression softened, but not all the way. 

“I want to help if I can. We must look out for each other if we’re going to survive this.” This affliction of his was complex, but she would do all she could to work to understand it.

“You’re right. I am so used to people judging me for how I think and my Urges. I’m sure you understand what I’m going through. What with your Shar worship and everything…”

Shadowheart gasped, “You would compare your base behavior to the Dark Lady’s service? What is wrong–”

[---------]

“–have the next claim on your head!” The High Harper’s fury rang across the shadowed battlefield as cursed monsters, the very same people who had been bedding down for the night moments before, lunged toward the party. 

“Ira et Dolor!” Radiant spirits encircled Shadowheart, causing the shades to buckle in pain as the light touched their darkened souls. One of them quite closely resembled the Harper quartermaster. As the light specters caressed her face, it began to melt. Dust from what one might have considered skin mixed with the wind blowing through the once great stronghold. If the woman, or the last vestiges of her, hadn’t been attacking her, Shadowheart would have wanted to find [---------]. Instead, these souls had to die by their hand, encased in unholy darkness. She placed herself near the porch, allowing the guardians to protect the entrance to the inn. This gave her a good view of the raging battle.

Wyll’s Eldritch Blasts kept the creeping monsters at bay. Black, oozing power impacted the undead, and their ghastly cries echoed in their ears. He turned to fire off another attack, but was snatched by a thorny vine as it burst from its containment underground. He was lifted off his feet, and the plant seemed to constrict with his movements. Astarion’s sharp eyes darted to Wyll's rapier as it clattered to the dirt, and he dove for it before it could be snatched away. Shadowheart began to conjure a flame to shoot at the tendril, but thought better of it, should a stray spark damage her friend.   

“A little help, Karlach?” the cleric shouted over the cacophony. Upon seeing her lover entangled, the barbarian directed her burning rage at the vine, hurling her greataxe at its root with a roar of effort. The weapon slashed through the blackened trunk of the massive plant like it was a blade of grass, and it withered and shrunk, releasing the man. Wyll offered a word of thanks, but the tiefling was consumed by wild battlerage as she cannoned further into the fray to cut down more of the encroaching enemies.

Astarion tossed Wyll his weapon, and zipped after Karlach into the fracas, his own daggers poised and ready to strike. When the barbarian attacked to the left, he would slice right, retreating into her shadow with each strike. If it weren't for the white mop of hair still glowing from Isobel's blessing, he would practically be invisible—a deadly blade in the darkness. The party was a breathing organism, systematically laying waste to the enemies. Though someone was missing: The reason all of this had started in the first place.

On the other side of the battlefield, Jaheira conjured a glacial tempest, intensifying the chill in the air. Icicles hailed from the sky like crossbow bolts, shattering on impact and covering the ground with frost. Shadowheart couldn't help but chuckle as some of the shades slipped on the icy surface. The High Harper’s face betrayed her grief and a hint of fear as she morphed into a panther and clawed her way through the throng. 

“Tormentum!” A voice a few feet behind Shadowheart echoed off the walls of the porch. Cyril had finally made it to the battle and was licking blood from his lips as waves of force catapulted from his hand and hit an approaching vine. When he had mentioned wanting to kill someone, she didn’t realize it was the damned cleric! Selûnite or no, she was protecting people. She did not need to die. The moon goddess’ absence brought forth old feelings from [----------]. 

A crazed laugh erupted from the man as the blade in his off hand slit the throat of a nearby Shadow-Cursed Harper. His glowing eyes flashed wildly as he watched the body crumple with an empty gasp for air. Shadowheart couldn't help but wince at the splatter of blood that had erupted from the death blow.

His smile broke as he noticed her change in expression. “I came as soon as I could! Is everyone alright?” 

If there was one thing the man was good at, it was putting on a show. Shadowheart did not indulge his manipulation, and simply prepared a bolt of radiant energy to hurl at another in a seemingly endless string of foes. Shar preserve her, she would find a way to make this right. Even if that meant–

[------------]

“–tire of sitting on dead men’s thrones.” The Lolth-sworn and the Slayer were deep in conversation. The party was celebrating their victory over Ketheric, but Shadowheart felt a sense of urgency as she cleaned the undeath off her new Dark Justiciar armor. There was much work to do. She must get home and fulfill the Dark Lady’s mission. She had been empowered by Shar herself, realizing a lifelong dream. At least, she assumed it was lifelong, judging by what the little glimpses into her past had told her.

She pondered what the Nightsong had said, before the Spear of Night struck her heart. Was her past truly related to Selûne? That wasn’t possible, was it? At the time, she had written it off as one of the Moon Bitch’s tricks, a way for Lady Shar to test her. But now…She had a gnawing feeling that she had missed something. Something vitally important. She might be a Dark Justiciar now, but at what cost? Doubt darkened Shadowheart’s mind as a thought deeper still surfaced. Why did she go through with killing her? Was it Shar’s bidding? Or was the group simply trying to save time because killing the Nightsong was in their best interest?

She looked at their leader, the shimmering façade of innocence was sloughing off with every needless drop of blood he spilt and foe he befriended. How could she have missed the signs? Perhaps she had been awed by his bravery in battle, or charmed by his infectious smile, or blinded by the pressing need for survival, that she had forgotten her wits and trusted a dangerous man she hardly knew. Upon exchanging worried glances with Wyll and Karlach, she sensed a similar hesitance.

All of this would be resolved when she got back to the city, she reassured her fractured mind. It was vital, more so than even the tadpole, that she find [----------]. It was her duty to restore [---------]. Her mission was to defeat [--------]. She must—

      Re [---

                 ---] mem [---

 ---] ber.

###

Gortash and Cyril coughed and choked on the darkness. They had been yanked out of the memory before the spell had ended. The ever increasing fog tied up their lungs, and it felt like Shar herself had interfered. They had seen quite enough apparently. Without a word spoken, they sprinted to the exit, pushed along by the very air of the temple itself. Blinded by the red sunlight, they tumbled out of the House of Grief and did not look back. They continued to run for a few blocks before finally stopping to catch their breath. 

“I hate to side with your subordinates, but I would not go near that temple if it had been inhabited,” Gortash panted. “Strategically… that is.” 

“Psh,” Cyril spat. “Coward.” This was an obvious bluff.

There was a long silence as they walked together toward the upper city. Gortash let out a weary sigh. Considering the Sharran’s memories, limited as they were, it seemed that their search would be taking them out of the city. “Pet… You’re not going to drag us into the Shadow Curse, are you? You know how much I abhorred traveling through that place the first two dozen times, and the three-score after that with Orin.”

Cyril smiled with a faux pout. “You scared? ”

“Of course not! Who do you take me for?” Something about being swallowed in blackness brought tinges of Bane’s domain to the edges of Gortash’s mind. He needed a drink. “Shall we return to my home? I have a rather expensive bottle of whiskey that’s been sitting around for a special occasion. If it is to be our last night in the city, we may as well enjoy it. It wouldn’t hurt to…build up my confidence for the journey to come?”

His monster snorted and rolled his eyes, “Greedy bastard… You just want to sleep in your own bed again.”

“That’s not all I want to happen in my bed tonight.”

“And what makes you think that I can take you again so soon? After the state of delicious carnage you left my guts in last night?” Cyril wasn’t even attempting to tell a good lie, the monster had healed himself this morning.

“Oh you can, and you will . And you will plead with me for it to be far worse tonight.”

Chapter Text

“To my undeath!”

The pair had barely gotten into Enver’s house before he had snatched his bottle of aged whiskey from a place of honor in the hutch and poured generous helpings for both of them in ornate, crystal glasses. He was in high spirits, perhaps wanting to enjoy the time they had left before venturing into the wastelands and beyond. Cyril gracefully raised his glass to clink with his lover’s, and they drank the whole portion down together. Tonight was for celebrating. Gortash refilled their glasses immediately.

The liquor was bitter and smoky, aged in oak, and tasted very much like the blood of the druids in the Emerald Grove… delectable. A sultry smile slid on the tiefling’s face. He may remember the facts of their old affair, but his fractured mind had forgotten the feeling. Last night, Gortash’s cock had made its home in his guts, or perhaps a better way of putting it would be that he reclaimed his territory. And Cyril was more than happy to offer it to him again. 

Enver drank another glass in one gulp, this time giving a ragged sigh of contentment, slamming his glass on the table and pouring himself another. He was drinking like a pirate, a man with nothing to lose. Good. Let him cede control for a little while. Cyril opted to take small sips from here on. He wanted to limit himself to two drinks, lest the Urge use his drunkenness as permission to be naughty.

Gortash perused the dining room with a squinted stare, his eyes pausing at the place where he had chained the tiefling up a few days prior. On the wood floor lay a water spot formed from the salt of his tears that had flown so freely that fateful night. “Bhaalspawn…” The tyrant drilled his eyes into him. “You have stained my floor. I thought I told you to clean that up! Now look at the state of it!”

“Mmm shame. Shall we cover it up with a rug? I’m sure a brass dragonborn’s skin would suit the decor. It’s gaudy enough.” 

“I do have quite the taste in… ugly things, don’t I?” Gortash glared at his horrid little Bhaalspawn.

“I am as disgusting as they come.” Cyril mewled, “Yet here you are, enthralled by my ravishing charm all the same. Once a slave, always a slave…”

The man raised his eyebrows and took a long drink. “A slave? My pet dares to insult his Master?”

“And my Master somehow thinks he’s in control, even though his pet holds the world in his palm.”

“You believe you can control me?” Enver’s eyes grew wild with want. “You may have the rest of the world fooled, but I seem to remember a little baby Bhaalspawn begging me to own him.”

“Each breath you take could be your last, Bane-slave,” Cyril spat. “Oh, but the Tyrant Lord washed his Black Hands of you, did he not?”

“How about you show me the meaning of tyranny, now that I no longer have a patron, then? Go on…” The tyrant purred after finishing the last of his drink. “Fuck the Bane out of me.”

Cyril had been preparing to pounce from the moment he sat down. He sprung from his chair toward the lordling, who had also stood up in preparation for the attack. The man was swaying a bit from the alcohol’s effects, and was easily knocked off balance. They toppled to the floor, the tiefling on top. He ached for the taste of Enver’s blood, it sang to him as he listened to the man’s quickening heartbeat—

His contract raced into his mind. He must not indulge, lest he lose control. He had begun to mourn the forbidden taste, and resigned himself to being gentle when a hand gripped his horn and brought him back to the present.

“You will not lose control.” The words, like a prophecy, a command from on high, were an invitation and a threat. He will not lose control. He will not lose control. 

“Have you ever been bitten by a vampire, Mmmmaster?” Cyril purred and fixed his eyes on his tyrant’s neck, licking his lips.

“Can’t say as I’ve had the pleasure. Don’t tell me that Cazador freak made a spawn out of you after all.”

“As if he could!” Cyril scoffed. “Though he did teach me a few things about the art of a good bite.” He sank his teeth into the meat of Gortash’s trap. It was salty from sweat and dirt. And the blood that emerged from the wound… Bhaal below! It was enough to make his cock begin to throb, and for lust break through in earnest.

Enver let out a splendid gasp at the feeling of devilish fangs in his muscle, the sensation of losing blood only adding to the haze of the spirits. Cyril had taken off his armor when they had arrived at the house, but left the studded undershirt and leather pants on. While he was pressing into his lover, he could feel the spikes scratching at the tyrant’s loose chemise. The tiefling’s claws made quick work of the fabric, and grazed some of Gortash’s tan skin in the process. The red beads that bubbled up from the soft flesh were more piquant than any liquor, top shelf or otherwise. Murmurs of pleasure fluttered between them as the blood was savored.

“Mmnnn what a lovely slave my Master makes. I’m beginning to think you like being dominated.” The king of the world looked upon his tyrant with evil glee.

Gortash's eyes flashed fire briefly, the man who would never tolerate such blatant disrespect emerged from the haze and squirmed under the steady grip his lover had on his shoulders. “It will take more than mere scratches and insults to break me, Bhaalspawn. Do your worst. ”

Cyril made little bites disguised as kisses down Enver’s middle, taking care to avoid the scarred stab wound and arrived at the waistline of his pants. With no regard to comfort, the monster yanked the material down his legs, exposing the tyrant’s length, which quivered with anticipation. “ Ad lapidem. Stay put for me, won’t you?” The monster got up and sat back in his chair, coolly continuing to sip his drink. He was going to make this last. He peeled off his own sweaty clothes and piled them in a heap under the table. The sling housing his ritual dagger remained at his hip.

After a beat, he peered over the edge of the table, and heard a disgruntled groan. “Do you want something, Master?”

“I told you to fuck me,” the human attempted a commanding tone, but it ended up sounding desperate and miserable.

“Ah! I distinctly remember you telling me to teach you the meaning of tyranny. And that is what I am doing. You’re being such an excellent student.” Cyril was doing his level best to remain nonchalant.

“Bane teaches the role hard work plays in achieving one’s goals. You have not- Augh!”

The monster’s foot collided with his stomach. “Bane is not here. I am your God tonight.”

Gortash quieted himself upon hearing the blasphemous words, but began shaking his hips and squirming aimlessly on the floor, struggling against his magical hold. Cyril had made him ache for his touch.

“Your God takes pity upon you, and will grace you with his presence.” The tiefling released the spell, slid his tail out toward his little lordling’s cock and wrapped it tightly around his hardened flesh. “Go on. Fuck it.” 

Cyril was very used to wielding this kind of authority over his followers, but had rarely done so with Enver. He often found that the sexual submission he practiced with his tyrant created a welcome reprieve from the pressures of Scion-hood. He couldn’t help but appreciate the rush, however, when the inebriated man began to sloppily rut into his coiled tail. The desperate tyrant would throw his cock at a displacer beast if it meant gaining just a little more control. After the novelty wore off, the tiefling removed his tail, and was met with resistance when Gortash grabbed at it.

In an instant, Cyril was back on top of him, clamping his claws around the man’s errant wrist. “You touch me without permission again, and I will crush your hand into pretty bone dust and make you wank with it.” 

The tiefling growled and tightened his grip. “I’ll be taking this.” Gortash’s gauntlet was roughly separated from his disobedient hand, and fitted nicely, if not a little loosely, onto his pet’s. “Open for me,” Cyril commanded, and was met with the beautiful sight of his lover begrudgingly spreading his legs. “My love, you truly are stunning like this.” Pale fingers touched tan thighs. Their eyes met, and the tyrant’s shone with a tantalizing combination of adoration and hatred. “Do not worry, Master. I will let you have your turn, but first, I promised I would show you what real power looks like.”

Without ceremony, Cyril drove his index finger, pointed metalwork and all, into the human’s asshole. Gortash lurched in pain. “Never had this gauntlet up your own arse, eh? You only ruin others’ guts with ‘em. It sssstings doesn’t it?” The tiefling was cackling, the poor man wriggling and squirming at each small movement of his finger. After a minute, a second finger found its way in, this time being met with a more pleasurable response. “Therrrre’s my delicious Master. You haven’t been taken in a while, have you? You're so tight. So tense…” 

Cyril hung his head down near Gortash’s face as he continued to stretch out his opening. “May I touch you, pet?” The humble request pushed the monster over the edge. No more preparations, it was time to take control. Enver accepted his cock gracefully, and both of them drew heavy breaths at their union. 

“Touch me wherever you like. You’ve earned it.” As Cyril began to pick up the pace, he found his horns yanked toward his lover’s forehead, causing his back to flex in a muscular arch. His tail stretched up in pleasure as Enver pulled him in for a biting kiss. Teeth snagged at his bottom lip, and fangs gently trapped his lover’s tongue in kind. 

The tyrant released the kiss, retaining a hold on the horns, and whispered into his ear, “Harder.”

Cyril slowed down with a pointed stare. “No.” 

“Your defiance will be rewarded with equal retribution, Bhaalspawn. Forget not that you are still my pet. You will face judgment by my hand in equal measure to- mmMMPH”

The Bhaalspawn’s cock smashed into Gortash’s insides. “Invoco te.” A translucent hand appeared and clamped down on the mouthy Master’s maw. “That is quite enough. You with your vacant threats and desperate attempts to order me around. I thought Bane taught you better to respect your allies. It seems the message never quite went through.” 

Electric pleasure shot through the monster’s body as he fucked his Master. He closed his eyes, drinking in the musky scent of his lover’s umbrage. Cyril did not notice the tyrant’s change in countenance from sloppy anger to measured calculation. He also did not notice wandering hands as they gently lifted his knife out of its sheath. Enver let out a few muffled moans as his lust overtook his anger, and he drew ever closer to climax. Cyril dug his claws into his partner’s outer thighs, scratching and scraping. The utterances turned into screams. The monster licked at the gathered meat from under his pointed talons. “I could feast on your flesh until I have picked your bones clean and still not have enough of you.” 

Lightheaded from his ambrosial meal, the monster slowed his pace, much to his partner’s dismay. Cyril was curious how long it would take for him to break and take over. It couldn’t be much longer, he considered, he was being such a good slave after all. He dispelled the mage hand covering his mouth and replaced it with another kiss, drawing blood from his tongue once again. The Urge was quiet, resting in the back of his mind and simply watching with contentment. 

“Your obedience even quiets my Urge, Master. You are being so good for me.” The tiefling’s hips came to a stop, this night must not end too quickly, after all. Gortash’s face scrunched. “My pretty little toy, my faithful sla- aaaHH! FUCK!!”

White hot pain sprung from his stomach. Metal against flesh, impaling him with speed and precision. Cyril’s shoulders were clamped by strong hands, and he tumbled onto his back with a rough push. Chills ran up and down his body as he fought through waves of searing pain. His eyes began to focus, and he saw his ritual knife sticking out of his own midsection. His blood began flowing out of the wound, creating a marvelous red river on his pearly skin. A picturesque stabbing.

Gortash’s face slid into view. “You had your turn to be tyrant. Now it is my turn to be monster.” He ripped the knife from its casing in his insides, and bubbling Bhaalspawn blood elicited a sharp growl of pain and hunger. Enver’s fingers gently traced the tender wound and made their way to Cyril's mouth. He sucked on them greedily, it would be a shame for the blood to go to waste. He remained on the verge of orgasm, but it was clear that his Master wouldn't let him get off that easily.

“Heal it.” The command came as a disappointment to the tiefling, but the pretty wound was closed soon enough, even through his chagrin and fruitless protests. “Now this is a story I have heard before,” Gortash sneered. “The pretend tyrant stabbed by his own blade. Perhaps he should have been more scrupulous when choosing his allies.” Enver rubbed his bloody fingers over his own stomach scar sentimentally, then began to prepare the beast’s opening as he eyed him hungrily. 

Cyril was overstimulated; pain, pleasure, devotion, ire, and mischief swirled themselves together and escaped in one haunting growl. He squirmed under Enver’s touch, and realized that no devil or vampire or elder brain had a chance of killing him, but his tyrant did. The man had burrowed his way so deeply into his rotten mind that he couldn’t help but keep his guard down for him. This thought did not fill him with fear, as he might have expected it would, but instead intensified the adoration he had for the man who had given him a matching scar.

Gortash slid the tip of the knife over Cyril’s quaking middle, bringing it to rest gently on the scabbed wound. Then, he precisely drove it back into the flesh, while simultaneously shoving a third finger into his guts with a crazed smile. Cyril let out a breathy scream. This was heaven. The knife was taken out too soon, before there was time to relish its presence. 

“Heal it, pet!” Gortash bade. The tiefling sealed the wound once more, and was rewarded with the tyrant’s cock in his insides. 

A quick pace was set off the rip, they were impatient. Cyril’s waiting game had been just enough to build up frustration and want for both of them. There were no words exchanged, no eye contact made, just frenetic love made by demented lovers. Heaving breaths stung in the monster’s core, the inebriation provided by the liquor clouded his mind. He sunk into the bloody depths of pleasure and patiently waited for the climax to arrive.

