Rhegan (2nd-Person) x Gortash || SFW || 954 words
AO3
NOT A RETELLING - just focusing on specific scenes
The Dark Urge break into Gortash's home with an offer.
He’ll be returning home soon; you know his schedule well by this point.
You slip through the window, the shadows of the night obscuring you from the passing city guards. The study is littered with contraptions, half-worked metal and sketches covering nearly every surface. Looking them over, you can see the genius behind the ink and charcoal, even if you can’t follow all of the intricacies.
The front door opens with a faint creak, and you disappear into the dark as you wait. His boots sound up the steps, and you ready your dagger, palming the leather hilt.
A soft click, and the door beside you swings open, letting in the light of the hall and illuminating a man’s silhouette.
In an instant, your blade is held to his throat, and his body stiffens under your touch.
“Enver Gortash,” you speak, lips right near his ear.
He raises his hands. “The very same. And by whom do I have the pleasure of being held at knifepoint?”
You tilt the knife, letting your knuckles rest under his jaw to feel his pulse. It’s steady, raised only slightly.
“My dear family calls me ‘The Dark Urge,’” you reply. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for quite some time.”
“‘The Dark Urge,’” he repeats, a smile in his tone. “A pleasure to meet you , though I must prefer a more face-to-face introduction.”
The metal presses even deeper against his throat, more a tease than a threat, and his pulse remains a consistent beat. You and your weapon disappear in a cloud of dark smoke, your form returning in a chair opposite the room. Kicking your leg over the other, you lean back and tilt your head.
He watches you, though little is revealed behind your armor and mask, your eyes the only glimpse of your being.
“Much more civilized,” Gortash remarks. “So, what is it I’ve done to earn your attention?”
“The cult keeps an eye on any upstarts in this city,” you reply, pointing at him with your dagger. “And you’ve been of particular interest.”
Gortash’s brow quirks. “Which cult is that?”
“My father’s.” Your leg begins to bounce. “The Lord of Murder.”
“Bhaal.”
“The very same.”
“So, another Bhaalspawn seeks control of the city?” His mouth twists into a smirk. “If I recall correctly, that hadn’t quite worked out last time.”
You return the smile, though it’s hidden. “My goals are not those of that failure, Sarevok.”
He clasps his hands behind his back, waiting for you to continue.
“I’ve spent much of my life rebuilding what he destroyed,” you explain. “I will do anything necessary to ensure my family is safe. The cult is an easy rallying point for politicians who have nothing more to offer than an empty promise to eradicate us.”
Your gaze flickers to his arms, looking for any movement, any sign of attack, but Gortash remains still.
“Preying on the fear of civilians is an easy means of garnering support. They never have the opportunity, of course,” you add with a shrug. “I don’t tolerate threats.”
“Is this a preemptive strike, then?” he asks. “I’ve made no such promises to the city.”
“Quite the opposite, actually,” you say, playing with your blade between your fingers. “I come offering an alliance.”
In all your time watching the man, you’d never seen surprise cross his face until now.
“You’ve piqued my interest.” His arms return to his side. “To what end?”
“Success and survival.” Pushing off from the chair, you return to your feet and slip your weapon back into your belt. “I ensure you rise to power, you ensure my dearest devoted aren’t hunted.”
Gesturing toward you, he asks, “I assume you have more to offer than shallow words.”
“We can reach depths your Black Hand couldn’t fathom,” you answer. “We abound in the city’s shadows, stealing not only lives but secrets as well. I give the instruction, and that theft is directed at those who stand in your way.”
“I’ve never known Bhaalists to refrain from carnage long enough to find value in secrets,” Gortash replies, crossing his arms while the smirk remains in place.
“Rampant and thoughtless murder does nothing to keep my family safe,” you say, waving your hand as though the notion is obvious. “We can’t properly worship Bhaal if in prison or dead ourselves, and death at the hands of the guard is not one of worth.”
You begin to wander through the room, looking closer at his schematics as you speak.
“Our continued existence and efficiency rely on planning,” you explain as you lift one of his many papers. It depicts the inner workings of a very complex crossbow. “Planning requires knowledge, and what better knowledge is there than that no one was meant to learn?”
“A rather shrewd approach,” he says, his eyes following your every move. “I admit I’m impressed. But there is no give without take. What exactly do you expect from me?”
“A buffer,” you reply, “between us and the city. A distraction. Protection. You keep the ‘sword of justice’ pointed elsewhere, and you convince the masses there’s nothing to fear in the shadows.”
He runs his finger across his chin in thought. “Both of our lords would benefit greatly.”
You smile, noting the hooks sinking in. “Bane receives his coveted power.”
“And Bhaal his death,” Gortash adds. His hands return behind him as he looks off into nothing. “It’s an enticing offer. You’ve given me much to consider, and I’ll need time to think things through, as I’m sure you understand.” His gaze meets yours. “When I come to a decision, how will I find you?”
Your grin widens, though still hidden behind cloth. “I will come to you.”
