Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world is meant for the living; every breath Ketheric didn’t need to take was a proof of just how much he didn’t belong there. Not anymore.

And yet.

The visage of Melodia used to haunt him, staring at him from her place above his bed, but these nights, it fueled his bitterness towards the gods that allowed this all to happen. It was so hard to care for what she would think if she saw what he’s become, when he never would’ve been this way in a world that was kind enough to let her live instead of him.

So it was okay. Everything happening under him, around him, the dead curses and dead men and women, nothing mattered; not when the Gods have already proven that every such thing was permitted to happen. So it was all okay.

“Your... guests have arrived, my Lord.” A cultist’s voice has alerted him. They’ve been standing at his door for a good minute, perhaps waiting for the general to acknowledge them, but he didn’t care enough to turn away from Melodia’s portrait. “From Baldur’s Gate.”

“I am aware.”

He was. The shadows whispered news of their arrival for hours, the entire path his apparent guests have torn themselves through the cursed lands and its deathly servants.

“... Should... I let them know you’re here, or-?”

“Leave. I’ll handle it.”

The Myrkulite quickly bent their head and left, softly padded boots keeping their footsteps quiet enough to not echo through the wide, empty hallways. Ketheric took an unneeded breath.

His Master has informed him of the Dead Three’s plans four tendays ago. Meet with the Chosens of Bhaal and Bane, indulge them in an idea they apparently have. He wasn’t even aware the cult of Bhaal was still bothering with its existance, but apparently, it was alive enough for it to crawl to its historic place under Bane’s. Ketheric wasn’t exactly looking forward to seeing who was mad enough to take charge of that ravaged wasteland of a cult. Even less for one who no doubt climbed to his way on top of the Church of Bane in all the ways so typical for Banites.

But no matter; Myrkul has been clear, the alliance was approved, and so Ketheric was walking down the boot-slicked stairs to meet those he was supposed to work with, after so many moons of the appreciated silence of only Myrkulites, corpses and shadows lurking just outside.

“Ah, general Thorm!”

He could tell which of them was the Banite just from that voice, before he even fully laid eyes on them. He also could tell that he was never going to respect him, from the tone alone.

“Enver Gortash,” Ketheric still returned a professionally-polite bow of his head towards the man, familiar with the flamboyant pompousness that tended to escort the name through the few letters him and the Banite exchanged since the dream.

“At last, in person.” Gortash smiled, and there was not a smidge of trustworthyness in his eyes. “I must say, you seem quite more alive than history books would let us believe. Mighty impressive.”

“I am as alive as anything out there, I assure you.”

He’s heard that this Gortash fellow was a shady arms dealer and a small-time politician back in Baldur’s gate; now, he certainly resembled one far more than the other. Dark hair stuck together with sweat, arbalest crudely swung over one shoulder, half emptied belt of potions and scrolls around his waist betraying the tremendous fights he has just powered through in order to simply reach the location of their meeting. A human man in his thirties, in a desperate need of a bath and a haircut, who could cut down on more heartier meals. Not exactly something Ketheric was expecting from the Chosen of Bane, but he has heard the well thought out words, the politician tone – perhaps this Enver Gortash managed to clean up semi-nicely, and Ketheric was simply spared the sight.

The other one, though.

That one was different.

Upon Ketheric’s words, the taller man snorted, like an amused child; in much better spirits than his companion, even if Gortash was trying to cover up his own exhaustion with a smile and false casualness. The other man seemed thrilled, in a way that was far more genuine. Blood pumping his cheeks to a healthy dark shade, hand still clutching a dagger that was all but covered in ooze, left by the shadows outside.

“Something entertaining?” Ketheric asked, turning his attention to the other one, for he could not quite figure out what odd crossbreed of races it was.

The Bhaalist grinned. “Everything out there is twice as dead now than it was when it crawled from the dark to attack us, buddy. Do not tell me you wish share the same fate?”

“A threat, so quickly?” The general let out a sigh. “Perhaps some self control would be in order. Or administered by the Black Hand, if it’s results are better than those of your own.”

Had Ketheric been still alive, he might have felt intimidated by the man’s leering gaze. Nothing should have eyes this intense. They looked at him like some sort of a predator, but good luck with meat so long decayed. Ketheric’s heartbeat couldn’t quicken in worry anymore.

“My ally here and I are all but equal, general,” Gortash had to bump in, a hand on the Bhaalist’s wrist denying every word his mouth has just said with a hold that replaced a leash. Ketheric huffed, akin to amusement. “And due to our Gods’ edict, so are now you.”

The Bhaalist’s dagger wielding hand twitched, and Gortash so cleverly quickly pulled his own away, to safety behind his back, in a posture that mimicked Ketheric’s own.

The undead general kept staring, for a moment, two. Trying to figure out what the thing Gortash brought with him was.