Enver came first, gushing into his reclaimed territory. He reached the peak of his pleasure and drove the knife once more into the abused stab wound. This took Cyril over the edge, who howled a maniacal scream upon releasing between their stomachs.

There was no need to order healing this time, as the continual blood loss was taking its toll, and the monster wanted to survive the night. Blue fuzz encircled the stab wound, but the Bhaalspawn made sure to leave a similar shaped scar to that of his partner. He also tended to Enver’s scratches and bites. They lay on the dining room floor together, panting. Blood stained the wooden planks; a painting depicting their deviant love.

“Heh, I think I’ll need a few more dragonborns to cover up this mess. How about black? That might complement the furniture…” Cyril chuckled, dreaming of scaly skin rugs.

“Whatever color you like, pet. It will probably be stained red when we get it here either way.”

Chapter Text

“I have such a headache.” Cyril could hold his liquor, but the pulsing brume of the Shadow Curse banged on his eardrums, increasing the pressure. His own screams and moans from the night before still echoed, allowing the migraine to sink further into the depths of his brain. He fingered at his collar, pressing the blunt spikes into the skin of his neck and relishing the smoothness of the leather. 

Enver gave no response and seemed equally groggy, though his ailments might have more to do with the sheer amount of spirits he had consumed. A mage hand was holding the moon lantern between them, and the tyrant squinted and held his hand up to block the blazing white light’s path to his eyes. Poor thing. Though Cyril had allowed him to get carried away, he considered his tyrant’s hangover as payback for the almost unforgivable depravity he had displayed last night.

Moonrise was, fortunately, but a half-day’s walk from the edge of the city via the sigils, so there need not be any bedding down for the night among the blighted bushes and creeping monsters. Occasionally, Cyril would leave the safety of the lantern’s glow to spill some undead blood. This was not entirely what the Urge had in mind for its morning kills. But it would simply have to make do.

Enver broke the silence he had been keeping since they had departed that morning. “Do you remember the first time we ventured into these lands?”

The memories played out more like moving paintings in a gallery. “I remember you being a pussy . You brought how many meat shields with you? At least twenty.”

“And it’s a good thing too, considering you murdered half of them on the way!” 

“Are you still angry about that?” Cyril rolled his eyes, “Father desired their blood, and so I obliged. It was an act of worship .” 

“But of course. I’m sure Father dearest had a double measure of satisfaction when your sacrifices to him were Banites for a tenday.” Gortash was apparently still very jaded about the affair. Cyril had at least made an effort to curb his bloodlust for Banites as their alliance had strengthened. During that initial journey, they were just right there ; lives for the taking, practically begging him to systematically break all of their bones and pluck out their eyes with his claws and twissssst their necks around until the skin ripped off, exposing and snapping the arteries near their throats. 

“Mmmmm blaspheming Banite bodies bludgeoned to blood and bones for Bhaaaalllll.” The Murder Prince continued into his stupor. He held those memories fondly. 

“You disgust me.” Gortash flashed a fake smirk.

“Your actions last night would indicate otherwise.” Cyril licked his fingers to clean up some of the stale, blackened, shadow-cursed blood that had been building up over the last few kills. Being on the road again elicited surprisingly pleasant feelings. The search for fresh blood. The quest for vengeance and returned memories. The hunger for Father’s approval. Those moments were precious to him in the days before finding out his true identity, his true purpose. 

Moonrise had been well and truly abandoned. Since the Netherbrain’s relocation to the Gate, there was little reason for the Absolute headquarters to remain there. No one besides Ketheric could stand the Shadow Curse anyway. As they neared the towers, the pair stopped by the remains of Last Light Inn to look for purple wizard corpses. To no avail…

Ketheric and his Myrkulites had been more personally involved in the tadpoling and distribution side of the Design, so his memories might prove useful. Though Cyril did not relish the thought of visiting that oubliette again, it had to be done. His eyebrows knitted and a pit formed in his stomach. Bhaal preserve him, there should be no reason for him to be this nervous! He was not that pile of flesh anymore. He had been reborn in the blood of his enemies.  He was the Dread Lord’s true heir. He was-

“Get a hold of yourself!” Enver’s commanding tone sliced into his thoughts. He thought about the submission he had promised his tyrant, and it made him feel a little safer. A little saner. This time, when he darkened Moonrise’s doors as himself, he wouldn’t be alone.

###

“By the Gods, you lot really wrecked this place!” Gortash surveyed the main floor of the tower. Once a great stronghold, housing the unprecedented alliance of the Dead Three, Moonrise had since been all but razed to rubble. Bodies of cultists and former associates littered the floor, their blood having darkened into a thick, rusty veneer on the stonework. They had been torn apart . It was a magnificent display.

“The treacherous worms got what was coming to them. The Slayer does not discriminate when it rends flesh from bone.” Cyril’s horns could have been chimneys from the sheer heat of his smoky murderous aura. 

Gortash had never pried about Cyril’s… experiences in the mind flayer colony. He wasn’t even sure if Cyril remembered any of them. Orin would occasionally try to tell him stories to toy with him, but he would shut her down. He simply did not want to know. He couldn’t bear to picture him suffering like that. But judging by the increasingly crazed look in his eyes, he would have to face the truth sooner or later, and it was better if they did it together… right?

There was an unspoken rule between the two of them that Enver must not touch Cyril when the aura was turned on. This was a safety precaution, first and foremost, as the Bhaalspawn tended to indiscriminately respond to contact with a swift strike of a dagger to the nearest vital area. Gortash had grown accustomed to getting within eyeshot and trying to catch his attention from afar, should the Urge need reining in. There was not even a rat alive in the place, and Cyril’s bloodthirst was continuing to rise. This would have to be dealt with, but the tyrant was for once at a loss. There was usually someone around he could point his partner at. But here? Nothing. 

It was a longshot, but Gortash needed to act fast before the Bhaalspawn accidentally broke his own contract. He rushed in front of the heaving tiefling and took his chances at physical contact. He planted his feet squarely in a defensive combat stance, slid his fingers between the monster’s leather collar and his neck and yanked on it .

“You will control yourself, Bhaalspawn!” Gortash stood his ground as the tiefling struggled against the beast within. Cyril snapped to attention at the sudden sensation of the spikes digging into his flesh and forced himself to blink a few times to refocus. This was to be a long journey, and if Cyril couldn’t even handle the main hall… well…

“Heh, sorry...” The monster fell silent again. He was engaged in a bloody war within his mind.

“I assume that you left Ketheric where the brain was housed? Would you like to explore the towers more or head straight there?” Gortash felt as if he were speaking to a child. The only experience he had with children was the way his own parents and Raphael treated him as a child, so he tried to just do the opposite of that. The interaction seemed a bit stilted, but he knew that concrete instruction was all the tiefling could handle right now. 

“Ex-plore. Must… smell their deaths.” The pair turned toward the entrance to the throne room. Gortash slid his fingers out from under Cyril’s collar. “No! … The pressure. Keeps me… here.” His breaths had turned into uneven pants. 

“Would you like me to use your lead?” 

A shaky nod answered his question. Gortash was not expecting to use the leash so soon, especially not for this reason, but was pleased that he thought to bring it along. He fastened the end to Cyril’s collar and maintained a solid grip as they ventured forward together. They climbed the stairs and started to survey the guest rooms. The piles of gore on the floor of Balthazar’s chambers had attracted undead flies. Cyril started leaning out toward the piles, his tongue performing frog-like movements in a sloppy attempt to catch the insects.

“No flies today, pet. I’m sure we’ll find you a better treat later.” Gortash gave a quick tug of the leash to refocus the animal. “Ah! Look. These were our chambers when we stayed here. Remember?”

They found themselves in front of a locked wooden door. Unlike the rest of the stronghold, it appeared untouched. Cyril stared at it in confusion. “Don’t remember… this room… Dissera! ” The door unlocked and creaked open.

A wave of bitter nostalgia overtook Gortash as the dusty room revealed itself to him. After Cyril was taken, he had requested new accommodations and had never once returned here. The room was exactly how he left it. Dull, grey light trickled in through arrowslits, refracting off the ancient dust clinging to the air.  The simple four-poster bed was still unmade, the blankets crumpled and twisted together showing evidence of a struggle. Claw marks wrote stories on the floor, punctuated by the smallest drops of brown, dried blood leading to the door. The set of robes that Cyril had set out for the day ahead still lay on the desk chair, dusty and moth-eaten. This was no longer a guest room. This was a mausoleum housing the ashes of their affair.

The one time Gortash needed to depart early for a meeting back in the city. The one time he didn’t say goodbye when they parted. Then he was gone.

Cyril did not make noise for a concerning amount of time, even to breathe. Then sharp exhales pulsed from a downturned mouth. It was time to go. Gortash guided him away from the doorway with the leash as they continued. His voice cracked as he whispered, “Need to find him… now…”

“Are you sure? Take your time.” Gortash wasn’t sure if he was ready to venture downward, but he steeled himself. Now was not the time to be a coward. Cyril nodded sharply. They continued in silence for the rest of the trip to the oubliette.

…

“Kill. Kill! KILL AGAIN! They will all perish. Their innards shall nourish me and their bones will crack under my feet. FaAaaTHERRR they will die for you! ALL OF THEM! Kill kill kill kill kill… ” The Bhaalspawn was tugging at the end of his leash as they explored the mind flayer colony. He was absolutely feral, and not in a way that suited either of their needs. Endless rooms of decaying illithid flesh and dead Absolutists tormented their senses. The humidity of the place formed droplets of condensation on their skin. This was unpleasant to say the least.

The steady, barbed chokehold the collar was delivering was doing nothing to subdue the beast, and Gortash strained to keep a grip on the handle of his leash. The Bhaalspawn was barreling nose-first through the rooms, running his claws along the fleshy walls. The tyrant had to lightly jog to keep up. Both of them were panting, for entirely separate reasons. 

Cyril continued on his prowl for a while, then abruptly stopped at the entrance to one of the caverns. A guttural growl crept from the lowest reaches of his core to the back of his throat, reverberating down the passageway. “Nnnngghhh aaaaHHH! ”

Fear seeped into Gortash’s mind. He had done his best to retain control up to this point, but was out of his depth, and not afraid to admit it. This had to be the room. They would need to prepare for this before going in. “Cyril! Look at me!” He gave a harsh tug at the leash and collar, whose spikes had already broken the first layer of his skin. With great effort, the tiefling turned his head toward his handler. His pupils were blown out, eclipsing the red glow in his irises. The murderous smoke that had been trailing behind him until now began to concentrate around the tyrant. 

The Bhaalspawn held eye contact for only a second before attempting to return focus to the door. “Eyes on me, pet.” Enver barked. Cyril obeyed, his shoulders rising up and his tail pointed straight down. He was terrified. And a scared beast was the most dangerous. “You are to remain at my side when we go in. I will not tolerate any yanking or clawing. We enter, we look around, we leave. Understood?” 

The monster ground his teeth together. His lips shook. He was trying to say something, but his very soul was willing him not to.

“Speak!” Gortash snapped his gauntleted finger to grab his attention.

“Nnggyyes. MaAasterrr.” It was like he had forgotten how to form words. Gortash led the way into the room, shuddering at the thought of what he might see. His fears were confirmed.

The room looked more like a cavity than a chamber. The room was unadorned, save for a simple wooden stool, a shelving unit holding various implements and jars, and a long, bloodsoaked cartilaginous table. Chains hung from the walls and the edge of the table. Judging by the blood’s darkened color, and the layer of dust collected over the tools, the room had been unused for quite some time. Gortash had to wonder how much effort Orin had put into creating this torture chamber specifically for her brother. Did she have help? Were those that helped her already dead? They better be.

Gortash examined the cabinet and shelves. The room was kitted out with a full set of classic torture devices. Surgical scalpels of varying sizes, pliers for fingernails, vices and clamps for the breaking of smaller bones, the odd saw or two; all hung neatly by size and function. The jars and frames displayed on the shelves caused the man to gulp, the rations they had consumed this morning began to curdle and sour in his stomach. The glass vessels contained bits of flesh suspended in clear liquid. His flesh. There were small display cases containing his claws, having presumably been ripped off. Taking center stage in the horrible collection was a frame containing a thin, curved sliver of a solid substance. It was wide at the base, ivory in color, and arched delicately backward to form a blood red point. A perfect cutting of one of Cyril’s horns.

Gortash had become so absorbed with examining the room that he forgot his role in keeping his beast at bay. He turned to Cyril who was running his fingers over his horn. Did he remember it being damaged? Or was this the first time seeing this? A thought darker still sunk in. These devices and methods were so very Bhaalist. Ones that Cyril would normally take pride in using for his own victims. It was odd seeing his appalled reaction at these methods being used on himself.

“They… took my flesh.” The Bhaalspawn heaved pained growls and found his voice. “They took my Father-given gore and displayed it like a trophy. They made me cut off my own skin and they dried it with the air from my screams. They shaved my HORN! They supped on my meat and drank from my lifeblood. They tied my hands with my own hair and drove my own knife into my innards. I could invoke their God to raise them into undead husks and kill them hundreds of times and they would still have penance to pay for the dishonor they have wrought against myself and my Father. The world will die. The world will die. The WORLD WILL DIE!!! THIS FOUL FLESH preserved in these jars will serve as a testament to Lord Bhaal’s victory over lesser beings and FOOLS who DARE intervene in His will. Kill. Kill! KILL!!! ”

Cyril continued to mutter ‘kill’ under his breath, his mania rising with each repetition.  With a sharp snap! Cyril broke the leash that was connecting the two of them. The Urge was taking over and Gortash was in striking range, having lost his leverage. The Bhaalspawn started smacking the jars and tools, knocking them to the ground where they shattered, contents spilling across the floor. He was taking the knives and driving them into the walls. Once the beast was armed, Gortash switched to a new strategy: Leave the room and let this play out.

He closed the fleshy door behind him, and leaned on it. More clattering and manic yelling crept through the entrance. The poor man needed someone to brutally murder. Anyone… ah! 

“Skell… hells, what’s his name? Sceleritas?” Gortash wasn’t even sure if the imp would answer to him, but seeing as he was an attaché of sorts to Bhaal’s Chosen via the binding, it was worth a shot. Sure enough, the withered creature materialized before him.

“The Prince’s toy calls! How may I assist?” The butler did not appear to imply insult, but the man took it as such, spitting to the side.

“I’m going to pretend that you did not just call me a toy.”

“Why? That’s what you are isn’t it?” The tyrant was beginning to understand Cyril’s annoyance with the… thing.

“I need you to die.” This came out differently than Gortash had intended it to.

“I greatly apologize, but only the Master is allowed to command me to perish in Bhaal’s unholy name.”

“Allow me to clarify. I need you to let him kill you.” 

“Once again, boy, neither you nor I have any choice in the matter of my life. I cannot ‘let him’ kill me. He does as he likes.” This was impossible.

Clanging, slicing and religious raving could be heard from inside the room. Some of it came dangerously close to the door. The little man stalked up to it and leaned in to better hear what was going on. “Master is in quite the state! Has he had his morning murders?”

Gortash sighed, “I’m afraid he didn’t have breakfast, no.”

“Aren’t you his toy? The Murder Lord raised you for Master’s pleasure! And you can’t even provide him nourishment?” Sceleritas gave the man a demeaning glare. 

The tyrant had just about enough. He took a gamble, and lifted the little wretch by the scruff of his suit. “Listen, imp! I will not stand around and have my dignity besmirched like this! I am bound to your Lord Bhaal and your Master Cyril. And if you claim to care so much for my lover, then you will help him!” He shoved him against the slimy door for effect, “I know you derive great ecstasy from being killed by your Master, so just go on and enjoy yourself. He needs something to rip apart in this hellish, dead place. Wouldn’t you do a great service to him if you were able to nourish his thirst for blood?”

It was obvious that the servant didn’t want the Gortash to be right. But he was. “O-of course! It would be my honor to die by the Murder Prince’s hand!” Sceleritas shouted over the cacophony coming from inside the room.

“Is that… rotten butler…? … Er… Tas?” Muffled yells came through the door, which swung open. Cyril stood, hulking, looking more devil than man. The room behind him was destroyed, even the table had somehow been broken to pieces. “You should be hanging in my temple, you disobedient gore-slave! You will die for this!”

Gortash was still holding the pathetic creature, dangling him in front of the red-eyed Bhaalspawn. He leaned over and whispered playfully into his ear, “Better run…” before flinging him down the hall in the opposite direction.

Chapter Text

Cyril battled for air as he emerged from the black pool of his own mind. The Urge had taken hold of him soon after they had entered his torture chamber, but he was not there anymore. He was covered in gore, and as he looked around the cavern, he found the rest of the floor and the walls in a similar state. Whoever it was, he had reduced it to nothingness, with no discernable shapes of bones or organs. Who did he kill? There was not a soul alive in this place when he and Gort- 

Gortash.

Panic shot through Cyril’s nerves as he searched the viscera for something, anything that might identify his victim. Silent, rushed prayers to Father flooded his mind, hoping that he had not voided his own contract in a momentary loss of control. “Enver?! No no no no no no no. ” He felt at his collar, and found the leash snapped off, dangling from its fastener. What had he done? Surely the tyrant wouldn’t have simply allowed himself to be killed like that. Was the Urge that strong? Tears welled up in his eyes as he continued to search through the muck. There seemed to be no hair, which was a good sign, and he found what appeared to be the pointed tip of an ear. Or was that the end of Gortash’s broken nose? 

He sat on his knees and looked at his hands. Flesh was caked up under his fingernails, and when he produced his ritual knife, it was clean, and sparkled in the overhead illithid light. He had done all this with just his claws? Impressive , if it weren’t so awful that he had killed his lover, again. He drove the knife into his palm, reopening his wound, and let his blood mix with that of his twice-dead tyrant. He stared into the pool and prepared himself for the inevitable wrath of Bhaal, reciting a desperate prayer.

“Father! I will end my deplorable existence and allow my lifeblood to mix with that of the one who is bound to me. I can only pray for the mercy of my soul being ripped apart by your own hands so that-”

“Cyril?”

That wasn’t how Father addressed him. Bhaal cared not for his name, only his purpose and standing as His will made manifest. Unless… he was no longer accepted as the Gore of His Gore. He quieted himself in anticipation of his Father’s judgment.

“Bhaalspawn?”

Though Bhaal had not yet appeared, Cyril was relieved to still be acknowledged as His child. Perhaps he was unworthy of seeing his face.

“Pet?”

…Pet? That voice he heard was not Father’s. It was soft and sandy, it kept his attention. He could feed off of the sweetness of that voice and never need nourishment again.

“Pet!”

He whipped his head around toward the sound that had come from behind him. It was Enver. Had Father taken his shape to taunt him? No, that was stupid. Then how–?

“You gods-damned fool! Snap yourself out of it!” Gortash, appearing wavy and distorted through the layer of tears consuming Cyril’s vision, stepped up to him and dealt him a harsh, backhanded slap! to his check. The bejeweled knuckles collided with his bone and rattled his head. An object was presented to him: Sceleritas’ hat. Cyril stared at it in confusion. 

“You dolt! You painted the walls with your butler’s blood. And a fine job you did of it, I must say. I am in one piece, though I cannot say the same for my leash.” It was Enver. It was really him. Praise Bhaal below for His mercy! The tiefling rose from his knees and rushed in to embrace the man, who quickly sidestepped his approach. “Absolutely not! I will not have that… thing’s offal sully my clothes.”

“How did it get here?” Cyril was befuddled and groggy.

“I called it,” Gortash shrugged.

“You called it? I didn’t know you could do that…”

“I didn’t either. It was a longshot, but there was no getting through to you.” The man had a flash of trepidation in his eyes. By the sight of things, and his literal blood bath, he couldn’t blame him.

“I’m… so sorry.”

“Enough with the self pity. What’s done is done. Let’s continue our work and get out of this horrid place.” Gortash was right. As they traveled toward the site of the legendary battle with Myrkul’s Apostle, Cyril pondered over how desperately he needed to get himself under control so there was no chance of something like this happening again. The damn Urge was becoming a problem, and he wasn’t sure why. This would need to be addressed one way or another. 

