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So when Gortash learned the truth of the matter, he supposed it wasn’t the
surprising thing in the world - Bhaal crafting a literal embodiment of his will to lead his cult; children of deities weren’t unheard of (and Bhaalspawn,
not) but that did not mean it wasn’t strange to think about. Especially considering how very... human he could be.
Everytime Enver would call for him to brief him on whatever person the cult needed to kill, Bhaal’s chosen would always seem to stand around idly tapping on the mahogany tables with his pointer finger. Whatever eye contact Gortash was granted was intense and unmoving, as if he was forcing himself to maintain it. He kept stealing grapes from the assortments of fruit placed on various tables in his chambers. And he always seemed to absolutely hate it when Gortash had on a new perfume — not that he should get to complain. Gortash did not think he would ever get used to the scent of Bhaals chosen – the smell of copper and sewer consistently lingered on his skin. He supposed it came with the territory, and though Gortash had never been to the temple of Bhaal, he figured it was an unavoidable side effect of living in the Undercity.
But unavoidable or not, it consistently lingered in his own chambers whenever the Scion managed a visit. Gortash would need to air out for days on end to stop the smell of blood from settling on his tongue, and every swallow somehow reminded him of the assassin.
A smile crept its way across his face as he wondered if it was too on the nose to imagine that the Bhaalspawn did, in fact, bathe in pools of blood.
Kythorn 23, 1490DR.
Gortash tries not to take it personally when he arrives home to find a body laid plainly out on his desk. It's a man, perhaps in his late 20’s and clad in Flaming Fist armour (if the colours of the scraps of clothing left on him were any indication). Followers of Bhaal always came with the added side effect of caring only for blood, but Gortash had at least hoped that his new business partner wouldn’t be completely reckless, waiting to kill for any reason. But seeing as this man was not one he had ordered killed, perhaps he had judged him too hastily.
"While I appreciate your area of expertise and how well you’ve performed it so far-" He paused, simply assuming the culprit would be present to hear it, as he glanced lazily over at the corpse. He took in its stiff expression, its hands; bloody, broken digits, and finally the fatal wound – a firm cut starting from the solar plexus and jaggedly making its way down to the navel. In another life he might have pitied the poor bastard. "I’d much prefer you not leave me your trophies like a common housecat, Scion."
Sure enough, he heard the familiar footsteps of Bhaal’s progeny as he stepped out from a corner in the room, evidently having awaited Gortash’s return. His torso was stained with blood. Presumably the killing blow had come from behind, the tiefling’s arms wrapped around the victim as he drove the dagger into the torso, letting the blood seep through. "Perhaps you should search him."
Gortash turned on his heel to face the other, raised brows and a curious smile decorating his face as he hummed to himself. He approached the cadaver, reaching into an inner pocket in the man's jacket (or what was left of it, rather), revealing a bloodied letter – still sealed. Penetrating the letter with the sharp talon of his gauntlet he opened it, taking a moment to glance up at Bhaal’s chosen, the other eagerly awaiting his reaction.
Sure enough the letter had been of interest to him, especially as it was addressed to one of his political opponents, and containing slanderous information about Gortash (albeit the information stated in the letter had been completely true, regardless it would still have been a bother to deal with – had it been made public).
He looked back to the scion, who stood expectantly with his arms crossed and an expression of pure pride painting his face, as if waiting to be praised. Was he waiting for thanks, or an exclamation of appreciation for a job well done? It would be almost funny if it wasn’t so unusual; the (very literal) flesh and blood of the Lord of Murder waiting eagerly for approval like a loyal warhound.
Gortash shifted his glance back to the body on his desk, he leaned over, pressing the tip of his index finger to the blood pooling underneath it – halfway to drying, it seemed, as he felt the blood smudge between his thumb and index finger. He took two steps towards the tiefling in front of him, who remained still, and wiped the remaining blood on his fingertips on the others already blood-stained clothes. He glanced up at him, seeing an opportunity – if the Scion wanted praise, he would not find it now.
"I trust you’ll clean this up, hm?"
Kythorn 24, 1490DR.