It was a dark elf, at first glance – had Ketheric never seen a dark elf before. The hair, eyes, height – it was all wrong. A mishmash of racial features that belonged together only in a way that looked offsetting and intimidating, not naturally occurring. Ketheric would know best; not being exactly naturally occurring himself.

“A Bhaalspawn,” he has finally decided on, watched the creature’s too-intense eyes narrow, its lips curl into a wider grin. “Speaking of all that should not be alive.”

“As long as there is Murder to spread, there is Bhaal’s blood to gift it,” the creature bowed, mockingly, arms spread wide and theatrical. “Funny thing though, buddy; thought you passed before my lesser kin was destroyed.”

The Bhaalspawn crisis, a century ago. Ketheric was still alive of flesh when it started, at least somehow – he didn’t live to see the end of it, but he always simply assumed that the children of Murderlord were the side that lost, on account of, well. There still being living people left in the realm.

Not in Ketheric’s part of it, though.

“And I thought all your kin was gone. It appears we both made conclusions before having all the information.” He was trying to find out just how intelligent the beast was; just how worth it it was to even attempt talking to one born into a cult of mindless slaughter. “Do you own a name, Bhaalspawn?”

“There is many and none. I am The Dark Urge of Bhaal,” it said, stood up straight. A man birthed into power, Ketheric could see it from miles away. “Red Twilight upon Faerun’s final day, Worldslayer, He Whos Birthright is Carved in Flesh of The Living.” Just as Ketheric was to roll his eyes, the creature’s mouth curved, humorously in a way that indicated it was, in fact, aware of just how it sounded, and the proudly booming voice dropped to one much easier on the ears. “But I have been informed that is quite a mouthful. For allies, my name is Durge.”

It possessed a sense of humor. A bad one, but...

“General Ketheric Thorm,” he introduced himself, even if both men should be very well aware of that, “And you are Enver Gortash. Pleasantries are therefore completed; I believe there was something you wished to share with me? The plan our Masters mentioned?”

“Please, general!” Gortash sighted with a plea that was in no way actually asking for whatever he was going to demand. “We’ve just arrived, after a two day travel of fighting for our very honor. I’m certain we should be given time for a quick rest, where we can make ourselves presentable.”

He should’ve known that he wasn’t going to be able to get rid of them this quickly, so it was lucky he’s already resigned to a fate of collaboration with an overly ambitious child and his pet monster. He could work with that. He was prepared, and just as dead inside as he was outside.

He didn’t bother to honor Gortash’s words with an expression, merely another nod.

“I could have some rooms prepared in a moment; do you intend to stay the night?”

“Half a tenday, my dear general,” Gortash challenged him with a smile that didn’t reach the glare in his eyes. “If it takes such a journey to reach your humble home, I would rather not repeat it any more times than absolutely necessary.”

“I’ve sent you a map.”

“No offense to your artistic prowess, but it was a terrible map. And failed to mention the hundreds of shadow-plagued corpses that would be after us the moment we step a foot inside.”

“You seem just fine, young Gortash.”

The condescension annoyed the man as much as his voice did Ketheric, so that was good. They were meant to be equal, after all.

The Banite’s smile strained ever so slightly. “Am I wrong to wish to be alerted of an inconvenience on the path I am about to take?”

“How many men’ve you lost?” the general asked out of casual interest; how many have they fed to his Curse?

To his slight surprise, it was the Bhaalspawn that replied, words escorted with an expert twirl of his dagger. “None. Waste of decent fighters, to let them die from a curse and not blade.”

“You reached the Towers alone?”

“Impressed, buddy?”

“I might’ve been; had it not been the bare minimum expected of someone like you.”

“Ah.”

“I’ll inform someone to get you roo-“

The next feat was slightly more impressive – Ketheric barely even saw the Bhaalspawn’s arm move, before the dagger hit him right into his left eye.

Half of the world went dark in a moment, a shook sent through his brain that registered his damaged brain and just how deep the blade was, his head thrown up and faced the ceiling as he stumbled a single step backwards from the force of the blow. Half the way to the hilt, through sclera, bone and brain.

A decent throw.

The pain didn’t last more than as long as it took for Ketheric to register it, and he watched his own hand reach up, wrap gloved fingers around the hold, and pull it out, along with the ruined eyeball that slid down on the blade. He looked back down, to the guests in his house.

The Bhaalspawn stood just as calm as he did before the assault, his throwing arm just finishing dropping down to his waist. Easy smile and eyes that practically shone in the dark with just how entertained the creature seemed to be. On the other hand, Ketheric could finally place the shriek he heard right before the dagger hit him – Gortash stared wide eyed, mouth still open in shock and offense. In a single act, Ketheric’s learnt so much of his new allies.

First, that the Bhaalspawn was more in control of itself than one would expect for its kind. And second, more important, that the Banite didn’t hold any real power over it, despite the early assumptions.

“Mind if I ask what that was about?” Ketheric questioned, calm as a river. The blade with the spilled eyeball attached made an interesting noise as it rattled on the ground where he threw it – half metal, half wet squish against the stone.

