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He felt particularly exposed like this, what with his robe short enough to reveal much of his inner thigh, covered in coarse dark hair.  He felt a hand reach out to trail its way up his aforementioned inner thigh, brushing over his pelvis and settling a centimetre or two above the base of his cock. 
He would be lying if he said it did not feel great to watch the Chosen of Bhaal get down on his knees in front of him. Scion raised his hands to grasp at something, anything, eventually landing at the subtle layer of fat that had gathered on Gortash’s belly in recent years, sharp nails piercing his skin.
He lifted one hand, reaching out towards one of the tiefling’s curved horns, grasping it tightly to guide his head around. If he minded it, there was no indication. 
Enver considered for a moment that maybe letting a murderous cult leader anywhere near his genitals would prove to be a horrible mistake, but it certainly was thrilling. 
Flamerule 20, 1490DR
Moonrise Towers was every bit as grand as Ketheric had described in his letters and, worryingly, a testament to his ever-shifting faith. The Scion’s thoughts were his own most of the time, and if he were plain, he did not trust Ketheric. 
The man was impressive – a great general if judged from his past history – but his only allegiance was to that damned daughter of his, not to the dead three. If the Scion had been in charge, they would have kept her as leverage for much longer, until their plans had been fulfilled and he could tear the world from its roots. 
But he should not question the will of Father; if Ketheric was the final person The Dead Three wanted to help fulfil their plot, they would have him. 
Besides, the gift they had gotten from him in the form of the towers was a great one, moreso what lay below it. The Scion did not know much about illithids outside of general lore, but the colony that had evidently formed under the towers brimmed with such potential that it nearly brought a tear to his eye. 
When they first had been brought below, into the oubliette, Gortash had been stunned by its beauty as well, he had noticed. The stench had been foul, a mix of rot, urine, and blood; by the Dread Lord, it was magnificent. His body grew hot at the prospect of the people they would infect down here, turning them into the army they would use to break the world. 
Moonrise Towers had been empty, save for the three chosen and a handful of Myrkulites, devoted to Ketheric’s cause, though they mostly dwelled in the colony below. Each step taken in the halls of the tower above echoed across the entire floor. Soon they would be filled with thralls for their cause– their perfect, obedient subjects.
The area around the towers left much to be desired for Scion’s base urges, though. Void of life, completely barren, he had to settle for killing Sceleritas twice in one day just to avoid accidentally gutting one of Ketheric’s devotees out of frustration. 
Gortash had clearly taken note of it, allowing Scion to wrap both hands around his throat and squeeze as he fucked the tiefling.
He shall make such a beautiful corpse,
once the time comes and we both greet Fathers beautiful obliteration.
The dread world would be no more, and them along with it. In death the two would be united, their bodies reclaimed by the very world they would soon destroy. 
Of course he did not squeeze hard enough in an actual attempt on Gortash’s life, but it was arousing to watch the man above him beginning to slip out of consciousness as he fucked into the tiefling. The man had will and determination – but he should hardly be surprised given all he knew of him.
Ketheric had called them both downstairs to yell at them not long after, evidently eager to get the two out of the towers he had spent the last century moping in. 
Eleasias 29, 1490DR
As soon as they had returned back to Baldur’s Gate, Gortash and Scion had fallen into a routine of sorts, as strange as that word was for two people like them. Scion had recently made a habit of coming by for a visit after particularly gruesome kills, to spend pent up energy leftover from the raw euphoria of murder. 
On the worst of days, though that phrasing could be construed as subjective, he wouldn’t even bother to wash the blood off of him. He supposed the fact he was beginning to find it attractive was unbecoming of him, but who was here to judge? The tiefling felt up the other man, leaving behind smudged, bloody handprints on his entire body the following morning. Gortash could usually even still taste the blood in his mouth, previously belonging to some poor sod in the Lower City, now rubbed into his bedsheets. 
