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Summary
Red. That’s all it ever was in the temple. Maroon, vermillion, scarlet. Pools of crimson to bathe in beneath hanging, dripping bodies. Marbled statues were like hunks of gamey meat, gargoyles of viscera. All totems to Bhaal. Father.
Durge thinks that with how much bloodshed he’s spilled, that he too could be a god. The worshippers of the temple certainly treat him as such.
Well, all but you. He supposes that if you were anyone else, he would have flayed you alive and feasted on your quivering innards, but you weren’t just anyone else. Perhaps it was your brutality, maybe it was because you had the gall to try to dominate, that intrigued him. He could have just been bored. Regardless of the why, he had you now.
Or rather, you had him.