…

Cum mortuis in lingua mortua.

Ketheric was where they left him, in a preserved undead decay. He was stripped of his armor, which had been given to Minthara at the time, to her great delight. Green life essence sighed in exhaustion as it regarded him, lifelessly. Wherever he was, presumably the Castle of Bones, he had had enough. Though it was not difficult to render Ketheric exhausted and annoyed. It was a shame he could not even share an eternity with his precious family… Ha! How delightfully sad.

“Who are you?”

“General… Ketheric Thorm… Chosen of Myrkul… Alone… Isobel…”

“What was the nature of our relationship?”

“Dead Three… Absolute plot… Taken… I was betrayed… Such a fool… Unworthy…”

In truth, Cyril did not expect to obtain many answers from Ketheric about his companions. To get any farther on his quest, he would have to travel even farther outside the city to the site of the Emerald Grove, the goblin camp, and the Nautiloid. But there was one thing he needed to know, and only Ketheric would be able to tell him.

“Were you pleased when I was replaced?”

There was a long pause. Ketheric’s answer came in a single word. “Yes.”

A smirk popped onto Cyril’s face. He knew it! Ketheric must have hated his guts from the start, and well he should. It was foolish to trust the Scion of Bhaal. Now for the memories he had so desperately wished to see since the truth had been revealed to him. He did not twin the spell; Gortash would not be allowed to observe. These memories, no matter how painful, were still a part of his life, a part of him that had been taken. He needed to reclaim this on his own.

Veritas Visio!

###

“Is your intellect as decayed as your walking carcass, Thorm? Or do you and your toy necromancer have any real ideas on how to recruit the drow?” The Bhaalspawn sneered, his voice wrapped in tenebrous bloodthirst. The boy could not calm himself for the life of him, and was bringing an unwanted spark to Ketheric’s otherwise dull, peaceful morning.

The three Chosen and Balthazar had decided to meet once more to discuss recruitment preparations. Well, it was more like the two city men had appeared at his doorstep the night before, demanding his presence, and Ketheric had begrudgingly accepted their intrusion. The Bhaalist boy had been parading around since he arrived, barking orders and rantings.

“The grown-ups are talking, butcher. We’ll let you know when you’re needed for bloodletting, but we would prefer for our recruits to remain alive , so how about you let us men focus on that, hm?” Ketheric felt as if he were a parent again. He was given the task of mustering forces, so why were the two of them barging in to oversee all of his work? Did they not trust him to do his job as a general? He had lived at least 5 times as long as them and had the experience to show for it, so what purpose did the constant coddling serve? He had a feeling that this was mostly the Banite’s doing, but the Bhaalspawn couldn’t help being a spoiled brat and ordering people around, and Ketheric’s patience was waning.

“You dare to speak to me in this way? I am the sacred spawn of my Father and you are a God-traitor with more wrinkles than my shriveled butler! Yet you believe I am incapable?” The boy stood and slammed his hands on the table. “I happen to be fantastic at keeping people alive! All of your body parts remain in order and your flesh still sticks to your bones. The moldering Myrkulites still stand, and the blithering Banites as well. I could go kill them all if that’s all you think I am capable of!”

The boy turned to leave, dramatically producing a blade in each hand with a wicked smile. 

Enver intervened. “Pet, put the knives away. Ketheric is only joking.” Cyril obeyed, rolling his eyes and rubbing at the scars on his temples. 

Ketheric was not joking, but if the Banite’s lies were what calmed the Bhaalspawn down, then so be it. At least someone was able to tame him a little. He was certainly not going to fuck Cyril into shape, or whatever it was those two got up to while screaming in their quarters.

Ketheric cleared his throat, desperate to get back on track. “We have sent men to the Underdark to spread the ‘good word of the Absolute’ as it were, but there has been limited success thus far. A few drow men have returned with the messengers, but we are in need of more if we are to outfit more True Souls to lead the goblins around.”

“You are sending men to the Underdark?” Gortash made a smug face. “No wonder you are having little success. The house matrons rarely listen to their own males, much less outsiders.” He had a point, unfortunately.

“See, Thorm? What ever would you do without our guidance?” Cyril prodded. “We are only here to help.”

“Enver’s help is satisfactory. Your help is unwelcome and unnecessary.”

“I will rip out your brazen tongue!” The tiefling stood once again, heat began to fill the room.

“You’re welcome to. You can rip it out as much as you like. It won’t change anything.” 

The tiefling lunged to strike, but before he could, Enver’s gauntleted hand grabbed at his wrist. “That’s enough from both of you today. Shall we retire, pet?” His eyes gleamed.

“Give me someone to murder!” Cyril whined. “Then I will let this go. How about that damned cat that always finds its way under my feet?”

“The cat is a favorite around here I’m afraid, we can find someone else on the way.” Gortash dragged the fuming monster out of the room, and its peaceful din returned.

Shortly after the meeting, a stranger wearing a dark hooded robe crept out of the shadows of the hallway and wandered into the room. As they approached, their hooded visage contorted and swirled into that of the striking, pale woman who had accompanied the Bhaalists. She was clothed in what appeared to be the skin of her enemies, the skimpy carapace leaving little to the imagination. This was much to Balthazar’s delight, Ketheric presumed, as he caught the necromancer eyeing her while waddling out of the room. “You really put the dead in ‘Dead Three,’ bone-man.” Her voice was inhuman, despite her humanoid appearance. 

Ketheric looked up at her, disapproving of yet another interruption. “And you might be…” 

“Oh you’ll know me soon enough, undeadling! I am to be the Chosen of Bhaal soon.” She twirled her braid around her hand.

“Congratulations,” Ketheric said flatly. “How do Bhaalspawn politics affect me?”

“Welllll, I need your help, zombie-boy. Is there a room in that giant colony you have downstairs you could spare? And a couple of your acolytes?”

“Why do you require my followers? If you are who you say you are, you should have no trouble procuring your own.” Ketheric stared at her wearily.

“I wish to carve his flesh. Brother does not deserve his position as Chosen. He shares his meat with the blasphemer Banite. He cannot maintain order in his own temple. I wish to show him the torture he deserves, slowly cutting away at his mind-matter until it spills onto the floor in shreds. But I can’t do it at the temple, or he will suspect before I can make my move. Which is whyyyy I need space here. Please please please will you help me?”

The old man pondered the proposition. He did not care for Cyril, he was always a little too self-righteous, without the honesty or morality to show for it. Somehow, everything always ended up being about him and Bhaal, and Ketheric was growing rather tired of the act. Meetings would likely be more productive without him and Gortash making eyes at each other at every opportunity. And the break-up of their near inseparable partnership would ultimately help his design of claiming their conquered world for himself. However, there was simply too much at stake to suffer a personnel change at the moment.

“I’m afraid I cannot spare the resources just now. The entire colony is being utilized for our efforts. Would you be willing to put off your little coup until a more opportune time?” Ketheric was doubtful that the woman would be the type to listen to reason, and he would evaluate her use as an ally on her response. If she wasn’t willing to wait now, then she would likely be equally unreasonable when working on the scheme later.

The woman performed an open-mouthed frown and stuck out her lower lip, but remained calm otherwise and gave a half-measured response. “I spend my waking moments thirsting for his deplorable blood, and my sleepless nights craving the ruining of his rancid flesh. He will bleed, bleed, bleed for me! But if he must wait, then I will make minced meat of someone else. My patience is shorter than this dagger,” she said as she produced a curved knife, similar in color to Cyril’s own favored weapon, “so do not tarry, Thormling. Or I might instead find out just how immortal you claim to be.” She began to twirl her way toward the door and blew him a kiss. “Send for me when you come to your senses. I look forward to working with you, bone-toy.”

…

“Butcher?” Ketheric called out to the Bhaalspawn, who was examining a fresh tadpole from a nearby brine pool. He wasn’t opposed to using Cyril’s name, but did enjoy his bristled reaction upon hearing such a reductionistic title. 

“God-traitor,” the tiefling squished the tadpole between his fingers and snarled at the man in response. 

“The Brain is proving… difficult. Could you speak to it? It seems to only listen to you these days.” Loathe as he was to admit defeat, especially to the most cocksure man on Toril, Cyril's charisma and rapport with the Brain were essential to this process. His contributions of late had even caused Ketheric to consider alerting the tiefling of his sibling’s plot to take his place. The general, however annoyed he may be with his ally, still recognized and respected his strengths and uses. Losing the one person who could get through to the brain to a petty coup d’état could cost them dearly. This all hinged, of course, on whether the Bhaalspawn would continue to behave.

“A little respect goes a long way, Thorm. Perhaps if you weren't such a withered curmudgeon, the Absolute would heed you.” Pale talons squeezed a new tadpole until it burst, and the Bhaalspawn’s tongue hesitantly tasted the translucent residue left on his hand before lapping it up. 

“Do mind the tadpoles.” Ketheric winced as another creature erupted into slime. “We are in short supply as it is. We have enough to outfit Baldur’s Gate and some of the outlying regions but we need more in preparation for the expansion. You need to tell it to accelerate the gestation period for the new batch.”

“She is a mother!” Cyril drawled. “She is owed your reverence, seeing as her precious children so nobly serve our cause.” A fourth tadpole popped and the tiefling's eyes shot playful irony as he licked his hand.

“It is a brain under our control, and it is not performing adequately,” the half-elf crossed his arms impatiently.

“She is creating her spawn! When my Father crafted me from His Gore, He aligned each of my cells to serve His purpose. He did not rush His perfect creation on the whims of outsiders. She will finish at the appointed time.”

“But we are not discussing the Dread Lord’s creative process, such as it is,” Ketheric gave him a demeaning glare. “This is about the basic reproduction of a creature. One that obeys its masters.” 

“And this is precisely why you do not make headway with her, Thorm, but I will talk to her if you insist. Although,” Cyril’s face gleamed as he began to glide away, “I suppose I should have expected you to be incapable of understanding how to act like a proper parent, considering your history with dear sweet Isobel…”

The foulblood had disappeared into the corridor by the time Ketheric had processed what he had said. A roar of anger erupted from his undying lungs as he stormed to his chambers. How dare he?! He procured a parchment and intended to scrawl a note to the Bhaalist woman, making his choice, but paused to consider the implications of such an action. Not only would he be losing a provably valuable asset, he would be gaining an unknown one. Some fresh blood could be a welcome change, however, potentially opening up new realms of possibility. But could the woman be trusted? If she is willing to turn on her own kind, what would keep her from doing the same to him? 

Her trustworthiness mattered not, as Ketheric could suffer no more of Cyril’s conceit and venom. This would be the last time his daughter’s name came from his Bhaal-stained mouth, and he was willing to risk everything to ensure it stayed that way. So with bitterness in his blackened heart, he wrote the woman a missive, sealing it and handing it off to the nearest acolyte for delivery to her.

You may have a room in the oubliette and one of the Myrkulites. Kressa will undoubtedly enjoy aiding you. That is all I have to spare. I wish to hear nothing of this ever again. - K

As far as he was concerned, Cyril's bloody tenure among the Three was over. If the woman didn't get to him soon, he would simply have to do the job himself.

…

Gortash, Cyril, and Ketheric sat at their meeting table. It was the first time they all had met since he had sent the letter to the changeling. Ketheric had made it clear to her that he did not want to know the details, but was curious if the tiefling had discovered the plot and put a stop to it. He reviewed his notes for the meeting and prepared to give his report. 

“Progress has been made with our True Souls ,” Ketheric began, “the difficulty has been finding the appropriate level of exposure to the Brain’s influence. Too much, and their entire psyche collapses, often killing them in the process. However, as evidenced by our new drider friend, those with broken minds can still be pliant and useful in their own ways. If the influence is too little, they retain their free will and fight back. This is somewhat alleviated by examining the mental fortitude of candidates, to see if their faculties are able to handle the change, but the efforts are slow-going. There is also the matter of this so-called Emperor, a rogue illithid who continues to elude us. We have determined its relation to a gith artifact, and are conducting research on gith activity in the area. Enver, any updates?”

“Myself and the Gondians are experiencing similar difficulties in our work with the Steel Watch. There lies the thinnest of margins between when a brain can effectively manage its role in controlling the machine and when it becomes unusable. We have found that the inclusion of as much of the spinal cord as possible has been a contributing factor in the more successful designs. Many of the deceased subjects provided by Balthazar will connect with the Watchers’ interface well enough.” Gortash sighed and turned to the tiefling with an annoyed glare. “However, Cyril’s donations from the last tenday have lacked spinal cords. Need I remind you, pet, that without them, controlling the movement of the Watcher becomes much more difficult? I would appreciate your restraint when–”

Gortash trailed off as he looked at the Bhaalspawn, who was wearing an overly wide smile with eyes ablaze and trained on his partner. The tiefling giggled as he spoke. “Mind-meat is mind-meat, lordling. You should be grateful for what I generously provide. Those little pig-brains whisper to me, begging to be shredded and sliced again and again and again, just like–”

“Enough.” Ketheric cut the Bhaalspawn off. “If the butcher cannot supply suitable materials, Balthazar will increase his efforts here.” This was met with a frown.

“Perhaps you can aid us in our negotiations with the Brain?” Gortash, ever the problem solver, suggested to the assassin, “It, sorry, she might be able to clue us in on finding this elusive balance.”

They were met with more giggling. “Oh of course! I am so good at making friends, after all! Isn’t that right, Enver-toy?”

Gortash was a smart man, and had picked up on the tiefling’s change in tone and mannerisms. He looked at him with confusion, bordering on realization. “What are you on about? Are you quite well?”

“Oh I’ve never been better. After all, I have a surprise!” His horns faded away, his visage melted, and his black hair grew out into a long, blond braid. The face of the Bhaalist woman wriggled into place. Gortash looked at her with horror. Ketheric cracked a smile. A childish trick.

The Banite slammed his gauntleted fist on the table. “Orin! What have you done?!”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Bane-slave?” Orin gave him a devilish grin. “All you need to worry your pretty, unsliced brain about is that I will be speaking for the temple of Bhaal from here on out.” 

“Is he dead?! Where have you taken him?!” Gortash was quickly losing his composure, and Ketheric was already beginning to regret his decision. This woman seemed just as childish as Cyril, if not more so. The tiefling was likely still alive, languishing in the colony somewhere. Bhaalspawns were not easily killed, even by their own kind, and it would make sense for Orin to use him as a means of controlling the Banite. He considered saying as much, but held his tongue, wishing not to further escalate the situation.

“I believe it is time we take our leave and consider this new development. No good will come from arguing about it.” Ketheric stood, maintaining authority. “We cannot resort to infighting if we are to continue our Gods’ work.” 

“You will pay dearly for this, Orin.” The Banite had exchanged his rage for calculated resentment as he stalked out of the room. Orin skipped behind the tyrant, humming a tune.

Myrkul preserve him, this would surely be a mess that would be difficult to clean up, and Ketheric had a feeling it would somehow lead to his undoing.

Chapter Text

Gortash waited quietly as Cyril rifled through Ketheric’s memories. He had a decent idea of what his lover was looking for, and he prepared himself for another bout of enraged mania as the spell wore off. Those memories must not have been pleasant. There had always been an animosity between the two of them. Cyril was nothing but devoted to his God and his dogma, and viewed Ketheric as weak-willed and unreliable. Ketheric perceived the Bhaalspawn as unpredictable and self-righteous. Both were correct, of course. Gortash was able to keep Cyril in line for the most part, and this was aided by his dedication to the mission. When Orin arrived on the scene, she and Ketheric would often get sidetracked, considerably slowing progress. But none of that mattered anymore.

Cyril sank to his knees and said nothing. It appeared that the tyrant’s ploy to give the Urge something to feast on had worked, and the tiefling was more himself. 

“Did you get what you came for?” Gortash was firm, but calm and the horned beast nodded in response. He wanted to leave this place and never return, if he could help it, and had a feeling his monster felt the same.

They stood and walked together. Leaving the dessicated fortress of bad memories behind.

“You, my dear, need a wash.”

Cyril licked all the way up his arm, where his butler’s blood was beginning to dry and become tacky. “You don’t appreciate my murderous musk? You were the one that chose the scent. If I were up to my elbows in your sumptuous innards, I would likely smell even more delightful.”

Gortash gave an unamused stare as the deranged man chuckled. “You will wash yourself, or we will not share a bedroll tonight.” This seemed to grab his attention. The brute was only motivated by his claws and his cock; a respectable trait. 

“Well when you put it that way… Plue!” A torrent of water splashed from the sky, soaking the men through their clothes, intensifying the chill in the cursed air. Cyril began to scrub at his arms and face to remove the blood, smiling as he deliberately ignored his lover’s perturbed glare.

“Impudent pet! Will you ever learn?" Gortash’s hands flew to his hair in a desperate yet fruitless attempt to restore its shape. “Need I remind you that I did not bring very much spare clothing on this venture?”

“As if we need clothing to travel. Are you afraid the shadow beasties will be offended by your indecency? I’m beginning to believe you packed light so we would have an excuse to go back to the city.” Cyril was a brat through and through, always pushing the right buttons. He would pay for this after they had dried off and found shelter for the night. 

“I will not travel about these wastelands disrobed, Bhaalspawn. We will make camp and dry off, and that is not a request.” 

…

The pair made camp around the Raven Queen’s symbol in a cleared out corner of the darkened forest. They hung their clothes to dry on a nearby tree branch, a small divot of mud began to form as water dripped almost too slowly onto the dirt. Neither of them had large appetites after the sickening events of the day, so they had a quick meal, washed themselves properly, and spread the bedroll right over the ritual circle. Cyril was already laying down with his hands behind his head, looking up at the blackened sky. The red sun shed no light here. Gortash was skeptical about resting in a necromantic sigil, but trusted his partner’s judgment when it came to magic, and he had assured him that it was inactive.

Taking the two snapped halves of Cyril’s leash, Gortash perused the stray assortment of tools he had brought with him to set about repairing it. Fortunately, there were plenty of thorny vines dotted about, and he settled for stitching the pieces together with one.  

“Enver,” the tiefling hummed pensively.

“Pet,” Gortash addressed him in kind as he worked.

“When last I went to the temple, Father said something that has since bewildered me.”

“Your Father is not known for his forthrightness.” This much was obvious.

“Bhaal’s wisdom extends far beyond my comprehension, yes. But it’s something else. Something on which,” Cyril’s voice lowered to a whisper, “I believe I disagree.” He winced at the words.

“Oh?” Gortash could not suppress a mischievous grin from sliding onto his face. “You cheeky little thing. Bhaal forbid you ever have your own feelings!”

“That’s just the thing. I can. He told me.”

“Hm?” This was curious indeed. 

“It’s just…” Cyril chewed on his inner cheek, “He told me they were given to me for the purpose of enriching my sacrifices.”

“Ah.” Gortash finished the last stitch on his leash and showed it away in his pack, slumping down to lay next to his equally exhausted tiefling. “Does this surprise you? I could have told you at least that much, and I am no Bhaalist.”

There was a long pause as Cyril chose his next words. What was going on in that head of his? Most of the time, he at least pretended to know what his Father willed. Did he really believe that his prized tactic, his charismatic lure and swift art of betrayal, was not an intentional part of… however he was made? Why?

“I asked Him if I was allowed to love, Enver.”

The two men did not look at each other, but had mirrored expressions all the same. Eyes widened, lips creased. Love. A word so unfamiliar to both of them. They were lovers of course, and would occasionally address each other as such. But actual, real, love? Gortash had surmised that love was not even in a Bhaalspawn’s vocabulary, much less a sanctioned practice. As for the human himself? He had abandoned all delusions of love when his parents had sold him off, and had never considered being capable of it since. The two of them were such fantastic lovers because of their presumed inability to even contemplate such an emotion. So why, in all the hells, was Cyril concerned with it now?

“And…? What did He say?”

“You won’t like this.” Cyril was trying to escape the conversation, but Gortash would not allow it.

“You will tell me, pet.” A stern tone demanded a response.