How Scion dealt with that energy prior to his nightly trysts with Gortash he did not know, nor did he wish to know. He supposed a being crafted from Bhaal’s dead flesh would have more... unsavoury habits but then again, didn’t everyone?
They didn’t speak much of the plan after it had been laid in stone during their visit to Moonrise Towers. There had been propaganda printed for months already, ever since the prototypes of the Steel Watch had been made public. Then, The Scion would send his assassins out to cause panic in the streets little by little, until they had enough infected to finally send the army to march on the city. It was brilliant, not to give himself too much credit, but who was he kidding? He deserved credit, his genius would take them all far, until the world would offer themselves to him and his allies.
control. Hah! 
Gortash couldn’t help but wonder what the public would think if they knew the man that promised to deliver them from the murders soon to happen in the streets was in bed with the very man behind them. He laughed to himself.
Eleint 7, 1490DR
The Scion’s hands were abuzz, his vile blood pumping through his veins and leaving his fingertips shaking, the raw urge to kill had not left him in weeks – ever since they returned from Moonrise. Father loved him surely, otherwise this blessing would not have been bestowed upon him. The others in the temple all murdered on his (and by extension, Bhaal’s) command, but they were merely going through the motions. They did not have a divine promise like his,
they could have a purpose to serve. 
Father’s temple had not been this loved in years, initiates gathered around him in holy prayer as Scion dug through a barely lucid man's organs, pulling them out to place neatly on the altar in front of him. It was the first time in memory that Sceleritas had been set to clean the excessive amounts of blood from the floor, lest a fourth initiate would slip and crack their skull on the stone stairs (they had all made fine offerings, in the end, but he could not afford to thin their numbers this close to the reckoning).
As his holy sermon concluded, he retreated to his chambers once more. He spoke with Father often, these days – though it was not much in the way of conversation. He knew He did not approve of his relations with Gortash, and he begged forgiveness most every night; offered his blood in penance as it dripped onto the stone floor in a beautiful pool of red. In spite of his divine nature, Father was mortal once, and so he was cursed with bouts of uncertainty and doubt. He could not see his prodigal son's plan yet. The anticipation would make Gortash’s death all the sweeter, once this vile world was at its end.
"Forgive me, Father, for I cannot help but admire the Chosen of your sworn foe. Father, you created me to be the last soul alive. I will slaughter Gortash upon your altar, where I myself hope to die when the world itself is gasping its last." He prayed to Bhaal’s image, carved into the wall, suppressing his shaking fingertips as he himself carved into his wrist, letting the blood flow back to Father.
"I will make you proud," He stated plainly, but he did not know if it was for his own reassurance, or Father’s.
Eleint 16, 1490DR
Flymm’s Cobbler was still as much of a dilapidated ruin as it had been years prior. Gortash figured a part of him had hoped to feel better about his parents" humble standing now, contrasted to his own. But for some reason the spite forming in him didn’t seem to die down. Years of misery on his part, spent to save this sad place? It would be hilarious, if it hadn’t been at his own expense.
He contemplated going in, like many times before. Go inside to give his parents a piece of his mind, to gloat in all he had achieved while they still crawled around in dirt. There were times he had considered killing both, perhaps he would walk behind the store, into the workshop and grab a hammer to crack open their skulls with. Or he could strangle them both in their sleep, the two blissfully unaware of what was happening until it was too late. They were both old and frail; it would be no trouble at all. 
But fate had greater plans for them both than a simple death. They would suffer tenfold for what they had done to him. The plan was complete and pending execution, in the coming months they would start infecting people, his parents among the first, obviously. And then, his parents would not even have the mind to
they were dead.
The perfect revenge he had unknowingly saved until now, in a way. A dish best served cold – and by the Black Hand’s will, he would savour its taste.
