blogtitle is a fun lil reference to my main LMAO i dont think ill actually be posting zelda on here but. who knows. not me. blog storage for my wips lmao
scampers in a lil circle with this @gloura THANK YOUUUU
dirge tuoys below cut 👇
You felt it before you saw it - something squirming within shriek-feeling kin! before you heard the snapping of bones, smelled the rich scent of iron in the air. Poor nobody-woman, Fist turned cultist turned monster, but she was nothing, no one, and now she's gone, unmade before your eyes as within her skin something new, resplendent, awful, rips its way out to a horrid, panicked birth. It's first moments are fear, dread, defensiveness, its first lungful of air part and parcel with understanding its first thought - SEEK AND DESTROY - but in those precious heartbeats, you are already moving, predator meeting prey. It is born - it sees you, feels you - it understands - it fights, but you are there and its world is already over. It is nothing but terror, delicious and acrid, and as your hands stretch to meet its soft, gore spattered skin, it has already mastered its legs with a speed that makes you jealous. Oh if only your own first moments had been so skillful! Its heel pushes back off the wooden floors and then - up and away it floats, your clawed hand clutching empty air. But it isn't enough, not for you. Mayhaps if it was entangled with the faerie instead. It leverages its impressive psionic might to push itself back, away, and repulses you, but another step has you close the distance regardless and your heart swells with joy the moment your raised fist meets tender meat.
If the nymph sees your face, she says nothing, or maybe there isn't time for it. A savage grin cuts your features, eyes blazing with delight, as you grab a fistful of its face tentacles, drag it forward - helplessly its hands come up, to blast, to claw, you don't know - and your fist connects again, and as it does the familiar rush of power surges through and out, a blast of eldritch force carries it back, away, and two of its tentacles rip clean off as its back slams against the wall, and then forward again into you, bounced against unforgiving physics. 15 feet is your limit, but you can push them every time you connect, and in the shared language of thought that pulses in the air between you, you feel it understand, bone deep, what the last moments of its life will be. Its body lurches forward towards you, but you have already readied a second blow. Theres a hideous crunch as you feel its ribs turn concave beneath your knuckles, its shoulders colliding against pitiless wall, and again, a third blow, and this time iridescent blood sprays you like the swell of the tide. Psychic power ripples against the surface of your mind, a thousand probing digits seeking to dig and tear and rip, but your mind is cold steel and compressed will, and it finds no purchase.
The hot blood invigorates you, a barebones trickle of water drizzled overtop the all consuming blaze threatening to swallow your mind, and you ride it to pin the illithid as it tries to regain its footing. Your body twists and your hands come down, again again again, and it feebly tries to claw at you, anywhere it can reach, useless desperation, but you are inexorable, you are armageddon, you are the end and you are here. Overwhelmingly, inescapably, you are here. It is a ruin of meat and bone as you finish, panting hard from the rush, its limbs twisted from sockets as the force from your blows contorted its torso, mangled and pulped its soft skull.
Your bloodlust must be palpable, filling the air like a suffocating fog. This meager offering wasn't enough, not nearly enough. You need more, your fingers twitch with desire, compulsion, instinct, Urge, and you are halfway intending to shred the rooms remaining occupant before her voice shocks you from the haze.
"Hells - I'd heard tales of mind flayers. Talons sharp as daggers, and tentacles yet more fearsome."
Not that it got the chance to demonstrate either, you think to yourself.
The womans voice - the nymph's voice, you correct yourself - is soft and lilting, gently inviting. Otherworldly creature that you are, you can feel the ethereal strangeness about her, and the fascination of it is enough to stay your hand for a moment. When you turn to face her, your expression must be a nightmare, you can feel the flat coldness of it, but she continues unperturbed.
"But no tale did justice to its ethereal beauty. It floats like a butterfly, its blood shimmers like silver."
There is undisguised yearning in her voice, bold and shameless, and it caresses your spine like a lover would. Behind your eye, your worm writhes self consciously.
You cast a glance back towards the heap of gore you left on the floor. There is truth in her words. In all its alien strangeness, there is a quiet elegance, married to its murderous potential. For something such as you, its appeal needs no explanation.
Your voice is a low, drawling murmur, rumbling within your chest as you pitch yourself down, an attempt to maintain some semblance of privacy.
"Your client is dead. I thought you'd be more upset."
"Who? Oh yes - Jara. I will miss her coin, it's true. Though perhaps this is not what you meant."
A half smile flitted across your face at that. A familiar flippancy. Why waste time and thought on the walking dead? Everything that mattered existed solely in the now.
"Free your mind of her. Let us look forward, not back."
Heedless of the blood splattering your person, or perhaps enticed by it (likely the latter), she closed the distance between you, effortlessly stepping into your personal space. Your fingers twitched, her warmth and nearness stirring the heat within you. You could smell her, so powerfully clear now. Sea foam and rain, vistas of dew kissed flora swaying in an unhurried breeze. The way a placid lake tugs on the soul, conspiratorily inviting you to slip within its depths and let the waves lap overhead. She was small next to you, but her presence fills your senses with the same fulfilling totality the Grove did. You know without doubt her touch would be akin to a cool hand against feverish skin.
You want to ravage her, taste her flesh between your teeth, feel the hot gush of her blood on your fingers. She can feel it, pulsing off of you in waves. She smiles, coaxing, and traces a finger down the lines of your jacket, while you hold yourself so very still, and watch.
Her gaze intensifies. Your breath quickens, and your heart skips a beat.
Realization dances across the surface of your thoughts. The woman's senses are heightened, and her fires stoked. The mind flayer is no mere curiosity, but an object of desire.
You lean in, ever so slightly, as if sharing a secret with a lover.
"The creature aroused you, didn't it?"
Her response is quick and unbothered.
"Why should I deny it? My urge is as natural as the grape upon the vine."
Ah, what a rare delight to be amongst the company of those who appreciate the sleek elegance of the ethereal, the violent, and the eldritch.
She tilts her face up towards you to meet your gaze, her hand lingering over your chest, and graces you with an inviting smile.
"But perhaps there are other flavours that might satisfy my palette."
You are comfortably entwined with your beloved, wrapped tight around her finger with no hope of release, but you are no stranger to hungers beyond the material, physical. The nymphs inhuman presence, her mercurial affections, her appreciation of aberration, it fascinates, entices, intrigues you. Enough to offset the compulsive need, enough to coax you into accomodating whatever bewitching delights she surely had in store.
When you speak, its closer to a rumbling purr, your curiosity piqued as it is.
"What did you have in mind?"
She shivers slightly against you.
"Rapture."
Her body language shifts to something more confident, seducing. Like slipping into a well worn glove. She pulls away, fingers trailing.
"Close your eyes and listen."
You feel her circle you, careful, attentive. Her presence surrounds and engulfs you, a comfortable weight. Its familiar magic, old and wordless, and it tugs at the depths of your soul, beckoning.
You see only darkness. Her voice shines through it, warmer than sun yet cooler than night.
"The all-being. Here, there is no suffering. Here, you want for nothing. Here, you are anything."
Her voice is layered with will, presence, and it gently, but firmly, pushes you down within itself. Having willingly taken the bait, you don't put up a fight. It swallows you up, as if you had sunk your head beneath the surface of the river. It is a weightless, soothing sensation. A balm against the burning roiling madness sealed within your being. The seperation between you and outside grows thin, and effortlessly the presence reaches out towards you and brushes a hand against your innermost self.
"You have one word. Tell me, what will you be?"
The sensation of water being drawn from a well. Up and out of you, like a sigh. You've been here before. You've felt this before. Long, long ago, in a different life, as a different self. A star fell from the heavens, beckoned by his desire, and he lied there, wrapped in arms of burning light and dipped ever so graciously down as if in dance, and the star had drawn his wish from his soul, breathlessly. His wish is your pact, though you cannot, will not, remember what he said. That word lived and died in that ancient moment. You have something else now.
Her hands delicately trace the line of your cheek, her thin fingers caressing your skin with just the barest suggestion of touch. For things such as this, there is no thought or consideration.
"Unburdened."
The presence reaches in, pulls out, and there in the dark something small and vulnerable shivers when so exposed, but before it can ache, there are a thousand gentle touches against your skin, inside your chest, soothing ministrations against all your blurry outlines. Her hands caress your face, run fingers down your chest, rub into your shoulders where the skin grows taut as something failed to break free of you. Her hands gather you up within her small palms and delicately she closes them around you, safe, secure, no barrier between you and her.
Her voice paints the world behind your eyelids, a steady heartbeat.
"The crimson tree is felled, her saplings sprouting from forsaken branches. The sky is wide, open, and full of stars. The vast horizon beckons, within the reach of your fingers, an endless journey away. A wolf strides unhurriedly to her den, and no serpents strike at her feet. In the meadow, you reach out to pluck a wildfower, and it does not bleed."
Your flesh shivers, your heart bursts. True ecstasy, for one fleeting moment.
As ecstasy gives way to contentment, satisfaction, you feel yourself surface the river, the presence receeding. The nymph's slight form is pressed against your chest, trembling slightly.
"Open your eyes."
She pulls away from you, meeting your gaze. Her tongue darts out to lick her lips, as if savoring some rare delicacy.
"I'll remember you. And you'll remember me."
She strides back to lounge languidly on the bed, confident and relaxed. The mess of viscera rotting on the floor goes ignored, her hunger satiated for the time by whatever it is she's gotten from you. For what it's worth, you're certainly a satisfied customer.
You excuse yourself with a polite nod, and delicately step over the haphazardly strewn mess of your earlier bout, shutting the door to the brothel room behind you.
The contentment persists, balancing the writhing madness within. The weight on your shoulders is a lessened, slightly. Hmph. No name to place to the faeries face, but in keeping to their nature, she spoke true: you'll be remembering her, indeed.
The Dark Urge Performs an Autopsy and Does Not Think of His Father (W.I.P.)
Exploring the brief stint of time in between Gortash and Dirge forming the beginnings of the Absolute's plan, and Ketheric formally joining the alliance to unite the Dead Three in single purpose. Isobel's resurrection was the sole request Ketheric made of Myrkul in return for his service, and was required before Ketheric would acquiesce to delving below Moonrise.
However. Gortash commands the deaths of others. Ketheric leads an army set upon devastation. Bound to a necromancer god, how skilled is Ketheric actually with the task at hand? Unwilling to trust a matter of such import to two amateurs, the Dark Urge is forced to take matters into his own hands, and prepare Isobel's corpse for Resurrection himself.
Handling the body of the Moonmaiden's Cleric, whos revival will seal the doom of the world, the Chosen of Bhaal tries very hard not to think about the father Isobel has, that he does not.
4000+ words as of right now! currently unfinished but polished enough to post
Ketheric stands, fingers splayed across the surface of the coffin. The nameplate beneath, beautiful and elegantly carved, reads isobel thorm. The justiciar’s daughter. The lynchpin to bring forth the death of the world. The Dark Urge leans against a back wall, tail switching back and forth in impatient irritation, waiting, for something. It never comes. Sentimentality holds Ketheric paralyzed. Or perhaps fear. A century has she slept within a bed of stone, and rot always finds a crack through which to claim its dues. Even Gortash’s near infinite (comparatively) sympathies run short, and he strides to Ketherics side, smooth voice undercut by the gravel of barely restrained frustration.
"Are we merely here to stand idle as your daughter resurrects herself? If so, one would appreciate being informed beforehand, to avoid making hazardous, unnecessary excursions-"
Ketherics curt tone cuts him short.
"The Doctrine of Bane must certainly teach the values of patience? Or is there a habit of blindly rushing forth in your practice?"
Gortash makes a dismissive noise through his teeth, but Ketherics hand refuses to move. The Chosen of Bhaal cocks his head to the side, focused on a small detail on the sarcophagus centered in the room. He makes an interested click, loud enough to catch attention, and once both heads have started to twist towards his claimed corner, he graces the fetid stale air with the scratchings of his voice.
"There's a crack, there in the lid. Near the seam, where it connects with the base." Keterics attention predictably snaps to the spot in question, keen eyes quickly finding the miniscule detail. The implied meaning behind the bhaalspawn’s comment makes itself obvious. How long has it been there? When did it begin to splinter? How deep does it go? How long has his daughter's body been exposed to rotting cursed air? As Ketheric's thoughts tumble down the train of questions, panic predictably breaks him from his mournful reverie and strong hands fasten themselves to either side of the tomb's lid. Sturdy fingers crack into stone, and the Chosen of Bhaal watches as the muscles in Ketheric's shoulders clench and strain, as the man grips, and then rips the sarcophagus's lid right off. As he does so, it takes some of the base's sides with it, jagged wounds blasted through carved stone. Ketheric tosses it aside, and while the bhaalspawn cannot see his expression, he hears Gortash's low whistle. Curiosity is enough to move him from his spot against the wall, and Ketheric is silent for a long moment before his voice, heavy with grief, punctuates the empty air.
"Like a day had never passed...She's..."
Gortash sidles up against the coffin to stare down below, breaking Ketheric's trailed silence.
"Impressive! I must say, typically most corpses I see certainly show their wear after a few days, let alone a century."
Ketherics head snaps towards Gortash's in irritation, but before he says anything, the Dark Urge finishes his languid prowl towards the center, and stares down into the coffin's depths.
She's beautiful. All corpses are, in their way. The thin veneer of skin pulled back, insides out, arcs of crimson marking the walls and floors. The muted deep hues of a liver, exposed to air for the first time in its existence. What he does not reveal, decay takes upon itself, pulling away facade and persona alike to gracefully display what these rotting bags of viscera and skin take such great pains to keep hidden. But the corpse of Isobel Thorm is in no such condition. Skin pulled ever so slightly taut against the skeleton, the washed out tone of a body devoid of flowing blood. Hands folded gracefully over her center, eyes gently closed. Were he not so intimate with death, he could be forgiven for an initial assumption of ailing sleep. But no. There, in the background, hidden beneath the musty smell of rotting cloth and stagnant air that so filled the Thorm Mausoleum, was but a single note of sweet putrefaction. It was enough to spark a pang of hunger through his core. But this corpse was more than just a lump of rotting meat. This corpse was his harbinger of apocalypse. Once this corpse rose from its slumber, the Dead Three would be united in single purpose once more, and upon the throne of their triumph, he would personally raise the eclipse of slaughter upon this blighted earth himself. None of which could happen, of course, if this corpse did not get up.
