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Blood, sweet and tangy on her tongue, had always been Orin’s calling. She runs her soaked, crimson dagger over her tongue almost mindlessly, ignoring the bite of its sharp edge. She sat in her sibling’s quarters, now hers, lost in thought. Every now and then, between loud rituals and violent murders, she was left to sit there, alone and silent. She despised it, her cravings scratching, digging at her skin, and the echoes of Bhaal her grandfather’s importuning making her head pound, pound, pound.
She throws the dagger aside and grits her teeth, drawing her knees to her chest. They all mocked her, mocked her just beyond her own doors. They thought she didn’t know, but she did. They thought she was ignorant, stupid. Her own supplicants, subordinates. They did no such things around Orin’s sister. They would never dare.
She’d defeated her sibling in her own temple, and yet she still received less respect than that now-thrall? That thing she'd whose brain she'd all but reduced to mincemeat? Perhaps they’d no clue how truly weak they were. But Orin knew.
She'd watched from shadowed corners how she smiled wistfully at the tyrant’s correspondence, blood rushing to her cheeks. She knew her sibling pined after that Banite. Everyone thought she was stupid, and yet she was the only one who'd noticed, even despite how obvious it was. With that nauseatingly innocent flush she carried, the thinly veiled excitement when she was to see him. She'd become complacent and weak long ago, but most damning of all was her betrayal of her own urges. Father had spoken to Orin. Told her of the impurity of her sibling's mind. That she had longed for the embrace of one who was not her Father.
She'd done as any good follower of Bhaal would and disposed of the weak and pathetic traitor. So why? Why was she not accepted? Why did her Father not speak to her, look past her as if he'd wished she was her sibling? Even Grandfather chastised her for overindulgent displays. Didn't he know she was Bhaal’s Chosen now? That she did it for Bhaal and the love of her craft? Or did he forget that she had surpassed her sibling?
They all wanted her, not Orin. Jealousy tormented her, more than her cravings ever could. Every dissenting whisper was a dagger plunged deep in her chest and every offhanded look twisted it. She'd done everything she was supposed to, and they hated her for it. Rejected her. Now even Bhaal’s cold embrace wouldn't comfort her.
The Banite was even less inclined to maintain pretense. He made his displeasure with Orin clear. In their every encounter, Orin was met with a look of abject disgust. His lips twisted, his eyes narrowed and hardened, and his brow furrowed. She wasn't sure why it nagged at her, but it did. She couldn't help but wonder how he'd looked at her sister.
If he took the same soft, wistful expression Orin had seen from afar on her sister. It had been foreign when she'd seen it. She was raised in the temple, after all, and those who’d become distracted by their own ‘pining’ often ended up being stabbed by their own sweetheart. It summoned strange feelings in Orin. Confusion, aching, and just a hint of longing. She wasn't sure why. For a gaze that could only be described as tender. If anyone had looked at her that way, she didn't remember. Perhaps her mother did once, before she’d tried to kill, and Orin had returned the favor.
Yet another thing reserved for her sister, and her sister alone, it seemed.
She wasn’t sure why that particular thing made her jealous, that her sibling was adored by even a Banite, and she wasn’t. Because it was hers, perhaps. Orin didn’t allow herself to broach the subject often. She’d some modicum of self-control, contrary to the Banite’s belief in her complete and utter incompetence.
She did, however, indulge herself once. She wasn’t sure why she was compelled to do so on that particular day, but she did. Orin took her sister’s shape and delved into the night. It doesn't take her long to find him. It takes her even less to break into his room.
As soon as he looks up at the disturbance, the Banite freezes. He stares at her, and she at him.
“Enver?” Orin says quietly, mimicking her sibling’s voice as closely as she can.
“It’s you,” he breathes softly. And in an instant, a tyrant is reduced to a quivering-lipped mess, seemingly ready to collapse at her feet. Ah. Orin nearly shivers when his gaze meets hers. Cold, dead eyes are white hot in an instant, nearly scorching her skin. His eyes are soft, pained, and tender. She'd never seen him so intense. With a strange pang, she realizes it was love in his gaze. So, she had been right about her sister and him all along. He takes several steps forward and seizes Orin by the shoulders, drawing her into a tight hug. His skin is warm. Orin’s arms hesitantly twine around him in return, suddenly mindful of not shattering the illusion. “I thought you were dead, I thought I’d—” he gasps sharply, his hands tightening, grasping at her as if she would disappear if he didn’t keep a tight hold. “It doesn’t matter now…”
Orin doesn't respond. She never realized how cold she'd felt, just how deep the temple’s chill had set in her bones went.
“You’re alive! That vile sister of yours told me she’d killed you.” He pulls away slightly, just far enough to look her in the eyes. “How?” he whispers.
“I ran away,” the changeling lies. A puzzled look crosses the tyrant’s face.
“Bhaal let you go? So easily?” he questions.
“He did,” she replies, reaching a hand up to touch his inky black hair. Had her sister run her fingers through that hair? As soon as her hand connects with the lordling’s head, he stiffens.
“Your hands…” he murmurs, narrowing his eyes. “They feel different. Something is different.” And just like that, he pulls away, warmth escaping Orin’s body with him. He stares at her, though not with tenderness anymore. “Orin told me she’d killed you. Bane confirmed it. You’re not her, are you?” he breathes.
Orin blinks.
“Answer me!” he snaps. “Or is this some sick form of mockery?” There it is again, disgust: written plainly on his face. It almost felt cruel, the contrast. It almost makes her want to tear, rip her own skin off strip by bloody strip, the way his gaze brands her. Monster, loathsome creature, useless it screams. All titles she was familiar with. The illusion had slipped through her fingers like sand. Orin could have nothing her sister had.
So she acts as she’s expected to. A toothy grin splits her face, as she reaches up to snap her own neck. Her sibling’s visage was gone, and with it, the tyrant’s patience. It takes him little time to assume his frigid act and force her out. Orin hears a quiet, choked sound as the door closes behind her.
She should be laughing, but all she feels is emptiness. She wasn’t totally sure why. She’d no affection for the lordling, she knew that for certain. All she knows is that she feels cold.
Every now and then she’d recreate this night of theirs in her own way, ghosting a hand over the Banite’s arm or so. Every time he’d go stiff and glare at her, followed by an order to control herself. He wasn’t meant for her after all, he was her sister’s, as all things seemed to be consecrated for. Orin wouldn’t be particularly phased, not anymore, but she would think about her sibling at these times. And she couldn’t help but wonder what it was her sister had found that Orin never could.