“He said that loving you would make your death more pleasurable to Him.”

“Of course it will! What could be sweeter than a murder of passion? My love-stained blood spilled on Bhaal’s altar? Your ultimate sacrifice to Him? Hells, I’m not even the Murder Lord and that sounds delightful.” The tyrant was unruffled by the revelation. As far as he understood it, this was the plan to begin with. He of course was still displeased that it was his blood sacrifice they were discussing, but there was no use bitching about it now.

“Enver, take this seriously! I don’t want to just ‘love you because Father wants me to.’ I want to love you because I want to.” Cyril’s lips tightened and he averted his gaze once again, seemingly ashamed at this honesty.

“And do you?” Gortash remained unconvinced. 

“Do I what?” The tiefling feigned ignorance.

“Do you love me?”

Over the course of their torrid affair, they had faced challenges of all sorts. The first was convincing their separate Gods to allow the more physical aspect of their alliance. Later came the building of cursory trust, sorting through differences of opinion and leadership style. There was a time where the Bhaalspawn was piling corpses by his door and needed to be corrected. Gortash himself overreached a few times and demanded too much of his partner. Then, of course there was their separation, months on end of torment, for both of them. All of these things, however difficult, were within their purview as men of violence and depravity. They had seen it done to others, so they found a way through it themselves. This was a different story. Could the crazed murderer admit to loving his ruthless tyrant? Or would he forever rely on his celestial progenitor for answers? 

“I…” Cyril trailed off considering his next words. “I do– ffffsst!” he winced again and drew in air through his clenched teeth.

“You do… what?” He was going to make him say it. 

The tiefling looked at him with dismay and… pain. As if he was physically tortured by the possibility of saying something so soft, so mortal. “Gods, Enver you’re such a fucking pest. I love you, alright? Is that what you want to hear?” Cyril started to sit up, trying to move on from the conversation. 

Gortash sat up just as quickly and grasped his partner’s jaw in his rough hand. “I am unsatisfied with your answer. Try it again.”

The Bhaalspawn squirmed under the tyrant’s grip, his tail flopping about behind him. He gave a pitiful pout, then calmed himself, finding reverent eye contact. “I love you…ow!... I’m not really sure how to do that, but I know in my Bhaal-damned heart that I do.”

Cyril let out a jagged, pained sigh at the confession and tried to wriggle out of Gortash’s grasp, but it did not loosen. The human smiled, there was finally candor in the murderer’s voice, and he was likely right that he had no idea how to love. There had never been an expectation that such feelings be expressed in their previous relationship. There was passion, carnal desire, and villainous respect, but never love or tenderness, unless it served a very specific purpose. This arrangement had suited them, but since the dawn of Bhaal’s reign of terror, it had become increasingly clear that new feelings had arisen. And there was no better time to explore them than stranded in a cursed wasteland!

Gortash leaned in close, their foreheads touching. “You foolish pet. Why would you ever love an old todger like me? You think I am any more capable of love than you are?”

“Well, are you?” A fantastic play.

“Am I what?” he smiled coyly.

“Capable of loving me?” That caramel voice dripped from his blood-red lips. 

“You are a manipulative, bloodthirsty, loathsome son of a Murder God who had the audacity to kill me in hot blood, resurrect me, and go on to be the most selfish, disobedient brat I have ever laid eyes on. Yet my heart quiets so I may hear your honeyed voice, my lungs crave to breathe your putrid air, and my skin crawls to feel your wicked touch. If that is not love, pet, what the hells is?”

Perhaps it was the murky gray air, or the acrid smell of undeath. Perhaps it was the exhaustion from a harrowing day in a fortress of bad memories. Perhaps he had gone soft after all. The confession spilled from Gortash’s lips with such ease, such surety. There was no need to ponder or debate himself. He simply spoke the truth, a truth he had wanted to share for so long, yet never felt it was the right time. He had gotten swallowed up in a love no one, including either of them, had thought possible. A love that would be the end of both of them. A love most unholy and sacred.

###

The gods-damned fools loved each other. Of course they did. As Cyril bombarded his tyrant with kisses, he couldn’t stop thinking about the pretty little words Gortash had spoken. What a beautiful prayer—a sermon even. His followers could learn a thing or two from this eloquent demonstration. 

They were done talking, there was nothing left to say; they just enjoyed each other. They shared their warmth between them, protecting each other from the cold clutches of the shadows. They wanted for nothing but the everlasting embrace of the other. 

Cyril decided to ignore the pulsing distaste and the ache in his head he felt after defying Father’s wish for his love. He shooed away trepidations about the journey ahead as it became more and more treacherous. He dispelled the gathering doubt that this exercise in love and honesty was another way to buy him time before his reckoning would come. And of course there would be a reckoning. Love, real love, was a weakness, an oversight, a sin. Cyril’s reckless actions had consequences, and they grew larger and bloodier every hour that he spent in this harrowing romance. Little, creeping tendrils of doubt prickled their way into his rotten brain, but they weren’t important right now. 

All that mattered was them, and their despicable, doomed love.

Chapter Text

Blood, fresh and warm despite the Shadow-Cursed air, mixed with Gortash’s spit as Cyril bit down on his bottom lip in a ragged kiss. Upon opening his eyes after wincing away the pain, he saw only the tiefling’s blackened sclera as his eyes rolled back into his head from delight, an admittedly horrifying sight from the beautiful man. With a concerted effort, Gortash broke the kiss. 

“We already ate, you know. No sense in over-indulging after a long day’s journey.” He loved it when he could make his monster squirm; to crave him. After their confession of love the night before, and a long day of travel, they both could use some entertainment.

Cyril frowned, “What’s the harm in a little dessert? You’re such a treat after all.”

“I’m flattered, but if you are to indulge in a delicacy, you must work for it. A trophy means nothing if there is no hunt.” Gortash was playing a dangerous game, his judgment clouded by blind adoration and mild exhaustion. 

The Bhaalspawn’s eyes lit up, expression turning from lovestruck bliss to lustful hunger. “Why would I need to hunt? My prey stays nice and close all on its own.” He licked his lips.

“I'm beginning to believe you've grown complacent, having me at your side like this. Perhaps I want to feel a little more like the old days. Pursued… wanted.” What was he doing? Challenging this beast to a hunt when he was at a clear disadvantage in almost every possible way? Yet the thought had his brain buzzing with excitement.

“Oh, I want you. I always want you,” Cyril hummed. “I want to love you, to taste you, to destroy you. But you already know that. What are you playing at, tyrant?” 

Gortash crafted a coy grin. For this little trap to work, he would need to play the part for a while. “I propose a contest. Why don’t we use the environs to our advantage for once and have a hunt? See who can catch the other first?”

The Bhaalspawn chuckled a bit. In every regard, he had the upper hand against the human. He could see in the dark, the Shadow Curse didn’t seem to affect him as much, and he was empowered by a God to be the apex predator, the destroyer of the world. But he was stupid, and fell for Gortash’s trick immediately. “And what are the stakes of your little… contest?”

“If you catch me, you may feast on my flesh. If I catch you, you will choke on my cock.”

“Oh I like this game!” Cyril perked up and crossed his legs, watching his partner attentively. “What are the rules?”

“You go skulking in the woods like the little beastie you are, and I’ll go look for you while you hunt for me. I will keep the Moonlantern, so you better not hide too far unless you want the shadows to take you. I’ll use one of your ‘Hold Person’ scrolls. Whoever can successfully secure the other first will take their reward.” Gortash was growing more fond of the idea by the second. This could be quite the entertaining diversion. A welcome change from the events of the day. 

“Enver,” Cyril’s eyes glowed with playful bloodlust, “I’m going to devour you.” He scampered into the darkness like an animal, hands grazing the ground for extra speed.

Gortash breathed a heavy sigh of contentment. Now that his partner was distracted, he could take a few moments to decompress. He conjured a scrying eye and sent it wandering around through the wasteland in search of his prey. Might as well have it do the hard work for him. The display materialized a few feet away, displaying the acrid landscape as if in full sunlight. The eye would find him, and he could sneak up on him and cast the spell before Cyril even had the chance to bare his fangs. Easy.

He reviewed the contents of the scroll, ensuring he remembered how to cast it. He would need to act quickly. It didn’t take long for the scrying eye to spot its target. He had made it pretty far, a few hundred meters at least to the southwest. This was disappointing, as it meant that the tyrant would have to traverse the terrain himself. 

A crack of what sounded like thunder sounded in the distance, and the scrying screen flickered out of existence. It seemed the Bhaalspawn had kept some of his wits after all. If anything, the sudden noise helped pinpoint his location, so Gortash set off in search of his hunter. The Shadow Curse was clinging to his coat, tentacles of darkness barraging the glowing sphere of the Moonlantern. Ghastly noises assaulted his ears; the crackling of branches, the throaty whine of swaying trees, the throbbing hum of the fractured air itself.

As he continued down the twisting path, avoiding the grasping vines, a misplaced step on a dislodged tree branch sent a flock of cursed crows squawking from their hiding place. A couple fluttered their wings in front of the human, shifting the putrid air and sending a shiver of fear down his spine. It was bad enough that the world’s greatest murderer was actively hunting him from the shadows, but there could be any number of beasties lurking about. 

Gortash pressed on, he was no coward after all. His prize was the only thing that mattered. Cyril would likely stay in the same place the scrying eye caught him in. From the look of it, he had found a suitable perch with an open view. To have to find another at this stage in the game would provide an unnecessary opening. It was to be a battle of speed. 

As he neared the spot, he slipped into the thicker trees off of the path. The vines poked and scraped his arms, but the light of the lantern dimmed slightly in the shade of the thicket. He paused, sharpening his focus to the sounds around him, trying to pinpoint any signs of movement. His knees were braced to run, and he repeated the incantation in his head over and over, prepared to speak it at any–

A clatter sounded about five yards northward, he snapped his head in its direction, eyes wide. Nothing. Then another, equidistant from the first in the opposite direction. Gortash’s head violently turned as he once again gazed into the dark, empty wasteland. Then, a laugh, that unmistakable chuckle, low and sweet and sinister, echoed behind him as a flicker of light danced in front of him. 

The hairs on the back of the tyrant’s neck stood on end and he froze. He had been found. The chill of the murderous aura encircled his body as the moon lantern vibrated and clanked against itself in his shaky hand. Had Cyril lost himself? Had he gotten carried away? No. He was just playing with him. This was just a game. He took a deep breath to collect himself. The fact that the Bhaalspawn hadn’t cast the spell on him yet confirmed Gortash’s suspicions that he had forgotten magic needed to be used to win. This could still work, he just needed to stay calm, and act carefully.

He decided to leave the cover of the brambles, there was no point in hiding in the malevolent plants now that he had been spotted. He made his way to the center of what one might call a clearing, if it weren’t so dark and foggy and deadly. His senses stilled to focus on a single goal: waiting for the monster to pounce. 

So he waited. 

And waited.

The pressure was unbearable as he stood with baited breath, knowing that he was being watched, preyed upon. He couldn’t bear it any longer and took a small step and feigned a trip as he dropped the Moonlantern to the ground. Sure enough, the beast took the bait and descended from the trees as if on wings to his left, claws out, tail tucked between his powerful legs, mouth open and fangs bared.

“Ad lapidem!”

Moments later, Gortash circled his frozen prey with a supercilious smirk. The beast was mid-crouch, his feet had barely touched the ground, his hands poised to brace his landing, his tail was curled upward as if suspended. His mouth remained open, hungry, needy. But his eyes were the most exquisite sight of all. The predatory gaze remained, but was clouded with surprise and spite at having been bested.

“Look at my poor pet, held and helpless. Had I known it would be this easy to catch you, I would have foregone the scrapes of the bushes.” The tyrant drenched his speech with a thick pompous tone as he completed another lap around the tiefling. He leaned down to grab Cyril’s chin and force his jaw to open wider, running a finger along the Bhaalspawn’s stretched lips. “You even landed at the perfect height for me. It’s almost like you were asking to lose.”

The slightest rumble of a growl echoed in Cyril’s chest as Gortash unlaced his trousers to free his length, opting not to remove all of his clothes and risk exposure to the elements. He grabbed a chunk of the tiefling’s long hair, positioned his cock to line up with his captive’s mouth, and pushed himself in. When his tip reached the back of his immovable throat, he pressed harder to trigger the gag reflex and kept it there. The tiefling’s eyes widened with pain and panic as his breath was being restricted from the inside.

“I told you that you would choke on my cock, did I not? Or did you forget to listen to the rules, deafened by your unslakable bloodlust?” The tyrant’s eyes gleamed as Cyril continued to suffer. He pressed further, his cock beginning to slide into the flesh of his prey’s windpipe. “My pet, the so-called apex predator, once again reduced to my cocksheath who can’t even breathe without my permission.” 

The pale face looking up at him flushed, likely from the combined loss of air and red hot fury blazing behind his eyes. 

“You said you were going to devour me, hm? Here’s your chance to swallow.”

Gortash allowed the Bhaalspawn a small mercy by pulling himself out of his mouth for a few seconds to allow the motionless man to catch his breath. Then he pushed back in to the hilt and felt Cyril’s exposed fangs faintly scratch at the base. He began to thrust in earnest, dramatizing his movements with chesty grunts and weaving his fingers through his captive’s black hair. By the Gods, it felt good, and he caught glints of pleasure in his captive’s eyes as well.

Impact after impact that would surely bruise the tiefling’s throat hammered in at a consistent, unforgiving rhythm. Foam began to gather at Cyril’s lips where they stretched around Gortash’s cock. He pressed into his esophagus again to constrict the breathing. “You insatiable pain-slut, I can’t make you suffer enough, can I? I almost feel sorry for you, it must be agony being unable to get hard.” He continued to mock his prey, who was assuredly concocting four-score methods of killing him as soon as he was released from his hold.

The climax was nearing, and Gortash took the moment to close his eyes and focus on his pleasure before his hunter would be able to take his revenge. When he came, he pushed himself as deep into the Bhaalspawn’s throat as he could go, letting his cum cascade down his blocked windpipe. He took a deep breath and pulled out, relishing the final moments he had in full control of his monster. He took a few steps back to look over the frozen man. “I can’t decide which I prefer more, forcing my cum down your throat or watching your pathetic face as you savor every drop.”

He gave himself a head start before releasing the spell. Running away was a futile effort, but it beat standing around and waiting for the enraged Bhaalspawn to strike. He heard coughing and groaning behind him, and then a crazed yell, “I’m going to fuck the shit out of you!!”

The yell was from a shorter distance than Gortash would have liked, but he pressed on toward the camp, hoping that he could at least make it there before Cyril was able to act on his threat. When he heard the heaving breaths, then felt the hot air on his neck, he knew that his wish would not be granted. Strong arms grasped his waist from behind and lifted him up off his feet. He was slammed face first into the nearest tree, crying out as his crooked nose impacted the trunk. A wet tongue traced a line from the base of his neck to his right ear, gravelly pants overtaking his hearing.

“I will not kill you today, but after I’m done with you, you’ll wish I had.”

The caution Gortash had exercised earlier by remaining clothed was for naught, as the monster violently shredded his shirt and trousers. At this rate, he was going to run out of suitable clothes for the rest of the journey, as the outfit that had been soaked through the day before was still hanging to dry. Mere seconds passed until the tyrant was stripped bare, once again finding himself covered in little lacerations from the monster’s claws. There was no point in struggling, in fact, any attempt might make matters worse for him. He would have to endure, and pray he wouldn’t be eaten alive.

Gortash was grabbed by the shoulders and shoved to the forest floor, landing on his stomach. So it was to be from behind. This was preferable, in a way. He didn’t particularly want to look at the Bhaalspawn’s deranged face while being debauched and sodomized anyway. Cyril was hard, and the human sputtered when his cock impaled him forcefully with seemingly no effort despite the lack of preparation. 

Grunts and growls escaped his predator’s lips as he took his prey. Drops of foaming drool dripped onto his back. The beast was rutting quickly, instinctually, like he was trying to breed another Bhaalspawn into him. Perhaps challenging him to a hunt wasn’t the best idea. There was not as much scratching or biting as he might have expected. They were both so consumed with the thrill of it all that nothing else seemed to matter. 

Despite the roughness, Cyril was surprisingly loving for a rabid beast. He had angled Gortash’s body to more easily reach his prostate as he fucked into it. The tip of his tail ran itself up and down his legs in long caresses and found his cock, stroking and teasing it, but pulling away when Gortash attempted to find purchase. The damned beast could be a succubus for all he knew, because the pleasure that he derived from his own ruination was immense, and there was no part of him that wanted it to stop. 

“Do you feel wanted now, tyrant?” Cyril’s voice was still hoarse from the damage done to his throat. “Do you feel preyed upon?” He pulled out and gently rolled Gortash over to his back before sucking bruises into his neck. “I love you so much, I want to tear you apart.” Fingers traced his jawbone as a crazed grin slid into his field of view. “Do you want me to tear you apart, Enver?”

Gortash caught his breath, drowning in love and fear—a feeling most akin to worship. His implicit trust in this devil would be, and has been, the death of him, but he gave an encouraging nod anyway. “Feast to your heart’s content, pet.”

He found himself impaled once more, and braced for whatever flesh-rending torment was to come. He wondered how many of his limbs he would be allowed to keep, how much of his blood was to be spilled on this forest floor. The monster flashed his teeth and poised one of his arms to strike and Gortash closed his eyes and tried his best not to wince in anticipation of the oncoming impact. It never came.

Upon opening his eyes, he saw the tiefling relaxed, holding his hand in front of him and looking at it with unease. There was a moment of stillness between them. Even now, the strain from the running and the chill of the air clawed at Gortash's lungs, rendering him breathless and lightheaded. The chance to take a much needed deep breath was welcomed. The darkness outside seemed to intensify as Cyril stretched and examined each of his fingers, as if they were out of his control, his eyebrows scrunched in confusion. Cyril began to chew on his inner cheek and his shaky hands found the scars on his forehead. The tyrant was about to speak up and ask what was wrong, but his lover blinked a few times, then looked at his tyrant with a shy smile before he could ask.

“I… think I’d rather just have you normally. Is that alright?” He punctuated the question with a soft kiss on the human’s cheek. 

Gortash couldn’t be more relieved. After the excitement of the night, he was grateful that his beast was offering respite. He gazed lovingly at the nervous tiefling. “I want you in any way you will have me.”

Emboldened, Cyril’s love poured from each of his movements; from the skilled work of his hand on the human’s hardened length, to the slow yet purposeful thrusts, to the wet kisses he laid on his partner’s mouth. They melted together, their boundaries blurring and mingling as the darkened world spun around them. With a gentleness that would make a virgin blush, Cyril made love—real, devotional love.

Gortash couldn’t help but wonder what had brought this on. Had the Bhaalspawn exhausted himself? Or was there something deeper that was causing this beneficent display? Either way, there would be no complaints uttered from either of them as they cradled each other, burying their breaths in kisses as Cyril's adoration overflowed. Waves of buzzing pleasure rolled through his body as the soft pads of Cyril's fingers traced Gortash's frame. The talons that administered those ferocious scuffs now danced faintly on his skin and through his thoroughly devastated hair. After a period that was somehow both too long and not long enough, they came in each other's arms, bearing smiles that belonged on the faces of common stock and not on these two forsaken souls.

Cyril collapsed onto Enver’s chest, tucking his face in the crook between his neck and shoulders. They just laid there for a while, relishing in the peaceful hum of the Moonlantern and the cool breeze fluttering about their sweat-soaked bodies. 

Gortash broke the silence. “Care to enlighten me on your sudden change of heart?”

“I– I…  just wanted to love you as myself. You captured the beast. I wanted to give you what was left.” It was subtle, but beneath his loving words hid the smallest touch of deceit.

Chapter Text

“You know, I never took up a lover on my adventure. Somewhere in my mashed mind I knew there was someone else out there.” Cyril and Gortash took a steady pace through the rest of the Shadowlands. They had reached the end of a three day journey to the mountain pass, in hopes of catching hints of the gith he had left behind, and they felt the shadows at their backs at last.

