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Enver seats in his office with a glass of wine, quill and paper before him. He needs to write a letter. An important one. But his mind keeps wondering to things irrelevant to the current situation.
The situation is as followed: Orin has taken over the Temple of Bhaal, and Ketheric had become even less cooperative than before because the General is unyielding steel when it comes to dealing with people he could not respect. Not that Enver possessed much respect for Orin himself, but he can tolerate her. Yes, his patience is running thin, and he has to remind himself of the greater things, greater stakes, bigger threats. That changeling is a rabid dog with no understanding of the hands that feed her, he always knew that. He warned them, didn’t he? By the Black Hand, he misses what they had, what they shared.
From the first moment they had a fundamental understanding of each other. Two sides of the same coin, some might say, and a boring lot they would be. Lord Gortash always thought of them as a perfect reflection, a perfect match, two different coins of equal value.
Their first meeting was so ordinary, considering their statures, their future. The first impression Enver had of them was that of rather unimposing Bhaalist. He could scarcely believe this was the Chosen of the Dread Lord. He would live to regret those thoughts, of course. There were no viscera covering them, no trembling knife-hand shaking with uncontained excitement for blood. There was nothing striking about their appearance either. Unlike the other one. There were viscera in her white hair. Those white eyes held no depth or light to them but pure madness. And, of course, a shaking knife-hand eager to cut, maim, carve at a moment notice.
“He thinks Bhaal’s Temple would bow down to a Banite?” the woman with pale eyes asked, her voice shaky with frenzied excitement and offense. The hand raising her dagger higher and higher.
The Chosen of Bhaal raised their hand. “Control yourself, Orin.”
The dagger-wielding hand slowly came down. But the pale woman’s eyes only burned with greater frenzy. Orin was a mad dog, Enver thought, but she understood the yank of the leash on the hand of the Chosen. This was a good sign. If the Bhaalist could control someone like her, they had the makings of a leader, of Enver’s equal.
“I speak for the Temple of Bhaal,” the Chosen continued, “and I am not bowing.”
“And right you are,” the man found himself speaking with the first strokes of admiration, “If we are to be allies, we are to be equals.”
And equals they were. It was rare for Enver to not want to completely dominate another person, something that came so naturally to him. But the Bhaalist would never allow it. That’s why Enver enjoyed their company so much. A true equal. Why try to tame a beast that was perfect in its wild ferocity? He always thought displacer beasts were beautiful in their untamed and unpredictable nature.
In his old office they held many conversations. He was an arms dealer, they were Bhaal’s favourite blade. Days after their disappearance Enver imagined them walking through those doors, and everything becoming perfect once again.
The door to his office opened and they walked in. Enver long joked that this was too normal of an entrance for a Bhaalspawn. They should have climbed windows, stalked the night, appeared in a cloud of blood mist. They always gave him a flat, unamused look. Believe it or not, they were the most humorous Bhaalist the Banite ever did meet.
“Ah,” Enver smiled, “my favourite assassin. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The Banite would never allow himself to be perceived as laid back and unguarded in the presence of a murder-worshipper. But this one was special. Unlike others, this one was measured, with a steady hand and steady mind, tempered, patient. A blood pervert, which came with the territory. But they never allowed bloodlust to drive them. No, this one was too cunning for that, too proud and individualistic. Perhaps that’s why they worked well with each other. Gortash could see someone worthy of respect in this Bhaalspawn. At the beginning, Enver was surprised to discover how well their partnership was working out, and it had only gotten better with time.
Honestly, it was the greatest partnership Gortash had experienced. It functioned like a well-oiled machine crafted by Gond himself. Such it was that it furthered Banite’s belief in their ambitions, expended it. Such partnerships were the rarest treasure, and knowing it was the Chosen of Bhaal who offered was all the better.
Nothing against the Lord of Murder, of course, but Enver always found Cult of Bhaal a touch counterproductive. And from what he had seen of the followers, that lot was too frenzied by bloodlust and the ecstasy of murder to think even one step ahead. They were ruthless daggers, yes, effective too if the hand knew how to wield them. But daggers didn’t write history, daggers only had to cut.
“The sentiment isn’t mutual,” Bhaalspawn said, offering a teasing half-smile. They were the most humorous Bhaalist Gortash ever did meet. “I came with information.”
“Already?” the man asked, genuinely surprised. “For a child of Bhaal, you are awfully studious.”
There was a hesitation, Gortash sensed it, like they wanted to say something but thought better of it. He let it go as he always did. Their trust was not absolute, but it was shared. They trusted each other’s competence, abilities, and wickedness. There were shades to their mutual trust, there were flavours to their partnership. Just like whiskey or wine. And just like a priced vintage, it aged gracefully and only gotten better.
