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dnd_drow

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She giggles- they’re caked in mud, sweat, and cum. Sitting in the muck of a cursed lands, the threat of returning to camp to prying eyes and questioning voices. The only reason they can even safely sit here with monsters prying flesh from their limbs and darkness creeping into their souls is the blessing of a captured pixie. Demands of goddesses and moonstruck kingdoms ran by cults all on the horizon. But his arms are wrapped flush around her, the smell of his skin in her nose, the ache of where he was inside her. Skin marked in his love.
"It’s perfect."
Enver Gortash despised visiting Moonrise Towers. It was dark, cold, often damp. And droll too. An isolated castle in the middle of a vast wasteland of darkness and desolation. Filled with grim faced Absolute cultists too stupid to see they were being had. He ignored them all now, as he made his way up to Ketheric Thorm's room, totally ignoring his attendants, his guards, and other slack-jawed sycophants, all of whom avoided his gaze, knowing him all too well. 
Gortash had grown quite accustomed to the finer things in life, which primarily came from Baldur's Gate, the conquest he most enjoyed roaming and plundering. 
This castle was threadbare, coarse, unrefined. Cold and utilitarian, and he had always longed for the lavish and the gaudy and the extraordinary. It was his right, after the shit on a stick childhood he'd had. Raised inside the fine and glamorous House of Hope, but without the ability to enjoy any of it, on account of the near constant scream of the damned. And being beaten black and blue when he breathed too hard in the direction of Raphael's prized china. 
It was his Bane-given right, to have the most delicious food, the finest wines, the best clothes, custom made by the most esteemed artisans in the world. 
But Moonrise was so painfully practical. Sensible.
And he could admit, that maybe he wanted to be in Baldur's Gate for other reasons...
The Chosen of Bhaal. 
Another one of the finer things in life, or so Gortash thought anyway. 
You could have fine whores in Sharess" Caress, no finer whores anywhere in fact, but the Chosen of Bhaal was a whole other matter. Someone he'd never thought he'd have. Someone he didn't deserve, and perhaps that was the most intoxicating aspect of it all, having that which could not, and would not ever, belong to him. 
Gortash sighed as he stood outside of Ketheric Thorm's bedroom, wishing he was back in Baldur's Gate now more than ever. 
It was doubtful that Ralko would've entertained his company right now, even if he was around. The drow was flighty, fickle, some days playful and teasing, unable to keep his greedy hands off him, other days cold and distant, so frigid that Gortash could've handed him the crown of Karsus and he still wouldn't glance at him once. 
It was maddening, but enticing too. As much as Gortash hated the loss of control, the blatant disregard for his own needs, the chaos that was bedding a psychopath, he had to admit that Ralko was his exception. 
Of course he was, as his one equal. 
Gortash supposed Ketheric was his..."equal." 
But not really. 
The man was useful. But he wasn't...wasn't the same as Ralko. He was a part of their plans, but he was not the architect, nor the creator. He did not deserve to rule alongside them...but he was helpful. He was necessary...and Gortash and Ralko would tolerate him until he ceased to be.  
Gortash paused outside of Ketheric Thorm’s private quarters, more out of contemplation than hesitation. He had gotten impatient waiting downstairs for Ketheric to greet him. Granted, he'd only been in Moonrise for perhaps two minutes, but that was a minute and half too long to keep your most important co-conspirator waiting. 
Gortash could hear noises through the door. People talking perhaps. But he would not be kept waiting. It was an insult to him, a waste of time, and it was bad enough that he had to be here at all. 
Ketheric could withstand an interruption from him. 
But as he lifted his hand, intending to pull open the door, it swung open, startling him. 
Electricity lanced through his spine as he saw he was now eye to eye with the exact same person he’d just been thinking of. 
Ralko stared at him. A dark-skinned drow, with bright white hair, that usually hung much shorter, but seemed to have grown quite a bit since he last saw him, almost brushing his shoulders, messy and devil-may-care. His black, foreboding sclera bored into his soul, bright golden irises bright and hungry and perpetually menacing. An oddly soft face, for someone so ferocious, although he did have two rather intimidating tattoos on his cheeks, bright white centipedes, curling down to his jaw. 
He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Gortash wasn’t used to seeing him in such good lighting. Their dalliances were usually limited to the dead of night, without candles or lanterns or even the light of the moon, in the dark, low places. The only thing he usually saw was the flash of gold, gleaming like the gaze of a predator in the night, cat-like and demonic. The glow of his tattoos, when he trailed his lips along his chest. 
But today, Gortash could see the whole package. Slender and lean, but wiry and strong too, his arms muscular, his chest and abdomen hard and sinewy, brimming with an irrepressible strength, the kind Gortash had seen firsthand could devastate even the bulkiest of bodies. He was a finely pointed weapon, a well-tuned instrument of torture, easy to underestimate, until his hand was in your gut, and he was twisting your innards into a mush without cracking a sweat.