Marpenoth ?, 1490DR
Bhaal’s Scion first registered blood pooling over his face and into his eyes before he even felt the blow. Then – a pounding heat from his cranium, deafening him with ringing. He turned back, facing his attacker and was met with pale eyes and an intense smile. Orin. That
In hindsight he should have known, seen it coming even. Orin had always had her own smaller following within the cult (though he had figured it was just her collection of desperate stray women who she had sex with, nothing more). But nothing like this. Did she seriously believe this little rebellion would end well for her? A mere half-breed, practically shaking, giddy with excitement as her dominant hand clung to the bloody stone she had just used to bash his skull in. She was barely of Bhaal’s vile blood, her grandfather a withered old fool who had failed Bhaal so many years ago. And
would usurp him? 
Blood pounded in his ears as he reached out for Orins neck, but the shock of the initial blow had left him slow, weak, and it wasn’t long before the second blow hit him and he collapsed to the floor, face down into the soft flesh-like floor of the illithid colony. 
He blinked in an effort to clear his eyes, yet the red stains did not cease as he turned his gaze upwards to the changeling. Did she seriously believe she knew Fathers will better than him? That the Scion would not get his due someday? That she could steal his glory now, so close to the reckoning? He had practically orchestrated this entire fucking thing, he had guaranteed Father the world, and yet he had allowed Orin to do this to him? Did he not make him proud? 
Fathers love had not saved him, in the end. 
She awoke. There was only the throbbing of her blood pounding in her head and the distinct feeling that she was in danger. The memory of that disgusting wriggling tadpole being placed behind her eye slid across her mind. She fought rising bile as the creature squirmed in response. Beyond that there was... nothing. Reaching inwardly, she found only a yawning void. How did she get here? Who was she?
Her eyes fluttered open slowly. She immediately clenched them shut again with a curse. Why was it so bright? She opened her eyes again, more slowly. The sun was high in the cloudless blue sky, shining bright enough to blind. She was flat on her back, and from the dull ache across her shoulder blades and in her tail bone, had been so for some time. She raised her head groggily; she was on the surface... in the sun. Strangely, she knew enough about herself to know that she was a Drow. She lurched into a sitting position, hurriedly scrambling backwards trying to find shade. It was only once she had found the relative shade of the cliff face behind her, that she realised... she felt no discomfort. Her grey-blue skin wasn’t burned and blistered as it should be from lying out here for the gods know how long.
Interesting she thought.
She observed her surroundings. She was on a sandy beach, with water gently lapping at the shoreline. She appeared to be alone. There was wreckage nearby however, and strange alien-looking debris littered the sand.
The mindflayer ship she recalled. That was where any memory at all began. Her first memory was gazing into the disgusting many-toothed maw of the writhing tadpole as it hung mere inches from her eye. Then there had been pain, fear, then nothing. She had awoken in a mindflayer pod as its door opened and she had fallen onto the slimy floor below. She remembered fighting off all manner of creatures alongside a githyanki of all things. Her last memory was that of falling from the ship towards the roiling waves below. Why didn’t she know how she had got onto the ship in the first place? The pounding blood in her head increased its intensity.
With her jaw set, she pushed herself to her feet, tucking a strand of white hair behind her ear that had escaped from a long braid that fell to her waist. She checked over herself, she was covered in blood but not her own judging by her lack of injuries. She wore a black silken robe adorned with silver chains and embroidery. It accentuated the female form, fitted at her bust, but draped off her shoulders leaving them bare, glimpses of flesh were visible through various cut outs, and the skirt hung in several narrow sections, to expose her from ankle to hip. Her back was entirely exposed aside from some fine silver chains that looped across, connecting the fabric. The fabric was expensive, the style bold and provocative. Had she been someone of some importance? Or wealthy? Her empty mind was her silent reply. Iridescent black scales ran down her bared abdomen, glittering in the bright sunlight. Dragon scales. Again, she seemed to know enough about herself to know that she was a sorcerer, the raw draconic power rushing through her veins felt familiar, she knew instinctively that she would be able to call upon it in an instant, as naturally as breathing.