Ketheric took a breath to steady himself. His hand, steady save for the smallest of trembles, reached out overtop her body. He sucked in a gulp of air, and then carefully began to give voice to the foul incantation that would restore life-
A hand, fast as a whip with a grip like iron, fastened itself around Ketheric's wrist. The bhaalspawn’s voice carved through the air with an authority profound enough to cut the words out of Ketheric's mouth.
"What are you doing?"
Ketheric made a dismissive tone and made to yank his hand out of the bhaalspawn's grasp, but those fingers remained clasped around Ketheric's wrist.
"I am going to revive my daughter."
The disdain in his voice was liquid venom, dripped into the surrounding stagnant silence. The bhaalspawn's grip relaxed slightly, making a dismissive *tchk* sound as he rolled his eyes.
"I know why you are doing this, Ketheric. What I asked was what?"
"I... I am invoking my lord Myrkul to call upon his power to restore life to my daughter's flesh, and call her soul back to inhabit it once again."
"As she is?"
Ketheric pulled his hand free at last, and once again looked down at the body before him. When he didn't answer, the Chosen of Bhaal folded his arms across his chest, oozing irritation at some perceived slight both Ketheric and Gortash had yet to grasp. The bhaalspawn jabbed a single clawed finger towards the body of Isobel.
"What, exactly, do you think would happen, if life were restored to a century old corpse fresh from its coffin? Do you imagine it'd go over well?"
Ketheric answered only with his silence. The spawn paused only for a beat before continuing on in disdain.
"All you can tell upon looking at her, is merely that her skin has preserved itself fairly well. There is no telling what the state of her organs is. I can make some broad assumptions given the condition, but nothing I would stake something as important as this on. Not without confirming first, that is."
He punctuated his usage of *this* with a sneer, lip curling to reveal just a hint of the canines Gortash had seen cleave through a man's arm.
Ketheric's body language shifted to something noticeably more uncertain. The spawn quirked a scarred eyebrow in question, and when Ketheric refused to deign him with elaboration, he pressed the paladin again.
"You... do know how to disassemble a corpse, yes? In such a fashion as to allow *re*-assembly. Yes?"
Gortash folded his arms across his chest and rolled back slightly on his heels.
"Such a skillset isn't particularly useful in my line of work. And far too messy for my tastes anyways. Grease, ink, and oil are enough for my tolerances, I'm not too keen on adding "rotting viscera" to that list."
Ketheric shifted uneasily on his feet.
"...Necromancy was not an aspect of Shar's doctrine I was familiar with. My lord Myrkul's knowledge is great, but... My hands are not yet experienced to my satisfaction."
Gortash clicked his tongue.
"Will we have to call in your pet zombie for the matter-"
"NO. No. Balthazar will not touch her." Ketheric's voice cracked with a single note of unexpected rage that took both Gortash and the spawn slightly aback. Gortash recovered from the interruption fast enough to retort.
"Then who, exactly, will prepare your daughter for resurrection?"
"....I will-"
"And risk reducing her insides to a paste? I'm sure necromancy will take perfectly well to animating that."
"Then you, Gortash? Certainly you can stitch together an intestinal tract as neatly as a gear train."
Gortash raised his hands in a motion of appeasement.
"I never offered. I'm well aware of my deficiencies."
"Then we are back where we started."
The two of them sat in silence for a long moment. The bhaalspawn carefully leaned forward so as to be in view of both of them, and flicked two fingers forward in a gesture of offering.
Ketheric's scowl could crack mountains.
"No. Absolutely not. You will not touch her."
Gortash rolled his eyes as he spoke up.
"Oh and you have any better options. Let me remind you that every second we dilly dally, your daughter spends more and more time exposed to your lands curse laden miasma."
"I am NOT letting some misbegotten murderous freak-"
"That "misbegotten freak" is more intimately familiar with the insides of a living person than either of us."
"I refuse-"
"Refuse what? To allow an experienced hand to carefully attend to the flesh of your beloved daughter? Will you refuse her a doctor, next time she falls ill, as well?"
"..."
Ketheric's scowl settled into something the bhaalspawn could have almost sworn was sulking.
"...Fine. But if you even think of defiling-"
The Chosen of Bhaal unfolded his arms to make a dismissive hand gesture towards Ketheric, cutting him off.
"Yes yes, no defilement or desecration of any sort, of course. Luckily for you I had the foresight we'd find ourselves in such a position and ensured my equipment made its way into our preparations. Now leave me to it."
"You brought your-? No, I most certainly will not be leaving you alone here with my daughter-"
Gortash chimed in while examining the nails on his un-gauntleted hand.
"You can tell how excited he is just from how much he's speaking. I think this is the most our murderous companion has graced us with his voice since we embarked from Moonrise."
"You aren’t any better. If either if you think I’ll be leaving you alone with my most cherished child-"
The Chosen of Bhaal levelled the full force of a gaze that had crumpled initiates to the floor.
"If you wish to see Isobel's intestines stretched wormlike from her corpse to a table, please do not allow me to stop you."
Ketheric pursed his mouth into a thin line.
"Furthermore. I do not. Appreciate. An audience. While I work."
"..."
"This is holy work. Your daughter will realize the glorious ambitions of my Father. Rest assured I shall treat the task with the gravity such a thing is due."
Ketheric met his gaze head on, holding eye contact as the bhaalspawn finished speaking.
"...Very well. At the very least, I can trust you won't bring any dishonor to your father's name. And if that is enough to stay your hand from anything...untoward, thennthat is enough for me. Alert me when the work is finished."
As he finished speaking, Ketheric turned sharp on his heel and began to walk out. Gortash waited a moment for Ketheric's back to face him, before pointing an exaggerated eye roll towards the Dark Urge, an amused smirk playing on his lips. Gortash gave a loose wave as he followed behind out of the mausoleum. The bhaalspawn spared a brief moment to wonder where, exactly, they'd be going that was both nearby and shielded from the curse, and then decided he didn't care. There was a matter he must attend to.
The corpse lay as still and silent as when he first gazed upon it minutes ago. Isobel. The syllables of her name seemed to float in the air, weightless. It had an airy feeling on his tongue, in his thoughts. It suited her perfectly. His gaze softened, staring down at her. What a blasphemous thing he was about to do. To pull this sweet, lifeless body back into the forsaken blighted land of the living. His Father had already graced his hands for the foul task at hand, so there was no question of heresy. Despite this, his mind remained disquieted. Even with his Father's blessing, how could he call himself the Scion of Bhaal if he did not have any misgivings? Or...perhaps this itself was another expression of the immutable flaws within him. After all, if his lord Father was assured in His purpose, what right did he have to doubt, even in service to His doctrine? He shook the train of thought from his head, although it did not clear the familiar lump of dread in his stomach. He reassured himself in the knowledge that she would only have to walk this world again for a scant few months, before the broken backs of an oath-sworn army performed their service to his Father and dragged all the world beneath a bloodied sky. And still. At least she didn't talk. That was always nice.
The Dark Urge rolled his shoulders to loosen them up, and then set about to gather an idea of what, exactly, he'd be working with here. He traced a gentle line against her cheek, the skin taut and dry against the pad of his finger. The flesh was firm, as it did not yield even as he began to place pressure upon it. A quick sniff confirmed his suspicions. Upon her death, her sealed coffin had retained enough humidity to allow the formation of corpse wax. At least partially. Clearly not everything had been preserved, for the sweet decay of rot still danced in the air, subtle but unmistakable. He was mostly grateful that at the very least her face had preserved. While he was well acquainted with the varied layouts of vital organs, he was much less confident in his ability to safely cut away any rotten portions of brain, without carving out something important. Wasn't even that enjoyable to look at anyways, at least not whole. Made a beautiful splatter when coming into contact with the blunt end of a blacksmith's hammer though. He shook his head. Not relevant, focus. He gently tested the exposed extremities, thankfully all similarly waxy. Ideally he might be able to get away with minimal clean up. His hopes were dashed though when, upon carefully moving her hands, a gentle press against the flat of her stomach made way for an unpleasant amount of give. The elements had preserved her face, her hands, but beneath her clothing, the rot had taken her organs. The source of the decay he had been smelling. Clearly it hadn't progressed overmuch, as the scent was incredibly faint. Typically, by this point, the scent should be unmistakable, overwhelming, enough to send his lessers stumbling and gagging away from the promise of spoilage that awaited all of them. Well. This is about as far as he'd get relying on his senses alone. Time for the work to begin.
Ketheric had clearly spent a fair bit of time in preparation for his role as envoy of Myrkul, as the mausoleum already had a fair collection of tools littering the side rooms containing his ancestors. Clearly there was no love lost in the Thorm family. The Urge spent a moment wondering if Thorm would bother cleaning up his workstations when he was satisfied with his results, then decided again he didn't care. He wouldn't trust the tools of a hobbyist butcher anyways. And while it took a fair bit of convincing to make Sceleritas mind the temple, at least the butler had remembered his request for the well worn tools of his taxidermy, minus that which wasn't really portable. He drummed his fingers against the side of the sarcophagus, considering. There was no getting around it. The body was too deep below him. She'd have to be moved. His gaze landed on one of the varying tables left out as whoever had set about their foul work beforehand clearly wasn't of a mind to tidy up. Wide enough to hold a body, though not much else. It would suffice. Decision made, he carefully leaned down towards her still form.
Delicately taking the back of her neck in his hand, fingers brushing through the strands of her hair. Still soft, still fine. Her neck fit so perfectly in his hand. He briefly entertained the thought of closing his fingers up and around her throat, then decided against it. Windpipes were so fragile, and it'd be a pain if he got too enraptured and gripped with too much force. Instead he slid his hand down and out so as to support her weight by the shoulders, slipping his other arm underneath her knees. Taking a moment to get a good feel for her weight, he exhaled and then carefully pulled Isobel up and out of her sarcophagus and into his arms. Held close to his chest, her head limply lolled into his shoulder. Not nearly as stiff as she should be. That was odd. Thankfully Isobel was just as light as her name. Moving her would pose no problem at all. And yet, something in the small motion, gravity pulling her corpse against the warmth of his flesh, stirred some unnameable emotion in his chest. Pausing, without fully knowing why, the Dark Urge stared down at the young woman he held.
Gentle features, a delicate build, so light in his arms. Is this how Ketheric felt, carrying her dead weight to her (presumed) final resting place? What did it mean for a Father to mourn His Creation so deeply he would burn all he knew upon a pyre just for her sake? A sacrifice she could never ask for. Blissful ignorance of the atrocities bestowed upon the land in her name. The pit in his stomach intensified. How cruel, to steal her from this. To bring her back to a world where her father had rendered her home wholly unrecognizable. The Chosen of Bhaal harbored no illusions about his own nature. That he, and his kind, were alone in their holy calling. That most others felt an irresistible draw towards prolonging their own wretched sufferings. They clung to false promises of "home" and "family" and "camaraderie". The bonds they formed between each other weighed down by love and connection. No, he was not ignorant of such things at all. How often had he relied on such delusions to sow death in his wake? Taking a surgeon's knife to those bowstring-taut bonds such that another may be unknowingly gifted the holy all-consuming blood passion? The aftershocks were often too much for their unaccustomed minds and untrained bodies, falling into wreck and ruin, filtered through a lens of heartbreak and betrayal to distance themselves from the sacred truth they had glimpsed for but a moment. And here he was, holding the corpse of Ketheric's daughter, about to call her back from the slaughtersweet world beyond, to...what? That same ruin he inflicted to push them towards that final calling? Surely she would feel betrayed? Daughters loved their fathers, didn't they? Children craved protection and peace, didn't they? Stability, familiarity, a home just how they remembered it, illusions and lies and false promises. Someone had already done her the kindness of tearing them all away, and here he was about to thrust Isobel back into their midst. When the call of life beckoned her back with its siren song, could she ever forgive the man who ensnared her so? After glimpsing a truth now fading from memory? Why did such a thought stir him so? What point was there in asking forgiveness from the dead?
"Not dead." a voice in his mind whispered. "The not-yet living."
How foul. His mouth curled into a sour snarl. Blasphemy indeed. He'd swallow it down, for Father. It was one thing to call the rotting sacks of meat and bone to walk and slaughter. A dark unlife, devoid of delusion. There was sense in that. But this was true life. If he did not kill her, she would... She would live, he supposed. Grow old, years and years from now. Grow sick, grow frail. How long until the void beyond beckoned her back? Sickening to imagine. His fingers tightened against her body.
Endure it, Isobel, he silently pleaded. A higher calling beckons you towards a dark paradise. Endure this farce once again for but a brief time, and you shall be rewarded with death eternal.
He stared down at her face, devoid of rot. Eyes gently shut in repose.
You shall not suffer this taint for long.
A brief pause.
I promise.
Isobel lay flat upon a table stained with long dried blood. It didn't even retain a single hint of its savory metallic scent. Ugh. Myrkulites. Everything they do is so dry. Well. A blood slick surface would have made this harder anyways. He'll indulge his bloodlust on the way leaving the region. He grabbed the rim of one of those gaudy elaborate Sharran vases and pulled it to his side. A quick glance inside supported his idea. Trash can shaped. He hooked a foot around the leg of a nearby smaller table holding his tools and dragged it over. A thought. Would he be able to strip the body without merely carving through the fabric? Such a thing rarely mattered but. This corpse would be getting back up after her autopsy. The Mausoleum was far from any settlement with unrotted cloth, and there was barely anything to be scavenged within it. Certainly Ketheric, at the very least, would be cross if he returned to his daughter to see a pile of shredded clothing beside her? Ugh. This burgeoning alliance grew more and more irritating by the day. Why, for fuck's sake, couldn't Myrkul have chosen a necromancer who knew what he was doing, instead of just learning as he went? That hypothetical chosen could do an autopsy his damn self. Or at least prepare for one in advance and bring a change of clothes for "his most cherished child." Irritation after irritation. The Dark Urge made a silent prayer to encounter a Dark Justiciar in an empty alley sometime in the near future. Bhaal knows hes earned it. Swearing quietly to himself, the bhaalspawn carefully, painstakingly, set about peeling the delicate layers of clothing off of Isobel's body. Whatever foul rites Ketheric had prepared should already cover the restoration of muscle tissue. Her legs will be fine, he's already putting more thought and effort into this than her father did. Pale blue fingers tipped in dark black claws against the backdrop of icy white flesh, carefully tugging against ancient fabric so as not to tear. A methodical process, time consuming. Immensely aggravating. If Ketheric got impatient and stormed back in, he could resurrect her by himself, putrefied organs and all. The shit he puts himself through. Satisfied both with his work disrobing the body and the plethora of curses hanging in the air, he allowed himself a moment of reprieve to collect his thoughts. Now for the fun part.