But what the fuck was he doing here, and why...?
Gortash’s eyes drifted past him, beyond his willpower. 
Gortash looked back at him, unable to keep his disbelief, and daresay, his irritation, off his face.
He didn’t say a word, but his glare said enough. 
"Is there something I can do for you, Gortash?" Ralko asked blankly, his eyes boring into Gortash’s, daring him to actually speak into existence the disgust he was feeling. "Or do you have a particular fondness for this doorway?" 
Gortash scowled at him. 
"I wanted a word with Ketheric," he said icily, trying his hardest not to look past Ralko again, afraid of what he’d see. Even though he felt as though someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over his head, it was still better to stare at the Chosen of Bhaal than to glimpse Ketheric Thorm in a compromising position. 
"What about?" Ralko asked. 
"It’s hardly your business," Gortash said reflexively, even though he knew he was being childish, and Ralko would know that too. Indeed, he was already staring at him with cold derision, agitated by his caustic tone.
"Everything you have to say to Ketheric Thorm is my business," Ralko said, fingers clenching against the wooden door. 
"Who’s at the door, Ralko?" 
It set Gortash’s teeth on edge, hearing Thorm refer to the Chosen of Bhaal by his name. For a long time, he’d simply referred to them as the Chosen of Bane or Chosen of Bhaal. He hated that this had apparently changed since he’d last seen the general. 
"Our mutual acquaintance," Ralko drawled, clearly relishing at the narrowing of Gortash’s eyes at the subtle slight. "Lord Gortash." 
Such disdain put in the word Lord. 
Gortash tried to unlock his jaw, but it was no simple feat. 
"We have urgent business to discuss regarding the army you have currently menacing the edge of Rivington. I specifically told you to hold off introducing the army of the Absolute until my Steel Watch was fully prepared. At this stage, it was only to be whispers of dark forces gathering in the Shadow Cursed Lands," Gortash said, regaining his repose as he remembered why he came here in the first place. He admitted, it might’ve also had to do with the fact that Ralko had walked away from the door. 
The Chosen of Bane, feeling presumptuous and maybe a little reckless, stepped into the room. 
Although Moonrise lacked the warmth and pomp of Wyrm’s Rock Fortress, Ketheric Thorm’s room was of acceptable grandeur. The walls were uglier, darker, the windows unnaturally gleaming with moon lanterns rather than natural light, but it was at least spacious. A lit fire crackled in the grand old fireplace. Books were collecting dust in Thorm’s dark, sagging bookshelves. Letters, notes, and battle plans were thrown all pell-mell on his desk, beside which was a drawing board with a map of Baldur’s Gate. His loyal mutt, Squire, a pet given to him by than none other than Gortash himself, was sprawled out on the rug beneath his bed. 
But none of this interested Gortash much. His eyes were drawn to Ketheric Thorm himself. 
He was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking as haughty and decrepit as always. He didn’t seem too pleased to see Gortash, his eyes narrow and sharp, hard as flint. But he was far less intimidating than usual, in civilian clothes, and not his mighty armor. 
Still, the sight of him inflamed Gortash’s thoughts, which went into overdrive, banging against the sides of his skull in a maddening cacophony of incoherent noise, reverberating and battering against his fragile sanity. 
"What does it matter?" Thorm said carelessly, cold eyes not meeting Gortash’s, staring aimlessly out the window, at the light of the moon lanterns surrounding Moonrise. "Your power can only grow, as long as word of my forces spreads. I also do not see the necessity for an in-person visit." 
"But you have no problem 
with in person visits
from the Chosen of Bhaal," Gortash said, unable to hide his disdain, his voice near trembling with agitation. 
"He was passing by," Thorm said, beginning to pull on his coat, still coldly ignoring Gortash’s red-hot gaze. 
Gortash glared at Ralko, who stared unabashedly back. 
"My father wished for me to see the mindflayer colony in person. And I wished to speak with the elder brain," he said. 
"He’s oddly fond of that thing," Thorn said dismissively. 
Gortash glared between the two of them, wanting to lash out, but unable to find a justifiable reason for it. It was of course none of his business who Ralko fucked. 
It wasn’t like they were dating. Or even hooking up regularly. 
It was inconsistent. Been happening on and off since they’d both been high off their success in stealing the Crown of Karsus. Who wouldn’t fuck their co-conspirator after achieving the impossible feat of robbing Mephistopheles? Dripping with demon gore and the stench of their genius, their daring, their absolute victory? 
After that, there was no harm in continuing the practice. Ralko, Gortash knew, had appetites that were often lethal, but they made a mess. They were with whores and strangers, cutthroats and sweet flower shop owners. Ralko enjoyed the thrill of the hunt, and murdered as easily and instinctively as he drew breath, but sex was something else entirely. A need he wasn’t used to scratching with a living person. 
