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dnd_drow

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Ketheric noticed his reaction, and seemed to remember where he was, and who he was fucking. 
It was all business after that, as he rolled away from the child of Bhaal, throwing his legs over the side of his bed, back to him. 
"Feel free to leave now," he said shortly. 
Ralko, still feeling a little queasy from his kiss, obeyed this time without hesitation. 
He didn’t even bother getting dressed. 
He walked out of Ketheric Thorm’s room naked, completely terrifying a random passing Absolutist, who looked horrified to see him, but unable to stop his eyes from drifting downwards. They widened as they saw the general's spend, leaking between his thighs. Ralko would kill him later.
But right then and there, he just stormed back to his assigned room in silence, heart pumping far louder than it had been the entire time he’d been fucking Ketheric Thorm. 
The next time Lord Enver Gortash saw Ralko, it was at a dinner that he was not invited to. 
Which was highly annoying to him, but he pretended it didn’t bother him at all as he gate crashed their little private evening. 
Ralko was sitting with his legs up on the table, pretending to read a book, as Ketheric Thorm stared down at battle plans, his eyes unfocused. They weren’t even that close to one another, and seemed to be totally ignoring each other, but it still irritated Gortash as he strode into the room, and sat perfectly in between the two of them, hoping he had something like a winning expression on his face. 
"Evening, gentlemen. Hard at work, I see." 
Ketheric utterly ignored him. Ralko’s eyes flickered for a moment, but he was watching a fly buzz around the room. 
"I don’t suppose either of you would like to fill me in on what the two of you have been doing," Gortash said with faux politeness. "I have traveled a long way." 
"That’s because you are a perpetual time waster," Ketheric said idly, never taking his eyes off an elaborate map of the Sword Coast. 
"We’ve been fucking," Ralko said irreverently.
Ketheric’s right index finger twitched, but he made no reply. 
Gortash intertwined his fingers, cold gaze on the Bhaalspawn now. 
"What a waste of time," he said. 
The man avoided his gaze, still staring lazily at the fly. "You have the far harder job, Lord Gortash. I’ve done my part." 
"No, you haven’t. I still have endless lists of high profile targets for you to pursue in Baldur’s Gate," Gortash retorted. "Your time is quite wasted." 
"Any more high profile targets, and the people of Baldur’s Gate will start wondering if the killings are organized. The work of an intelligent serial killer, and not the members of a deranged cult," Ralko said. 
Gortash’s mouth thinned, eyes narrowing. 
"I fail to see what you’re accomplishing here." 
"You fail to see many things, Lord Gortash. This is hardly novel." 
"You two are insufferable," Ketheric murmured. "Can you take the lover’s quarrel somewhere else?" 
Finally a reaction from Ralko. He was glaring at the general now. 
"I’m no more his lover than yours," he hissed. 
"Oh, are you two planning to be wed? Perhaps a spring wedding? I personally feel that the Shadow Cursed Lands make a particularly romantic summer wedding location, but to each their own," Gortash said airily, enjoying the Bhaalspawn’s anger. 
"If you insist on being an annoyance, you should accompany Gortash back to Baldur’s Gate, where you belong," the General said. 
He then didn’t move an inch, or even flinch, when the Bhaalspawn hurled a knife at his skull. It sunk three inches into his eye, carving into the bone. But he just scoffed, wrenching it free and throwing it to the floor. 
Ralko stood up, shoving his chair back. 
"If you wish to vent your frustrations on me, I am not in the mood, Chosen of Bhaal," he said in the general voice. 
The younger man leapt to his feet, furious, another dagger in his hand. But Gortash, barely able to contain his grin, stood up and grabbed him, just as the servants began bringing in plates. 
"Leave me now, before you do something you regret," Ketheric said without another look up. 
Ralko turned as though to continue their spat. 
But Gortash steered him out of the room by the arm, succeeding only because he put his hand over the man’s dagger, cutting his finger on it. Ralko stared down at his hand, distracted by the smell of blood. 
"Trouble in paradise?" Gortash asked innocently. 
"Fuck off," Ralko said, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was staring at Gortash’s bleeding hand, the blood on his fingers. 
The lord smirked, holding his hand out. His blood dripped to the stone floor. 
"Been a while?" he asked. "Spent too much time fucking the old man? I’m surprised you haven’t taken advantage of the fact that you can’t kill him." 
"I tried," Ralko said mulishly. "But he’s no fun. He doesn’t feel pain. Doesn’t writhe. Doesn’t even scream." 
Gortash smiled. 
"A shame. I imagine his heart doesn’t taste like much either."
"It’s like ash," Ralko grumbled. He glanced around Moonrise sulkily. "I grow weary of killing Absolute cultists. They’re just like him. No fight in them. Weak-minded meat puppets and fight-less sycophants." 
"The ilk of Baldur’s Gate put up more of a fight, huh?" Gortash drawled smugly. "You can go ahead." 
Ralko’s eyes narrowed. 
"You mock me." 