A Y-shaped incision pulling her flesh apart like a flower. Gloved hands skillfully maneuvering a scalpel with all the grace of a portrait painter. The mask he normally used in the midst of taxidermy, to help filter out the fumes of his collection of preserving chemicals, but here serving the function of blocking out the smell of liquified gore (it'd be hard to focus if he worked up an appetite after all). Rotted blood, clotted in the veins. A century spent moldering in the dark. And a plethora of oddities to puzzle through. Firstly, while the smell was intense, it wasn't nearly intense enough. It had the strength of a body shortly past the rigor mortis stage, when it still smelled sweet. Another thing. There simply just. Wasn't enough of it. Corpse wax hadn't managed to preserve nearly any of her organs, and yet despite that, it was as if he was watching them break down in slow motion. Her heart was almost entirely intact, in fact. The aorta would need to be remade, but the ventricles were fine. Lungs in near mint condition. If he wasn't focused on prepping a body for reanimation, he'd be tempted to take them back to the Temple. But on the other end, her liver was almost a puddle he had to carefully scoop out into his makeshift biohazardous waste vase. And he'd cut out a good several feet of intestine already, and might need to remove more. At least he'd be able to give Ketheric accurate diagnostics on what, exactly, he should focus on remaking through the power of Myrkul. Another pang of pity. He was rather certain he'd rather drag himself out of the grave, spilling organs and all, than let the hand of Myrkul touch his innards. Another silent apology.
He paused for a brief break, looking down to the opened flesh upon his table. Falling again into a pool of thought without the work to occupy him, he absentmindedly traced a finger along the smooth curve of Isobel's ribcage. Skeleton in mint condition, as far as he could tell. Difficult structure to replace, more complex than most gave thought too. A dense exterior, and a spongy core. Upon making the first incisions and peeling the flesh back, a distinct aroma had hit his nostrils, a scent that called to mind the image of the moon shining through clouds, though he had no means to convey that.
Dirge/Minthara, if she was available for the act 2 Resist Urge scene 👉👈 (she isnt btw. neither is halsin. its just the origin 6) also not editing this
Something is watching her. Buried warmly in the reprieve of dreams, Minthara feels it still. A sharp, beady gaze levelled on her. There is a malicious hunger to it, and even fast asleep it raises her hackles. But not enough to stir. No, tonight her sleep weighs on her like a comforting blanket, smothering and stillmaking. Often are her dreams plagued with anxieties in the night, revisiting paranoid recollections again and again, hunting for deceit, for openings, for weakness. Better still than the trance, being left to her thoughts as the hours drag slowly, painfully by, the hollowing silence begging to be filled by the deafening echo of Her Will. There never seems to be enough in the day to fill the air with her musings, and it always, always, falls back onto the well walked path of habit, a temple despoiled, an altar blasphemed, and though the crumbling walls of her memory call out for prayer, there is no god worth entreating here. No capricious Spider-Queen, and now no damning All-seeing All-loving sham. The Absolute has ceased to fill the quiet with Her commands, but the silence of Minthara's trance waits for them nonetheless. Better, far far better, to asphyxiate in the noxious haze of slumber. But as of late, her dreams have softened. The sharp needlesting of paranoia stabs just a touch gentler. She attributes it to the tangled form of the tiefling twisted through her arms, his back to the opening of her tent, just too tall to fit comfortably in his entirety within her hammock, so his tail hangs loose over the side, the tip brushing the ground, twitching at the slightest provocation. The sensation of his warm breath stirring the loose strands of her hair, the sleepy affectionate kisses placed thoughtlessly along her collarbone and neck, and, truthfully, the mans aggressive insomnia, does much to settle her into a comfortable rest.
The past few nights have progressively eased into a habit of slumber over trance, and so, securely ensconced as she is, when the pinpricks of her nerves bristle all along her form, she takes note, but does not stir. When her sleep feels more like a weight upon her chest, than the languid unspooling of muscle and tension, it is not so alarming as to catch her attention, to shift into battle readiness with the alacrity due her station. Just nerves, she feels. Just nerves, and a lacking familiarity with proper sleep.
Until there are five clawed fingers clamped around her shoulder, shaking with spasmic force.
Her body snaps to attention before her mind does, sitting upright even as her thoughts sluggishly follow behind, but her hand does not go to the dagger beneath her pillow, so she hasn't perceived a threat or intruder yet. What she does notice, is that there is no weight settled in her arms or lanky limbs twisted through her legs. Blearily rubbing her eyes, her lover comes into focus slowly, crouched down by her side. Her voice comes out husky from sleep, and she makes no effort to disguise the sensual affection in her tone.
"So eager for my touch already, ust-nor? And I was under the impression our last bout had thoroughly exhausted you." She smirked mischievously up towards him. Her lover shakes his head, the motion drawing her gaze as her vision clears.
"Its-no, I-"
His eyes flick throughout the tent, never settling. Minthara sees now that his expression is drawn, tight, his jaw clenched, his face pale. Out of habit she reaches her mind towards his, expecting the intertwining of fingers, soft hazy edges bleeding over into her own, but instead her mental probe thuds into a wall, smooth, perfect, and devoid of any cracks to wedge a finger into, cold and blank.
"You're in danger, we need to act fast." His eyes flick to hers and then immediately away. At the word danger Minthara has already swung her legs off the side of her hammock and is rising to meet him, her mind clearing in an instant, her hands meeting his.
"Khal'abbil, tell me, we will meet it together."
His attention never settles, darting around the increasingly cramped feeling tent. His tail twitches and she hears the taptaptap of its tip thwapping the ground sporadically and without rhythm. Though his mind permits no entry, the emotions coursing through him are strong enough that her tadpole picks up on them anyways. Potent nausea, shame, guilt, fear. His words are clipped, sentences functional and devoid of accessory, a caller in the night and the visitation of horrors upon the breath of sleep, but as he speaks a bout of vertigo sweeps through him strong enough to buckle his knees and he starts to crumple, necessitating Minthara to swoop in to support him. As she braces him against herself, his voice trembles with barely restrained anxiety, its timbre scraping against her ear.
"Madness will take over my body against my will, and I will kill you."
Minthara scoffs, a tremble hidden within her steel spine, her arms strong against his shivering form as he stands again.
"You will be compelled to try, I am sure, but I have yet to command a hound who remains capable of biting the hand that feeds it."
She gingerly runs a finger underneath the collar wrapped around the pale azure of his throat, her thumb grazing the buckle of it.
"I sincerely doubt that whatever force driving you to such irrationality will retain enough of its strength to best me after it has thrown itself against the fortress of your will."
She took his hands in her own, burying the stabs of rising panic in the sensation of his callouses. He avoids her gaze, still, fidgeting with her fingers.
"I just wor-"
Before the words finish leaving his mouth he sways, his hands in hers suddenly leaden, stumbles a step backwards to try and steady himself, and Minthara gets a perfect view as his eyes roll back back in his skull before he tips forward, dead weight, and there is a sharp CRACK as his head hits the ground hard, bouncing once before he goes completely still.
"STRAJ!" The expletive tears itself from her mouth before she finds herself at his side, hands hovering over him as power gathers in her fingertips, but then. Her thoughts skip back, unbidden, cautious and risk averse. When he falls unconscious next...
Minthara stays her hand. Dirge lies there on the floor of her tent, more still than she's ever seen him, and for a single illogical moment she fears hes dead. She holds herself from acting, a self inflicted petrification, and watches. His lashes flutter weakly, and she sees only the faintest slivers of crimson iris, the ghost of a burning glow of his pact marked eye hidden beneath half closed lids. Unconscious then. Cautiously she reaches out and brushes his feathery black hair away from his face. A thin trickle of blood makes its way down his forehead from where he hit the ground. The twin black spires of his horns remain uncracked. His skin, normally a faint blue, has gone pale and clammy. Clawed fingers twitch intermittently against the barren compacted soil of the shadow cursed lands. Moving gingerly so as to not risk awakening him, Minthara delicately reaches over to move his hand, slightly, slightly, to test his reaction, and then boldly takes it within her own, squeezing tight, a motion she knows from experience he always returns.
He does not awaken. Dirge's mouth remains slightly agape, the faintest hint of the first of many canines just visible. His mind remains closed off and cold to her. More confident now, Minthara moves with haste to the collection of supplies she keeps within reach of her hammock, prepared for emergencies that did not permit the luxury of dawdling. She gives a withdrawn rope an experimental tug, and it holds itself under strain. It will have to do. It goes tucked underneath her arm, and she sets herself to the task of restraint. A moment of thought. No not here. Too many weapons easily within reach. Outside. Easier to summon aid from there anyways. Minthara moves as she thinks, rolls him onto his back, what if the rope catches on his claws?, she grabs below his shoulders and hoists, should probably bind his legs as well, his head thumps backwards against her knees and he groans weakly, is there any support to tie him too?; his body is corpse heavy in her arms and she drags and drags, out and out, just far enough to give her a split second to react if he bolts, before she lets go and rolls him again. Face down in the dirt, he shifts slightly, and she fears he is coming to already, so her hands move with a speed she did not fully know they were capable of.
Wrists together behind his back, two loops then three then another just to be sure, knot tight enough to cut off circulation, a problem addressable later, and experimentally she bends a digit down towards the pulse of his wrist and curses to herself when the keen edge of a claw can graze the fibers. He makes a muffled noise of confusion below her and her thoughts sharply snap this current concern away into a future issue, and she sets herself to the task of binding his ankles together. She moves faster, he isn't as flexible here so theres less worry of wriggling loose, and shes free to be a little sloppier in her work, prioritizing speed over meticulousness. Bound, taut, he has not yet awakened, but he stirs, eyes scrunched closed and his brow furrowing as he shifts and twists, the small movements of one still caught in dream. She hovers over him, stuck in a moment of consideration. There may not be much time, should she risk...? His hands writhe and a claw catches on the rope, and her mind is made. She twists, moves, motion following purpose, a single line of action towards a lone goal, reaches out and-there. She has it, comforting handle wrapped in worn leathers, familiar weight, but behind her-
"Mmmminthara? Minthara?"
Stiff. Then-relaxed. At ease. Nothing is wrong. Yet. Walk back out. Nothing is wrong. Duck beneath the tent flap. Nothing is wrong. How many steps? Two, three, four- watch his motions. Nothing is wrong. He tugs at the wrist binds. Shifts languidly, attempting to stretch, the same motion shes seen and felt a dozen times before. Nothing is wrong. Move closer, ankles are still bound taut, good, his head swivels down as he tosses his locks, familiar, habitual. Nothing's wrong.
Yet.
Dirge's voice slurs slightly, from exhaustion or from the impact of his forehead against the ground, Minthara can't tell. He contorts on the ground to face her, his eyes opening blearily.
"Mm? Minthara? What happened?"
She sits down across from him with careful practiced ease. Sits with her knees up, one arm casually draped across them, the other gripping her mace, pointedly relaxed. She scans his face, gaze eventually settling on his eyes, and finds herself searching them intently for signs of.... something. She doesn't know what shes looking for, but whatever it is, she doesn't find it. Dirge blinks a few times, coming more into awareness. This time, when he speaks, its perfectly clear.
"Did-did I pass out?"
She makes a confirming hum.
"You did."
"Shit, fuck, did I- are you alright? Did I do anything?"
Somethings wrong. She can't pin it down. But something in the back of her brain is shouting, warning, alarmed. He [twists] to angle himself more towards her, leaning in her direction.
"You went down like a stone. I scarce had time to move you from the tent. Your head took quite a blow. Are you alright?"
Minthara tilts her head, equal parts calculating and concerned. He did land quite hard. If she hadn't been so surprised, she might've caught him. Then again, a conspiratorial instinct whispers, it might be for the best you did not have time to try. Her lover rolls back more onto his shoulders and tosses his hair away from his face as he attempts to examine himself, the bright streak of crimson on blue made more evident by the loose strands of black hair caught in the sticky wound.
"I-oh, hrm. I hadn't even noticed. I don't even feel it, truthfully."
Mismatched crimson eyes flick back to meet her own.
"But is that it? Did anything else happen?"
The whisper moves closer to the front of her mind. He wants you to say it. Say you bound him and tied him for no cause at all, so his silver tongue can cut himself free.
She sighs, more exhausted than exasperated.
"There was scare time for anything at all to happen. Truthfully, I am still waiting."
His eyes flick to her mace, then back to hers. Good. The ball is in your court now.
He sighs and slumps into the dirt.
"Oh thank goodness. I was so terrified, I- I thought I might. That I might have done something, especially given these."
He pointedly tugs on both sets of binds.
"But you are unharmed? Truly?"
Minthara makes a point of reclining slightly.
"Truly. At most my heart had quite a jolt."
"Then-" His eyes flick away from hers. The hair on the back of her neck raises.
"Then what do you suppose we do?" His gaze meets hers, then slides away and down. Submissive. Ashamed. Harmless.
"Mm. I intend to wait with you."
He blinks twice, confused.
"To-to wait?"
"Mmhm. To wait."
"That... is unlike you."
"Is it? It is a fool that rushes into unknown territory. I believed you when you warned me, when you were scared. I do not dismiss such concerns lightly."
He makes a thoughtful sound deep in his throat. She knows how it feels, the rumble of it in his chest, moving up into his throat to sit behind his teeth.
"No, you're right. That makes sense." He sighs and adjusts, presumably for comfort.
"Its just- its rarely a pleasant experience, being bound like a dog."
Minthara quirks an eyebrow at that, and allows the corner of her mouth to twitch upwards playfully. Dirge scoffs, matching her. Playacting.
"Oh you know what I mean. This is a far cry from how I usually find myself."
His expression goes more serious.
"How long do you intend to wait this out?"