Feeling faint after only a dozen strikes was unlike him, as was much else about him as of late. The Scion had returned to the temple of Bhaal in a state of desperate confusion following his visit to Gortash the night prior. He had not even had the energy to string up the corpse of the Flaming Fist to drain it of blood, instead having thrown it to Sceleritas to dispose of. He was currently in his chamber, feeling as the stone scratched against knees and the blood pooled down his back as he counted his 13th strike.
He recalls the last time he flogged himself; it had been many years prior, from his earliest days in Bhaal’s temple. It used to have been little more than another way of giving back part of himself to Father in gratitude for his life, but now it was his holiest prayer. And pray he did, anticipating the feeling of Bhaal’s approval, for surely he loved him?
No reply came.
Bhaal was not a talkative father by any means, but his approval had always been felt any time the Scion offered something to him, be it of the many slaughters committed in His name or the Scion’s own blood. But there was nothing now.
He knew he had erred in killing that Godsdamned Flaming Fist for Gortash’s approval and not Bhaal’s – even before he had committed the act, he knew he was making a mistake. And now it seemed his prayers to Father would not be answered. He was little more than a hollow shell, bleeding onto stone, much like the people he normally gutted in the very spot he was currently in.
He choked back a sob, his right hand letting go of its grip on the barbed whip still warm with blood. The Undercity’s cold air pressed into his back as he collapsed onto the floor of his chambers, curling up into a ball and wishing for death to take him. No other solution seemed possible at that moment.
But death did not take him, even as he lay still, a Nothing. Neither Bhaal nor Gortash granted him their approval, and now it seemed both were lost to him.
. This condition he found himself in was pitiful, humiliating; entirely unworthy of him. He was sculpted from Bhaal’s very flesh, and Gortash did not show him the respect he was due. He had done Gortash a
, killing that Flaming Fist, and he tossed it aside without so much as a "thank you’. Gortash should be made to answer for his mistake, flogged in the Scion’s place.
His fingers twitched with the longing to feel the man’s neck trembling underneath his touch until his eyes would glaze over and welcome oblivion. A half-smile made its way onto the Scion’s lips, sighing dreamily at the thought, growing aroused.
Gortash was already so keen on displaying his chest in most outfits he owned and publicly wore; dark body hair decorating his torso. The Scion wondered how it would feel to reach in underneath his coat, to feel skin on skin – if Gortash’s obsession with hygiene was any indication it would be soft, surely. If he were to permit it, would his touch be as soft as his flesh? The Scion hummed to himself, envisioning himself on his knees in front of the other, a hand caressing his cheek in approval. Or perhaps the very same hand, roughly enclosing itself around one horn.
He did not register how long he laid there thinking; the blood on his back having dried and the snot no longer dripping from his nose were the only indications of any time passing at all.
The Scion pushed himself back on his feet, taking note of the unusually deafening silence filling the temple. He glanced around. It seemed as if he was well and truly alone.
His footsteps echoed against the cold stone as he paced around his chambers, trying to guide his thoughts away from his encounter with Gortash. To absolutely no avail.
Kythorn 26, 1490DR
Gortash was a man with an eye for ambition, and he always had been. Ever since he was a young child tinkering with scrap metal, and now as an adult creeping his way up through the ranks of Baldur’s Gate’s elite. He supposed that was why Bane had delivered him from his imprisonment in the Hells - he took opportunities when they presented himself, allowing them to blossom into something greater.
And the Chosen of Bhaal, now revealed to be desperate for acknowledgement, was one such opportunity. Not necessarily out of a desire to twist him into a pawn – he had more than enough of those already, not to mention the certainty that Bhaal would not be fond of him trying to undermine the leader of his cult. Rather, they could both rise above their current stations, for what was Baldur’s Gate to the rest of the Sword Coast, or even Toril itself?
It came to him as an idle thought, an unpleasant memory from his time imprisoned in the Hells - no more than a pageboy, doing the bidding of The Overseer and his master in turn. Ranting wasn’t uncommon in the House, but most of the time it came from the other inhabitants and was practically incoherent. This time it was purposeful and angry. It was the master of the House, storming through the halls screaming to himself after a visit to one of the other layers. Enver had been keeping his head low, yet ever listening. The usual elaborate and theatrical phrases spoken by the master of the House had been replaced by raw fury, hot as the very circle of Hell they resided in.