“I never asked you to save yourself for me, but your unknowing loyalty is appreciated all the same.” The two of them really had no choice but to keep their affairs open and nonexclusive, with their various responsibilities being prioritized over their affair. Gortash had always communicated this respect, but Cyril suspected that he secretly preferred it when he could have him all to himself .

“Oh I was no prude, mind. I shared a brief moment with Shadowheart once, though she was a bit too sweet for my tastes. I fucked Minthara a couple times… Well, I should say that she fucked me. Power hungry little under elf, that one, reminds me of you. And then of course there was the night of ecstasy with that pretty little bard. I took her body apart piece by piece and…" he trailed off, his tongue swiping over his lips. "Mmmnhh… A shame I do not remember any of it, though.”

There was a moment of pause, then Gortash’s eyes lit up with realization and he chuckled heartily. “Hah! You let Minthara peg you, didn’t you? Is that why she seemed to despise the very sight of you in the temple? You are quite the recalcitrant lay after all.”

“I behaved!” Cyril lied. Truth be told, Minthara was the only person in their group he trusted to handle him if he lost control. Her sexual prowess certainly did not impede this cause.

“You behave about as well as a kobold in a counting house. But she outlived the rest of your cadre, so she must have figured something out.” The man let out a pleased sigh as the Shadow Curse slowly lifted. “Tell me another story from your adventure. My scrying eyes only saw so much.”

“Well I finally killed that damned cat at Moonrise. You weren’t around to stop me so I ripped it apart until its sinews frayed."

“Shame…I rather liked the creature. It was quite amusing watching it torment you.” Gortash pushed an arrogant smile to his lips.

“Vile vermin…” Cyril shuddered, remembering the countless unavenged scratches from the foul cat. “Speaking of pests, the gith crèche should be nearby.”

As they walked, the imposing silhouette of Rosymorn Monastery came into view. Lathander’s light had been replaced with the glow of the red sun, streaming through the gaps in the westwork and glinting off the bronze finials. Cyril learned from his previous mistakes, and had ordered the Absolute’s forces to siege the crèche well in advance of their arrival. The gith remained a significant threat, but he had received word earlier that morning that the extermination had been successful. If Lae’zel hadn’t already been killed by her own kind for her treachery, she was certainly dead now. 

An illithid hovered at the entrance to the monastery and silently guided them to the crèche. They entered, leaving the mind flayer stationed at the door. Remnants of a sensational battle spread before them. Mind flayers were cut down by soul-rending swords, and Githyanki heads reduced to bloody pulp. Viscera carpeted the ground and blood and ichor painted the walls. Cyril drank in their deaths. The crèche was silent, forever motionless in a grave they dug for themselves.

“Bah! Don’t you tire of all these dead places? There’s no one to bloody talk to!” Gortash the politician was certainly at a loss of what to do now that the world was dying.

“It’s beautiful! The world’s throat is growing dry from screaming, and has begun a silent devotion to Father.” Cyril had to admit he would have liked to participate in the attack against the githyanki himself, but he wouldn’t allow his bound lover to be in the line of fire, so he had to abstain; an unfortunate, unexpected consequence of this whole affair.

“A little quiet is nice, but this is just sad. The world has fallen to its knees so easily, I would have expected at least a modicum of resis– what is it, pet?”

Cyril had stopped in his tracks and took a deep inhale to sniff the air. Someone was here, watching, waiting. He slowly moved his hand to the hilt of his ritual dagger, preparing to attack. He muttered a small “Stay back!” to Gortash. It was odd, the only presence he had felt here at first was illithid, presumably from the mind flayer posted at the door. As he began to turn his head, in search of any vantage points or high ground, an arrow whizzed past him, clattering on the marble floor next to his feet. 

“Turn and face me, is’tark!” A familiar voice accompanied the warning shot. “The next arrow goes through your chest!”

Cyril was astonished that yet another of his companions somehow managed to live, after doubling his efforts to ensure they had died. Perhaps he would be in for a fight after all! The Bhaalspawn turned slowly toward the source of the voice, but did not move his hands from his blades. She was crouched on the open floor above, her aim true as the drawn bow followed his every move.

“You will talk, and I will listen. If I am satisfied, I might allow you and your vin'iisk to live.” Lae’zel barked, a noticeable desperation in her voice. What had she been through in here? “Ghaik have exterminated us, and you reek of their stink. Yet I remain myself. You will tell me why.” This was a surprisingly good question, one that Cyril did not have an immediate answer to. “Tell me!” He heard the stretch of the bow string.

“Stand down, toad-whore!” He held up a hand and snapped at her, using his other hand to shoo Gortash away. He could not get involved in this fight, or any for that matter. Now that he was considering it, he had built the protection for his own transformation into the Absolute’s orders when he gained control. He must have simply kept the protection that the Emperor had provided for his comrades active, for no other reason than believing that they all were already dead. Such a simple oversight, but one that could be taken advantage of here. “You have not transformed because I have protected you. And I will continue to do so, if you cooperate. All I want is answers to a few questions.”

“You lie!” Lae’zel released the hold on her bow for the moment as she pondered the truth of this statement. “How can this be?”

Cyril opened his parasite to her and connected himself to her mind. He shared the memories of all that had happened since he left the githyanki with her people at the mountain pass. The shadow-lands, the Chosen, the fight with Orin, the story of Orpheus, the domination of the brain, and everything after. He relished in the horrified expression that grew on the woman’s face as she realized that he was the source of all her misery, and had been the entire time.

“They named me hshar'lak because I could not fulfill my mission. They tortured me for days for information I did not possess. They left me for dead in a cage. Those days strengthened me and my resolve. When the ghaik invaders arrived, my Queen showed me mercy and allowed me to fight by my people's side. The warriors of Crèche Y’llek gave their lives to destroy the enemy, to the last man. I was able to hide using the resonance of the tadpole, lying in wait in case more would be foolish enough to enter a sacred place ordained by Vlaakith herself. I may yet be able to ascend, by destroying the source of the ghaik infection myself, proving my worth to my Queen.” The warrior drew her greatsword and jumped down from her lookout in one fluid motion. “You have made an enemy of my people, and an enemy of me! Tsk'in'va Cyril, htak'a!”

“Ad lapidem!” Cyril was quick to act, waiting until her feet had just touched the ground before holding out his hand and surrounding her body with restrictive magic. He wanted to take his time, disarm her, and make her talk. Lae’zel was not nearly as conniving as Minthara, but she made up for this with sheer naive obstinacy. She would break, but it would take some time. He already had the leverage he needed, now he just needed to steer clear of the sword.

As soon as the spell finished taking hold, the magic dispersed as the woman shook herself free, retaining a grip on the sword as she raised it in preparation to strike. The tiefling deftly dodged, feeling the slice of the sword ripple through the air next to him.

The sharp twang of a crossbow string echoed throughout the hall from Gortash’s direction, and a bolt whizzed between their faces. Cyril snapped his head to see the man lining up another shot. “Stay back, Env- Augh!” As soon as he sword had completed its downward arc, Lae’zel swung it to the side, carving a gash in his ribs.  

Cyril cried out in surprise more than pain, the successful hit only fueling his bloodlust. A quick swipe with his bound dagger pierced the flesh of the warrior’s forearm, spilling blood on the floor and causing the grip on her sword to falter. The sorcerer had spent the majority of his journey using magic to take down his enemies, conjuring missiles and bolts of fire and ice to engulf whoever tried to stand in his way. Since returning to his true self and embracing his potential, he found more comfort in his daggers, and used magic as a means of control, rather than exerting power. 

Lae’zel had not responded to the attempted hold so Cyril employed a new tactic this time for disarming. “Impero te!” His eyes focused on her fingers, directing each of them to release its grip on the bejeweled hilt of the gith greatsword. He had been able to wrench one hand free and the sword began to waver, but once again, she regained control and tightened her grip, preparing to strike once more. 

Cyril grunted in frustration, pain gripping his side as the warmth of his own gore seeped into his clothes. He called upon the necromantic energies of his birthright and projected false life into the wound, providing fleeting protection, with a strained growl.

"Dum vita est, spes es–"

"Need a hand, pet?" His damnable Banite lover interrupted his cast.

"Stay BACK!" Cyril cast a glance behind him, where Gortash stood holding a healing potion at the ready. He considered acquiescing and allowing him to throw it his way, but this notion was soon forgotten when the pommel of the sword bashed against his skull. His vision blurred and another shout escaped his throat. His temper rose as sparks encircled his arm, his actions disregarding strategy in favor of embracing the roiling inferno within.

"ARDE!" A flurry of furious flames from the hells themselves blitzed across the short distance between his pointer finger and the fighter. He could hear the whoosh of the fire, feel the heat on his cheek and claws, and imagined the githyanki's croak and the sizzle of her seared skin when the bolt would hit her. But it never came, and the flames flew over her shoulder, fizzling out as they spread onto the cool marble wall behind her.

His vision cleared and he readied himself to dodge another attack, this time managing to swerve around the massive sword as it cleaved the air. Gortash was getting in the way, and Cyril was sloppy because of it. This needed to end soon, before he made any more mistakes.

He wasn’t terribly fond of using illithid power for himself, but this exercise in futility had gone on long enough. He connected his mind to Lae’zel’s once more, twisting his way into her neural pathways, searching for her resolve. Power coursed through him. Authority. He found her will to fight, pulsing red hot, and reached out to stifle it. Lae’zel’s eyes clouded over for a moment as she dropped her sword and allowed herself to be pushed into the wall on the opposite end of the entryway. He retreated from her mind, bringing the sharp point of his dagger to graze her neck, ready to have his fun.

“Have you finished your little show?” Cyril panted, the wound in his side dripping blood onto the floor as his murderous aura clouded around them. “Is that truly the best you can do? Your lich queen cannot save you now, and why would she? Killing me does not solve anything, the Absolute still remains, and your people will be exterminated either way. You are but a child who should have been culled with the weak, left to bleed out on the floor of your own training room.” 

Lae’zel thrashed and struggled in Cyril’s grip, and then suddenly loosened all of her muscles, appearing to give up and accept her fate. He fell for the trick and let up a bit to adjust their position, and she took advantage of the leeway and planted a kick square in his stomach. He staggered just long enough to release her, and the slender fighter bolted toward her weapon. The tiefling caught one of her ankles with his tail and she crashed face first into the marble, the clatter of her half-plate ringing through the atrium. 

Cyril ground his foot into her back and got down on one knee. The dagger returned to the side of her neck. A bemused tone coated his cooing voice. “The bounds of my bloodlust are far beyond your understanding. The continued beating of your tantalizing heart is evidence of my respect for you as a warrior and former ally. Now, are you going to answer my questions or not?”

“Your empty threats mean nothing! My Queen will give me strength if she deems me worthy of killing you!” Lae’zel’s desperation bled from her shouts.

“I don’t see how much use you would be to your queen if you were to transform. I could trigger it at any moment. Then there would be no more Vlaakith, no more ascension, no more Lae’zel. Just an obedient thrall who would tell me everything I need to know.” 

Lae’zel’s eyes widened in horror. “I will not be ghaik!” She squirmed, pressing her neck down into the tip of the blade, puncturing the skin. “I will die first!”

“I will kill you.” Cyril removed the knife and flipped her over to her back, straddling her core. “After you talk. And in your dying breaths you will thank me for my abounding mercy.”

“Tsk’va!” The woman spat in his face. “What do you need to know?” She growled, her eyes darting around looking for an escape she did not have.

“I am looking for a wizard, one with incredible power and a potential to help me accomplish my goals. Were there any places we visited where I might find someone like that? Dead or alive?” Cyril was running out of ideas. He had already found all of those who had traveled with him. He was now simply looking for places where wizards might have been.

“Put the knife back to my neck and then I will tell you,” Lae’zel insisted on being difficult. 

“When you transform, what ever shall I do with you? Shall I strand you in a dead wasteland and watch as you desperately search for mind matter to consume in an endless, torturous hunger? Perhaps I could send you to the front lines of the war with your people, make you tear them apart until they all look like Orpheus’ crumpled corpse. Or maybe I will keep you as my little pet, taking a moment every now and then to remind you who you really are and what happens to entitled pests who get in my way.” Cyril’s eyes flashed with glee. “To die by my hand is a mercy that must be earned, gith. Earn it!”

A pause. Lae’zel shuddered with a black stare. “I do not understand how those of your kind divide up the magics you manipulate. There were several such ‘magicians’ in the camp of goblins we raided. That is all I can tell you, because that is all I know. Now kill me, chraith!”

Lae’zel was in no position to hide anything from him, not anymore, and the goblin camp was a useful lead, if not a little vague. He would show her mercy, now that she had fulfilled her purpose. He looked at the defeated warrior, “Thank you. You may speak your last words before you experience the divine embrace of my Father.”

“Vlaakith gha'g shkath zai. For the honor of Vlaakith.” Lae’zel whispered her final war cry as blood sprayed from her severed throat.

Chapter Text

As the githyanki’s lifeblood leaked out to mix with her kin’s, Gortash allowed himself to exhale. It was over. After the incident at Moonrise, he had grown more concerned about his lover’s ability to control himself. During the fight, strands of murderous intent had grazed his mind as Cyril became more desperate, more formidable. This method of fighting, brimming with malice and mental control, was nothing like how the Bhaalspawn had approached his murders in the past. Before, they were always swift, to the point. Now, they seemed to stoke some sort of pyre burning deep within, one that was desperate for dominance. A pyre not unlike Gortash’s own struggle to leash the world, and his own mind in the process.

Seeing as Cyril had gotten his answers, he would likely want to make camp soon and prepare for the upcoming journey to this goblin outpost. This must have been what the adventurers’ entire journey was like getting to the city. Fighting, camping, then fighting again. Gortash had spent far too long indoors for the majority of the last decades that he was not amenable to the lifestyle. Who would have thought that ruling the world would require such mundane skills? 

Cyril continued to gaze at the gith’s corpse, panting. The gash in his side soaked blood into his robes, but he did not seem to notice it, maintaining a deranged stare at his former ally. His expression portrayed a ghastly combination of sexual climax and catatonic hatred; the ‘ecstacy of murder,’ he had once called it. Though, this iteration seemed to far surpass other times in its intensity. It was palpable, even across the distance between them. The man knew to stay well clear until the feeling had receded, so he waited for Cyril to ‘come,’ as it were, and return to business.

But the feeling did not pass. It lingered, grew even, swirling and manipulating the very air around them, pulsing thick and black and purple and red. Evolved.

Into incognizable fury.

“I told you to stay back.”

Gortash winced as Cyril’s voice seemed to expand in his ears, causing them to buzz in discomfort. The tiefling finally raised his horned head to look at him. His eyes glowed, piercing into the center of the human’s forehead. The sensation of the murderous aura was not unfamiliar to him. He had been a target of it dozens of times, and a witness to it on countless occasions as well. He was used to the tingling of his skin, the hitch in his breath, and the shake of his muscles that the aura elicited. Whatever was happening now actually hurt. Scalpel blades caressed his forehead. Javelins invaded his skull. A tidal wave of nauseating fear surged across his skin, followed by infinite needle pricks to his very cells.

Gortash staggered, his hand flying to his throbbing forehead, as if holding it there would somehow ease the relentless terror that had entombed his mind. Cyril closed the distance between them with a gait that resembled a predator’s stalk, seemingly in preparation for an attack. But he did not touch him. He didn’t have to.

The human’s crumbling consciousness clawed for air as the monster continued to speak. “This fight had nothing to do with you, and yet you continued to interfere. Did the Shadow Curse eat your brain? Or was it your time in the Banehold that made you so witless?”

Gortash was fixed in place. He could hardly breathe, much less talk. A pleading expression met the black and red orbs one might call eyes, and the pain let up, slowly, maliciously. He scrabbled for some semblance of his mental faculties and pieced together an answer to an impossible question.

“I–”

 “As expected. It’s always ‘I’ or ‘me’ or ‘mine’ with no consideration for anything else besides your frail walking corpse or your equally fragile ego.” Cyril’s lips curled in disgust. 

As Gortash regained his mind, he was appalled. This display was unlike anything he had ever seen. Over the course of his life, he had made scores of enemies. Tirades, slander, libel, and defamation were to be expected, welcomed even. Better for a man to retain his precious ‘free will’ by spewing vitriol than to look around and see that their freedom of choice has already been taken. Let them curse, let them shame, let them mewl and moan. They were already slaves before they even had a chance to open their mouths. However, Cyril knew better. He was no slave, but he had never been allowed to dishonor the good name of Lord Enver Gortash without reaping the consequences. The tyrant had half a mind to put a crossbow bolt through his eye socket right then and there.

“You dare to question my authority? My judgment?” A glint of Gortash’s own ire replaced the lingering fear in his eyes.

“There is nothing to question. Your judgment was wrong. Come, we’re leaving.” Cyril’s iron grip clenched around the human’s arm and he found himself dragged along by it out of the monastery. 

…

Once they surfaced on the trail, Gortash wrenched himself free and began to walk behind the devil, aghast. They walked in deathly silence until dusk, setting up camp in a quiet copse of oaks. Gortash wanted to throttle the Bhaalspawn, but instead slumped against one of the massive tree trunks, his exhaustion betraying him. Violence would likely only intensify the situation. Still, something needed to be done.

“You will apologize for your insolence.” Gortash used a smooth, firm tone to communicate the authority his stance could not.

Cyril shot him a glare and stayed silent, tending to his wounds.

“I demand due respect, Bhaalspawn. You will give it to me.”

“I do not answer to you.”

The human let out a cough in surprise. “I believe I must have heard you incorrectly. You surely did not tell your tyrant that you do not answer to him.”

“You are in no position to pull rank. You are mine! My ward, my blood-binding, my toy. I do not answer to you because you are nothing to me.” This went far beyond the petty insults Gortash was used to; beyond the cheap, playful tricks he usually pulled. This was borne from genuine resentment, from loathing.

“I am nothing? I saw your abhorrent display over Lae’zel’s body at the crèche, was that nothing? What about any of your other allies, did your connection to them truly mean nothing? When you killed me atop the crown, you are telling me that it was nothing to you? Do not delude yourself with such nonsense.”

“When I stood over your pathetic corpse, all I felt was hatred.” Cyril was beginning to steam again.

“Ah! But hatred is not nothing! Hatred burns at your soul, it eats at your marrow, it makes you who you are.” Gortash stood and crossed his arms, the leaves rustled with his movements. “I elected to travel with you, not a mindless killer who sprays his spend on any carrion he can find. You swore your allegiance and deference to me.”

“I swore that I would not lie to you. Nothing more!” the Bhaalspawn hissed. “I do not owe you my loyalty, nor am I compelled to obey your every childish whim. I alone rule this world of blood, you just happen to be fortunate enough to watch. But you can’t even do that without foolishly getting yourself involved. I told you, I do not answer to you.”

The man scoffed. This was getting nowhere. “Spare me the theatrics, not even a tenday has passed since you told me all about the love you had for me–”

“What use is love if you are dead!?”

“...”

The very insects seemed to heed the call for silence. The men’s heartbeats rose in tandem, echoing off the surface of the empty tent and fluttering into the treetops above. Tense, constricted breaths escaped their noses, and their mouths creased shut. Neither of them dared move, or be the first to talk—a battle of attrition overtook the camp.

Gortash was angry, furious even, but found that any desire to act on it had melted away. What was left to say? Cyril was right. He was getting in the way. When his lover was hurt during the fight with the githyanki, because of him, he wanted to rush to his side, to kill her himself. But he was weak. Frail. Fragile. He hated himself for it; and he hated his murderer for making him this way. 

The silence was broken as Cyril collapsed to a seat on the leaves by the fire. His back was turned, but it betrayed labored breaths. Whether this was due to the pain from his injuries or his clearly overwhelming emotional state, Gortash couldn’t tell.