A fair enough question. She considers it seriously. Until he is well and truly himself, is the answer, but how long to be sure?
"Mayhaps until dawn?"
"Dawn? That's hours from now."
"Indeed it is." You don't like that. Tell me why. Say it to me.
She's scrutinizing him, she knows. Its starting to feel like shes chasing ghosts. Minthara would swear she saw something flicker through his expression, something calculating. But with her attention so fixated, what is inconsequential and what is life threatening? At this degree of focus, they look the same.
She used to be better at this. She used to be the best at this. No, now isn't the time for reminiscing.
"It will be a long night then."
"Mm. So it will be. Such is the price of certainty."
"I'm sorry. I'm depriving you of an entire night of rest."
Minthara shrugs.
"Such is the way it must be."
He rolls flat onto his back to gaze up at the flat black expanse of a curse darkened sky. She dares not brush against his mind. Every battle tested nerve in her body twitches the same message. The danger has not yet passed.
"So you'll be keeping me trussed up all night until you're satisfied then?" There it is.
"No, not until I am satisfied. Until I am certain." Minthara adjusts her position, moves her mace from her side to in front, balancing it on the weapons head, hands resting on its pommel between her knees. Front and center. Implicit threat.
"How do you intend to be certain?" He isn't looking at her mace, instead holding eye contact. Meeting your gaze. Challenging.
"...I simply will be."
"Thats... vague."
"Mm. You will have to content yourself with that, for now."
"I'll... try. It's just..." He breaks eye contact, looking back to the sky. He shifts his shoulders, clearly uncomfortable.
"How will you know? How can you tell?"
She ponders for a moment, drumming her fingers on the mace's pommel. The answer is deceptively simple.
"Easily. You will tell me."
He snaps his head towards her at that, brows furrowed in confusion.
"But- I feel fine, now."
"Mm. Clearly. But are you, actually?"
He tries to tilt his head, lying there in the dirt still.
"I... yes? I passed out, but as you yourself said, nothing happened. Aside from a minor injury to myself."
She does not respond. The quiet drags itself between them for a moment. He breaks the silence.
"We are here, waiting, to see if something is going to happen. By your own admission, nothing has already happened. So why-"
She cuts him off with raising a single hand.
"I did not say nothing happened. I said I was unharmed, and that there was scare time for anything to occur."
Minthara lets steel enter her gaze and pin him to the ground.
"I am waiting to see, in fact, if something has already happened."
Her lover makes a frustrated sound and visibly tugs on his wrist binds, sighing.
"I-Minthara. You have to know how that sounds. You're being paranoid."
Wrong. All wrong. Her grip tightens on her mace as every single nerve screams at her. That's not how he says your name.
No stupor slurs his voice, he is clear eyed and awake. The wrongness is clear and unhidden for a single half instant. It is the tone of something trying very, very hard to disguise itself, to say her name the way a lover would, to curl around its syllables and make itself soft and gentle. But that isn't how he says her name. To hear him say it, it is as if he would pluck the celestial choirs from the heavens to capture just a fragment of the melody of it. A hushed devout reverence, warm and saturated with affection, a delectable offering her proffers only rarely. There is so much love in her name when he says it that for a moment it becomes a language entire, and so he says it only rarely, but every single time it strikes a spark within him that suffuses his features with its glow. She feels it every time she melds her thoughts with his, a devotion as reliable as the tide, an intensity that rivals the glinting divinity that bursts from the point of her mace into a conflux of radiance and pain.
It says her name like a lover would, certainly, but not her lover. Not her hound. It can sense the shift in her, she can feel it, but it doesn't know what went wrong. It tries again. It shifts onto Dirge's side, and gives a small disarming smile, and Minthara feels nothing but the awareness that she has not seen his hands in some time now.
"Minthara, please. Shouldn't we wait this out together? I don't want to keep you here, staring me down while I writhe in the dirt all the hours til daybreak."
His tail twitches. Minthara doesn't know if the movement is purposeful or automatic. It doesn't matter.
"Our current arrangement suits the matter at hand quite well. No, I don't see any particular reason to change it."
"Minthara, come now, you must see that you're reacting disproportionately? I'm fine, you're fine, this is unnecessary. Whatever danger remains, I should be at your side, not here at your feet."
"No, I think you'll do just fine where you are, actually."
It lets its frustration show on Dirge's face.
"Minthara, please. Come now. Release me."
"No."
"Minthara, please, this is getting ridiculous. Let me up."
"No."
"Minthara. Release me. Let me out."
"I will not."
It tugs sharply on its wrist binds, pushing a growl out of Dirge's throat.
Minthara straightens her back and looks down at the pathetic wriggling thing. She refuses to play pointless games any longer than necessary.
"Allow me to be clear, to save you any trouble. I will not be allowing you to get up, or get out, in any capacity, until I am assured beyond a reasonable doubt that he is returned to me. You will sit there, and writhe fruitlessly in the dirt to no avail, and you will either abandon this endeavor, or come morning I will drag you kicking and screaming to the center of camp where every last person here will keep you useless and restrained until I get what I want. Is that understood?"
It took a moment to fully grok the entirety of what she said, and then she watched as its expression flicked between angry, incredulous, confused, before it settled on something that could possibly pass for the face of a lover, unduly scorned and told they would be spending the night on the couch, and to that end it even had the gall to scoff at her.
"I don't know what you think is going on, but-"
"I have no intention of debating with you, vermin. You have been duly informed of what the next several hours of your existence will look like, as a courtesy owed to the flesh you currently inhabit. Satisfy yourself with that, and with silence."
It stared at her a moment, in shock. Then, after a beat, it relaxed, and started to chuckle, and Minthara could hear just beneath the wry amusement, a cold calculating cruelty.
"You treat me as if I've become a stranger to you! That's cold. Especially when we're SO well acquainted."
"I may be acquainted with the man who's face you wear, but I do not know you. Nor do I care to."
It spoke next in a trilling sing-song, mirthful and mocking.
"Liarrrrrr, lying little Minthara~. You must feel it, deep in your blackened soul, you must know what I am to you."
It laughed, cutting and malicious, ringing out like the sound of a bell.
"A gift, a gift, yes, I will offer to you a gift, a wedding token!! Enlightenment for one so utterly dull and deliberately stupid"
Having fully given up on its ruse, Minthara watched impassively as it dropped the saccharine veneer of affection, its expression twisting her lover's features into something equal parts sharp edged and hungry. It caught her gaze with its own, and the razor thin scars cut deep into Minthara's back began to ache horribly.
"It wasn't painless." Minthara inclined her head slightly to the side, confused.
"Paralysis had begun to set in, neurotoxic, attacking her nervous system, unable to move her tongue well enough to form words. Able to do naught but suck in air and wheeze it back out as her lungs began to stiffen." Her blood froze in her veins, her body going very, very still.
"It settled in her stomach first, a burning agony that spread up into her chest, then moved into her limbs. She had the sensation of asphyxiation, and of choking on vomit, all at once. In the Pits, when the Draegloth come to shred her flesh asunder, she screams your name into the dark, and with each breaking dawn her only peace is the silence that follows when you are not there to answer her."
It rolled her lover onto his back, arching his back up to pull uselessly at the binds restricting his arms, his neck bent sharp for it to maintain eye contact with Minthara.
"You are known to me, Minthara Baenre, and you will know me further still. You think this one will be different? He will awaken with your gore painting his skin and the muscle of your ventricle still caught between his teeth, or you will put him down like a dog, like a hundred other lovers before him. "
Minthara shifted her sitting position slightly, her face a careful neutral mask.
"Tell me, beast, do you usually waste so much time on your hunts painting fictions for your amusement? Or is this an honor you've reserved solely for me? I must know if I am to react with the appropriate amount of respect, as due your station amongst the lowest of degenerate predators."
It laughed and laughed, the sound rolling out of Dirge's throat like thunder, and the death saturated ground beneath him seemed to soak it into itself.
"I will wed your delicate white locks in a veil of blood, and I will make a honeymoon wreath out of your intestines. There is no love before me, or after, there is only the sweet singing of the knife in your sinews."
the backstory of an Eladrin Kensei Monk and why he has not shifted from Winter in decades, and the mythologized retelling of a near apocalypse of my DnD setting
SENSITIVE CONTENT WARNING AHEAD Please be aware that the following contains content that can be potentially triggering, if you are at risk o
A wip about Lysander, the unfortunate Dragonborn who lived a terrible life of miserable evil before dying cared about by a small party of fate bound wanderers.
We are really stretching the definition of "cared" here. Its mostly Temperance.
“...’Tis an ill omen, madam.” “Ohh… why tonight of all nights? Are you so eager to see the sky? Please, I beg thee, slumber onwards to the d
Sike i have a ganondorf wip. TOTK AU where Ganondorf is resurrected but in the process Demise is released from within the Master Sword and now Link and Zelda have to kind of deal with the history of the Demon King maybe not being as accurate as initially presented
Dirge/Minthara, if she was available for the act 2 Resist Urge scene 👉👈 (she isnt btw. neither is halsin. its just the origin 6) also not editing this
Something is watching her. Buried warmly in the reprieve of dreams, Minthara feels it still. A sharp, beady gaze levelled on her. There is a malicious hunger to it, and even fast asleep it raises her hackles. But not enough to stir. No, tonight her sleep weighs on her like a comforting blanket, smothering and stillmaking. Often are her dreams plagued with anxieties in the night, revisiting paranoid recollections again and again, hunting for deceit, for openings, for weakness. Better still than the trance, being left to her thoughts as the hours drag slowly, painfully by, the hollowing silence begging to be filled by the deafening echo of Her Will. There never seems to be enough in the day to fill the air with her musings, and it always, always, falls back onto the well walked path of habit, a temple despoiled, an altar blasphemed, and though the crumbling walls of her memory call out for prayer, there is no god worth entreating here. No capricious Spider-Queen, and now no damning All-seeing All-loving sham. The Absolute has ceased to fill the quiet with Her commands, but the silence of Minthara's trance waits for them nonetheless. Better, far far better, to asphyxiate in the noxious haze of slumber. But as of late, her dreams have softened. The sharp needlesting of paranoia stabs just a touch gentler. She attributes it to the tangled form of the tiefling twisted through her arms, his back to the opening of her tent, just too tall to fit comfortably in his entirety within her hammock, so his tail hangs loose over the side, the tip brushing the ground, twitching at the slightest provocation. The sensation of his warm breath stirring the loose strands of her hair, the sleepy affectionate kisses placed thoughtlessly along her collarbone and neck, and, truthfully, the mans aggressive insomnia, does much to settle her into a comfortable rest.
The past few nights have progressively eased into a habit of slumber over trance, and so, securely ensconced as she is, when the pinpricks of her nerves bristle all along her form, she takes note, but does not stir. When her sleep feels more like a weight upon her chest, than the languid unspooling of muscle and tension, it is not so alarming as to catch her attention, to shift into battle readiness with the alacrity due her station. Just nerves, she feels. Just nerves, and a lacking familiarity with proper sleep.
Until there are five clawed fingers clamped around her shoulder, shaking with spasmic force.
Her body snaps to attention before her mind does, sitting upright even as her thoughts sluggishly follow behind, but her hand does not go to the dagger beneath her pillow, so she hasn't perceived a threat or intruder yet. What she does notice, is that there is no weight settled in her arms or lanky limbs twisted through her legs. Blearily rubbing her eyes, her lover comes into focus slowly, crouched down by her side. Her voice comes out husky from sleep, and she makes no effort to disguise the sensual affection in her tone.
"So eager for my touch already, ust-nor? And I was under the impression our last bout had thoroughly exhausted you." She smirked mischievously up towards him. Her lover shakes his head, the motion drawing her gaze as her vision clears.
"Its-no, I-"
His eyes flick throughout the tent, never settling. Minthara sees now that his expression is drawn, tight, his jaw clenched, his face pale. Out of habit she reaches her mind towards his, expecting the intertwining of fingers, soft hazy edges bleeding over into her own, but instead her mental probe thuds into a wall, smooth, perfect, and devoid of any cracks to wedge a finger into, cold and blank.
"You're in danger, we need to act fast." His eyes flick to hers and then immediately away. At the word danger Minthara has already swung her legs off the side of her hammock and is rising to meet him, her mind clearing in an instant, her hands meeting his.
"Khal'abbil, tell me, we will meet it together."
His attention never settles, darting around the increasingly cramped feeling tent. His tail twitches and she hears the taptaptap of its tip thwapping the ground sporadically and without rhythm. Though his mind permits no entry, the emotions coursing through him are strong enough that her tadpole picks up on them anyways. Potent nausea, shame, guilt, fear. His words are clipped, sentences functional and devoid of accessory, a caller in the night and the visitation of horrors upon the breath of sleep, but as he speaks a bout of vertigo sweeps through him strong enough to buckle his knees and he starts to crumple, necessitating Minthara to swoop in to support him. As she braces him against herself, his voice trembles with barely restrained anxiety, its timbre scraping against her ear.
"Madness will take over my body against my will, and I will kill you."
Minthara scoffs, a tremble hidden within her steel spine, her arms strong against his shivering form as he stands again.
"You will be compelled to try, I am sure, but I have yet to command a hound who remains capable of biting the hand that feeds it."
She gingerly runs a finger underneath the collar wrapped around the pale azure of his throat, her thumb grazing the buckle of it.
"I sincerely doubt that whatever force driving you to such irrationality will retain enough of its strength to best me after it has thrown itself against the fortress of your will."
She took his hands in her own, burying the stabs of rising panic in the sensation of his callouses. He avoids her gaze, still, fidgeting with her fingers.
"I just wor-"
Before the words finish leaving his mouth he sways, his hands in hers suddenly leaden, stumbles a step backwards to try and steady himself, and Minthara gets a perfect view as his eyes roll back back in his skull before he tips forward, dead weight, and there is a sharp CRACK as his head hits the ground hard, bouncing once before he goes completely still.
"STRAJ!" The expletive tears itself from her mouth before she finds herself at his side, hands hovering over him as power gathers in her fingertips, but then. Her thoughts skip back, unbidden, cautious and risk averse. When he falls unconscious next...