It was not often the master of the House lost his temper but every time he did, it was always about "The Crown’. Even as a young child, Enver knew it had to be important to cause a devil to lose its temper over it. He did not know what it was, but some part of him knew it to be important. And now? It was an opportunity, perhaps – even all these years later.
He would need to have more research dedicated to this crown, whatever it was. He might not have realised as a child– nor would he have had the resources to commit to anything regarding it – but he did now.
Yes– he would summon the Scion, explain his plan, and they would begin the necessary preparations. Someone out there was bound to know something, and coin was sure to loosen lips. If not, he was sure Bhaal’s progeny would not be opposed to outsourcing some of his assassins for the purpose of extracting information (if he didn’t wish to do it himself, that was). While Gortash was happy he had never seen the Scion in action, he could not help but wonder what methods he would employ to squeeze information from a person. Had he even interrogated anyone before, he wondered. He figured Bhaal did not care what happened to a person before they were made into an offering for him.
The only one of the Scion’s kills that Gortash had bore witness to had been the Flaming Fist left behind on his desk. A jagged kill, yes — but not performed by a hand that did not know how to also stay it. He supposed a decade’s worth of killing experience granted one a certain skill set.
His last encounter with his fellow chosen had indeed proven the man did not kill for thrill– there was a purpose. He hummed, recalling how the other had been standing idle waiting for Gortash’s praise. How amusing, in its own way.
Kythorn 30, 1490DR
The Scion had been on-board with the plan immediately, listening attentively as Gortash had explained the first steps. They would send out informants to gather knowledge of this crown and, if his suspicions were correct, a mighty opportunity would present itself. Gortash was sure of it.
It did not take many days before a letter appeared from one of the aforementioned informants. It was true enough that any artefact that would have a devil screaming in frustration due to its lack was mighty powerful indeed. If the information was accurate at least.
"It’s the crown of Karsus, created by the archwizard himself." Gortash explained, "Originally created to enhance the dominance of its creator - it appears to have been inverted and turned inward during the Folly. Now instead of dominating others, others can dominate the wearer." Gortash could not stop the smile forming on his lips, his mind swooning with possibilities.
"With it on the right cranium, we would rule from the shadows as kings." Scion added, almost in awe.
"We’ll be more than kings, Scion," A pause. "We'll be
." Gortash stated, more than a hope– it was a certainty.
"Tragically, the poor sod who granted us this information has no clue on how we might acquire the crown itself. Thankfully, I have my own idea." He continued, waving his hand dismissively. In truth, his own idea might have been more of a metaphorical free-fall, but if it worked it would be worth the risk. He would deal with the details later.
"Of course you’ll have to take care of the informant – no loose ends, you understand." Gortash paused, walking over to a shelf stocked with wine, and carefully musing over what vintage to grab. He settled on a bottle of Blingdenstone Blush and poured two glasses of it, the heavy scent of currant and cherry pouring from the bottle. "But now, I believe a toast is in order."
"To what?" The Scion raised his brows, grasping the stem of the wine glass, inquiring to hear Gortash’s reply rather than out of genuine confusion.
"To us getting our due." He replied in turn, sipping from his glass.
Flamerule 1, 1490DR
The Scion understood his purpose now, ever since he had been brought to Gortash’s chambers the previous night and informed of the potential of this crown. He could not stop smiling as he had made his way back to the temple, for the first time in weeks feeling Father’s approval wash over him. Once they got their hands on the crown, he could fulfil his holy purpose: Fathers beautiful oblivion delivered onto the world.
He wanted nothing more. The world was cruel and the world was wicked, and once he sat atop that very world, the Scion would offer it to Father - his final thanks for being gifted life before ending it himself. Of course Gortash could not understand it yet, but being given a beautiful death alongside Bhaal’s Scion was a gift unlike any other.
The perfect ending, the one they both deserved.
But there was still time before that, and so he decided to take advantage of his leisure time. His body grew hot at the prospect of finding some handsome young man and feeling his entrails under his fingertips. He felt like himself again: the progeny that had returned to Baldur’s Gate all those years ago who had terrorised the very streets he currently wandered.
It did not take long to locate a fitting victim, a human in his thirties perhaps. The Scion had been previously stated to be off-putting to some people, but his... unique charms made it easy to lure him into a secluded tavern room.. He was promptly undressed. Indulging in sex was not new to him, but he almost always grew bored of the masquerade eventually. It was much more fun when his partner invited him to squeeze around their throat as they approached their climax, unaware of how they had spelled their own beautiful doom.