"Don’t tell me that Ketheric’s blood calls out to you," Gortash said. "Like mine does. I’m alive, the same as you. I can be killed, just like you. And Ketheric Thorm...well. He doesn’t know you like I do, does he?" 
Ralko barely seemed interested in what he was saying. He was watching Gortash’s hand drip, drip, drip into the cracks of the stone. 
And then, in an almost dreamlike state, he took Gortash’s hand. And pulled his hand to his lips. 
Gortash froze, heart hammering in his chest, as the Bhaalspawn began to suckle at his finger, tongue darting out and lapping up the blood like a kitten at the milk bowl. It was gentle at first, oddly so, causing heat to stir in his belly, having a Bhaalspawn eating out of his hands, after all, but then, as if sensing his thoughts, Ralko bit down. 
Gortash flinched, but let him knead into the skin a little, his sharp teeth prickling at his nerves, ripping into his flesh, gnawing at bone. 
When enough was enough, he grasped the Bhaalspawn by the hair with his other hand. His grip was tight, punishing, but the man groaned, letting go of his finger. 
"So predictable," Gortash purred in his ear. "You contemptuous wretch...how much of my blood do you want, little vampire?" 
The man could’ve thrown him off. Hit him. Wrenched himself free. 
But he let Gortash hold his head to the side, fingers tightly intertwined in his hair, yanking at the roots. 
"Have you forgotten what we are?" he demanded. "We conceived the plan. We carried half of it out, on our own. We stole the Crown of Karsus together. Don’t you remember the thrill of it? The intoxication of our shared success?" 
He boldly pushed Ralko back, pinning him against a stone wall. 
"Ketheric could never understand us," Gortash said dismissively. "It was you and me, from the very beginning. Only the two of us could succeed alone. He is just...another pawn on our side. Not a player." 
Ralko didn’t move, didn’t react, as the lord bent down, lips brushing against his forehead, then his cheeks. Nuzzling him, like a cat trying to rub its scent all over a claimed territory. 
"We are equals...he never was." 
The Chosen of Bhaal wasn’t rebuffing him, but he wasn’t exactly welcoming either. He stared at Gortash with a neutral intensity, one he didn’t understand or like. 
"He’s certainly not as interesting as you," Ralko said softly. "But I don’t know why you’d want to be interesting to a Bhaalspawn, Chosen of Bane." 
And before Gortash could reply to that, the shorter man had slashed a hole in his shirt, cutting a light scratch into his chest. 
He turned and left without another word.
Ralko’s hands were shaking, and not with their usual exhilaration. 
He had a hollowed out carcass before him, previously a dark-haired man who’d been too terrified to reject his sexual advances an hour before, and he didn’t feel a thing. 
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. 
How he was growing to hate this place. These pathetic cultists, slaves to the elder brain that he so admired... 
They were beneath him, just as they were beneath her. 
And even the man at the head of it all: Ketheric Thorm. 
Ralko’s blood quickened just at the thought of him. How disgusted he was with himself for entertaining such a vile man. His father despised his immortality; his urge reviled him, for not being able to destroy him. 
And yet, a logical voice whispered from within. 
One that sounded suspiciously like Enver Gortash. 
We need him. He is necessary. He is one of three. Bide your time. Wait. One day, he will die, and it shall be at your hands. But right now...for the time being... he is useful. 
Ralko gritted his teeth. 
He was leaving Moonrise in the morning. He had about had his fill of the place. He supposed Gortash had already left. He hadn’t seen the man since their confrontation outside of the dining hall. 
But he had been thinking about him. 
Mostly, about how his blood tasted... 
Begrudgingly, he had to admit to himself...he hadn’t been lying or taunting the man when he’d said he found him more interesting than Ketheric Thorm. 
But he knew what Gortash was hoping. How he...felt...about their... "alliance." 
Even if the lord did not know it himself. 
But it was impossible. It was blasphemous,
sacrilegious. 
Ralko would not accept it, not in his heart, not in his mind, not in his Bhaal-corrupted soul. 
The Banite might make better company. He might be more similar to Ralko than Thorm ever would be. He might even be... 
But no matter. 
They were the same to him.
Meat puppets, on strings.
And Ralko too...was just a puppet on a string. Dancing along, until the time came to cut the cords. 
Ralko grimaced.  
So what was he doing outside of Ketheric Thorm’s bedroom, yet again? 
He wasn’t sure. 
He had a bucket full of organs that he might throw, in a childish fit, under his bed, but if he was actually there...Ralko wasn’t sure what he’d do next. 
Perhaps throw the bucket at him, but perhaps...not.
He’d let his heart decide as he threw open the door, not bothering to knock. 
But to his surprise, the room was neither empty, nor occupied by Ketheric Thorm. 
Instead, the man whom he thought had left was lounging at Ketheric Thorm’s table, idly studying his notes. 
Enver Gortash. The last person he wanted to see right now.
Except maybe, Ketheric Thorm himself (but he was a sadomasochist at heart).