Minthara stays her hand. Dirge lies there on the floor of her tent, more still than she's ever seen him, and for a single illogical moment she fears hes dead. She holds herself from acting, a self inflicted petrification, and watches. His lashes flutter weakly, and she sees only the faintest slivers of crimson iris, the ghost of a burning glow of his pact marked eye hidden beneath half closed lids. Unconscious then. Cautiously she reaches out and brushes his feathery black hair away from his face. A thin trickle of blood makes its way down his forehead from where he hit the ground. The twin black spires of his horns remain uncracked. His skin, normally a faint blue, has gone pale and clammy. Clawed fingers twitch intermittently against the barren compacted soil of the shadow cursed lands. Moving gingerly so as to not risk awakening him, Minthara delicately reaches over to move his hand, slightly, slightly, to test his reaction, and then boldly takes it within her own, squeezing tight, a motion she knows from experience he always returns.
He does not awaken. Dirge's mouth remains slightly agape, the faintest hint of the first of many canines just visible. His mind remains closed off and cold to her. More confident now, Minthara moves with haste to the collection of supplies she keeps within reach of her hammock, prepared for emergencies that did not permit the luxury of dawdling. She gives a withdrawn rope an experimental tug, and it holds itself under strain. It will have to do. It goes tucked underneath her arm, and she sets herself to the task of restraint. A moment of thought. No not here. Too many weapons easily within reach. Outside. Easier to summon aid from there anyways. Minthara moves as she thinks, rolls him onto his back, what if the rope catches on his claws?, she grabs below his shoulders and hoists, should probably bind his legs as well, his head thumps backwards against her knees and he groans weakly, is there any support to tie him too?; his body is corpse heavy in her arms and she drags and drags, out and out, just far enough to give her a split second to react if he bolts, before she lets go and rolls him again. Face down in the dirt, he shifts slightly, and she fears he is coming to already, so her hands move with a speed she did not fully know they were capable of.
Wrists together behind his back, two loops then three then another just to be sure, knot tight enough to cut off circulation, a problem addressable later, and experimentally she bends a digit down towards the pulse of his wrist and curses to herself when the keen edge of a claw can graze the fibers. He makes a muffled noise of confusion below her and her thoughts sharply snap this current concern away into a future issue, and she sets herself to the task of binding his ankles together. She moves faster, he isn't as flexible here so theres less worry of wriggling loose, and shes free to be a little sloppier in her work, prioritizing speed over meticulousness. Bound, taut, he has not yet awakened, but he stirs, eyes scrunched closed and his brow furrowing as he shifts and twists, the small movements of one still caught in dream. She hovers over him, stuck in a moment of consideration. There may not be much time, should she risk...? His hands writhe and a claw catches on the rope, and her mind is made. She twists, moves, motion following purpose, a single line of action towards a lone goal, reaches out and-there. She has it, comforting handle wrapped in worn leathers, familiar weight, but behind her-
"Mmmminthara? Minthara?"
Stiff. Then-relaxed. At ease. Nothing is wrong. Yet. Walk back out. Nothing is wrong. Duck beneath the tent flap. Nothing is wrong. How many steps? Two, three, four- watch his motions. Nothing is wrong. He tugs at the wrist binds. Shifts languidly, attempting to stretch, the same motion shes seen and felt a dozen times before. Nothing is wrong. Move closer, ankles are still bound taut, good, his head swivels down as he tosses his locks, familiar, habitual. Nothing's wrong.
Yet.
Dirge's voice slurs slightly, from exhaustion or from the impact of his forehead against the ground, Minthara can't tell. He contorts on the ground to face her, his eyes opening blearily.
"Mm? Minthara? What happened?"
She sits down across from him with careful practiced ease. Sits with her knees up, one arm casually draped across them, the other gripping her mace, pointedly relaxed. She scans his face, gaze eventually settling on his eyes, and finds herself searching them intently for signs of.... something. She doesn't know what shes looking for, but whatever it is, she doesn't find it. Dirge blinks a few times, coming more into awareness. This time, when he speaks, its perfectly clear.
"Did-did I pass out?"
She makes a confirming hum.
"You did."
"Shit, fuck, did I- are you alright? Did I do anything?"
Somethings wrong. She can't pin it down. But something in the back of her brain is shouting, warning, alarmed. He [twists] to angle himself more towards her, leaning in her direction.
"You went down like a stone. I scarce had time to move you from the tent. Your head took quite a blow. Are you alright?"
Minthara tilts her head, equal parts calculating and concerned. He did land quite hard. If she hadn't been so surprised, she might've caught him. Then again, a conspiratorial instinct whispers, it might be for the best you did not have time to try. Her lover rolls back more onto his shoulders and tosses his hair away from his face as he attempts to examine himself, the bright streak of crimson on blue made more evident by the loose strands of black hair caught in the sticky wound.
"I-oh, hrm. I hadn't even noticed. I don't even feel it, truthfully."
Mismatched crimson eyes flick back to meet her own.
"But is that it? Did anything else happen?"
The whisper moves closer to the front of her mind. He wants you to say it. Say you bound him and tied him for no cause at all, so his silver tongue can cut himself free.
She sighs, more exhausted than exasperated.
"There was scare time for anything at all to happen. Truthfully, I am still waiting."
His eyes flick to her mace, then back to hers. Good. The ball is in your court now.
He sighs and slumps into the dirt.
"Oh thank goodness. I was so terrified, I- I thought I might. That I might have done something, especially given these."
He pointedly tugs on both sets of binds.
"But you are unharmed? Truly?"
Minthara makes a point of reclining slightly.
"Truly. At most my heart had quite a jolt."
"Then-" His eyes flick away from hers. The hair on the back of her neck raises.
"Then what do you suppose we do?" His gaze meets hers, then slides away and down. Submissive. Ashamed. Harmless.
"Mm. I intend to wait with you."
He blinks twice, confused.
"To-to wait?"
"Mmhm. To wait."
"That... is unlike you."
"Is it? It is a fool that rushes into unknown territory. I believed you when you warned me, when you were scared. I do not dismiss such concerns lightly."
He makes a thoughtful sound deep in his throat. She knows how it feels, the rumble of it in his chest, moving up into his throat to sit behind his teeth.
"No, you're right. That makes sense." He sighs and adjusts, presumably for comfort.
"Its just- its rarely a pleasant experience, being bound like a dog."
Minthara quirks an eyebrow at that, and allows the corner of her mouth to twitch upwards playfully. Dirge scoffs, matching her. Playacting.
"Oh you know what I mean. This is a far cry from how I usually find myself."
His expression goes more serious.
"How long do you intend to wait this out?"
A fair enough question. She considers it seriously. Until he is well and truly himself, is the answer, but how long to be sure?
"Mayhaps until dawn?"
"Dawn? That's hours from now."
"Indeed it is." You don't like that. Tell me why. Say it to me.
She's scrutinizing him, she knows. Its starting to feel like shes chasing ghosts. Minthara would swear she saw something flicker through his expression, something calculating. But with her attention so fixated, what is inconsequential and what is life threatening? At this degree of focus, they look the same.
She used to be better at this. She used to be the best at this. No, now isn't the time for reminiscing.
"It will be a long night then."
"Mm. So it will be. Such is the price of certainty."
"I'm sorry. I'm depriving you of an entire night of rest."
Minthara shrugs.
"Such is the way it must be."
He rolls flat onto his back to gaze up at the flat black expanse of a curse darkened sky. She dares not brush against his mind. Every battle tested nerve in her body twitches the same message. The danger has not yet passed.
"So you'll be keeping me trussed up all night until you're satisfied then?" There it is.
"No, not until I am satisfied. Until I am certain." Minthara adjusts her position, moves her mace from her side to in front, balancing it on the weapons head, hands resting on its pommel between her knees. Front and center. Implicit threat.
"How do you intend to be certain?" He isn't looking at her mace, instead holding eye contact. Meeting your gaze. Challenging.
"...I simply will be."
"Thats... vague."
"Mm. You will have to content yourself with that, for now."
"I'll... try. It's just..." He breaks eye contact, looking back to the sky. He shifts his shoulders, clearly uncomfortable.
"How will you know? How can you tell?"
She ponders for a moment, drumming her fingers on the mace's pommel. The answer is deceptively simple.
"Easily. You will tell me."
He snaps his head towards her at that, brows furrowed in confusion.
"But- I feel fine, now."
"Mm. Clearly. But are you, actually?"
He tries to tilt his head, lying there in the dirt still.
"I... yes? I passed out, but as you yourself said, nothing happened. Aside from a minor injury to myself."
She does not respond. The quiet drags itself between them for a moment. He breaks the silence.
"We are here, waiting, to see if something is going to happen. By your own admission, nothing has already happened. So why-"
She cuts him off with raising a single hand.
"I did not say nothing happened. I said I was unharmed, and that there was scare time for anything to occur."
Minthara lets steel enter her gaze and pin him to the ground.
"I am waiting to see, in fact, if something has already happened."
Her lover makes a frustrated sound and visibly tugs on his wrist binds, sighing.
"I-Minthara. You have to know how that sounds. You're being paranoid."
Wrong. All wrong. Her grip tightens on her mace as every single nerve screams at her. That's not how he says your name.
No stupor slurs his voice, he is clear eyed and awake. The wrongness is clear and unhidden for a single half instant. It is the tone of something trying very, very hard to disguise itself, to say her name the way a lover would, to curl around its syllables and make itself soft and gentle. But that isn't how he says her name. To hear him say it, it is as if he would pluck the celestial choirs from the heavens to capture just a fragment of the melody of it. A hushed devout reverence, warm and saturated with affection, a delectable offering her proffers only rarely. There is so much love in her name when he says it that for a moment it becomes a language entire, and so he says it only rarely, but every single time it strikes a spark within him that suffuses his features with its glow. She feels it every time she melds her thoughts with his, a devotion as reliable as the tide, an intensity that rivals the glinting divinity that bursts from the point of her mace into a conflux of radiance and pain.
It says her name like a lover would, certainly, but not her lover. Not her hound. It can sense the shift in her, she can feel it, but it doesn't know what went wrong. It tries again. It shifts onto Dirge's side, and gives a small disarming smile, and Minthara feels nothing but the awareness that she has not seen his hands in some time now.
"Minthara, please. Shouldn't we wait this out together? I don't want to keep you here, staring me down while I writhe in the dirt all the hours til daybreak."
His tail twitches. Minthara doesn't know if the movement is purposeful or automatic. It doesn't matter.
"Our current arrangement suits the matter at hand quite well. No, I don't see any particular reason to change it."
"Minthara, come now, you must see that you're reacting disproportionately? I'm fine, you're fine, this is unnecessary. Whatever danger remains, I should be at your side, not here at your feet."
"No, I think you'll do just fine where you are, actually."
It lets its frustration show on Dirge's face.
"Minthara, please. Come now. Release me."
"No."
"Minthara, please, this is getting ridiculous. Let me up."
"No."
"Minthara. Release me. Let me out."
"I will not."
It tugs sharply on its wrist binds, pushing a growl out of Dirge's throat.
Minthara straightens her back and looks down at the pathetic wriggling thing. She refuses to play pointless games any longer than necessary.
"Allow me to be clear, to save you any trouble. I will not be allowing you to get up, or get out, in any capacity, until I am assured beyond a reasonable doubt that he is returned to me. You will sit there, and writhe fruitlessly in the dirt to no avail, and you will either abandon this endeavor, or come morning I will drag you kicking and screaming to the center of camp where every last person here will keep you useless and restrained until I get what I want. Is that understood?"
It took a moment to fully grok the entirety of what she said, and then she watched as its expression flicked between angry, incredulous, confused, before it settled on something that could possibly pass for the face of a lover, unduly scorned and told they would be spending the night on the couch, and to that end it even had the gall to scoff at her.
"I don't know what you think is going on, but-"
"I have no intention of debating with you, vermin. You have been duly informed of what the next several hours of your existence will look like, as a courtesy owed to the flesh you currently inhabit. Satisfy yourself with that, and with silence."
It stared at her a moment, in shock. Then, after a beat, it relaxed, and started to chuckle, and Minthara could hear just beneath the wry amusement, a cold calculating cruelty.
"You treat me as if I've become a stranger to you! That's cold. Especially when we're SO well acquainted."
"I may be acquainted with the man who's face you wear, but I do not know you. Nor do I care to."
It spoke next in a trilling sing-song, mirthful and mocking.
"Liarrrrrr, lying little Minthara~. You must feel it, deep in your blackened soul, you must know what I am to you."
It laughed, cutting and malicious, ringing out like the sound of a bell.
"A gift, a gift, yes, I will offer to you a gift, a wedding token!! Enlightenment for one so utterly dull and deliberately stupid"
Having fully given up on its ruse, Minthara watched impassively as it dropped the saccharine veneer of affection, its expression twisting her lover's features into something equal parts sharp edged and hungry. It caught her gaze with its own, and the razor thin scars cut deep into Minthara's back began to ache horribly.
"It wasn't painless." Minthara inclined her head slightly to the side, confused.
"Paralysis had begun to set in, neurotoxic, attacking her nervous system, unable to move her tongue well enough to form words. Able to do naught but suck in air and wheeze it back out as her lungs began to stiffen." Her blood froze in her veins, her body going very, very still.
"It settled in her stomach first, a burning agony that spread up into her chest, then moved into her limbs. She had the sensation of asphyxiation, and of choking on vomit, all at once. In the Pits, when the Draegloth come to shred her flesh asunder, she screams your name into the dark, and with each breaking dawn her only peace is the silence that follows when you are not there to answer her."
It rolled her lover onto his back, arching his back up to pull uselessly at the binds restricting his arms, his neck bent sharp for it to maintain eye contact with Minthara.
"You are known to me, Minthara Baenre, and you will know me further still. You think this one will be different? He will awaken with your gore painting his skin and the muscle of your ventricle still caught between his teeth, or you will put him down like a dog, like a hundred other lovers before him. "
Minthara shifted her sitting position slightly, her face a careful neutral mask.
"Tell me, beast, do you usually waste so much time on your hunts painting fictions for your amusement? Or is this an honor you've reserved solely for me? I must know if I am to react with the appropriate amount of respect, as due your station amongst the lowest of degenerate predators."
It laughed and laughed, the sound rolling out of Dirge's throat like thunder, and the death saturated ground beneath him seemed to soak it into itself.