She began to pick her way along the shoreline. Bodies littered the sands. Rifling through abandoned bags and backpacks she was able to find a clean pale grey hooded robe and threw it on over her revealing dress. She had a feeling her previous attire would draw unwanted attention, not merely by its immodesty, but its rich fabric and cut would attract cutpurses quicker than a tavern draws sailors. As she turned to leave her eyes were drawn to the dead body again. Her gaze drank in the pungent corpse and something inside... stirred. A half-smile flittered across her face. Why does this feel like home? She wanted to grin and giggle madly at the gory scene. Was there anything so beautiful as murder?
She felt a wave of repulsion. What is wrong with me? With a worrying amount of difficulty, she dragged her attention from the body and stumbled away from it, the pounding in her head a cacophony. Grimacing, she followed a path sloping upwards away from the beach. Wreckage from the Mindflayer ship was everywhere, including several of the strange pods, like the one she had been held in. One was wedged into the side of a hill, foul smelling smoke billowing out from it. It was the smoke that prevented her from noticing a stranger on the path ahead until it was too late. She cursed inwardly.
A pale silver-haired surfacer elf – a darthir - her mind provided the Drow term helpfully, stood on the path ahead, wearing a most ridiculous outfit. A heavily embroidered doublet, with voluminous puffy sleeves covered his torso, the monstrosity erupted into silly white ruffles at his neck. Maybe she needn’t have worried about being overdressed after all.
"Hurry, I’ve got one of those brain things cornered." He called out to her, hands wringing anxiously in front of him. "There in the grass. You can kill it can’t you?"
She cocked her head to the side and considered killing him. That unknowable, unspeakable urge deep within her bubbled with excitement. It wanted to kill, to claw, to tear. What a perfect, pretty corpse he would make! She almost giggled aloud as she began to call upon her magic, but it felt slow and weak. She hadn’t noticed how tired she was after expending so much magic on the nautoloid. Disappointment bloomed in her as she realised that she needed to trance before she went picking fights she may not win. She huffed in frustration. She may have decided not to attack but that didn’t mean she was going to go out of her way to help some pompous looking lost elf. She shrugged. "Kill it yourself – you look capable enough."
As she turned to leave, she saw the glint of a blade. She spun, shadow coalesced around her as she began a spell of teleportation, but before she could finish casting, she was pulled to the ground, the dagger held to her neck. Her magic was slow to respond right now, yet he had moved so fast. She rapidly began to reassess this foppish elf’s capabilities.
"Shh, not a sound." He purred; all shred of former anxiety gone. "Not if you want to keep that lovely neck of yours. Now, I saw you strutting around on the ship while I was trapped in that pod, didn’t I? Nod."
She smirked, and whispered words of power. Acid coated the blade, racing up from tip to cross guard. The metal hissing and melting instantly.
"Gah! You little -!" he cried out, dropping the handle as if it were a venomous snake.
She began to form another spell.
"Oh no you don’t" once again he moved so quick. He clapped one hand over her mouth and pinned her arms above her head with the other. He swung his leg over her, straddling her in the dirt. Her eyes locked to his, glaring. His were the colour of blood. She struggled against him, trying to throw him off, but with little success. She narrowed her eyes at him then bit his hand, hard. He hissed in pain, red eyes flashing. He pulled his hand from her mouth and roughly fisted the hand in her hair instead, coiling her braid in his grip and yanking her head back. She could taste his blood; it was oddly cool against her lips. The metallic tang made her dark urges within positively sing. Breathing hard, she smirked triumphantly at him, knowing his blood coated her lips. He looked angry, feral even. His eyes flicked down to his blood on her lips, then inexplicably slid down to her exposed throat. He swallowed visibly, a frown marring his pale features. The only sound was the harsh pants of their breath. The previously laughable elf now exuded danger. His grip on her was iron, his gaze predatory. A strange, unexplainable thrill ran through her. The moment seemed to stretch on, despite being mere seconds. His eyes flicked down to her throat again. He began to lean down. What was he doing-? Suddenly the world lurched. She was no longer on the hill pinned under the elf. She was looking out of unfamiliar eyes, prowling dark, busy streets. A feeling of desperate need overcame her. Before she could fully process the feeling, her mind twisted again. Her vision swam and warped until she was once again looking into his burgundy eyes, now blown wide with confusion.
