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The farthest room at the temple had always been Hers. Orin had always believed it too much space for a single person.
Orin remembered how She used to fill that void — with blades, with vials of carrion crawler blood and spider venom, with half-dead bodies whose organs were either preserved for observation or prepared for consumption.
With numbing silence.
There was no bed. She never slept. She did not take lovers, only victims.
"No rest for the wicked," recited Orin, recalling Her ministrations.
She took her blade to Her maps and ripped the whole of Faerûn from the Moonshae Isles to the Endless Waste.
"Before I was born the Lord called me; from my mother’s womb He has spoken my name."
The first thing Orin did was replace that artless, rotting desk with a bed.
"He made my mouth like a sharpened sword, in the shadow of His hand He hid me."
Next, she placed candles in every corner, even going so far as to order part of the roof to be collapsed so light can stream in.
"He made me into a polished arrow and concealed me in His quiver."
Then Orin burned most everything — Her pet specimens, melted Her tools, Her collection of humanoid pelts turned cured leather. Orin watched the acolytes toss them into the fire. Her late sister's poisons made the flames dance so prettily, turning it to sparks and smoke of different colors.
Anything to cleanse this place of the stench of her ether.
Let the entire temple choke on her remains, thought Orin.
The acolytes had been less than welcoming since her return. Since Orin hadn't offered her fellow Bhaalspawn's essence upon their Father's altar of blood, a few in the fold refused to recognize her rightful succession.
Their throats were slit, of course.
But even then, the sheep had been less obedient than usual. Orin had chased away that soulless husk's shadows, but also the terror that came with it.
No longer did their followers behave themselves in fear of the red eyes possibly watching them in the darkness. Orin was their liberator.
But she was not their master.
"No matter. I'll cull the herd and bring in a new flock — blades more worthy of to be His unholy agents. Am I not magnanimous, letting you share in the glorious slaughter?"
The procession continued, shorter than Orin would have liked. For such a long-lived creature, the thing that was once her sister did not have many possessions and fewer still that made for good kindling.
Orin made certain to hand every scant map and book (all as dull as their owner) she could find to feed the flames.
But then she saw it.
Flipping idly through the bloodstained pages of a leather-bound journal — her own writing.
13 Uktar 1482.
I, Orin, called the Red by the Shallar, daughter of Helena, granddaughter of Sarevok Anchev, do vow in the name of Bhaal my Lord of Murder to serve his unholy will. I shall become an Incarnation of Slaughter, and the pain and humiliation inflicted upon his temple by the ignorant masses of Baldur's Gate shall be REPAID A THOUSANDFOLD. This do I swear and attest with my own heart's blood.
Orin had written that after learning the utter humiliation Baldur's Gate inflicted upon her grandfather — how he and all their kin were forcibly robbed of his birthright by a bloodtraitor. She swore to right the wrongs of the past, documented her kills to prove her talent for murder, and enshrined her promise upon her victim's flesh.
And yet, she was forced to throw this out years ago. Her grandfather disapproved of her "scrapbooks" where she decorated her musings in the blood of her kills and stuck their flayed skin onto the pages.
"To commemorate those we murder is folly. They are weak — they deserve no remembrance. This sentimental garbage is beneath you. Dispose of it like you should have with your kills."
Orin's knuckles turned white as she clenched onto that leather she had ever so meticulously carved and bound herself. It was it was perfectly preserved.
Grandfather had the gall to tell her that when her sister was the one to hold onto this for ten years? How dare She? Why would She even —
An acolyte reached for the journal.
Without thinking, Orin sliced his hand off.
Amidst his screams, the others stopped and stared at her.
"Are all of you simply itching to rid yourself of your limbs? Well then, give me a hand…" She giggled and then turned deathly serious. "Or leave."
And so they did.
Once again, Orin was alone, left to stare at the works of her worship that she was forced to discard.
"Of course, the likes of you couldn't best your elder."
Orin looked up and saw her mother's impaled corpse staring down at her. Her mouth did not move but still, the voice could belong to no one else.
Orin scoffed. "I killed Her. Just as I killed you. You were my first, mother, but She is far from my last."
"Throw it into the fire, then. Obliterate Her."
Orin walked, one slow step after another, to the fire. Her hand held the journal out, close enough to feel the flames licking her knuckles, but she did not let it go.
"You sank a blade in your mother's heart, yet you hear her still. A murderer haunted by voices of her own making. A little girl who can't let go of her toys. You are unworthy of our blood."
"You betrayed me, and She betrayed us! Kill or be killed, and She was the blasphemer who insisted on neither. Over and over, she refused my challenge to fulfill our unholy destiny and duel for Murder's throne. She treated me as if my blood was not fit to be spilled upon our Father's altar. She disrespected me. She humiliated me. She—"
"She did far worse. She loved you."
"Quiet, quiet, quiet! I am Father's Chosen now, his only child. Me.The last of his seed who will bring this putrid world to complete destruction. I will. I must."
The pages curled as they caught on fire. Orin quickly pulled back in shock. Her heart pounding, she panted as she cast a mending spell.
But what was done was done. Many of the entries were gone, leaving nothing but blood stains and blank pages.
"See, Orin. You will always be my little girl."
Kneeling before her mother's corpse, Orin closed her eyes — her hands clapsed around the journal as if in prayer.
"Before I was born the Lord called me; from my mother’s womb He has spoken my name."