"I will wed your delicate white locks in a veil of blood, and I will make a honeymoon wreath out of your intestines. There is no love before me, or after, there is only the sweet singing of the knife in your sinews."
Dirge + Orin doomed sibling wip lets goooo i am not fucking editing this
weakly scrabbling at the side of your face. a choked gurgling sound from the base of his throat, rising up up, bubbling blood. drips down his head, flows through his hair, making a mess. one hand wrapped around his horn cruelly pulling his head back, the other white knuckled gripped around the hilt of a dagger, torn off a table in a moment of impulsivity. what a fool for turning his back on you, doesnt he know better? never let you out of his sight, never leave you to your own devices, knife hand ever twitching and at the ready, ready to stab and slice and shred and rip, set sinews to singing and arteries to bursting. why why why was he always turning his back to you? always leaving you behind always stranding you in his shadow, taking everything that was promised you, you were already always worthy, he was the one who had to WORK for it. standing in front of you, turning his back to you, keeping Father from seeing your accomplishments, your worth, arrogant prideful bastard worm he always was. inch after inch of steel disappears into the warm wet mess beneath your grip, clawed fingers scratching uselessly against your face trying to find something soft to dig into, but you are all edges and sharp points, finally excising the rot.
no honor, no blood tithe in this, because he doesnt deserve it doesnt deserve to die for Father doesnt deserve to feel his Love his Touch his Grace, useless crybaby slaughterkin trailing after you tugging on your sleeve, gutter trash unworthy of his gifts. no noise leaves his mouth that could be mistaken for language, just wet gasps, and his hands slacken and drop and his body, tall so tall what right does he have to be so much taller than you? a longer shadow swallowing you up, grows heavy against you and as you pull the dagger out, buried so deep you have to tug it twice, he bonelessly slides to his knees then thuds forward, blood pooling beneath him, a steady leak. pathetic weak SOFT, and there on the ground gasping for breath his eyes flick up to you and for a moment its like you wear his skin again, though no delicious snap shift accompanies it, for a moment his feelings bleed into you like his crimson feeds the flesh below and you brace for the hate and the rage but theres only cold, so cold, cold in the hole in his skull where it opens to the sky oozing through his heavy limbs that refuse to answer the calls to move, and a rolling fog descending, and you look at yourself looking at him and there is no fire only the cold and a bowstring taut sickness in his gut, and it enrages you so much your vision goes red.
dagger thrown aside, rushing towards the fleshy flower pod, hand thrust into stinging scouring acid, grabbing something wriggling writhing, crouching down beside his still form, shallow breaths making small ripples on the blood pool beneath him. fingers wrapped around the twisting curves of a horn, hand blindly fumbling for the cast aside dagger, wedging it into the wound to twist it side to side, crack crack, your bloodkin hissing in pain as you drop the dagger again from the hand holding the worm, your grip the only thing keeping it from wriggling free, and then in in it goes, chew away the rot and the soft and the weak and whatever embers still smolder of the fire. a stupid fleshy puppet for the blasphemous meatthing below your feet that even now sings discordant in the back of your brain, let it fill his empty skull with humiliation and debasement before it bursts forth in spectacular fashion, and.
and. and. he isnt dead. the worm wriggled in, one last insult, his own godless work turned against its maker, the pathetic grey meat open to the air, and. he isnt dead. he twitches on the ground beneath you, where he belongs where he was always meant to be arrogant proud scum, but he still takes shaky breaths, crimson eyes rolled back into his head and he twitches and gasps and he isnt dead he isnt dead he isnt dead you ripped him open and ruined him he isnt dead he isnt dead you didnt kill him he isnt dead. child blessed twice over, what have you done? the architect of the end, the prophet of the apocalypse, he isnt dead even though you stabbed and tore and cracked and opened, he isnt dead hes still there, what have you done what did you do? cold, he feels so cold, he isnt dead, it doesnt count, you didnt win, he didnt see, your father didnt see, he isnt dead it doesnt count, what have you done?
bloodkin slaughterkin brother bleeding on the floor, you cant fix this cant forgive this, hands go beneath his arms tugging up up and hes so heavy, when did he get so heavy? he hasnt been eating, you know he hasnt, so why is he so heavy? no sound leaves his lips and he slumps against you, a puppet with cut strings, and you know he doesnt even see you anymore, but he isnt dead and he wont die and he isnt dying, just bleeding and oozing and the worm inside burrowing and clawing and chewing, and every now and then a digit twitches but he is limp and silent and all he feels is cold cold cold and even the bowstring tight sickness is gone, just heavy and numb.
step by painstaking step you drag him back, back, towards the platform that is an elevator and it moves up and up away from the godthing crowned by his hands (his hands alone, even if the lordling wont admit it you know it wasnt any help, not really), and your brother isnt dead. you meant to kill him, wanted to kill him, but you didnt and hes here and you have to do something, have to have to, something anything. if your blood pounds and your breath is quick its only the receding wave of him pulling away and out of you, thats all, the leftovers of something half eaten.
hes your brother and you didnt kill him and you didnt mean to and you were just so angry! so angry at being forgotten, left behind, shadowed and overlooked. taking care of the temple while he cavorted about with a baneite, day in and day out while he didnt come home, too busy he says always too busy, too busy to see sister to see kin to slaughter and murder in His holy name as is their right and duty. you were just so angry and he turned his back on you again like he wouldnt regret it and you just hated him so much in that moment that you wanted him to regret it. to look at you and see you and hate you. you just wanted to step out of his shadow. just wanted to break free of it. sweet lamb, what have you done? up and up and up it goes and his blood, fathers blood, stains your hands and paints your skin and soaks into your clothes (he helped you make them, skinned every kill he made for a week, tanned the hides and stretched them out, just so youd have plenty of yardage to work with. you werent talking then but maybe he wanted to and you didnt ask because you were too mad at him for being gone. hes there with you now, underneath your hands and pressed against your skin like an embrace youve only ever mimicked to kill).
you cant leave him here you have to move him take him somewhere, so you drag drag drag through the pulsing halls in the dead quiet. that stupid irritating butler isnt here, because. because just like you he left him at home. leaving both of you to clean up after hes gone. always cleaning up after him. he used to be so small. a small soft pathetic little thing, no proud twisting crown of bone but two little nubs and a tail that dragged on the ground, one hand gripped by familiar talons and the other wiping away the seemingly endless torrent of tears. small and useless and helpless, an insult to his blood.
you were so happy to have him there, finally someone to talk to that wasnt grandfather! father was always sparse with his words, and the acolytes never knew what to do with you. now there was bloodkin, slaughterkin, brother, tiny and useless while you, you were blessed and special. fathers favorite, vessel for his voice, and now you could prove it! this pathetic ignorant thing could see firsthand how talented and blessed you were because he didnt even know where to aim a knife to hit an artery but you could show him, you could make fun of him for it but show him anyways, and hed trail behind you nevercomplaining while you pointed out all the small spaces you could fit your child bodies into that all the acolytes couldnt spot no matter how hard they looked. youd take his skin and the two of you would rampage through the temple and no one would be able to tell who was who. his eyes have fluttered half closed now and still, still the heavyness of his limbs slow and drag you even as you drag him. endless hallways and endless bleeding expanses, the air reeking of myrkul rot.
Children are the Hands by Which we Take Hold of Heaven
WIP
character courtesy of @momohonk, setting courtesy of @someoneratherstrange
edited to fit tumblr by @maud-lin, who, along with @arach-tinilith, encouraged me to try to post my non BG3 writing WIPs too 💜
also pinging @alicelufenia who wanted to see :3
To what end does Fate steer us? How great is the influence of this unseen invisible Hand? What is it that seperates "curse" from "blessing"? And what price does one pay, to wrench themselves free from the gaze of an Almighty Navigator?
In a village, now long decrepit, a small community of dragonborn lead a humble life, fearful of that which they have no power to change. Paranoia leads to superstition, and that which is true is confused for that which is possible.
“…’Tis an ill omen, madam.”
“Ohh… why tonight of all nights? Are you so eager to see the sky? Please, I beg thee, slumber onwards to the dawn. I tell thee, there is naught here but shadow and mist. No star rises to greet thee, no moon to kiss thine forehead, and all the world is cloaked in the abyss. Please, please my child, wait just a few hours more. If you love your mother, you will show me the depths of your patience.”
A moment of quiet. Then, stutteringly, another crack. Then another, and another, and yet even more. Until, finally, the egg split down the side, and a small clawed hand pushed its way through the thin membrane. Scales black as ink, with the same liquid sheen, body blending into the darkness. The newly born finishes pulling itself from the wreckage of eggshell and even in the dim light, it looks… sickly. Body thinner than other newborns, limbs frail and skinny. It crawls out into the nest of soft blankets and furs set around it, and squints its eyes open, blood red irises scanning the surroundings before blinking shut again and curling into the warm pillow. The room is silent, broken only by the occasional muffled sob.
“Perhaps… perhaps it will not survive the night. Perhaps this will pass into memory as yet another test of the gods.“
“Per-perhaps you’re right… Yes… this is just, just, just another of their trials. Something we must yet endure.”
“Of course darling.”
“Why, why else, to damn us with a child so forsaken?”
He lives through the night. And the one after that, and the one after that. Three months in, and it becomes apparent that despite his frail body, he shall not succumb to sickness, and he is given a name. Lysander. Liberator. Not an expectation, but a hope. Not of the child’s, but the parents.
That year half the village washes away in a flood. The coming spring, a plague strikes all the livestock dead. The year after, a drought, followed by famine. After that, invaders come and take half their men with them. Travelers and merchants replace what’s lost, but the wound is open still. Talk abounds. They are a village damned, they say.
A village cursed.
Mother calls for him, again, and Lysander knows he should heed her. She gets so angry when he doesn’t. But he can’t. Not when he’s finally found Alden. He’s been missing for three days, and he shows every hour. Lying face down in the pond, body draped with fallen tree branches and algae, fur green with it. Tail, still forevermore.
And yet. And Yet. There’s something to be done here, he knows it, he knows it. It…calls to him. Beckons. The body is still intact, uneaten by animals. The water is stagnant and foul, nothing but a home to mosquitos now. And so there is no reason for a beast to come here. Alden most likely caught himself on something in the water, couldn’t free himself despite the struggling, and met his end. Out here all by himself.
Poor thing. If he could, Lysander would take him aside and whisper “It’s not your fault. You aren’t alone. I’ll make it all make sense. I’ll take you home.” Mother’s voice carries itself over the reeds to unlistening ears. He’ll catch hell for this, but he’s not going to leave him here like this. He steps into the murky water, blooms of algae clinging to his legs and he strides further in. As expected, a plant is wound tight around Alden’s ankle. It looks broken. Lysander draws a knife from his pocket and slashes him free, and, using a tree branch, guides the body to shore. He sits in the sand, further messing his clothes, and stares at Alden, now unsure of what to do. That sense is nibbling at him still, that if he was just aware of something he could… resolve this, somehow. He tenuously stretches out his hand to Alden’s cold wet fur. As he does so, suddenly there’s this… spark within him, like calling out to like, and something within Alden stirs. Not physically, as the flesh has long since lost its momentum, but metaphysically. The ethereal something bumps its head against Lysander’s hand, and for a moment, Alden stands there, tail wagging and body wriggling, pressing his soft fur into Lysander’s hand, ears soft between the clawed tips of Lysander’s fingers. He gives a loud, singular bark, before another sound cuts through to his awareness.
“LYSANDER! Step away from that!!”
He jolts, retracts his hand, stumbles back.
“Lysander, I’ve been calling for you for 30 minutes now! And this is what you’ve been doing? Ignoring me to play with some…animal…”
Her gaze falls onto the corpse and she trails off as understanding blooms, eyes widening. Lysander stands to dust himself off, and to defend himself.
“I’m sorry! I was just… looking for Alden…”
Her gaze softens. “Oh…oh! You… you found Alden. I see.”
Lysander looks down, his dog now once again still, and then back to his mother. “I saw him, in the pond and… I thought that maybe…”
“Oh… oh Lysander. No, darling no. He isn’t…” She shakes her head, and then takes Lysander by the shoulders, steers him away and back towards the house. “Why don’t you go clean yourself off, and we’ll have supper. Afterwards you and your father can go find someplace nice for Alden, someplace comfortable, a good resting spot. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it dear?”
Lysander nods, and follows his mother back to the house.
It’s a bad habit of his, letting her come to her own conclusions. He knew as soon as he saw, of course. No childish hope here. But such things make her look at him strangely, so instead he lets himself trail off, imply, and let her think the best of him. She wants to, so bad. He can tell. She wants to think he didn’t know, wants to think that he just wanted his dog to come home, to play again, that Lysander was looking for an animal lost and confused, to bring him back home to safety again. It’d ruin her to know he’s been searching for a corpse the whole three days.
He knew as soon as he went outside to see Alden’s lead chewed through. Knew before that, even. A gut instinct, almost. He can always feel it when something close to him dies.
He’s back at the pond again. There’s something…wrong with it. He can feel it. It calls out to the sense within him. He’s gotten better at hearing it now. If he closes his eyes, focuses with all his will, he can even see it almost. Like a tapestry, laid over the world. Thousands of thousands of threads, bent and twisting, connected to everything. They seem so real, like he could reach out and touch them. Like if he just entwined them through his fingers, he could twist and bend the things they connected to. The trees, the wind, the sand, the water.
The cat, face down on its surface.
One of the strays, from the feral colony that’s made its home here. He has half a mind to twist and tie the threads around its limbs, like when the traveler with his puppet theater comes through. Would it move? Would it still yowl and stretch, blink its yellow green eyes unseeing towards the sun? Can flesh, bereft of life, be made to walk once again? He thinks of Alden, thinks of that moment when once again soft fur wound through his fingers, no longer damp and slimy, but warm in a way no flesh could imitate. Less a touch and more a…feeling. Lysander doesn’t quite know what to call it. It’s wholly unlike anything he’s felt before. He thinks that maybe it’s like the look the other boys get, when they rush towards their mothers to hide behind their skirts, and she glances behind at them to smile soothingly. Lysander’s mother only ever wrings her hands. He feels if he can understand the pond, the thread, he’d have an answer to his question. To all his questions.