Gortash remembered how he studied the papers carelessly tossed on his table. Child of Bhaal was brilliant. More brilliant than anyone would ever dare to give them credit for, especially considering their heritage. Honestly, being a bloodied murder seemed like a waste. There was a cunning mind, a strong character, and unbridled power. They could be anything else and would be excelling. They could be so much more. But being a Bhaalspawn was a cruel fate that couldn’t be denied.
Gortash looked over them, smirking. He felt oddly proud of this accomplishment and his partner. They were good for each other.
“What did I tell you?” they matched his expression, equal in self-satisfaction. “We are brilliant. And now that I’ve done my job, you have to do yours.”
They needed not to know each other’s lives before becoming the Chosen. But, truth be told, Enver sometimes had trouble reining in his curiosity trying to find out about the Spawn’s past. Especially, considering what one might find. He doubted his partner was of the same persuasion.
“You have a name, don’t you?” Enver once asked as they were sharing a celebratory drink. He had hoped some alcohol would loosen a tongue. “Since you know mine, it’s only fair I know yours. We are equals, after all.”
“The Dark Urge,” Bhaalspawn replied, unphased.
“That’s a title.”
“No, that’s the name my Father gave me. My tittles would be Chosen of Bhaal, Slayer, Unholy—”
“Forget I asked, my dear.”
There was always certain apathy about the murder incarnate. They always seemed entirely unconcerned about anything that didn’t involve murder, Bhaal, or the development of their brilliant plot. They always had that absent, almost empty expression, rarely shaken only by fleeting emotions like amusement or intrigue. Sometimes Enver wondered why it was so. Personality or unholy blood? He used to think he’d find the answer for himself in due time.
And then that cursed day came. The culmination of Bhaalspawns rivalry and their unholy fate. The day it all changed. And it was going so well too. Together, their partnership was painting a beautiful picture of the future. And then Orin’s hands had to take knives to the canvas. She has little control over herself or the Cult. Sure, they obey when she decides to command, and they worship her, but they do not revere her, not as much as the other one. Purest of Bhaalspawn, they claimed, not born but carved from Bhaal’s accursed flesh. Enver scarcely believes that. They were perfectly ordinary in appearance, which served them well as a hidden dagger. They had a twisted and ambitious mind, possessed the necessary skills, unique drive and, most importantly, ability to recognize their equals. Orin has none of that in Gortash’s not-at-all humble opinion. He continuously finds dealing with her was akin to dealing with a spoiled, undisciplined child and worse.
His perfect partnership, his perfect counterweight, his hidden blade taken away.
“And you trust me with this?” Bhaalspawn asked with pretend surprise. They always liked to test each other, to make the other reveal more cards than needed. Gortash adored this part of their dynamic. To have an equal, to have a challenger, a perfect match.
Enver smirked, “It is an assassination. Who better to trust than a Murder Lord’s Chosen?”
“You trust me not to make a mess of things.” They matched his smirk with their own.
“Of course I do,” the Banite explained, “for we are equals. If I couldn’t trust you, how could we continue working together? Or do you enjoy me calling you my favourite assassin?”
“I think you just like saying it.”
How well he remembers them. How they stood in the middle of his office, taking another look at the portrait of the person Gortash wanted dead. Expression thoughtful, posture guarded. There were ideas spawning inside their twisted brain. The Chosen of Bane had admitted only to himself that he wanted the target dead for no other reason than personal slight. But what was this perfect partnership for if for not satisfying them both? He would get the person he wanted dead, well, dead. And they would get to do what they enjoyed most — murder.
He was so satisfied that day he foolishly partaken in more alcohol than was wise. It felt good. The Banite thought of people as many things: obstacles, waste, nuisances, tools. And were this any other relationship, everything would have been an exchange of favours. But not this time, not with them. Their relationship had a different nature. It was a new flavour, a new experience, it was exciting. They had only asked if there was any particular way he wanted it done. The Tyrant’s Chosen requested one thing only: to let the offender know who was behind their demise right before they breathed their last. Imaging it alone pleased Gortash greatly.
When the Bhaalspawn returned, it was already night out. But they had a particular unholy radiance about them. Murder looked good on them. Of course it did.
“I can scarcely believe you killed for me,” he foolishly spoke his private thoughts out loud. It was the alcohol speaking. The bliss he felt was only adding heat to his already flammable blood.
The murder incarnate bit back immediately, giving a glimpse of a wild beast that was hidden under all that exercised control. “I only kill in my Father’s name.”
That was the first time Gortash wished to dominate, to control, to possess them. He felt the familiar pang of desire to be the tyrant he was meant to be. He wished to be a tyrant to them. But he couldn’t. They were equals, weren’t they? And if he dominated and possessed them, they would be beneath him, another weapon in his arsenal. But for a moment, the thought of having them belong to him was most beautiful.