“You have ruined me, Enver.” A quiet voice traveled with the breeze. The accusation was said with such tenderness, it could be confused with a confession of love. “I fear that in finding you, I have lost myself.”

Gortash took this opportunity to join his partner at the fire. Looking at his face, he saw scrunched brows framing sunken eyes and a tense jaw holding a half open mouth. He looked… dead. 

“Every cell in my body demands I bow my head to Him, to you,” Cyril gritted his teeth, voice quivering and picking up volume. “‘Follow your plan,’ they say, ‘follow your Urge, follow your Father.’ It's always follow, follow, follow, and never once can I choose. I was fashioned to submit.” He threw leaves into the fire and they shriveled to ash before even touching the ground.

That was it. That was what was wrong, what had been wrong about all of this. Cyril had spent his life as a slave, bowing his head, and his neck was beginning to fracture. Everything that had happened to this point was the direct result of an unforgiving God’s will made manifest. The submission promised to Gortash in the dining room on that first night was not by choice, it was out of instinct.

The woebegone treatise continued. “Someone's slave, someone's pet, someone's spawn. Bhaal's rotten toy who can't even keep the one person he ever loved from harm because he REFUSES TO LET ME HANDLE THINGS!”

Words eluded the tyrant, who desperately wanted to fill the silence, not wanting to hear any more of this for fear of what might be said next. There was no apology satisfactory enough, no confession sincere enough, to alleviate this impossible situation. Cyril’s walls were crumbling before his very eyes, and he was undeniably helpless to pick up the pieces.

“The Urge…” For the first time since the crèche, their eyes met. “It has begun to call for your blood.” 

Gortash’s heart sank.

“Father is taunting me, punishing me. For my sins, my heresy.”

To say that this was terrible news would be the most grievous of understatements. Gortash shakily found his voice. “You’ve defied your Urge before, surely you could–”

“Enver, do you have any idea what will happen to me if you die before the appointed time?” Cyril’s desperation grew, his claws driving into his temples.

“No…” Any shred of confidence had left his voice. Nothing was certain anymore, and they were fools for believing that it ever had been.

“I don’t either! I might die on the spot. I could go mad. I could be erased from history, reduced to the fetid pile of gore from which I sprang. Or perhaps worst of all, I could be forced to complete my mission as myself, living out the rest of my days haunted by your twice-dead spirit!”

A hideous pause.

“I don’t want to kill you, Enver.” 

“Then you will not.” It was time to take charge. Gortash couldn’t afford to be afraid, it would accomplish nothing, and the monster was growing more frenzied by the second. 

Cyril paused, brows shifting in confusion, “But the Urge-”

“Fuck your Bhaal-damned Urge! You’re telling me you are so weak-willed that you can’t retain control over it, after all this time?” Gortash worked up the courage to smile. “You don’t want to kill me, so you won’t. It’s as simple as that. Unless… that’s too much of a challenge for you…”

Now it was the tiefling’s turn to lose his voice.

“You honestly believe that I will just run off into the night because you want to kill me? Gods, did Shadow Curse eat your brain?” Gortash found himself laughing as the next half-truth spilled out, “I am not afraid of you, Bhaalspawn. And it will take far more than puerile disrespect and vapid ravings to convince me otherwise.”

Cyril gazed at him, calmer, considering the truth of these statements. His hand moved from his temple to his collar, rolling the tip of his thumb over one of the spikes. Then he asked what was possibly the most difficult question a man could ever ask: “Will you help me?”

A smile crawled on Gortash’s face. “Well, I’m not sure, pet. You said some very nasty things to me, and I am not a man who can simply forgive and forget…”

The pathetic monster’s pleading eyes made this whole ordeal worth it.

“But… seeing as our goals temporarily align, I suppose I can offer a small mercy. Just this once.”

Cyril squirmed in his seat like a scolded child, culpability scribbled on his face. “Enver, I’m not entirely sure what to do now.” 

“Well, to start, let’s get through tonight. Then we can make a better plan in the morning, when we’ve had time to rest.” This softness, this tenderness, was new to the tyrant. “I hope you enjoy the feeling of tree bark at your back, because that is how you will be spending the night. Come, sit.”

Gortash directed the tiefling to a seat, his back against one of the thicker trees in the copse. He dove into his pack and produced a hank of rope, cutting it in half with a spare knife and burning the ends in the fire. One half was used to tie the monster’s back and arms around the tree trunk; the other, to secure Cyril’s legs together from his knees to his ankles. He took a step back to admire his handiwork. 

“Can you move?” 

The Bhaalspawn writhed and struggled to test the bonds, which held steady, for now. The rest of his daggers had already been confiscated, but the ritual dagger remained at his hip. The human gently knelt next to him and his hand grazed its hilt. “May I take this? I vow that it will not leave my side while I have it.” 

The matter of Cyril’s bound weapon was always cause for some strife between them. From the start of their affair, it was a continual symbol of distrust. Gortash could have all the other knives, but the ritual dagger stayed as ‘insurance that he would remember his place.’ He wrongfully snatched it when performing his show of force on that night of submission, but he would not make that mistake again. From here on, submission would not be assumed, it would be given.

The mournful tiefling nodded, he had no other choice.

“Thank you, pet… Is it alright if I call you that? ‘Pet?’” The tyrant astounded himself with how warm he felt, being so soft with his monster.

“Yeah… I… like it. I’d rather not call you ‘Master’ for a while, though. I’m sorry… about everything.” Cyril gazed at his partner. “I didn’t mean to call you ‘nothing.’”

“I know, pet.” Gortash planted a kiss on his forehead. “If your bindings begin to loosen, scream. If you feel like the Urge is getting too much, scream. Actually, if you feel like killing anything, scream. And do not stop screaming until I wake. Do you understand?” 

Cyril nodded.

“Say it!”

“Yes, Mas– Enver.”

“I love you.” Gortash turned to leave, handling the prized dagger with the utmost care.

“Wait–” Cyril called into the dark. “Kiss me again? I want to taste you so I can remind myself that I love you too, even when my bones quake and my wretched soul begs for your death.”

The man indulged. They tasted each other like it was the last time they ever could. Perhaps it would be… but they both desperately prayed that their embrace would continue until the Plane took its final breath.

Chapter Text

Cyril’s eyes shot open and he found himself in the temple. 

Everything was ready. 

His heartbeat was the only sound that echoed off the vast, cavernous walls. The temple was clean. He had disposed of the bodies of his followers, devout to the very end, in a magnificent pyre. A white cloth was laid over the altar, the chains had been cleared away, incense was lit to alleviate some of the smell, and he had laid out two goblets and a bottle of their favorite wine. Sceleritas was pinned to the outer wall of the temple with as many daggers as would fit in his garish little body. Even he would not be witness to the ritual today; just the Bhaalspawn, his Father, and his most precious sacrifice. 

Two gentle hands placed the ritual knife at the head of the altar. It had been cleaned, polished, and sharpened, so it gleamed in the crimson din. Cyril had spent an inordinate amount of time obsessing over what to wear. Gilded regalia? His favorite armor? A doublet? In the end, he had settled for a simple, black robe. He wouldn’t be wearing it for long anyway. After a final blessing was prayed over the scene, the tiefling descended the stairs to his quarters to collect his lover.

Lounging gracefully on the bed, smoke rising in translucent rings from his pipe, Enver turned his gaze to the door when it opened, greeting his killer with a soft smile. He was wearing a fine suit, double breasted, inlaid with gold Banite iconography. His hair was as groomed as it ever was, and his brown eyes sparkled in the candlelight of the bedroom. He appeared perfectly at ease, considering that this would be his final night. 

“It is time.” Cyril took deep breaths, preparing himself for the single most important sacrifice of his life. 

“Shame…” Enver sighed. “I haven’t finished my pipe. You wouldn’t deny a man a smoke on the last night of his life, would you?” A sly grin formed on his face as he extinguished the pipe, looking longingly at it as it was set delicately on the nightstand. “Take care of that for me, would you? I sourced the wood from the Underdark.”

Cyril stood at the door, hands clasped in front of him, unsure of how to reply. He just waited. A loving stare, not sad, but not happy either, followed the man as he rose from the bed and strode toward him. Cyril took Enver’s hand in his, and kissed it softly, noticing a slight tremor. “Do not worry. I will take care of you, my love.”

They walked to the dais together. “What have we here?” Enver chuckled. “If I didn’t know better, I would think this was a romantic picnic, not my ritual slaughter.” The man was ushered to a seat on the cloth at the head of the altar, and Cyril took his place opposite him at the foot. He poured them both a glass of wine.

“To your very good death!” The tiefling raised his glass in a toast. The man’s chalice clinked with his own and they cleansed their throats with the wine. Ever the avid drinker, Enver downed the glass and poured himself another. There was no reason not to oblige the man another drink on the day of his death. He was allowed as many vices as he desired. Cyril, however, took only a sip from the cup. He would remain sober, focused.

Once they had finished their drinks, the bottle and chalices were carried away by a mage hand. The tiefling closed the distance between them, leaning in for a long, tender kiss. Hands slid up and down each other’s backs, fingers stroked hair, soft moans were exchanged in a language only they knew; a language that would soon be as dead as the rest of the Plane.

Without breaking the kiss, Enver lowered his back to the covered stone, pulling Cyril on top of him and grasping at his hips with his legs. Hands began to travel farther down, gently brushing at the tiefling’s cock through his robes, cupping his ass, or gripping his hips and encouraging them to grind against his. 

As Enver pulled at the robes, pleading silently for the touch of bare skin, the Bhaalist gently grabbed his wrist to stop him. “If you are ready, we can move forward with the ritual.” A solemn nod indicated his response.

Cyril climbed off of the altar, and helped his lover stand up next to him. He picked up his knife and removed the white sheet, revealing the blood-soaked stonework below. The altar was more reds and browns than gray. It had seen quite a bit of use in these last days, as the cult of Bhaal took its final breath. The knife was put back in its place. He knelt at the head of the altar, pressing his forehead to the masonry. “Father, I dedicate this, my final sacrifice on Toril, to your murderous glory. May you guide my hand as I fulfill my contract and vow to you.” Every movement was with purpose, every detail, immaculate. The Bhaalspawn caressed his partner’s cheek. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Don’t be such a tease, pet! There is no need to worry, I’m sure I will have no trouble dying under your expert hand.” Enver let out a warm laugh, which relieved the monster. He was alright. More than alright, he was perfect.

“Then we will begin.” Cyril dutifully began to strip the tyrant, starting with his waistcoat and shoes, then his shirt and trousers, and finally his underclothes. They were folded neatly and whisked away by the mage hand. “I’m going to prepare you now. If you would lay down on the altar, head on the side with the knife, my love.”

The human was all curves and angles as his body stretched itself on the altar. After all this time, vows were being realized, dreams were coming true. This was his moment. Father will finally be pleased. Cyril slipped out of his own robes and picked up the knife at Enver’s head. The blade kissed the Bhaalspawn’s palm, sharp enough that he could barely feel the sting of the metal. As blood trickled from the wound, he let it drip onto his sacrifice’s chest, the resulting droplets painting the sandy skin. 

He leaned in close to the human’s ear. “Do you want to feel the pain? I can make it so you don’t have to…”

“I want to feel it,” Enver whispered back. “I want to feel everything.”

Cyril shivered with pleasure, sultry eyes gleaming in bloodlust. He climbed on the altar and straddled his lover, sitting on his stomach. As a painter employs his brush, so the Bhaalist carved delicate lines into his lover’s chest; deep enough to break the supple skin, but not so deep that it would rend the flesh. The human was staying magnificently still, wincing occasionally when the blade encountered more tender areas. The knife curved and grazed, the cuts forming the shape of a skull at Enver’s sternum, and tear shapes encircling it. The sacred symbol of Bhaal. Blood beaded up through the fine lacerations, shading the design carmine, and magic faintly stirred on the sigil upon completion. 

Tracing his finger along one of the longer cuts, Cyril collected the trickling red. He held it up to his sacrifice’s lips. “Taste your lifeblood, my love.” Enver’s tongue circled his finger, pulling it inside his mouth, sucking softly at it, gripping hard when it retreated. Cyril grabbed his lover’s hand and kissed it. “Will you paint my scars?” He leaned his face close for ease of access.

Graveled fingers slid over the fresh cuts, and gently stroked over the forehead scars, shading the skin crimson. More blood was needed for the chin, but it didn't take long for the wounds to provide. The two participants had each been appropriately decorated. The next step would begin. 

“My precious sacrifice,” he swept his hands over Enver’s chest and arms, “by the end of the night, you will have given me everything. First, I will take your body. Then, I will take your life. And finally, I will take your soul.” 

Unable to contain himself any longer, Cyril lunged at his tyrant, fangs bared, tail flicking wildly, his kiss more teeth than tongue. His partner’s hands grabbed at his hair, twirling it into small clumps and yanking at the roots. Tendrils of electric pleasure shot through his scalp. He would miss having someone to pull his hair. Better make it count now. He feigned an attempt to shake himself out of the grasp, which only made it tighten. He breathed a smile into Enver’s lips as they continued to share each other’s air.

They released the kiss, and Cyril guided his lover’s arms to his sides. He planted kisses on each arm from the shoulder to his fingertips. He picked up the dagger, making a long, deep cut down the length of one, then the other, humming a prayer as he worked. “This body and soul… willingly… given, is yours as a testament to your murderous beauty.”

Enver let out a melodious cry as the knife split his flesh. His brown eyes darted to the Bhaalspawn’s face, longing for reassurance. Cyril dropped the knife and wiped the gathering tears from the human’s eyes. “You are doing so well, my love! I am right here with you. Until the very end.”

The tiefling stood up next to the altar, repeating the process of kisses and long cuts on the human’s legs. Blood was welling up in the wounds, and slowly leaking down to meet the stone. “My Lord, My Father, you have blessed me with the death of the world. You have guided my hands and my knives so that I might accomplish my purpose, your purpose.”

The cries grew louder, the most holy of hymns, as the wounds caught the fluttering air. Such a beautiful song; the Plane’s final aria. Cyril’s own shouts of praise provided harmony as he spread Enver’s legs and sat between them. He trailed the point of the blade around the tender skin of his inner thighs, making a few nicks here and there. The man’s legs quivered and tensed in anticipation and pain. His length was begging to be attended to, crying tears of its own. The knife traveled slowly in its direction, grazing the skin at the base. Enver took in a sharp breath. 

Cyril let out a smile upon seeing the trepidation in the human’s eyes, and set the knife down. “I promise I won’t use the knife on your precious cock.” He flashed his teeth and ran his tongue across the ridges and points of his fangs. “These are sharp enough.”

Before Enver had the chance to protest, Cyril sank his mouth down around his lover’s shaft, picking up the precum with the tip of his tongue. The man was insatiably hard, in spite of his mortal fear, and the melody of pain mixed with operatic sighs of pleasure. They echoed off the far reaches of the cavern, ricocheting off of each other to form their own chorus. A most resplendent dirge.

After picking up a bottle of oil stowed near the altar, slicked clawed fingers found their way to Enver’s hole, circling and massaging the tender muscle. The tyrant’s teasing tone cut through the music. “I'm surprised you're not using my blood, or something else equally vulgar.”

“That is the custom, yes. But you are special, and deserve any comfort I can give you.”

The Bhaalspawn continued to suck at his cock, ever-so-slowly moving his head up and down to accommodate his sacrifice’s jaunty movements as tension continued to grow. Once he was close, but not too close, Cyril sat up and began to stretch his opening with his off hand while grabbing the knife with his main hand. “These next cuts will hurt. Are you ready?”

Enver nodded, breathing shakily. 

“Say it, my love.” The tiefling smiled as his unrelenting finger pressed deeper into his guts.

“I’m… r-ready. Gods!” He shouted in delight as the finger curled inward. Simultaneously, a deep gash was swiftly carved, perpendicular to the wound on his arm at the bicep. The cut was mirrored on the other side. Cyril added a second finger to increase the pressure in Enver’s opening, and two more gashes opened on his forearms. 

The Bhaalspawn couldn’t help but smear his tongue over the fresh blood flowing from his artful swipes. Pain caused the human’s arm to shiver and seize as he let out another piercing, angelic cry. 

“Sing to me, my sacrament! Let the Murder Lord hear your praises as I bathe myself in your essence!” Cyril’s own blood flooded to his head and his swollen cock. He had given up on reciting his rites, allowing their combined oration to say what simple prayers never could.

The knife struck another time, cutting a line on Enver’s breast below his collarbones. Gritting his teeth through the undeniable agony, the human barked out a command: “You will take me, Bhaalspawn. You will do it now!”

There was no hesitation. Their forms met like they were made for each other. The twisted fates of the last two men in the world collided as Cyril took his lover’s body for his own.  

The first thrust was like a stab in itself, parting flesh with such force, Enver gasped at the impact. The tyrant’s eyes gently shut and his mouth hung open as his head arched back, revealing the length of his throat. The esophagus, so magnificently displayed, would be considered a waste were it to go un-choked, so Cyril wrapped his fingers around the masterpiece and squeezed another crackled moan out of the man.

The second thrust was no more merciful than the first. Flesh slammed against flesh, soul against soul. They were one—as a blade to a stomach, a claw to an eye, a hand to a neck. Deadly. Tears poured from Bhaal’s Scion’s eyes. This was the perfect murder. His magnum opus; a blood-red wax seal stamped with the Dread Lord’s signet to enclose the fate of the world. As the pair basked in their combined rapture, Cyril released his grip on Enver’s throat and brought it behind his head to support it.

The third thrust came from the dagger. Extra care had been taken not to reopen the old scar, or rupture an organ. There would be plenty of time for that, but this swift acquaintance of steel and skin was meant to usher in a new stanza in the requiem of their love. Enver screamed, and Cyril swallowed it with a kiss, breathing in the molten air from his lover’s lungs as he fucked into him again. 

The knife and his cock gently, synchronously retreated, before returning with overstimulating force for the fourth thrust. His offering’s eyes were blown out, widened and unblinking, as another gravelly shout, more akin to a roar escaped his bruised throat. He was shaking, causing the blood from his cuts and stabs to bubble and swirl as it spilled out into his perfect skin. He wouldn’t be able to take much more. It was time for his final climax.

Cyril slowed his pace, matching the stilted rhythm of Enver’s hips. He lavished affectionate hands on the man’s throbbing cock. Silence filled the temple as they worshiped each other. Tears like holy water clouded their vision and ran down their cheeks. Bhaal’s sigil carved on the sacrifice’s chest stretched and compressed with near agonal breaths as he came. His sacred seed signed the painting on his flesh as his murderer sealed it with another excruciating stab. The knife did not immediately retreat this time, instead carving jaggedly through the flesh of Enver’s innards as the Prince of Murder spilled into them.

“Father, I give you this death because you gave me this life!” Cyril had been so caught up in his physical exaltation that he had forgotten his prayers. He pulled himself out of the bleeding man and knelt next to the altar, gripping a shaky hand in his. “May this flesh I offer nourish you, this blood quench you, and this soul please you, as you have allowed it to do the same for me.” Looking down at Enver, he knew there wasn’t much time left. “The appointed time has come. You will meet Father now. Speak to me your last, so I may burn it into my mind with a brand.”

“...I need you to promise me something…” 

The graveled voice of a defeated tyrant fought its way through heaving gasps for air as he lay nearly motionless on the altar. Blood pooled around his body, and as the man’s skin grew paler, the red varnish covering his naked form grew richer. He was perfect.

“Anything for you, my love, my consummate sacrifice.” Bhaal’s Scion, His will made manifest, whispered a kiss onto the man’s cheek.

“Kiss me until my soul fills your lungs. Take my cold, dead heart with you—to the end of the world. Make my death the best you’ve ever had.”

Weakened, blood-drained eyes gazed lovingly at their murderer. The Prophet of the End smiled back, and took a gasping inhale as he gripped the knife. 

“You are my absolute,” Cyril cooed. “Die for me.”