"What was that? What’s going on?" his voice had lost its haughtiness.
"I don’t know, but something just connected us." She said hesitantly, confusion overriding caution.
"It’s those tentacled monsters. Whatever they did to us caused that link. They took you too, I saw it during... whatever just happened." He said softly, his brow slightly furrowed.
He slowly moved off her and stood, holding out a hand which she did not take. He recovered quickly, some of the arrogance returning to his tone. "And to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies." He smirked "Although... you seem to have already wreaked your vengeance upon the offending dagger" gesturing at the lumps of melted slag on the ground.
"Be grateful it’s only your dagger lying in pieces on the floor" she hissed, as she got to her feet.
"Aha, a kindred spirit" the elf remarked with another smirk. "My name’s Astarion. I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me."
She shifted uneasily under his gaze. Why was he looking at her expectantly? Your name. He’s expecting you to tell him your name. She realised that she didn’t know her name. She was a stranger, even to herself. The Drow word for stranger rose in her mind.
"A pleasure." he said with an easy smile "So do you know anything about these worms?"
"Yes, unfortunately they’ll turn us into Mindflayers" she replied offhandedly, while dusting off her robes.
"Turn us into – ha! Ha ha ha!" a strangled manic laugh burst forth from Astarion. "Of course, it’ll turn me into a monster." He trailed off quietly "What else did I expect?" some other emotion had entered his voice that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It passed so quickly she might have thought she imagined it. He continued more confidently "Although it hasn’t happened yet. If we can find an expert – someone that can control these things - there might still be time."
"We?" she raised an eyebrow, her arms crossed. This is exactly what she had wanted to avoid, picking up companions.
"Our odds are better together. And you seem like a useful person to know." He smirked "And please don’t take any offence to this darling but you could use someone with some..." he coughed politely, "interpersonal skills, if we want to find someone to help us. You look like you are about to murder anyone that crosses your path."
Nika rolled her eyes. Although she reluctantly realised, he wasn’t wrong. She was an under-elf in an unfamiliar land, not to mention the dark thoughts that seemed perpetually present, swirling just beneath the surface. Having a surface elf at her side would probably make obtaining help with the tadpoles somewhat easier. "Fine. Let’s go" she huffed.
"Not particularly talkative, are you?" Astarion muttered.
They were clambering through the inside of a large somewhat intact part of the mindflayer ship. Nika resisted the urge to sigh audibly. He had been like this the whole time; making idle chit chat and prodding her for information about herself. Information he had no idea that she couldn’t give him. His questions were all things she would love to know herself. He had grown less and less enthusiastic as she mostly gave one-word or evasive answers. It’s not like he had offered up any information about himself; just probed her about her life.
Let’s turn the tables on him and see how he likes it she mused.
"Tell me a bit about yourself" she asked him.
"Oh, what is there to tell" he said nonchalantly, "I was a magistrate in the city, it’s all rather boring really."
She looked over her shoulder and arched her brow at him. As suspected, she was not the only one with her guard up. His mouth curved upwards into a slow smirk.
"Alright, alright. Point taken" he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
As they exited the wrecked ship, they were greeted with several goblin corpses strewn about. She approached one and began to cast, the spell feeling sluggish to arrive at her fingertips. Green tendrils curled around her forearms. Astarion shifted uneasily beside her as the corpse rose into the air. Trust a pompous high elf to be squeamish about necromancy she thought.