Something shifted within the assassin a moment later. Something almost imperceptible, like a delicate veil of spidersilk had fallen over their entire being. Gortash clearly remembers that thought passing through his mind. He was learning of the Drow society and their internal never-ending strife with one another. A good place to start. An endless stream of servants would come from places of strife, conflict, born of outsiders, the banished and the abandoned, the powerless. Learning about Spider Queen ruthless and malicious politics certainly left an impression on him.
They stalked to him, certainly a predator to prey, but the Banite didn’t feel hunted. He shivered. It wasn’t fear. He couldn’t fear the vicious Bhaalspawn even if they held a dagger to his throat. Fear wasn’t something Enver Gortash did.
But then, they leaned in, faces close, eye to eye. Both were drunk on something, be that bloodlust or vintage.
“But who am I to deny my equal a capricious murder?” Their hand grabbed his, and they guided his goblet to their lips, taking a taste for themselves.
Enver laughed, “What did I tell you? We are good for each other.”
He can no longer trust the Temple of Bhaal. He has to find other assassins to do his bidding. For a price, of course. It isn’t fear that Orin manifests within the alliance of the Dead Three’s Chosen. It is detestation. Ketheric has it easier, being away from Baldur’s Gate, having to tolerate the least of Orin’s antics. The General is far more rigid in his ability to work with those he cannot respect. Thorm isn’t one to swallow his dislike. Not that Orin is the wiser. The Myrkulite allowed her a drow plaything once and it was enough to make her think she was accepted to be standing on equal ground with them. But Enver knows better. It didn’t mater this drow or that drow, all of them or none of them, as long as Orin has a plaything to busy herself with, she is more tolerable to work with, less prone to creating messes.
Without her sibling present, Orin started to think too much of herself. Whether she is oblivious to her standing with the other two Chosen or has no care for her station is a question, of course, but not one Enver ponders. He knows he doesn’t care. He only needs Orin to work with them, to not make unnecessary complications.
Lord Gortash works with the Myrkulite just fine. Thorm is bloody ancient and humorless, but efficient, ruthless, and cooperative enough. An equal, however, the General is not. Ketheric is driven by his grief, loss, and godly betrayals. That tombstone of a man is only a part of this plot because it brought his daughter back to life. Something Enver cannot understand is parental obsession with their children. If that is the true nature of such a bond, he considers himself lucky to be spared it. He considered his parents to be worth less than the dirt on the shoes they make. They likely had the same opinion of him, not that it mattered anymore. He had the pleasure of putting tadpoles into their eyes himself. Not dead, just trapped inside their own bodies, his puppets who will help him achieve his ambition.
“What did I tell you?!” Bhaalist asked, bitter and prideful. They smacked the papers in their hands. The letters transcribing Gortash’s interrogation of a rogue mind flayer found within the walls of the Gate. His partner was angry with him. It felt exciting. “Soulless or not, a mind flayer is capable of going rogue, of going against their nature.”
“One in a century maybe,” Gortash bit back. “And we can still gain control over rogues.”
“You are blinded by your tyrannical pride, Enver.” They spoke his name and it made him shiver. Yes, it was spoken with anger, but also respect. Nothing felt as good and hot and soul-numbing as reverence in their voice when his name left their lips. “If a mind flayer can go against the very thing they were made to serve, any of the thralls can. It needs to be more than Elder Brain. It has to be a god.”
And a god it was. Speaking in the minds of the infected, imbuing them with beliefs that this was one true god, their path to whatever it was they wished for: dominion, power, reverence, bloodshed, acceptance, anything and everything. The Elder Brain whispers and whispers to those who are made to listen and enthrall them further. It was a god inside their head, a god they wanted to believe in, a god they couldn’t deny. To Gortash the Brain was just a tool for domination, for control, for execution of Dead Three’s plan. But by all that was unholy, it was partial to the Bhaalspawn the most. Something Enver thought was odd and threatening at first, but then he reflected on it. He too was partial to the murder incarnate. How could he not? He couldn’t understand why the Elder Brain was favouring the Chosen of Bhaal, after all, it was made to dominate others, and domination was Bane’s dominion, but he couldn’t care less for the respect of a giant mind flayer brain. It was dominated now and that’s what mattered.
They walked together through the halls of Moonrise Towers, side by side, as equals would. Together, step in step. The seeds they planted were bearing sweet fruits. Their dominion was growing bigger, stronger. The first who came in search of the Absolute were the outcasts, the downtrodden, the rejects. But soon others started to appear, guided by either curiosity or desiring vengeance on a god who dared to question theirs, some wanted more power, some wanted acceptance. They needed an army of mindless thralls. But that’s not where this would end. Soon, they would star infected the powerful too, the ones who didn’t need a god. There were a few major players back in Baldur’s Gate Gortash couldn’t wait to put to a worm.
