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Gortash’s gauntlets tapped on his table, sitting across from The Dark Urge. The dragonborn had stained his teeth red, consuming a bloodied heart and flesh. Gortash had finished his own meal long ago, but his partner’s hunger was much harder to satiate. Tapping his gauntlets again, the Urge looked up at him, mid-gnawing.
“What is it?” he spoke lowly, not taking kindly to the interruption. The heart in his hand was mostly eaten, and by now, the indentation of the slayer’s many sharp teeth left behind.
“I just wanted to inquire about something, my dearest Bhaalspawn.”
The Urge swallowed the last of his meal, and Gortash got a glimpse of the man’s beautiful, icy blue tongue. “You know all there is to know of me. All that is important, I have told you.” The plates they had been eating from were pushed to the side, to be picked up by servants the following morning.
“Ah, but it’s an easy one. Your name.”
“The Dark Urge. You’re correct, a very easy one.”
Gortash rolled his eyes, his smirk falling, “That isn’t truly a name. I wouldn’t say, ‘This is my partner, The Dark Urge.’ It sounds like I’m trying too hard to be seen as mysterious.”
The assassin’s hand rose in questioning, before dismissing the claim with a swipe of the same hand. “I have no need for a true name. I am what I am. My Urges, that is who I am. My Father running through me.”
“You’re not simply the product of your father, though. If you were, you wouldn’t be talking with me at all, let alone scheming with me. I’d have been killed after my first letter was sent.”
The Urge bristled, his eyes narrowed at Gortash, daring him to say such things again. Back straightened, clawed fists rolled into fists, “Such things are heretical to even think. You’d do well to not speak that way, Banite.”
Gortash sighed, but was quick to drop the subject. Pushing an already tentative ally was not a winning strategy in even the simplest of games.
“There must be at least a name I could call you. Bhaalspawn is not a name, after all. What is a dazzling letter between allies without a name to begin it with?” Gortash queried. His voice was quiet as he spoke. A simple suggestion between allies, that was the framing Gortash was aiming for.
“…I have no other names. I’ve always been the deathbringer. The assassin of Bhaal; Father’s blade and purest of his progeny. There is always the option of picking a name, but I’d never even consider such an action from the likes of-”
“Demirkan.” Gortash interrupted, making his long-considered idea a reality before the Urge could shut him down.
“…repeat that?”
“Demirkan. It suits you,” Gortash said, his hand raising, to meet his ally’s, “It would only have to be between us. Even our future subjects can be left in the dark, should you will it so.”
“They won’t need a name for me as I carve their chest cavities into bloodied holes. Your subjects should count their blessings that they even had the chance to be subjugated before the dagger met their ribs.”
But the dragonborn paused, considering everything again. He let out a long sigh, “But if you would like to call me such a name, I suppose I’ll allow it. But not in front of my bloodkin.”
Gortash laughed, resting his hands on Demirkan’s shoulders. The gauntlets dug into his shoulders, a pleasant feeling on his rough scales.
“I wouldn’t dream of allowing Orin to know you how I do. She’s like a rabid dog…Best to kill, lest they kill you first. Perhaps you’d do well to follow my advice, Demirkan.”
Demirkan, still getting used to such a regular name being prescribed to him, seemed to recoil at the suggestion, “Don’t push your luck. Orin is still a blood knife of Bhaal. I’ll only sacrifice her if Father proclaims me to, or if she dares attack first.”
Gortash sighed, but nodded, “If I can’t change your mind... My advice is always on the table, should you need it." Gortash stepped back, shifting from being a partner and ally, to the Lord of the city he was born to be. "Shall we send for Ketheric? A meeting of the Chosen is in order."