The realisation that the tiefling would not stop squeezing hit the human too late. There was the familiar sensation of the body spasming for brief seconds, and then a light cracking underneath the Scion’s fingers.
The human's dark eyes had completely glossed over the next time the Scion looked down at the man underneath him. Sweat still lingered on the humans brow; it made his brown hair cling to his forehead.
The man looked sickeningly familiar, now that he thought about it. It was almost funny.
He left the human there on the bed, crawling out the window and disappearing back into the night, still not satisfied.
Flamerule 5, 1490DR
"I come with news from the Dread Lord." Scion always had a way about him, showing up in places without a sound. It was startling even when Gortash had summoned him, bordering on becoming scary when he had not. Today was an example of the latter.
"I’m sure you do." Gortash looked up from his bath and spotted the tiefling standing still, as if waiting for confirmation before approaching further. "Just as I’m sure it would kill you to extend the same courtesy I grant you in sending a message before showing up at your door." He rolled his eyes, yet not particularly bothered (at least after getting over the initial shock of someone appearing in his bathroom). Gortash reached for one of the grapes kept within arms reach of the tub while the sound of Scion’s footsteps approached. The footsteps stopped next to him.
"You’ve never shown up at my door." Scion corrected plainly.
"Right," Gortash clicked his tongue, "Care to enlighten me with what news Bhaal’s chosen brings?" He changed the subject.
"We are to include Myrkuls chosen in the cabal of our plot." If Bhaal’s chosen felt any which way about this addition, his voice didn’t reveal it.
Gortash shrugged, "Who am I to question our masters?" – it wasn’t really an answer. "It makes sense, though. The crown contains three foci used to dominate it."
"One for each of us."
"Well concluded." Gortash chuckled, climbing out of the tub, reaching for a robe to wrap around himself. "I’ve contacted a diabolist in the Lower City. She’ll grant us access to Mephistopheles’ vault, where the crown is kept."
Gortash watched as the tiefling reached over and began eating the tubside grapes as well. His lack of response indicated he was waiting for more elaboration on what the plan was to actually obtain it.
"We’ll confer with her further with both of us there but, between the two of us, it should be a simple undertaking, no?" He clarified with a glint in his eye. The way he saw it: they might fail, but they had to try.
Flamerule 10, 1490DR
And so it was done. Helsik, the diabolist Gortash had hired, had been good for her word. It had been a remarkably quick affair (though time in the Hells moved differently than on the material plane); they had gotten remarkably lucky for the risk they were taking. Either Mephisthopheles hadn’t figured anyone foolish enough to break into his vault and steal from him, or he had his own motivations for the chosen to obtain it – who knew with devils. But Gortash was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
As the hell portal closed behind them, he immediately checked the bag of holding they had used to store the crown in to confirm it was still there. Thankfully it was unassumingly inanimate, seemingly no more than a mere object if one didn’t know of the potential it held.
"Now what?" Scion asked, regaining his breath and wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
"Now," Gortash paused, breathing in, as he closed the distance between the two and blithely tapped the other's chest with his open hand. From here he could smell the other’s sweat. "We get to work." He made eye contact with the other, his gaze heated as adrenaline still pumped through his veins. "But perhaps, our masters would not begrudge us a celebration of our success."
"What did you have in mind?"
Gortash smiled.
While Upper City soirées were but a side effect of rising through the ranks of Baldur’s Gate’s nobility and by no means the end-goal, it did not mean that Gortash did not enjoy indulging in them – he would be a fool not to. He had wondered if admitting to enjoying a vintage of wine worth more gold than the average Baldurian makes in their life would make him unrelatable to the public, but evidently not. Whenever he did interviews for Baldur’s Mouth, he always spun his enjoyment of the finer things in life into the classic rags to riches story, of the humble son of a cobbler finding success. The people loved such stories, for it gave them hope that they might achieve the same success one day.
Obviously they wouldn’t. But they didn’t need to know that.
Of course, the Scion was not very familiar with proper celebrations like this. Living in the Undercity temple where the most joyous and festive occasion was a live dismembering, he had not objected to a more... classical celebration of their success. Given the secretive nature of their plan, they had but each other to celebrate with. That did not stop them.