The most polished of cuts split Enver’s throat. The master of murder sucked the last of the tyrant’s air from his lungs. His hand plunged into the cavity he had carved in his core and grasped at his heart, breathing with the cadence of its fading pulse. The temple glowed red with Bhaal’s approval as the last life on Toril dwindled away in a spectacular finale.

…

Cyril was alone.

…

The bark of the oak tree shredded the tiefling’s flesh as he thrashed against it, screaming bloody murder after he woke from the most beautiful nightmare he ever had.

Chapter Text

Gortash tossed and turned on his bedroll, frayed nerves buzzing an endless lullaby. His partner’s knife lay beside his head, mere meters away from the beast himself. This was unlike the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of death threats he had received from his favorite assassin before. This felt real, dangerous. Gortash had no choice but to will himself to sleep and trust the bindings. He could not fend off a Bhaalspawn with such little energy. Black tendrils of fear caught his breath as the human faded out of consciousness into a memory he had tried his hardest to forget.

“My Chosen, you have failed me.”

He heard the voice first, it bounced around his skull in the pitch darkness like a drum. He tried to open his eyes to search for signs of where he was, but discovered that they were already open, and that his surroundings were completely, utterly, black. He grasped in vain for some sort of context. What had he been doing before this? Where had he been? These answers were also swallowed in darkness. The only other sensation available to him was the dizziness of falling. His stomach lurched, his lungs gasped, and his head reeled with the seemingly endless descent. Nothing was certain, but the voice of his Lord continued to pulse in his mind. Whatever he had done, however it had ended, didn't matter now; only the judgment of the Black Hand.

“How far you have fallen, would-be tyrant. I had so many plans for you. I freed you from the Hells, gave you my boon, instated you as Chosen. You were given privileges far exceeding your station, and this was the result: cut down by the hand of Bhaal’s currish whelp. Your stench of weakness offends me, boy.”

Images saturated Gortash’s mind. The crown, the brain, the knife in his stomach, the fall. His condemnable partner had betrayed him. Of course he had. There should have been no reason to believe that he wouldn’t. The human’s jaw shook, trying to speak, but his silver tongue had been removed, and all he could do was breathe into the blackness.  

“Bhaalspawns are meant to be used and disposed of. Did you expect to tame it? Put a little muzzle in its maw and a collar with a bow on its neck like a prized hound?”

More mocking images swirled through the dark. The beast, his beast was sitting on its heels, pawing at the invisible ground and whining for the attention of its Master. The chain wrapped around its neck was held not by Gortash, but by a spectral Black Hand, and whenever the Hand moved, the beast would cower in fear. 

“Is this what you wanted? A filthy mutt to parade around and rape as you please? I selected you for your ambition and cunning, and you let it all slip from my grasp for Bhaal’s bastardized bloodletter!”

The end of a chain materialized in his hand, and he looked down to see the creature next to him, this time disfigured and broken in the swirling darkness. Its glowing red eyes were flickering like candles as it looked to its new handler in skittish adoration. It was abhorrent—and the soft heart that had been buried somewhere deep under countless hardened layers of shame and dogma looked at the pitiful beast and wanted to cradle it in his arms, run his fingers down its lacerated back and tell it that everything was going to be okay. But he didn’t do that. His foot seemed to move of its own accord to kick the beast in the side, but he caught himself just in time before the toe of his boot impacted its ribs.

“To think I would entrust you with my gifts. You stand in the presence of your savior, your God, yet you stay your hand? For the sake of a worthless dog? Pathetic! You are so cowardly, even Helm wouldn’t want you.”

The air chilled with the Black Lord’s disapproval. Gortash shrunk into himself. All he could do was endure the consequences of his trespasses. The creature’s eyes gazed at him; haunting and wretched. He knew that the image before him was not his lover, but those eyes sang to him, reminded him of a warmth he used to feel, but knew he never could again.

“Your demise was prescribed from the moment you let the foul-blood into your chambers. It never loved you. It never sought to please you. It thirsted for your blood and my power. It was using you.”

No! Gortash shouted into his own mind. He loved me, I know he did. He looked down at the creature, who continued its empty, doting stare. This poor beast was not him. The real him was conquering the world in his stead. He just had to hold onto that, and remember the real Cyril for the rest of eternity.

“You have forgotten your beginnings. Unwanted, abandoned, sold. Even the devil couldn’t suffer your cowardice, so he tortured it out of you and led you to me. I stitched you up from the tatters in which I found you, and you became strong under my Hand. I gave you the world, and you gave me nothing in return; nothing but your useless corpse and feckless soul. Take your horrid pet, Flymm. Whip it, rape it, love it. If that is all you care about, above your power, above your God, then that is all you deserve.”

The Dark Lord’s presence faded, icy and barren, and an echoing scream replaced it. He looked at the illusory creature he was left with to see if it was making the noise, but it was silent. The scream’s timbre was so familiar, comforting, almost as if it belonged to the real Cyril. It persisted, growing louder and clearer as Gortash rose from his dream and heard his tiefling’s voice piercing into the darkness.

…

It was still the dead of night, but he had gotten at least a couple hours of sleep. If one could call whatever that was ‘sleep.’ The residual anxiety of the dream caused adrenaline to course through his cells, mixed with the veritable cloudburst of emotions he felt upon hearing that scream. Without a second thought, he snatched Cyril’s knife and tightened his grip on it. He lacked proficiency with it, but this weapon served more as a bargaining chip than anything else. And the man certainly knew how to bargain.

He burst through the opening in the tent. The campsite was still glowing faintly with the dying embers of the fire. The tied up tiefling seemed to acknowledge his presence, but did not cease his outbursts and thrashing, the low light only intensifying his ghastly visage. Whether he was afraid or angry or some incendiary combination of the two, Gortash couldn’t tell. The dim firelight did reveal one other unsettling detail: The monster was hard, the tent in his britches nearly as taut as the one Gortash had slept in. Though, this was nothing like their pretend hunt in the woods a few nights ago. There was nothing pretend about any of this.

What in the hells was he going to do with all this information? The bonds were holding, which was a relief. If he could get his partner to talk and think, there was a better chance of survival. The real challenge was getting through to this wailing monster. Flashes of his nightmare crossed his mind as he looked at his pet, helpless and at his mercy. He shuddered, refusing to allow his execrable mind to lie to him. Bane isn’t here. For once, the absence of his God relieved him.

Surprisingly, the Bhaalspawn spoke first. “I don’t want to be alone,” his voice croaked. “Not alone, not alone, not alone, not alone.” His eyes bored straight through Gortash’s silhouette. 

“You’re not alone, pet. I’m right here.” These words were meaningless, and did not change anything. 

“Such a beautiful death. Beautiful blood. Beautiful corpse. Beautiful Enver.” Cyril’s speech was hypnotic, enticing. A siren’s song heralding death, melting Bane’s bludgeoning words away from his mind.

“Cyril? Am I talking to you? Or is it the Urge who woke me up at such a wretched hour?” For much of their relationship, Gortash had assumed that Cyril and the Urge were one and the same; the Urge guiding the Bhaalspawn’s path to his Father’s approval. He later came to realize that there were two souls inhabiting one mind, parasitic to each other, unable to survive without the other’s influence, and unable to share control of the monster's mind.

“Who would you like to talk to? You who would leash the will of Father’s purest Gore. You who would stand in its presence and still live. Are you afraid of me now, blood-toy?”

Gortash recognized this manner of speech as the closest the Urge came to completely overtaking its host. Normally, this would occur on particularly bad nights, as Cyril mumbled murderous nonsense in his sleep. This time, the Bhaalspawn appeared to be awake and lucid, a most curious development. To have the chance to engage the Urge in conversation was fascinating to him, and he wanted to make the most of the opportunity… at a safe distance.

“Ah! The Urge! It truly is a pleasure. I hear that you wish to kill me.” This was a matter of diplomacy, a simple parley with Bhaal’s will incarnate. 

“Your skull will be the chalice from which Bhaal’s Gore will drink your blood. Your intestines will be hung from the rafters of his castle of corpses. Your ribs will decorate his crown of bones. Your heart will roast upon the pyre of perfect death.”

“What a colorful description! Believe you me, I am impressed.” Gortash had been around Cyril long enough that this did not rattle him. “Though it is not yet time for that, hm? Why don’t you enlighten me as to why you have begun to thirst for my blood now?”

“The Gore blasphemes. The Gore loves. The Gore disobeys.”

“Loving, my friend, is a far lesser crime than killing me.”

“The Gore forgets his purpose. He has lost his way. I told him to kill you in the Shadow Curse but he did not listen. He defies his Urge!” the Bhaalspawn hissed, wriggling in his bonds. This was an interesting revelation, and explained the seemingly sudden change in behavior during that night in the woods. 

“You have proven yourself quite the little pest over the years. You do not own Cyril, you are merely an instrument, a plaything,” Gortash spoke plainly. “You are also at my mercy, at your host’s behest. You have no power here, and your interference is unwanted.”

“The blood-toy lies! The Gore cannot be contained!”

“Do I need to procure a gag, or can you desist your perfidious ravings for a moment and listen?” Bane’s words seeped into Gortash’s mind as he continued his attempt to subdue the monster. The Urge seemed to agree with the Black Lord; believing him an object with the sole purpose of sating Cyril’s unquenchable bloodthirst. He considered that he might not have awoken from his nightmare after all, and this was somehow the mutilated version of his pet. His dream might have shown him what ‘the real Cyril’ would look like after being subjugated by the Urge completely. Perhaps this was what the Gods wanted—their punishment for their sin of love.

Surprisingly, the Urge did not produce a retort, which allowed the tyrant to continue his gambit. “What is the purpose of thirsting for blood that you cannot have? I am bound to your Dread Lord. Even someone as myopic as you knows what that means. You would truly defy your creator because you are unsatisfied with your host’s choice of mate? I thought you brighter than that.”

Another pause.“The blood-toy mocks the Gore! The blood-toy must die!" Cyril ground his teeth, his writhing movements becoming more and more hysteric. Gortash stood his ground, but faltered as he heard the [hissing] sound of the rope fraying on the bark of the tree. He didn't have much time until the bonds would give out. Better make this admittedly dangerous gamble count.

"You will control yourself!" His voice boomed and echoed through the quaking forest. "Look at you! Bound and weak and pathetic. Is this how the Scion of Bhaal wants to spend his nights? Forcibly submitted to the whims of his toy?"

"The blood-toy dares to say His name? The Gore will eviscerate its lip-flesh until its blood-spittle fills its lungs." The creak and crackle of the rope grew more pronounced.

"I'm growing rather weary of these idle threats, Bhaalspawn," Gortash rolled his eyes. "We both know you won't kill me, so let's just move on with our lives."

"Die! Die! Die! It must be speared upon its own heretical deceit. It must be disemboweled by its own apostatical hands. It… must…” He trailed off as he mouthed the rest of his threat. The air of the copse shifted as the Urge’s presence receded. “En-ver?”

Gortash was genuinely not expecting his prodding at the Bhaalspawn's pride in an effort to 'reason' with the Urge to work, and exhaled a sigh of relief. “Yes, pet. I’m here.” He stood up and began to approach the tiefling.

“No! Don’t come any closer!” Cyril’s gaze flickered with the firelight. “It claws at my skull even now. Oh, Enver, it was such a beautiful death. You were my consummation in blood.” 

The human kept his distance, but looked upon his partner warmly. He was real—this was real. “I can imagine. Your Urge certainly paints a vibrant picture.”

“I will emblazon that image on the back of my eyelids until your time comes. But you will live, you must. You must.” The Bhaalspawn’s breaths were quick and shallow, the pants of a crazed man fighting for control of his own will. 

“I know, pet.” Gortash smiled and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Does your Urge always speak to you in such a profane manner? It was fascinating to engage with it, but it was a substandard conversationalist.”

Cyril frowned and spoke more clearly as he regained his mind. “My Urge is a gift from my Father and you will not disparage it! But it does not possess your eloquence, and is not easily swayed by reason.” He paused, face shifting in the firelight. “Thank you, Enver. Thank you for doing what I could not.”

Gortash smiled. “What are tyrants for if not to subjugate their charges?”

"What in Bhaal's name did you tell it? I have not felt it so outraged since I let Wyll run away after he threatened me."

"I simply reminded it of its place," his face twinkled in an incorrigible grin, "your place."

"And what exactly is my place, tyrant?" Glowing red eyes found his.

"By my side."

A wiser man might have taken this opportunity to escape, leave the savage beast in his bonds and flee as far as he could. A wiser man might have tried to end the Bhaalspawn’s life while it was vulnerable. A wiser man would have stayed in his seat instead of approaching the tree and sitting next to his bound tiefling, leaning his head on the trembling shoulder. Gortash was no wise man. As they sat together, vestiges of his dream began to fade. Bane wasn’t here, and he had this monster to thank for that.

Chapter Text

Cyril had regained himself.

For now.

Bundled unease doubled the weight of his pack on his shoulders. His lover was able to handle himself for a night, but that was one night. What if this was to happen every night now? The Urge had him in a punishing grasp and there was no telling when it would overtake him again. The pair walked in silence toward the goblin outpost, having a new direction for his search did ease some of the strain on his ever-roiling mind, but with each step, Cyril became more convinced that he would never find what he was looking for. 

The camp was not hard to find, they just had to follow the scent of roast dwarf, ale, and worg dung, and listen for the sloppy rhythm of a desecrated war drum to find the cretins’ raucous celebration. Oh, how he would enjoy ripping their foul hearts from their chests and drowning them in poisoned beer and, best of all, seeing their worshipful awe as they allowed him to tear them limb from limb until they all lay in a pile of fetid flesh. But he needed answers first, before the slaughter could begin. 

The peons still bore the Absolute’s brand, so when the Absolute himself appeared at the entrance, the goblins, at least the ones with wits about them, dropped their crude weapons and fell prostrate on the ground before him, digging their faces into the dirt. Those who hesitated or attempted to speak were quickly acquainted with Father’s blades. 

Arriving in the encampment proper, he surveyed the area. The scent of the dwarf roast lit up his taste buds, and almost covered the stink of goblin piss wafting from a corner of the yard. The drummer, who had forsaken his instrument to adopt a deferent bow, was positioned on a central platform for the revelers to view his performance. Crude games were set up to his left, and a trader had laid out wares to his right. Silence overtook the camp as the vermin regarded their ruler.

Cyril approached the drummer, who was shaking so much that the planks of the platform creaked under his weight. The goblin did not move his head, but miserable eyes hesitantly met Bhaal’s Scion’s. Pale talons made a languid beckoning motion, and the goblin followed the movement mindlessly, coming to a seat on his heels and staring at him with petrified adoration. “I will ask you this question once. You will answer it in as few words as possible. The more of my time you waste, the slower your death will be. Who is in charge here?”

Minthara was, of course, no longer managing the horde. Gut was treacherous filth who had been appropriately gutted at the first indication of disloyalty. Ragzlin was incompetent, and was therefore catapulted off the closest cliff. After the party had completed their business at the camp, there had been no reason to interfere with their affairs. There were simply better things to do. With their hierarchy toppled, the goblins would have to find another to guide them. Whoever it was, they were likely the only one who would be able to competently answer his queries.

“Aaa! Uhh, who’s in charge of us? Well, you– you see, he’s not–” Cyril’s boot impacted the goblin’s chest and he stumbled backwards, falling off the makeshift stage in a heap. The boot found his ribs once more and pinned him to the ground, applying increasing pressure until he heard the crack of bones. The goblin let out a stilted cry.

“I did not ask what he is not. Fail me again and I will puncture your lungs with the splinters of your shattered ribcage and watch as you cough up your own bones.”

“C-Crusher! He’s inside! But ‘e’s not taking visitors! No one’s ‘llowed! On ‘is orders!  P-please spare me. I’ve been nothing but loyal to–” The filth was not allowed to finish, as his ribs crunched underneath the tiefling’s foot. Silent agony contorted his expression. His death would be torturous, a pitiful end to a pitiful life.

Chitters and whispers echoed through the camp as the goblins observed the spectacle. The pests tried to shrink from view like rats. Cyril snatched a goblin woman near the roast and dramatically carried her like a ragdoll by the neck to the stage, holding her up as he addressed the gutless throng. “How about you? Will you will receive the mercy of a quick death by answering my question? Or will you reckon with your impiety as you lay in this shit-stained dirt and drown in the river of your own blood?” he tightened his grip on the goblin’s throat, causing her to kick her legs in a fruitless struggle for breath. “I am told that your so-called ‘leader’ refuses to see me. I would love to know what right he has to refuse his God!”

He shook the goblin's limp body, awaiting an answer. After receiving none, he realized that she had choked to death, likely before he even finished the question. He tossed her aside, which elicited another bout of muttering from the crowd. “What a mockery you make of yourselves! You bear the mark of the Absolute, yet you refuse to obey Her commands? You cower and whimper in the face of your God? The pretender will come to me! For every minute that passes before he arrives, I will end one of your miserable existences. Let him see for himself the consequences of his dereliction!" 

One of the goblins near the back cautiously scuttled away, daring to flee in the face of their ruler. Cyril did not want to sully his hands or his knives with goblin blood, so he thought of a spell that was about as disgusting as they were. 

“Peri!”

A delightfully horrible sight met the Bhaalspawn’s devilish face. Green necrotic energy surrounded the goblin and soaked into her skin. Her face began to wither and shrink, and her clothes became baggy and wet from the moisture escaping through her pores. Gasping coughs escaped her shrivelling lungs, and her skin began to swell and peel as she collapsed to the ground. Those surrounding her looked on with trembling faces, wringing their hands and hunching their backs. The next attempted escapee would surely meet a similar fate.

“Is there anyone else who would like to lead themselves to their own slaughter?” Cyril shouted to the terrified crowd. 

One such sheep stammered a response, “Your… greatness? Boss Crusher doesn’t know you’re–” Blades erupted from her stomach and she fell to the ground.

“Then you will all die! The Absolute does not suffer cowards who speak out of turn!” This was quickly growing tiresome. Cyril had always been opposed to the idea of using goblins in the Absolute scheme, but Ketheric had insisted that this was the best way to bolster numbers in the surrounding regions. The stench of the camp was eating at his patience. He had considered turning all of their guts inside out several times as he continued to wait for an audience with whatever shit-stain they called their leader, but settled for picking off strays instead.

Gortash, who had been watching from a distance, approached the platform as the tiefling let another incantation fly into the crowd. “A word, my love?” The Bhaalspawn snapped out of his thoughts upon hearing his voice, having nearly forgotten he was there, or even the purpose of their presence at the camp. He looked at his partner attentively and bade him continue. “I doubt whoever their acting leader is will be all too willing to speak to you if you have already killed all of his subordinates.”

“Then I will just torture the answers out of him,” Cyril shrugged.

“Well, yes, but is that worth our time and resources? It would be much more efficient if he were to cooperate and be disposed of when he has outlived his use.” Gortash spoke with a twinkle in his eye. Cyril had no patience for dealing with the masses; he was made for killing them, not controlling them. He begrudgingly admitted that, when encountering situations like these, having a tyrant around would be useful. This was as good a time as any for Gortash to enjoy exercising his venomous tongue over common stock again.

“You handle it then! I tire of these churls,” Cyril curled his lip in disgust, picking at the blood built up under his claws, then retrieving a whetstone from his pack. "You have until I'm done sharpening my knife."

"I will require half as long." Gortash puffed out his chest and made for the stage with a braggadocious strut.

His first challenge would be to get the damn things to listen, as they had gathered in their little huddles, as if chittering amongst themselves would delay their demise. The man started with a polite cough, which produced no results.

“Dearest associates!” The tyrant adopted a demeaning tone. “If I may have your attention?" He spoke to them as if they were patriars, a strategy that would not work here. At least most of the patriars had fully developed brains and the capacity to comprehend speech. Cyril ground his blade farther into the whetstone so it made a louder ringing noise, signaling Gortash to hurry up.