“What did I tell you?” the Banite teased. “Ketheric is serving our cause wonderfully.”
“I still don’t like it,” his partner replied. They carried an intellect devourer in their arms as if it was some sort of pet. True, both had an acquired taste in pets. Gnolls were among their favourites. And if Enver was to look for most exotic, he’d go for a displacer beast. Perhaps that was why the Brain favoured the Chosen of Bhaal.
“From what I gathered, his daughter was murdered.” They kicked a stray cat under their feet. Enver only wondered how in the Hells a cat had made it to the Towers, but stranger things had happened. The cat hissed, arching its back, but one look from a Bhaalspawn sent it running.
“His daughter belongs to Father,” they tsked, annoyed. “She wasn’t Myrkul’s to bring back.”
It was in those moments, Enver realized, that he wanted to dominate, to control, to posses his only equal. When they raved about their Father like he was the only thing they would ever revere and obsess over, like Bhaal owned them body and soul, like they would only ever wholly belong to him. If he had them, they wouldn’t belong to the Dread Lord alone. They would belong to him.
Gortash stared at them holding an intellect devourer like a prized pet, and he felt his blood getting hotter. They should belong to him. It wasn’t Bhaal’s blood that made them his equal. It wasn’t even being the Chosen. What made them equal is their character, how it matched Gortash’s own cruelty, ambition, cleverness. It had nothing to do with their heritage and everything to do with their personhood.
He remembers what happened after, too. So vivid is the memory it sends shivers down his spine, his blood getting just as hot as it was then. Atop the Tower, with only the two of them, alone, with everything beyond the Towers shrouded in thick darkness of the curse. Serene, beautiful, deadly, and dark. It was the perfect place for the two of them. They were not opposites coming together. No light to be shed on them. They were two shadows growing darker.
Enver kissed them, urgently, harshly, biting their lips, holding them so tightly it was meant to hurt. Good. They liked pain. He devoured their lips, their mouth with his own. Because this was how he could dominate them without diminishing them.
They had each other that night. It was the first time but not the last.
Together, basking in the afterglow. The Bhaalspawn were Dread Lord’s Chosen, they were his child, his cruelest and most perfect blade. They were Enver’s equal, his partner in crime, his favourite assassin.
“What did I tell you?” he asked, as if it was some old joke between them. “We are so damn good for each other.”
The perfect harmony had to be ruined. The day he saw Orin walk in was the day he understood fear. No, he didn’t fear the changeling. He instantly understood what her appearance meant. She made a fool of his partner, she said. She would now speak for the Temple of Bhaal, she said. Every Banite instinct told him to get the truth out of the Bhaalist by any means necessary. To pay her back for her treachery, for thinking she could be the Tyrant’s equal. What had she done to his favourite assassin? How come it was her who came on top and not them? Did she do it like a coward, in their sleep? But this rabid creature would revel in torture, and there was no trying to buy her deranged mind. On top of that, interference with each other’s Temple’s affairs was taboo. But Gortash only thinks of the last time he saw them, the warning he had issued. How carelessly they dismissed his concerns. Did they arrogantly believe Orin wouldn’t turn on them? He hadn’t known them to be overly confident or careless. Or did they simply not care for their own disgrace? Did they not care how Enver would feel, the imbalance Orin would bring? He desired answers, and he would be willing to pry them from the Dread Lord himself if an opportunity presented itself.
“What did I tell you about rabid dogs? She’s overstepping her bounds,” Enver gritted his teeth. “It’s only the beginning. You should get rid of her. She is a danger and a liability.”
But his partner regards him with that ever-present apathy. “Leave it, Enver,” they said, calm yet commanding. “She won’t be a problem going forward.”
Gortash was overstepping his bound by telling another Chosen what to do within their own temple, the Tyrant knew. But to this day he doesn’t regret his words, only that he couldn’t make them heed his warnings. He twirled the goblet in his hand, the wine was dark and smelled of spices. The bottle was a gift. In privacy, he preferred stronger drinks, but no one knew that, of course. Except for them. Enver ponders the current situation once again. Ketheric was defeated, his Netherstone taken by his killer, most likely. He has to make preparations for his coronation, an artist would be in tomorrow to paint the future Archduke’s likeness. Orin overseeing the gathering of intelligence on who had ended Thorm’s unlife. Something told Enver the information would only bring more disquiet. Not to mention the displeasure of being once again in Orin’s company.
He decides to forgo the wine in favour of whiskey. He still has the other goblet. The goblet that was always reserved for his favourite assassin. They haven’t shared a drink in so long. It was the same whiskey they always shared. But the taste was ever so slightly off. The flavour had changed ever since that day.
“What did I tell you?” Enver asks the quiet of his chambers.