He’s not supposed to be out here. Ever since Alden, his mother has forbidden his visiting this pond. But like a moth to a flame, he feels drawn. Sometimes, when he focuses, when he looks, he thinks he can see something beneath the surface. Something you can’t find by swimming. Sometimes he thinks it sees him back. The thought should terrify him, but it doesn’t. Sometimes, at night, he dreams. He dreams of a still pond, the moon hidden within the sky. No stars dot the horizon, and no clouds pass overhead. The water is calm and black, a perfect mirror, and when he looks into it, the scales of his reflection blend into the night so all that looks back at him is two shimmering orbs of red.
Then, the reflection stands. It rises, smooth, out of the water, pouring off it in great torrents, so much so the form is obscured. All except those two piercing eyes of red. It rises, higher and higher until it towers over him, and then it bends forward, leaning towards him. He stands on the shoreline, still as a statue and it bends it’s great head next to his ear. Lysander hears it take in a breath, but before it speaks, he awakens, shivering and sweaty, body cold despite the warm air. He thinks it’s this he sees beneath the water. And the familiarity dulls his fear.
Another cat drowns in the night. And then the neighbors dog. And then the neighbors horse. And then the neighbor’s cow.
And then the neighbor’s son.
The elders have spent all the village’s gold on a gathering of priests. They chant and shake their staves, and they bind thick colored rope in a circle around the pond. Papers decorated with unfamiliar writing are interwoven within, and poke out through the thick knots of hemp. Lysander catches a glimpse of the opposite side when a priest binds it to a rope. On the back is a diagram, a lacework of lines and knots. He knows this. He sees it whenever he focuses his mind. Twisting, binding, wrapping around everything in sight. A never ending tapestry. He finally has a name for it, now.
Magic.
The priests invoke their gods, make themselves into a vessel, a channel. Like when his father digs irrigation lines in the fields. Power flows like water through them, traveling inextricably towards its destination, and upon reaching it, bursting forth unhindered. Lysander wants more than to be a line in the dirt. He wants the flood.
The dreams continue, unabated. No new bodies lie in the pond, and when he dreams, his reflection is thinner, sharper. When he peers into the pond, it’s from behind the thick faded ropes, leaning so far overtop them he worries he might tumble over. When it bends down towards him, it never crosses the line. A thin wind curls its way through the trees, hissing through the gaps of wood. The water churns, no longer still. And when it inhales, its breath is a hiss. When Lysander awakens, the chill doesn’t leave him for hours. He takes to wearing layers to stave it off, and his mother no longer calls for him when the sun sets.
After all, such horrors are born, not made.
Mother is…absent. There’s a distance there, now, that was not present before. The village pulls further away and as they do so, they fill the gap with hateful looks, making signs over their chest as he passes, and whisper amongst themselves when he leaves. The village of the damned suffers misfortune eternally, and another plague sweeps through the town. Through some miracle of luck, Lysander’s home is spared. The people resent him for it. What began as ostracization escalates further, until Lysander fears to even leave his home.
His mother seems not to care at all. They pass whole days without acknowledging one another. No longer does she call for him when the sun hangs low in the sky, no longer does she seek him when he slips into the night. His eyes meet nothing but the scales of her forehead as she glances away, and their eyes no longer meet over the table. She wrings her hands, over and over, such that she begins to wear down her scales around the knuckles. At night, the pond ekes itself closer and closer. Alden’s warmth is a long forgotten memory, swallowed into its icy depths. Only fear resides there now. The ropes fray and untwist in his mind, and though he stays behind them still, it inches closer and closer. When it looms over him, his snout almost touches the endless spray of water, and through it he can smell something foul and stale. The pause between the hiss of breath and waking grows ever longer, and Lysander dreads what foul words will fall from its waterlogged mouth. The chill lingers for the duration of the day now. No matter how hard he tries, Lysander cannot rid himself of this ice that traces lines in his marrow, cannot rid himself of the patterns it etches in his mind.
He avoids mirrors, reflective surfaces, and water that reaches above waist height.
It’s almost enough.
Whispers, over the table. Lysander is out, again. He’s always out. But even still, who knows what words the foul wind will carry to his ear? And so, whispers. She wrings her hands, a habit so hard to break nowadays. So plagued with worry. So plagued with guilt, with fear. If she had known what agony would be wrought, she would have taken up a stone herself that forsaken night. They have carried a cursed child into this world, and the world has spat upon them for it. Again and again, the gods visit their wrath. Again and again, it only barely touches her threshold. While the village bleeds and dies. Whatever foul curse has a hold on the foundations, it is strong enough to rebuke the efforts of the divine to correct what nature is prevented from doing herself. They cannot continue like this. If things carry on as they’ve been, they will be reduced to a strip of blighted land and murky water, foul and choked through with death. She folds her hands over again, and prays. Prays for liberation.
Despite it all, she loves her blasphemous child still. The innocence in his eyes, the naivety with which he carries out the heinous will of a being far beyond his understanding, any of their understandings. It’s not his fault he was born. And so, if it can be avoided, she wishes to grant her child mercy. If he does evil, it is not intentional. If he causes harm, it is without malice. This is to save him, too. This curse, this evil, shall be vanquished, one way or another, and with its death shall come the salvation of her little one. Her Lysander. She will pull him from whatever dark abyss he is mired within, and she will once again have her child, safe and warm, within her arms. This she swears.
It bleeds into all aspects of his life. His hobbies, his friendships, even his flesh. He lingers far beyond sun down, when all sensible children are within bed, fast asleep. Indeed, he even seems to avoid sleep, as if it would cause him harm. He returns home close to dawn, and hides from its blessed rays, face buried within his blankets, the covers pulled above him. When he ventures into the wood, he strays towards those harbingers of sweet death, the choking nightshade, the toxic death cap, the poisonous hemlock. He lingers by that forsaken pond, closed off as it is by holy wards and barriers. He layers his clothing, even in the warmest of weather, and his body is always frigid to the touch. The other children avoid him, and he has no friends. This foul entity assuredly whispers in his ear, corrupts his soul, guides him towards fulfilling its will. Carried from birth as it is, there is no extricating it from his person. But perhaps…perhaps there is another way.
She sees it one night, the night of a shadowed moon. She always struggles to sleep those nights. She checks on him again, to see if Lysander’s finally fallen asleep, and it’s there that she makes eye contact with it. A figure, like a dark reflection of her child, enshrouded in burbling water, crouched over him while Lysander sleeps still as death. It jerks its head up sharply at her approach, and she stares into its cold, dark red eyes. Her blood turns to ice in her veins, and after a long moment, she bolts back through the door, to lock herself in her room. She doesn’t sleep that night, and when he comes out for the morning, she cannot bear to look at him. How can she? Knowing what festers within him to drip poison into his dreams. Her poor son. Her poor, poor son. Knowing the shape of his cursed soul, what other choice is left to her, to this village of the damned?
She will free him of this evil, even if it kills her.
When the traders next pass through, bearing their goods and gossip with them, they hear tale of a land where all who reside within are bereft of soul. Living out their lives, day to day, just like normal men and women. Yet inside they are hollow. It’d be a sacrifice certainly but… If there’s a chance of him living a normal life, free of this shadow that clings to him, than surely, surely it must be better than living life in this hell of misfortune. To watch as everyone around you withers and dies in disaster after disaster… If she can spare his life, can give him some shred of normalcy, if she can end this without slaying her son, then by rights doesn’t she have a responsibility to do so? She will free him, will liberate him, no matter the cost.
The Dark Urge Performs an Autopsy and Does Not Think of His Father (W.I.P.)
Exploring the brief stint of time in between Gortash and Dirge forming the beginnings of the Absolute's plan, and Ketheric formally joining the alliance to unite the Dead Three in single purpose. Isobel's resurrection was the sole request Ketheric made of Myrkul in return for his service, and was required before Ketheric would acquiesce to delving below Moonrise.
However. Gortash commands the deaths of others. Ketheric leads an army set upon devastation. Bound to a necromancer god, how skilled is Ketheric actually with the task at hand? Unwilling to trust a matter of such import to two amateurs, the Dark Urge is forced to take matters into his own hands, and prepare Isobel's corpse for Resurrection himself.
Handling the body of the Moonmaiden's Cleric, whos revival will seal the doom of the world, the Chosen of Bhaal tries very hard not to think about the father Isobel has, that he does not.
4000+ words as of right now! currently unfinished but polished enough to post
Ketheric stands, fingers splayed across the surface of the coffin. The nameplate beneath, beautiful and elegantly carved, reads isobel thorm. The justiciar’s daughter. The lynchpin to bring forth the death of the world. The Dark Urge leans against a back wall, tail switching back and forth in impatient irritation, waiting, for something. It never comes. Sentimentality holds Ketheric paralyzed. Or perhaps fear. A century has she slept within a bed of stone, and rot always finds a crack through which to claim its dues. Even Gortash’s near infinite (comparatively) sympathies run short, and he strides to Ketherics side, smooth voice undercut by the gravel of barely restrained frustration.
"Are we merely here to stand idle as your daughter resurrects herself? If so, one would appreciate being informed beforehand, to avoid making hazardous, unnecessary excursions-"
Ketherics curt tone cuts him short.
"The Doctrine of Bane must certainly teach the values of patience? Or is there a habit of blindly rushing forth in your practice?"
Gortash makes a dismissive noise through his teeth, but Ketherics hand refuses to move. The Chosen of Bhaal cocks his head to the side, focused on a small detail on the sarcophagus centered in the room. He makes an interested click, loud enough to catch attention, and once both heads have started to twist towards his claimed corner, he graces the fetid stale air with the scratchings of his voice.
"There's a crack, there in the lid. Near the seam, where it connects with the base." Keterics attention predictably snaps to the spot in question, keen eyes quickly finding the miniscule detail. The implied meaning behind the bhaalspawn’s comment makes itself obvious. How long has it been there? When did it begin to splinter? How deep does it go? How long has his daughter's body been exposed to rotting cursed air? As Ketheric's thoughts tumble down the train of questions, panic predictably breaks him from his mournful reverie and strong hands fasten themselves to either side of the tomb's lid. Sturdy fingers crack into stone, and the Chosen of Bhaal watches as the muscles in Ketheric's shoulders clench and strain, as the man grips, and then rips the sarcophagus's lid right off. As he does so, it takes some of the base's sides with it, jagged wounds blasted through carved stone. Ketheric tosses it aside, and while the bhaalspawn cannot see his expression, he hears Gortash's low whistle. Curiosity is enough to move him from his spot against the wall, and Ketheric is silent for a long moment before his voice, heavy with grief, punctuates the empty air.
"Like a day had never passed...She's..."
Gortash sidles up against the coffin to stare down below, breaking Ketheric's trailed silence.
"Impressive! I must say, typically most corpses I see certainly show their wear after a few days, let alone a century."
Ketherics head snaps towards Gortash's in irritation, but before he says anything, the Dark Urge finishes his languid prowl towards the center, and stares down into the coffin's depths.
She's beautiful. All corpses are, in their way. The thin veneer of skin pulled back, insides out, arcs of crimson marking the walls and floors. The muted deep hues of a liver, exposed to air for the first time in its existence. What he does not reveal, decay takes upon itself, pulling away facade and persona alike to gracefully display what these rotting bags of viscera and skin take such great pains to keep hidden. But the corpse of Isobel Thorm is in no such condition. Skin pulled ever so slightly taut against the skeleton, the washed out tone of a body devoid of flowing blood. Hands folded gracefully over her center, eyes gently closed. Were he not so intimate with death, he could be forgiven for an initial assumption of ailing sleep. But no. There, in the background, hidden beneath the musty smell of rotting cloth and stagnant air that so filled the Thorm Mausoleum, was but a single note of sweet putrefaction. It was enough to spark a pang of hunger through his core. But this corpse was more than just a lump of rotting meat. This corpse was his harbinger of apocalypse. Once this corpse rose from its slumber, the Dead Three would be united in single purpose once more, and upon the throne of their triumph, he would personally raise the eclipse of slaughter upon this blighted earth himself. None of which could happen, of course, if this corpse did not get up.
Ketheric took a breath to steady himself. His hand, steady save for the smallest of trembles, reached out overtop her body. He sucked in a gulp of air, and then carefully began to give voice to the foul incantation that would restore life-
A hand, fast as a whip with a grip like iron, fastened itself around Ketheric's wrist. The bhaalspawn’s voice carved through the air with an authority profound enough to cut the words out of Ketheric's mouth.
"What are you doing?"
Ketheric made a dismissive tone and made to yank his hand out of the bhaalspawn's grasp, but those fingers remained clasped around Ketheric's wrist.
"I am going to revive my daughter."
The disdain in his voice was liquid venom, dripped into the surrounding stagnant silence. The bhaalspawn's grip relaxed slightly, making a dismissive *tchk* sound as he rolled his eyes.
"I know why you are doing this, Ketheric. What I asked was what?"
"I... I am invoking my lord Myrkul to call upon his power to restore life to my daughter's flesh, and call her soul back to inhabit it once again."
"As she is?"
Ketheric pulled his hand free at last, and once again looked down at the body before him. When he didn't answer, the Chosen of Bhaal folded his arms across his chest, oozing irritation at some perceived slight both Ketheric and Gortash had yet to grasp. The bhaalspawn jabbed a single clawed finger towards the body of Isobel.
"What, exactly, do you think would happen, if life were restored to a century old corpse fresh from its coffin? Do you imagine it'd go over well?"
Ketheric answered only with his silence. The spawn paused only for a beat before continuing on in disdain.
"All you can tell upon looking at her, is merely that her skin has preserved itself fairly well. There is no telling what the state of her organs is. I can make some broad assumptions given the condition, but nothing I would stake something as important as this on. Not without confirming first, that is."
He punctuated his usage of *this* with a sneer, lip curling to reveal just a hint of the canines Gortash had seen cleave through a man's arm.
Ketheric's body language shifted to something noticeably more uncertain. The spawn quirked a scarred eyebrow in question, and when Ketheric refused to deign him with elaboration, he pressed the paladin again.
"You... do know how to disassemble a corpse, yes? In such a fashion as to allow *re*-assembly. Yes?"
Gortash folded his arms across his chest and rolled back slightly on his heels.
"Such a skillset isn't particularly useful in my line of work. And far too messy for my tastes anyways. Grease, ink, and oil are enough for my tolerances, I'm not too keen on adding "rotting viscera" to that list."
