Chapter Text
The Dark Urge has grown far too tame, he grumbles. Obedient, a sheep following every word of his herders. It’s pathetic how he commits to following the whims of his little pets. It disgusts Gortash to hear how the Bhaalspawn behaves, when his Trusted Servants report on their observations of his old ally.
The waifish albino insists on dragging them to the flophouse and Gortash feels a pang of anger — albeit muted by the coat — that he refuses to identify why.
The duke’s disgraced son leads the Bhaalspawn through the Open Hand Temple and while he can see the humorous irony of Bhaal’s true Chosen invading another god’s holy space, the fact that it was the little ‘Babe of Frontiers’ who brought him there in the first place is what makes it so much worse.
And of course, Karlach, still as childish as before, drags him to a circus. Might as well put the dragonborn in a suit and makeup with how much of a fool he has become.
He supposes he’ll just have to work harder to bring the Bhaalspawn back to his former glory. At least the man finally knows how to clean the blood off of himself before going out in public.
On that tangent, Gortash continues to watch how the Dark Urge has changed. Though he watches from the top of Wyrm Rock Fortress, it’s not a difficult task to pick him out from the crowd. Dragonborn are already an uncommon sight in the city and on its outskirts, but a chromatic Dragonborn at that? One might as well have won the annual Three Dragons Ante championship. At times, back before, he felt that he had. The Dark Urge had a brilliant mind, albeit one with its flawed tendencies for murder.
He sees how the other man wanders through the streets, falling back and letting his so-called companions lead the way through Rivington.
Gortash paces through his office, notes and letters littering the long table in the center. His aide, Black Gauntlet Ulova, stands on the sidelines, doing their best to keep quiet about his actions. Even as one of his closest allies, they know when to keep their mouth shut if they still wish to have tongue. At least his lordship is too deep in thought to care about anyone else at the moment. A knife has been stabbed into the table and as Gortash approaches it he picks it up, inspecting it. Ulova almost lets their breath hitch as he looks directly at them, still fiddling with the knife in his hands. It feels like he stares at them for far too long, the pressure of Bane himself pressing down on them. Then the man sighs, closes his eyes, and breathes.
Ulova’s breath actually hitches as Gortash almost yells in frustration as he stabs the knife back into the table, having thought that the man had calmed himself down. His lordship doesn’t respond to the show of weakness, at least not as far as they can tell. Instead, kneading the bridge between his brows, he asks. “What time is it?”
Ulova bends down onto one knee, as they respond to their superior. “Not long until the coronation, sir. The nobles are already waiting in the mess hall, sir.” They pointedly do not look up at him, not wanting to draw the current ire of Bane’s chosen.
“Give the orders to bring them up, now’s as good a time as any. And, get Ravengaard out of his room while you’re at it.” Gortash responds, pointedly not looking at them either. When Ulova did not move to stand, he grumbled to himself, “fucking dogma,” too quiet for the other Banite to hear. “You are free to stand. Go.” He spoke aloud, an annoyed tone clear in his voice.
The coronation, unlike everything else today, went by without a hitch, even as the Bhaalspawn rudely bursted in through the doors, his pets in tow. Gortash cracks a small smile as he watches the dragonborn metaphorically yank Karlach’s leash, keeping her from charging at him. Even better, when he speaks so openly to the Dark Urge about their past, watching Karlach and the others freeze up in shock, caught in a snare by the two hunters before them. The Dark Urge’s expression is… hard to read. The man has changed so much, Gortash can’t find the normal tells on him. He has no idea how the man in front of him actually feels. No matter.
“You will find me in my office. Do not come empty handed.” He says, speaking directly to the Dark Urge. He’s practically begging the man to defy his words. The old Bhaalspawn would have barged into his office, furious at Gortash for daring to think he could control him, bent him over the table and–
No, he’s not going to have those kinds of thoughts in public. The patriars may have served their purpose, but he’s not letting the other banites witness even a moment’s weakness from him.
He orders Ulova to leave the office. He expects to have complete privacy for the next few hours. He’s been waiting for this moment, and he will not have it sullied by someone disturbing the two of them. The bastard will come, if he knows what’s good for him. Gortash sits down at his desk, the strings of his trousers’ hems loosened, and waits. He waits.
And,
He waits.
And–