Gortash had ordered a servant to bring a charcuterie board for the two, filled with various cheeses, meats, and fruits. While it had been prepared he had asked that baths be drawn for both of them. He was particularly keen on promptly getting rid of the smell of sulphur the Hells seemed to leave in one's hair and skin; it was all too familiar for him.
Stepping into his chamber, he wrapped a silken robe around himself, assuming his chambers would be empty to allow him to redress in private. Yet the Scion was evidently already done bathing and was seated at his desk, idly snacking while reading through letters sent from the latest addition to the Dead Three’s chosen. Moving closer, Gortash could tell the familiar scent of blood still lingered on the other. Perhaps it
seeped into his very skin? Truthfully he didn’t mind it, not as of late – even if his own usual cinnamon and citrus cologne was a little more forgiving to one's sense of smell.
"It was on your desk already, I took the liberty of opening them myself." The Scion glanced up lazily, seemingly making eye contact with the other for the sake of politeness rather than any actual desire. "Myrkul's chosen wishes that we pay him a visit." He explained.
"I see. Whatever he wants to show us must be important if we’re to make a house call." Gortash reached over to grab the letter from the Scions hands, inspecting it himself for posterity's sake while resting his free hand on the other's shoulder. Sure enough, they’d both need to head to Moonrise Towers soon – but not quite yet. "I’ll arrange transportation for us, somehow I’m doubtful that butler of yours can serve as stagecoach."
Scion let out a short, dry laugh. "If I truly asked that of him come dawn, he would procure a carriage and horses before breakfast." Was that a joke..? Well, a sort of joke anyway, especially compared to how stoic Bhaal’s progeny usually was; blunt, precise and completely humourless.
Gortash handed the letter back to Scion, taking note of how in spite of his recent bath, blood still lingered on his fingers. "I suppose it was too much to ask of you to wash the blood from under your nails." He stated, grabbing the other's hand and turning it over to inspect it, "No matter," He continued, shaking his head. "We have more important things to discuss."
The Scion’s quiet attentiveness spoke for him, urging Gortash to continue.
"Being who you are, you know of our lord's history with one another. Many alliances have been formed in our masters" names, and yet they always splintered. We must be greater than them.
, so long as we remain as equals. We cannot afford discord to sow chaos among us, for we need each other," A pause, "In more ways than we dont."
They were very close, and yet the Scion remained unflinching.
"I propose we swear an oath, that I do no harm to you, and you none to me. Further we shall not meddle in each other's affairs – our individual leaderships of our lords’ followers is not up for question, Bane has chosen me for a reason, as I know Bhaal has with you." Gortash continued,
The Scion looked up at him still. "It is done. You have my fealty, Enver Gortash."
"And you mine." He replied in turn. Truthfully, Gortash had previously considered getting into the Scion’s good graces in this way for more... tactfully political reasons than of genuine interest. He wasn’t a stranger to it – some noble lady a few years back had access to funds he needed in order to buy his way into the Zhentarim’s favour, and so he managed to secure them.
In another life he might have found the idea of sleeping with someone for gain to be unsavoury and wholly beneath him, but in this life it was a fact. If Enver wanted to be precious about this, how could he ever hope to shake the world from its very roots?
But here, now, perhaps he didn’t need political convenience.
He glanced down to the tiefling seated mere inches from him, connecting to Enver with unbreaking and deeply piercing eye contact. A glint of interest in his eyes was apparent. Gortash raised one hand, lifting the other's head slightly as he traced a finger along the underside of his jaw. His other hand reached to pluck a grape from its vine, moving to press it against Scion's lips.
Gortash pushed the grape into his mouth, catching a glimpse of the tiefling’s sharp canines as he closed his mouth around it. Of course the Lord of Murder’s chosen would have sharp canines, fit for tearing meat apart, not unlike a predator animal - what else did he expect?
"Good job." Words spoken plainly but hiding a hint of amusement; he had a suspicion that any hint of praise would leave the tiefling docile and pliable. Judging from the expression he was receiving, it seems he was right. What might be going on in the Scion’s head? A silent prayer, or even a curse? Scion’s eyes shone with a hint of raw obsession; if Gortash did not know better, he might have felt like a prey animal caught in his stare.

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