Ketheric shifted uneasily on his feet.
"...Necromancy was not an aspect of Shar's doctrine I was familiar with. My lord Myrkul's knowledge is great, but... My hands are not yet experienced to my satisfaction."
Gortash clicked his tongue.
"Will we have to call in your pet zombie for the matter-"
"NO. No. Balthazar will not touch her." Ketheric's voice cracked with a single note of unexpected rage that took both Gortash and the spawn slightly aback. Gortash recovered from the interruption fast enough to retort.
"Then who, exactly, will prepare your daughter for resurrection?"
"....I will-"
"And risk reducing her insides to a paste? I'm sure necromancy will take perfectly well to animating that."
"Then you, Gortash? Certainly you can stitch together an intestinal tract as neatly as a gear train."
Gortash raised his hands in a motion of appeasement.
"I never offered. I'm well aware of my deficiencies."
"Then we are back where we started."
The two of them sat in silence for a long moment. The bhaalspawn carefully leaned forward so as to be in view of both of them, and flicked two fingers forward in a gesture of offering.
Ketheric's scowl could crack mountains.
"No. Absolutely not. You will not touch her."
Gortash rolled his eyes as he spoke up.
"Oh and you have any better options. Let me remind you that every second we dilly dally, your daughter spends more and more time exposed to your lands curse laden miasma."
"I am NOT letting some misbegotten murderous freak-"
"That "misbegotten freak" is more intimately familiar with the insides of a living person than either of us."
"I refuse-"
"Refuse what? To allow an experienced hand to carefully attend to the flesh of your beloved daughter? Will you refuse her a doctor, next time she falls ill, as well?"
"..."
Ketheric's scowl settled into something the bhaalspawn could have almost sworn was sulking.
"...Fine. But if you even think of defiling-"
The Chosen of Bhaal unfolded his arms to make a dismissive hand gesture towards Ketheric, cutting him off.
"Yes yes, no defilement or desecration of any sort, of course. Luckily for you I had the foresight we'd find ourselves in such a position and ensured my equipment made its way into our preparations. Now leave me to it."
"You brought your-? No, I most certainly will not be leaving you alone here with my daughter-"
Gortash chimed in while examining the nails on his un-gauntleted hand.
"You can tell how excited he is just from how much he's speaking. I think this is the most our murderous companion has graced us with his voice since we embarked from Moonrise."
"You aren’t any better. If either if you think I’ll be leaving you alone with my most cherished child-"
The Chosen of Bhaal levelled the full force of a gaze that had crumpled initiates to the floor.
"If you wish to see Isobel's intestines stretched wormlike from her corpse to a table, please do not allow me to stop you."
Ketheric pursed his mouth into a thin line.
"Furthermore. I do not. Appreciate. An audience. While I work."
"..."
"This is holy work. Your daughter will realize the glorious ambitions of my Father. Rest assured I shall treat the task with the gravity such a thing is due."
Ketheric met his gaze head on, holding eye contact as the bhaalspawn finished speaking.
"...Very well. At the very least, I can trust you won't bring any dishonor to your father's name. And if that is enough to stay your hand from anything...untoward, thennthat is enough for me. Alert me when the work is finished."
As he finished speaking, Ketheric turned sharp on his heel and began to walk out. Gortash waited a moment for Ketheric's back to face him, before pointing an exaggerated eye roll towards the Dark Urge, an amused smirk playing on his lips. Gortash gave a loose wave as he followed behind out of the mausoleum. The bhaalspawn spared a brief moment to wonder where, exactly, they'd be going that was both nearby and shielded from the curse, and then decided he didn't care. There was a matter he must attend to.
The corpse lay as still and silent as when he first gazed upon it minutes ago. Isobel. The syllables of her name seemed to float in the air, weightless. It had an airy feeling on his tongue, in his thoughts. It suited her perfectly. His gaze softened, staring down at her. What a blasphemous thing he was about to do. To pull this sweet, lifeless body back into the forsaken blighted land of the living. His Father had already graced his hands for the foul task at hand, so there was no question of heresy. Despite this, his mind remained disquieted. Even with his Father's blessing, how could he call himself the Scion of Bhaal if he did not have any misgivings? Or...perhaps this itself was another expression of the immutable flaws within him. After all, if his lord Father was assured in His purpose, what right did he have to doubt, even in service to His doctrine? He shook the train of thought from his head, although it did not clear the familiar lump of dread in his stomach. He reassured himself in the knowledge that she would only have to walk this world again for a scant few months, before the broken backs of an oath-sworn army performed their service to his Father and dragged all the world beneath a bloodied sky. And still. At least she didn't talk. That was always nice.
The Dark Urge rolled his shoulders to loosen them up, and then set about to gather an idea of what, exactly, he'd be working with here. He traced a gentle line against her cheek, the skin taut and dry against the pad of his finger. The flesh was firm, as it did not yield even as he began to place pressure upon it. A quick sniff confirmed his suspicions. Upon her death, her sealed coffin had retained enough humidity to allow the formation of corpse wax. At least partially. Clearly not everything had been preserved, for the sweet decay of rot still danced in the air, subtle but unmistakable. He was mostly grateful that at the very least her face had preserved. While he was well acquainted with the varied layouts of vital organs, he was much less confident in his ability to safely cut away any rotten portions of brain, without carving out something important. Wasn't even that enjoyable to look at anyways, at least not whole. Made a beautiful splatter when coming into contact with the blunt end of a blacksmith's hammer though. He shook his head. Not relevant, focus. He gently tested the exposed extremities, thankfully all similarly waxy. Ideally he might be able to get away with minimal clean up. His hopes were dashed though when, upon carefully moving her hands, a gentle press against the flat of her stomach made way for an unpleasant amount of give. The elements had preserved her face, her hands, but beneath her clothing, the rot had taken her organs. The source of the decay he had been smelling. Clearly it hadn't progressed overmuch, as the scent was incredibly faint. Typically, by this point, the scent should be unmistakable, overwhelming, enough to send his lessers stumbling and gagging away from the promise of spoilage that awaited all of them. Well. This is about as far as he'd get relying on his senses alone. Time for the work to begin.
Ketheric had clearly spent a fair bit of time in preparation for his role as envoy of Myrkul, as the mausoleum already had a fair collection of tools littering the side rooms containing his ancestors. Clearly there was no love lost in the Thorm family. The Urge spent a moment wondering if Thorm would bother cleaning up his workstations when he was satisfied with his results, then decided again he didn't care. He wouldn't trust the tools of a hobbyist butcher anyways. And while it took a fair bit of convincing to make Sceleritas mind the temple, at least the butler had remembered his request for the well worn tools of his taxidermy, minus that which wasn't really portable. He drummed his fingers against the side of the sarcophagus, considering. There was no getting around it. The body was too deep below him. She'd have to be moved. His gaze landed on one of the varying tables left out as whoever had set about their foul work beforehand clearly wasn't of a mind to tidy up. Wide enough to hold a body, though not much else. It would suffice. Decision made, he carefully leaned down towards her still form.
Delicately taking the back of her neck in his hand, fingers brushing through the strands of her hair. Still soft, still fine. Her neck fit so perfectly in his hand. He briefly entertained the thought of closing his fingers up and around her throat, then decided against it. Windpipes were so fragile, and it'd be a pain if he got too enraptured and gripped with too much force. Instead he slid his hand down and out so as to support her weight by the shoulders, slipping his other arm underneath her knees. Taking a moment to get a good feel for her weight, he exhaled and then carefully pulled Isobel up and out of her sarcophagus and into his arms. Held close to his chest, her head limply lolled into his shoulder. Not nearly as stiff as she should be. That was odd. Thankfully Isobel was just as light as her name. Moving her would pose no problem at all. And yet, something in the small motion, gravity pulling her corpse against the warmth of his flesh, stirred some unnameable emotion in his chest. Pausing, without fully knowing why, the Dark Urge stared down at the young woman he held.
Gentle features, a delicate build, so light in his arms. Is this how Ketheric felt, carrying her dead weight to her (presumed) final resting place? What did it mean for a Father to mourn His Creation so deeply he would burn all he knew upon a pyre just for her sake? A sacrifice she could never ask for. Blissful ignorance of the atrocities bestowed upon the land in her name. The pit in his stomach intensified. How cruel, to steal her from this. To bring her back to a world where her father had rendered her home wholly unrecognizable. The Chosen of Bhaal harbored no illusions about his own nature. That he, and his kind, were alone in their holy calling. That most others felt an irresistible draw towards prolonging their own wretched sufferings. They clung to false promises of "home" and "family" and "camaraderie". The bonds they formed between each other weighed down by love and connection. No, he was not ignorant of such things at all. How often had he relied on such delusions to sow death in his wake? Taking a surgeon's knife to those bowstring-taut bonds such that another may be unknowingly gifted the holy all-consuming blood passion? The aftershocks were often too much for their unaccustomed minds and untrained bodies, falling into wreck and ruin, filtered through a lens of heartbreak and betrayal to distance themselves from the sacred truth they had glimpsed for but a moment. And here he was, holding the corpse of Ketheric's daughter, about to call her back from the slaughtersweet world beyond, to...what? That same ruin he inflicted to push them towards that final calling? Surely she would feel betrayed? Daughters loved their fathers, didn't they? Children craved protection and peace, didn't they? Stability, familiarity, a home just how they remembered it, illusions and lies and false promises. Someone had already done her the kindness of tearing them all away, and here he was about to thrust Isobel back into their midst. When the call of life beckoned her back with its siren song, could she ever forgive the man who ensnared her so? After glimpsing a truth now fading from memory? Why did such a thought stir him so? What point was there in asking forgiveness from the dead?
"Not dead." a voice in his mind whispered. "The not-yet living."
How foul. His mouth curled into a sour snarl. Blasphemy indeed. He'd swallow it down, for Father. It was one thing to call the rotting sacks of meat and bone to walk and slaughter. A dark unlife, devoid of delusion. There was sense in that. But this was true life. If he did not kill her, she would... She would live, he supposed. Grow old, years and years from now. Grow sick, grow frail. How long until the void beyond beckoned her back? Sickening to imagine. His fingers tightened against her body.
Endure it, Isobel, he silently pleaded. A higher calling beckons you towards a dark paradise. Endure this farce once again for but a brief time, and you shall be rewarded with death eternal.
He stared down at her face, devoid of rot. Eyes gently shut in repose.
You shall not suffer this taint for long.
A brief pause.
I promise.
Isobel lay flat upon a table stained with long dried blood. It didn't even retain a single hint of its savory metallic scent. Ugh. Myrkulites. Everything they do is so dry. Well. A blood slick surface would have made this harder anyways. He'll indulge his bloodlust on the way leaving the region. He grabbed the rim of one of those gaudy elaborate Sharran vases and pulled it to his side. A quick glance inside supported his idea. Trash can shaped. He hooked a foot around the leg of a nearby smaller table holding his tools and dragged it over. A thought. Would he be able to strip the body without merely carving through the fabric? Such a thing rarely mattered but. This corpse would be getting back up after her autopsy. The Mausoleum was far from any settlement with unrotted cloth, and there was barely anything to be scavenged within it. Certainly Ketheric, at the very least, would be cross if he returned to his daughter to see a pile of shredded clothing beside her? Ugh. This burgeoning alliance grew more and more irritating by the day. Why, for fuck's sake, couldn't Myrkul have chosen a necromancer who knew what he was doing, instead of just learning as he went? That hypothetical chosen could do an autopsy his damn self. Or at least prepare for one in advance and bring a change of clothes for "his most cherished child." Irritation after irritation. The Dark Urge made a silent prayer to encounter a Dark Justiciar in an empty alley sometime in the near future. Bhaal knows hes earned it. Swearing quietly to himself, the bhaalspawn carefully, painstakingly, set about peeling the delicate layers of clothing off of Isobel's body. Whatever foul rites Ketheric had prepared should already cover the restoration of muscle tissue. Her legs will be fine, he's already putting more thought and effort into this than her father did. Pale blue fingers tipped in dark black claws against the backdrop of icy white flesh, carefully tugging against ancient fabric so as not to tear. A methodical process, time consuming. Immensely aggravating. If Ketheric got impatient and stormed back in, he could resurrect her by himself, putrefied organs and all. The shit he puts himself through. Satisfied both with his work disrobing the body and the plethora of curses hanging in the air, he allowed himself a moment of reprieve to collect his thoughts. Now for the fun part.
A Y-shaped incision pulling her flesh apart like a flower. Gloved hands skillfully maneuvering a scalpel with all the grace of a portrait painter. The mask he normally used in the midst of taxidermy, to help filter out the fumes of his collection of preserving chemicals, but here serving the function of blocking out the smell of liquified gore (it'd be hard to focus if he worked up an appetite after all). Rotted blood, clotted in the veins. A century spent moldering in the dark. And a plethora of oddities to puzzle through. Firstly, while the smell was intense, it wasn't nearly intense enough. It had the strength of a body shortly past the rigor mortis stage, when it still smelled sweet. Another thing. There simply just. Wasn't enough of it. Corpse wax hadn't managed to preserve nearly any of her organs, and yet despite that, it was as if he was watching them break down in slow motion. Her heart was almost entirely intact, in fact. The aorta would need to be remade, but the ventricles were fine. Lungs in near mint condition. If he wasn't focused on prepping a body for reanimation, he'd be tempted to take them back to the Temple. But on the other end, her liver was almost a puddle he had to carefully scoop out into his makeshift biohazardous waste vase. And he'd cut out a good several feet of intestine already, and might need to remove more. At least he'd be able to give Ketheric accurate diagnostics on what, exactly, he should focus on remaking through the power of Myrkul. Another pang of pity. He was rather certain he'd rather drag himself out of the grave, spilling organs and all, than let the hand of Myrkul touch his innards. Another silent apology.
He paused for a brief break, looking down to the opened flesh upon his table. Falling again into a pool of thought without the work to occupy him, he absentmindedly traced a finger along the smooth curve of Isobel's ribcage. Skeleton in mint condition, as far as he could tell. Difficult structure to replace, more complex than most gave thought too. A dense exterior, and a spongy core. Upon making the first incisions and peeling the flesh back, a distinct aroma had hit his nostrils, a scent that called to mind the image of the moon shining through clouds, though he had no means to convey that.
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