The former Banite tried again, adopting a more appropriate tone for his audience. "I will have your silence or you will have his blades. It is up to you which you prefer." The tiefling snickered as blissful quiet fell over the crowd. "We all have our role to play in the Absolute's plan. Some will rise high and be named her Chosen; others receive the blessing of being named True Souls. Those who are unable to submit to Her will are no better than fodder, fit to be trampled under Her heel.

"I am here to give you the opportunity to prove your faith, to show us that you are truly worthy of Her good graces. If I could have a volunteer to fetch your leader, I will tell him of your good works and recommend your immediate promotion."

This was clever. Goblins were sheep, there was no questioning that, but they had a strong propensity toward glomming at whatever scraps of undeserved power they could. Sure enough, a couple of them raised their hands tentatively.

"Excellent! What a paragon of initiative!" Gortash was going a little over the top now, the honey-sweet condescension cascading from his tone. "Now go! We wouldn't want to keep my friend waiting, hm?"

The volunteer scurried inside, and the tyrant turned on his heel toward Cyril, smugness smudged all over his face. "Your knife sharpened yet?" The tiefling shook his head with a sneer.

Mere moments later, the sanctum doors opened slowly to reveal the goblins’ newly installed leader. He was dressed in an oversized dwarven doublet (likely confiscated from whoever had supplied the succulent meat for the roast) and supported himself on a jagged, painted stick as he performed an significant limp. He seemed taken aback by the sight of the blazing red sun, shielding his eyes from it with his off hand. 

“Now ‘oo is so bleedin’ important they need to interrupt my very important work! My time ‘snot cheap, you–” the goblin froze as he recognized his visitor. “Scrum! A-arrest him! ‘E’s the one 'at bit off my toe!”

A few fighters from the crowd were empowered by their leader and began to rush at the tiefling, rusty scimitars drawn. With slightest movement from Cyril’s hand, the attackers drove their weapons into their own stomachs, bleating in surprise at their sudden bleeding. The coward that called himself a boss gestured hurriedly to his attendants, who grabbed him under the shoulders to support his body as they attempted to toddle back inside. These attendants suddenly found themselves unable to breathe and toppled to the ground as the Bhaalspawn clenched his fist around magical energy. 

“Per Mentum!”

Yanked by an invisible mental force, the boss flew across the yard, flailing and hollering, and landed with a thud on the platform. He looked at Cyril with that entitled cowardice so prevalent among nobles and those who thought themselves above mortal fear. “I’ll bleed you for this– this disrespect! I let you off once, but this ‘ere ‘smy camp now! An’ I won’t let any ‘a you uppity types toss me around anymo–oooorreee!”

Cyril waved his arm and the goblin went flying once more, jerking around in circles until he was dangling from his feet. His oversized waistcoat slid from his limp, swaying arms, leaving a soiled undershirt to hang loosely around his fat neck. This was going to be fun. He leered at the little scab with a depraved smile. 

“The ant thinks itself king after climbing a pile of sand? The little insect should remember its place, at my feet.” He punctuated this by throwing the horrid creature down into a heap with considerable force. He stayed there, catching his breath as he croaked out pained coughs. 

The idiot continued to babble nonsense in Ghukliak. If it wasn’t needed for answers, Cyril would have ripped out his boorish tongue. Perhaps he would be more open to suggestion if he were separated from his devoted followers. Maintaining the spell, the tiefling walked to the bridge near the entrance, dragging the goblin behind him. Once he was sufficiently scraped up and draggled, Cyril manipulated him up to standing using the spell and gently leaned him off the edge of the bridge, so he could see the ravine below. He wriggled in the magic’s grasp, trying to stay balanced. 

Cyril let the man go just a moment before catching him again. “Careful, don’t fall.” He grinned with only his mouth as he stared the goblin down, who appeared to have pissed his trousers. “Are we clear about who is in charge, ant?” He nodded. The tiefling used the magic once more to push the pretender to the path, watching as he limped back to the camp. “Tell me how you climbed your sand pile, ant.”

“Well, we’s gettin’ tired of all you tall sorts orderin’ us around, so we threw anyone we didn't like into the spider pit! But… then we ‘ad to kill the spiders ‘cause they didn’t like it that Minthara was gone.” This was surprisingly useful information. 

Cyril vaguely remembered looking for the druid Halsin here as a preliminary lead in their search for a cure. Perhaps he was still in their custody, or at least his remains. “And what of the druid you captured?”

“The bear-man? Oh ‘e’s in our treasure horde! ‘Slike a museum!” The goblin perked up, proud of his likely meager collection. 

Cyril waited for him to continue with an impatient stare. He couldn’t wait to kill him. 

“Would… you… like to see…? M’Lord…?” the boss proffered hesitantly. He waited for a response, and when the tiefling offered none, he awkwardly turned and hobbled through the courtyard (still occupied by the silent crowd) to the shattered sanctum. 

To call it a ‘treasure horde’ was the most grievous of overstatements. Various ill-maintained weapons, tarnished gold and jewels, and cheap magical “artifacts” were stacked sloppily on crude shelves in what used to be Priestess Gut’s chambers. The pretender gave a stilted bow as he held the door open for the tired tiefling. He could do it now, run him through with one of his precious stolen swords and watch the infectious rust spread through his cells. Cyril brushed the thought from his mind as he realized that the room contained no corpses.

“Is this paltry heap all you have to show for your victories?” Cyril tutted in satiric disappointment. “Where are your jars of flesh? Your displayed faces? Your piled skulls? More importantly, where is your dead druid?” His tone deepened.

“Right there! Can’t you see ‘im?” The goblin gestured heartily to a taxidermied bust hung in the center of the wall. A bear head. 

Cyril was foolish to assume that this would be easy, and made this frustration known with seventeen swift strikes of his dagger to the rancid peon’s stomach.

Chapter Text

Cum mortuis in lingua mortua.

The bear’s stuffed head regarded Cyril, lifelessly. 

It was a Bhaal-damned miracle the spell even functioned. He was half expecting to see the magic bounce from the crude glass eyes and fizzle in the musty air of the ‘treasure room.’ It seemed that the druid had elected to keep his life essence in the bear shape. An odd choice, considering what he knew about druidic abilities, which was admittedly little. Gortash had wandered into the room sometime between the sixth and tenth stabbing of the goblin wretch, presumably bored of the half-wits outside. They could be dealt with later. He looked on from the doorframe with passive interest.

“Who are you?”

“Rrrghhaaur,” a sleepy, disembodied growl echoed through the room. Cyril waited for the bear to further elaborate, to no avail.

“Who are you?” he tried again.

“Mmrrauuughh,” the gravelly growl returned. He looked to Gortash in confusion, who returned a shrug. The spell seemed to be functioning properly, and all the others had spoken to him in Common, despite their various origins. Cyril was positive that this was the right bear, there would be no other reason for a goblin to keep and stuff a carcass like this unless it was of some import. He searched his mind, trying to remember what he knew of druidic wild shapes. 

He considered the other druids he had met in the Grove, were those that were in animal form able to talk to him? Or did they too lack the power of speech? They all seemed to be able to communicate with each other seamlessly, but was this because of an intrinsic ability or because the animals themselves were adapting their speech?

Ah! What about Speak with Animals?

Cyril turned to his pack, searching it to see if he had any spare potions lying around. He had collected several over the course of his journey used for various conversations with rats, cats, and the odd bluejay or two, but the supply had run dry. He would need to see if any of the goblin rabble had gotten their hands on one. Perhaps the trader could be of use.

He burst outside, robes fluttering behind him. The denizens, who had been quietly talking amongst themselves, fell silent and craned their necks downward in dithery reverence. The trader knelt upon seeing his approach, giving him those all-too-familiar pleading eyes. 

“An animal speaking potion. Give it to me,” the tiefling held out his hand expectantly. 

“O-of course, Your… eh… Highness? I’m sures I gots that lying around ‘ere somewhere.” The trader opened a crate overflowing with sheets of parchment, pieces of armor, books, and potions. The wares were damaged, stained, and completely disorganized. The goblin haphazardly rummaged through the collection, grabbing objects aimlessly and throwing them over his shoulder if they weren’t what he was looking for. He made a satisfied aha! and emerged from behind the crate, grasping a small green flask in his hand like a trophy. “That be twenny gold.”

Cyril stifled a laugh at the ridiculous solicitation, until he realized that the pinhead was serious, mirroring his own expectant gesture. In a flash, the Bhaalspawn drew his knife and sliced off the goblin’s grubby hand. It fell to the ground with a muted thud. “Care to try that again, scab?”

“Ten? Gold?” the trader strained between yelps of pain and shock. The tiefling raised his weapon again. “Please! Mercy!”

“You and that ant you call Crusher seem to have much in common, believing yourselves worthy enough to demand something from your God. Though there is one thing he has that you lack. Would you like to know what that is?” The goblin gulped and gave a frightened nod. “The ant has seventeen stab wounds in his stomach, and by my count, you have none, isn’t that right?” Cyril gave a patronizing pout.

“P-please! I’s just messin’ around! I–”

“Silence!” the Bhaalspawn hissed. “I understand, you’re a trader. It’s in your nature to require something in return for your stolen goods. How about I offer you something then, hm?” Cyril crouched low to be at eye level with the whelp. “You will give me your paltry potion, and I will stick you with my dagger the same number of times as coins you would demand me to pay for it. Do we have a deal?”

The goblin whimpered in fear. “Just take it! Take anythin’ you want! No charge! Just please don’t–” He made no noise after that, aside from toppling to the ground, left to bleed out from his severed throat.

The tiefling downed the potion, not even bothering to check it for poison, and rushed back to the bear, eager to continue his conversation without being met with growls and groans. He cleared his throat and spoke to the former druid once more.

“Who are you?”

“Hhhhalsin… First Druid… Emerald Grove…” The voice was still scratchy and graveled, but not unintelligible.

“What were you doing here?”

“Researching illithid… Protecting… my people… I was betrayed… Such a fool… Unworthy…”

Cyril didn’t know this man, he didn’t even know what he looked like. The only thing tying him to their adventure was their concurrent presence at this camp. “Who was with you when you came here?”

“Adventurers… Killed… Couldn’t save them…”

That was a good enough place to start. The adventurers would be a decent lead, the wizard could have been among them. Cyril prayed he would not have to alter the memory spell to suit an animal’s mind, but was pleased when it functioned properly.

“Veritas Visio!”

###

He smelled it first.

The acidic smoke that clogged the back of one’s throat. The reminder to the very blades of grass that their days were numbered. The scent of pain, of rot, of chaos.

The reek of the hells.

Then came the sound. Guttural humming and clanking, unnatural sounds from an even more unnatural direction: above. Halsin emerged from the trees to the clearing and craned his head up as far as it would go to see what the sky might be doing that produced that cacophony. A silhouette, the size of a meteor in the Shadowfell, could be seen rapidly descending from the bright sky. As it neared the ground, destined to crash against it, he saw figures splintering from it. Were those people? They were more streaks of color than anything; careening in every direction in the final stages of their speedy plunge. Fiery orange, pale white, brown, silver, yellow-green, purple, and dark blood red.

After the sight and sound came the feeling. Pressure. Foreign thumbs massaging his mind and the space below his ears and the fur at his neck, causing him to shake, trying to free himself from the sensation. As the smell grew stronger and the noise grew louder, the touch grew weaker. The presence, whatever it was, was fading, dying. Heaving death knells pulsed through the air as the land vibrated—something beyond huge had impacted it, and it would be forever changed, damaged.

After the feeling came the fear. His hackles raised and he nearly let out a whine upon encountering the near alien version of a predatory gaze. Then, just like the touch, it fizzled away, leaving only the smell of hell-smoke behind. 

“Oi! You gunna keep sniffin’ the trees or are you ready to go?” The voice interrupted his musings as he oriented himself. Aradin and the others were on the road not far off, packing for the journey north to goblin’s den. Right. That. He prayed to the Oakfather that this trek would bear fruit, as he was hesitant to leave the Grove in Kagha’s hands. This matter was far too important to ignore, though, and so it was a risk he was willing to take. He should only be gone for a few days. The sounds and smells of whatever had crashed on the shore did give him pause, but not enough to change his plans, and he joined the adventurers on the road.

In a fluid motion, Halsin raised up on his hind legs and sloughed off the bear’s warm coat. His hair trailed behind him with the breeze, and his elven eyes adjusted to the sunlight now that he was free of the shaded forest. 

“What d’you reckon that noise was?” Liam held trepidation in his throat.

“I’m not sure…” the druid sighed, “but I think it might be connected to my research somehow.” Halsin was aware of the risks when he had embarked on this journey. Who- or whatever was causing the illithid uptick would be far beyond the ordinary fare these adventurers had likely faced before. “Are you sure you lads are going to the right place? Where Silvanus leads me is filled with peril far beyond even my experience.”

“Who bloody cares? They ‘aven’t met our steel!” Aradin piped up. “Besides, it’ll all be worth it once we get our reward.”

“A-and! We’ve got you to help us if things go wrong.” Liam seemed to have felt the fear-inducing presence from earlier as well, as he had slowed down and scrunched his eyebrows. 

“I’m flattered, gentlemen, but I have learned over many decades to never underestimate an enemy, especially if it goes against the natural order.” Even in such a short time, Halsin had grown attached to this troupe, and did not want to see them come to harm. The more time they spent on the road, the more he believed that this would end poorly. 

And that belief became truth.

The attackers were not one with the trees, they trampled and trod where they didn’t belong. Their heartbeats were out of sync with the order, and their breaths disturbed the peace. As Halsin surveyed the ambush, he felt another presence entirely. There weren’t just goblins here, as he had originally thought. There was something older, colder—piercing through the mob and aiming straight at his heart. It smelled like cave dust and spider silk, blood and unmistakable illithid. It smelled like drow.

Aradin and two others bolted, while Liam and Brian stayed behind, flanking him. He couldn’t blame the men for running, staying here would likely lead to their death anyway, but their departure all but guaranteed that the ones left behind would be killed or captured. The elf gathered energy from the earth, and let it pulse through him until it covered him like a pelt. A clamorous roar shook the boughs of the nearby trees and the thump of ursine paws rattled their roots. “Rraraaaoouurr!” Similar battle cries echoed through the battlefield as the goblins and men took up arms. 

Above all the chaos and clatter, the cold spirit returned, and manifested in an imposing tone. “Follow the heretics! Capture one if you can, they might lead us to the Grove. The druid is mine!” The drow finally revealed herself. She vaulted from her perch on the tree and landed in a lithe crouch with one leg extended to the side. One hand webbed on the ground, and the other gripped a gleaming mace. Cruel, red eyes skewered Halsin’s as she shouted another command. “Impero tibi.” It wasn’t until he felt the magical yank when he tried to look away that he realized what the spell was for. This was to be a duel between the spider and the bear. A duel for the very order of nature itself.

The bear had no choice but to lash out with his claws, gouging the air near the drow’s shoulder. She sprung up and held her mace high in preparation for an attack. Halsin’s husky head rushed at her spidersilk wrapped hip, and her stance faltered, but not before her weapon thumped against his side. The woman darted backward and out of range of another swipe of the bear’s paw. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Liam and Brian fighting for their lives. About seven goblins had swarmed the two of them, and it appeared that Brian had already been disarmed. Halsin cursed himself for allowing them to journey with him. He should have known it would be far too dangerous. And the worst part was that there was no way for him to help them now. He returned his attention back to his foe, who was preparing another attack.

The glowing mace had increased its luster, now illuminating the area with radiant light. The drow raised it above her head with both hands before the brunt of the weapon walloped his crown, and the light contained within shattered over his pelt with a clang akin to the peal of a bell. Halsin’s eyes curved in every way but forward as he recoiled from the hit. His brain buzzed in his skull and he couldn’t will himself to move. He called upon the magic of his circle to heal his wounds, it was all he could think to do until the crushing light of the attack wore off. 

Through the haze, he heard Brian shouting in pain and collapsing to the ground, and nasal cheers of a nearby goblin attacker. The drow’s voice cut through the roar. “Gol wael! Take them alive!” Halsin had regained his senses enough to rear back and aim several assaults with his claws while she was distracted. He sliced once, twice, and a third time, slashing through the arachnid armor and opening several lacerations in her chest. 

She cried out, and for the briefest of moments, her expression changed from hardened focus to subtle disquiet. It was as if another being entirely had wriggled behind her eyes. Was this connected to the illithid presence? The moment was gone as swiftly as it had arrived, and the renewed tenacity brought with it another blinding strike from the mace. And another. 

Halsin was on the edge of consciousness as he pawed at the air in a desperate attempt to fend off his adversary, but the effort was hopeless, and he found himself roughly dragged through the dirt before his entire body and mind collapsed into blackness.

…

The world was streaked and rotated. Lines floated across Halsin's vision as he fluttered his eyes open and quickly shut them again upon grasping what little he could of his surroundings. It was a cage; a pen, more like. Flickering candle-light bounced off the stones and formed dizzying grids on the floor through the bars. Voices, distorted and wobbly, echoed from every direction. Were they talking to him?

He was laying on his side, furry limbs spread wide in outstretched slumber. As he tried to roll to his feet, something caught on his neck, limiting his range of motion. A collar? Based on the series of clanks he heard when he tried to move, it must be attached to a chain, a hypothesis soon confirmed when the line went taut as he ambled toward the source of the voices. The muttering seemed to ebb as the thump of his paws raged against the stone, and the dingy air parted to make way for his bellowing roar.

Adjusting more to his surroundings, he saw goblins of varying sizes peering through the bars, chattering unintelligibly. Their words buzzed and rattled in his ears, creating more of a din than a conversation, though Halsin wasn't particularly interested in what they had to say anyway.

"Ah, the bruin awakens from his hibernation." Her voice flattened the others', weaving its way into his ear. The syllables served as reminders of her merciless strikes and the druid's head began to ache once more just from the memory. The goblin gawkers parted for the drow, who stood with her arms crossed, looking at him with bemused indignation. "It is fortunate that we did not have to wait through the winter for you to grace us with your attention." Halsin performed a gruff growl in response.

The children giggled, but the drow retained her hardened expression. The next time she spoke, her mouth did not move, but the words penetrated his very thoughts. She was using druidic magic to speak with him. "You cannot hide from me, druid. As long as your body remains in this cage, so your mind stays under my dominion." Whoever this woman was, she had done her research, and it stood to reason that the entity behind all of this was a far greater threat than he had anticipated. He would need to learn all he could, without giving anything away. The Grove was in immediate danger, and its safety hinged on his silence.

"Where is the Grove?" the drow began her interrogation with the first of likely many repetitions of the question that he could, under no means, answer. If death was the price for his silence, so be it, but Halsin got the distinct impression that he would not be given that luxury. Her voice invaded his thoughts once more. "I will skin you alive if I have to. The Absolute will not be denied. Where is the Grove?" Another rumble echoed through the cage, indicating Halsin's answer. The drow shook her head in mock disappointment. "A pity. Your friend might have more to say on the subject. You would do well to pray to your false god that his screams are the only things to reach my ears tonight."

Liam. He wouldn't be here if it weren't for Halsin's reckless actions. Now he had no choice but to put his full faith in him. The Grove, and the lives of everyone in it—the refugees, his friends, his family—was in the hands of a man who had no real reason to keep it safe. The drow was right, prayers were in order.

"What do ya want us to do with 'im, True Soul?" one of the goblins shouted as she turned to leave.

"Keep our guest entertained until such a time as he is ready to talk. I care not how." The mongrels tittered at the reply and filled her space in front of the bars as she walked away, the heels of her boots clacking on the stone.

###

Cyril surfaced from the memory, his mind alight with a sense of victory he had not felt since starting this ridiculous investigation. At least now he had something, and from the druid of all people. The end of the journey was nearing. He would finally get his reward. He breathed an exclamatory sigh as the magic faded.

Gortash, who had elected not to join him in the memory, raised his eyebrows in interest. "Did you find something, pet?" The tiefling's horns blurred in a rapid nod. "Well, out with it!"

The detail was small, barely a sidenote, but after days and days of nothing, it felt as if he had been given a library on the subject. He could express his find in one single word, for that's really all he had:

"Purple."