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It begins with the knife.
It always does.
The Dark Urge had warned him – said it was never the same twice, that even they could not predict when the hunger would strike. But Gortash insisted on watching. For science, for curiosity, for power – it was all the same.
The Urge moves like a storm contained within flesh. Each stroke is deliberate, purposeful; even in frenzy, there is a pattern, a litany of blood. They are the instrument of their god, the perfect vessel of Bhaal’s will – dominion made manifest.
When the stillness falls, they stand amid the wreckage of their obedience. The room steams with the scent of iron and consequence. For a heartbeat, they feel the god pressing close, whispering approval through their marrow. And then – another voice intrudes. Softer. Human.
“Fascinating,” Gortash murmurs, his tone one of scholarly fascination. He does not avert his gaze. His quill scratches as if he is charting constellations.
The Urge looks up, waiting for the usual recoil, the small tremor of fear that acknowledges their supremacy. But Gortash only watches, unblinking. He steps nearer, the heel of his boot slicing through the pools of blood like a knife. Power answers power; predator recognises predator.
Something within the Urge shivers, not from the god’s command but from this man’s composure – the audacity of calm before divinity’s weapon. Bhaal’s hold loosens, just for a breath.
“Magnificent,” Gortash says at last. The word carries weight – an invocation, a leash, a promise.
The Urge straightens. The praise binds tighter than the god’s whisper ever did. In that moment, they are not Bhaal’s creation, but Gortash’s discovery – claimed, not compelled. The hand that grasps their leash flickers, turning black for an instant, invisible yet absolute.
He is not afraid of the monster.
And they are not afraid of him.
For now, they stand as equals – two sovereign predators, Chosen above all others, breathing the same blood-warm air, each certain that, given time, the other will kneel.