She questioned the goblin corpse and discovered nothing further about their mindflayer attackers; however, it divulged the presence of a Druid grove nearby. When the corpse dropped to the ground, lifeless once more, Astarion spoke.
"So... can you do that to any undead? Control them like that?" he sounded anxious.
"Only the truly deceased or undead with a weak will like simple skeletons or zombies" she shrugged.
"Fascinating... if a little unsettling darling" he said as he began to stride away "Come on then, let’s find this grove that little goblin zombie of yours spoke of."
She didn’t know why she knew her powers so well but not her own name. It seemed she had functioning memories of her sorcerous abilities and a general understanding of Faerun. She could recall the names of Gods, places, histories, and the various races that inhabited the land. But if she tried to recall how she came to be here, with a tadpole behind her eye, or anything about herself specifically, her head would pound and her vision would blur, as she was met with a profound absence.
She looked down at the goblin corpses once more.
Her vision swam. A roiling, red mist. She could barely hear her newfound name over the beating war drum of blood. Her vision slowly came into focus. She was on her knees beside the corpses, her hands resting on the bloodied chest of the nearest one. She realised that a manic grin was plastered across her face.
Gods he’s going to put you down like a rabid dog if you don’t get a hold of yourself!
She quickly pulled her hands from the corpse as though burned and clenched her jaw to stop the mad grin returning. She raised a shaky hand to her brow and found it moist with sweat.
"You look rabid, pained, sick." He exclaimed as she rose to her feet shakily. "You’re spasming and twitching, you- wait, who’s that?" he frowned, gesturing behind her.
A half-elf with a long dark braid was approaching them cautiously. Nika giddy with such relief at the distraction from her little "episode" that she barely processed the exchange between Astarion and the newcomer. The newcomer ended up being a cleric named Shadowheart and had also been infected with a tadpole aboard the nautoloid. As they proceeded to hike towards the vague direction of this supposed Grove it became clear the Shadowheart didn't have an ounce of patience for Astarion's pleasant chit chat either. After a few instances of verbal evisceration from the cleric, Astarion seemed to decide silence was the wisest course of action. To Nika's chagrin, it seemed they weren't done collecting tadpoled-tag alongs that day. They found the githyanki she had fought beside on the Nautoloid caged by two nervous tieflings. A gout of shadow flame from her hands had seen the tieflings die screaming and her urge sing, while a well-placed arrow from Astarion had loosed the trapdoor on the hanging cage. The githyanki, Lae’zel, her name; was just as bossy and insufferable both on and off the nautoloid. She and Shadowheart began to instantly bicker. Nika's headache redoubled it's pounding.
Eventually she snapped, informing Shadowheart in no uncertain terms that Lae’zel was a formidable fighter and that she would be joining them. Lae’zel had barely got her smug reply started before Nika whirled on her to convey that yes, they would consider the cure she claimed her people had for the tadpoles, but no they would not be immediately setting out to wander through the wilderness in the dark to find this gith creche. There was supposedly a tiefling named Zorru in the Grove that had information on the whereabouts of Lae’zel’s people. They could start there tomorrow.
The sun was starting to set, Nika, Astarion and Shadowheart agreed to make camp, much to Lae’zel’s displeasure, who seemingly wanted to press on until they all collapsed. With several ch'ks and Kainyaks - whatever they meant, she finally stopped angrily pacing and settled on sharpening her sword slightly more aggressively than was strictly necessarily. Nika settled down with her back against a tree, staring at the moon, which hung low in the darkening sky.
"You don’t get cold?" Astarion gestured at how far she sat from the fire they’d lit as he sat down beside her.
She shrugged "not especially, must be my magic."
"Ah yes, I am still mourning the loss of my dagger" he smirked, "So I have seen you speak to the dead and use a few types of magic now; what are you? A wizard? A necromancer?"
"I’m a sorcerer."