I keep thinking about Durge, who, even after defying Bhaal, is never truly free from their father's legacy.
Because yes, the Urge is gone, the cursed blood of Bhaal doesn't call to them anymore. But body remembers, even if mind doesn't. Body knows what it did, it knows what it was created for. It's instinctual, bone-deep reflexes of a person raised to be the perfect murderer. It's little twitches and how easily opponents fall: foes and former allies alike.
It's small glimpses of the past, because mind doesn't remember, but the body DOES. It's the eerie familiarity of darkest corners of Baldur's Gate, it's people recognizing Durge on the streets, people they don't remember but who remember THEM.
It's the feeling of being haunted by your own self.
It's the body of Ketheric, the bloody mess left of Orin, Gortash's lifeless frame. It's the knowledge you're the last one, what this tragic story of conquer started with you and ends with you.
It's the feeling of emptiness where bubbling joy once was, the blood on the blade what brings no feelings. It's being charming, or kind, or honest, or gentle, or honorable, but at the end of the day still being the best in the art of murder - and who are they if not Bhaal's unholy blade?
Godless and fatherless, struggling to reimagine themselves.
Especially when memories come; they never return fully, never in the whole picture. But glimpses, the shards of existence what was once theirs cut deeper than any ritual blade would.
I keep thinking about Durge weighted down by the grief of the world, guilt of the world.
Alone: without a god, a father, a sister, a partner (Gortash, bc these two were absolutely insane for each other).
Alone and with whole life ahead; lost and confused and with hands bloodied.
Hero, people call them. They don't feel like a hero.
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stormborns
snowghoul
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