Gortash had been eager to teach him that sex could be far more pleasant with someone you’d had sex with before. 
Multiple times. 
Gortash also assumed that Ralko saw the situation as killing two birds with one stone anyway. He already had to reign in his instincts to kill Gortash, since he needed him for the plan to work, but while he was not-killing Gortash, he might as well be using his one, somewhat normal, somewhat long-term working relationship as an alliance with benefits. 
Can’t kill him, might as well fuck him. 
It was an easy and simple arrangement. Even fun. 
So why did his chest feel tight? Why was he having a hard time breathing, his teeth grinding, his eyes twitching? Why was there a heat building in his core, threatening to spill over or blow?  
Maybe because it was Ketheric Thorm? The crumbling old relic? The sadsack, brooding former father, obsessed with a daughter who should’ve stayed dead? Of all the wretched people in the world, Gortash would never have imagined that Ralko would seek out Ketheric Thorm for sexual fulfillment. Since when did Ralko have affection for positively
has-been generals? What the hell had he done to deserve it anyway? This whole plan was
He was just their pawn. He was someone they needed, tolerated, but liked...? 
Perhaps Gortash just couldn’t stand being compared to the likes of Thorm, and that was what Ralko had just done, even without intending to. 
"Are you still here?" Thorm asked, his voice edged with the barest hint of impatience. 
Funny that he should ask, just as Ralko walked out the door, impassive and uncaring. With no desire to remain with an only partially dressed Ketheric Thorm, Gortash stormed after him. 
He caught up to him on the stairs. 
And that disgusted him. 
"You’re awfully quiet for someone who normally never shuts up," the Chosen of Bhaal murmured as they descended the stairs together. "I’d ask you what’s on your mind, but I have a far more interesting mind to speak with." 
"When did this start?" Gortash demanded. "How long has this been going on? Do you come here more often than you’ve been letting on?" 
"Have you spoken to my father?" Ralko asked airily. 
Gortash frowned at him, wishing he’d stop moving so fast. 
"Why would I speak to your father?" he asked hotly. 
"Well, seeing as you and I are apparently betrothed, I thought it appropriate to consider my father’s opinion on the subject beforehand," Ralko said in a tone most unlike him. He was never a particularly loquacious companion. It was actually one of the things Gortash liked most about him, since he, as many of his political opponents could agree, quite liked the sound of his own voice. 
Today, he was oddly...smug? Snarky? There was something other than the usual smolder of cold pragmatism, the thin veil of civility that disguised the savagery beneath... it was aggressive, but...
"It’s a conflict of interest," Gortash said without thinking. "We started this plan with the intention of none of the involved parties gaining more power than the other." 
Ralko finally stopped walking. Gortash crashed into him, cringing as he pressed up against the Bhaalspawn’s back. But the man didn’t seem to mind, just twisting deftly on the stairs, saving him from stumbling...by pressing him against the stone wall by the throat. Several servants paused on the stairs, alarmed, but they knew better than to gawk for too long. No one wanted to be killed by the Chosen of Bhaal or Bane today. 
"I’ve shared your bed," Ralko pointed out. "This maintains the status quo; now we’re all even." 
Another almost-sneer. 
Was he being...teased? 
"So you’re not siding with Thorm and trying to push me out?" Gortash asked, trying to smile as if it didn’t bother him, and failing, his lips twitching more like he was trying to contain a bug inside his mouth. 
"Since when does fucking someone mean you’re siding with them? I’d be allied with dozens of corpses if that were the case," Ralko said smoothly. "Besides, if you’re so worried about that, you can fuck Ketheric Thorm. Then we’ll all be similarly enthralled." 
Gortash grimaced just at the thought of it. 
"I have standards. Even I would not lower myself to that level." 
Ralko scoffed. 
"He’s...adequate." 
"What’s that supposed to mean?" Gortash demanded. 
"I think I’ll let you stew in your room, trying to figure it out," Ralko said. Then, to his fury, the Chosen of Bhaal turned around and promptly left. 
Leaving Lord Enver Gortash to fume on the stairs, infuriated that he would be doing exactly that.
Ralko was not a terribly complicated creature. 
When he had an impulse, he followed through on it. Whether that meant killing a beautiful girl he saw out of the corner of his eye at the clothing store...or fucking someone he normally found rather droll and distasteful. 
Ketheric Thorm was a very strange situation. 
Ralko had no particular fondness for the man; in fact, he pushed him, prodded him, trying to get him to snap back like an irritable old grizzly bear. 
Unfortunately, Ketheric’s even temper made such a task Herculean at best, and impossible at worst. He was not a man like Gortash, filled with rage, the insatiable itch for vengeance, whose passions could be inflamed as easily as an arrow dipped in grease. He was colder, more withdrawn. Still moping over his wayward daughter, and not terribly interested in pleasures of the flesh. Or even pains of the flesh.