“Just checking if stories are true,” the grin on the Bhaalspawn was one of a man acting out on his own accord, at least. Not the mindless craving of violence Ketheric thought to expect. “Your immortality is the bare minimum to expect of you, after all, general.”

Judging from the look on Gortash’s face, he really, truly, wanted to say something; but Ketheric guessed the Banite wanted him and his older ally to present a united front of some sort, so he held back.

The spawn clasped his hands together. “Well then! With that figured out; you’ve mentioned rooms?”

“I have. A servant will escort you to them.” Ketheric stared at them both, taking an extra moment he knew his eye needed to fully grow back so that he could go upstairs with dignity and perception of depth. “... There will be baths available. Take them.”

The spawn’s laugh escorted him with how it echoed through the hallways, so long riddled of anything even resembling such a thing.

Enver managed to control himself until they reached their rooms – two of them that were most likely not going to be needed. Identical; but Durge couldn’t help but notice that his own had a nicer view than the Banite’s.

“Do you need anything else?” The servant that showed them the way asked, and Durge simply threw them a look and a smile, and the intent behind it was apparently enough of an answer. The servant bowed, muttered something that sounded vaguely respectful, and ran off.

The rooms were small and not in any way fit for someone of their status, but Durge’s slept in worse. Or hasn’t slept, at all – like the night before, when Enver practically passed out from exhaustion on cold stones of the ruined house they’ve taken shelter in once his human body reached its limits and then well beyond that. Not that Durge minded keeping guard and occasionally petting Enver’s hair for those few, short hours.

He half expected the exhaustion to sway Enver’s complaining he was about to receive, but no. Incredible how resilient humans were when there was will for something.

 “What in the Hells was that about, Durge?” He asked once they were alone, and his assassin was facing away from him, stretching his aching shoulders. It was a difficult journey. Too bad Enver wasn’t able to just relax immediately after. “I thought we agreed-“

“We didn’t agree on anything,” Durge dismissed him. “You told me how you want me to behave, and I was nice enough not to insult you for it. Not my fault you took that as me agreeing.”

Gortash was fuming. Durge didn’t even have to see him to know so.

“I thought you had better self control than-!”

“I do,” he turned sharply, faced the Banite with a look that would scare anyone else. “But guess what. Now he knows that, as well. I couldn’t stand the way he was talking to me. Like trying to see if a dog could talk. Fucker.”

“Stabbing him for the slightest insult really proved your point, then. Bravo.” Faced with murder incarnate giving him a warning glare, Enver rolled his eyes, and clapped sarcastically. “You’ve truly shown him, dearest.”

“Oh, screw off, he spoke to me man to man after that. You’re just upset because now you can’t act like you’re holding my leash anymore.”

“I haven’t the slightest-“ Enver lied, all the way up until Durge gripped his face and set his mouth to a pained gasp.

He didn’t lean in; instead, lifted the shorter man up to his level, even if Enver had to stand on the very tips of his toes so that his whole weight wouldn’t hang off of his jaw. His cheeks squished together, hands grasped at Durge’s forearm and the golden claws were unable to cut through the thick leather of his wrist wraps.

“You keep trying to sneak a collar on me, hoping I won’t notice,” the assassin smiled, affectionately, when Enver threw him a glare, and dug the claw of his thumb up to dig painfully into the soft, boneless flesh of Durge’s hand. “I’m not upset, Vee. It’s in your nature. But you’re not allowed to be mad at me when I don’t pretend to be blind. Yeah?”

Blood trickled from the small wound and Durge’s grin spreaded even wider, watching Enver struggle to speak with all the pressure that was put to his bones. Ugly, wretched thing.

The Bhaalspawn leaned in to kiss those pursued lips, get a lick over his teeth. He almost lost himself for a moment, before Enver grabbed at his elbow and dropped his whole weight onto it. Joint bent, a blink of distraction all it took, and they both went tumbling over to the harsh ground. Durge hit his knee on the stone quite painfully, but since Enver landed right on his tailbone, they were pretty much matched. Even more so when Enver’s fist closed at his hair and pulled, dragging a high, breathy moan out of the Bhaalspawn’s throat when their lips separated.

“There it is, that lack of self control,” Enver hissed, mostly in pain, rather than frustration. “We’ve just arrived.”

Durge was perched above him, a dark shadow of a predator that fell over the human’s exhausted form. “You know nothing of self control, Banite,” he purred, low and entertained as Enver kept a firm grip on him. “I’ve been holding back since you laid your head on my lap the night before, weak and vulnerable in this land of death. Trusting me to not see offense in acting like your watchdog.”

“I’ve offered to sleep in shifts.”

“And expected me to reverse our positions? Tsk,” he clicked his tongue, leaned as close as the yank on his hair allowed. “As if the only thing more pathetic than guarding your life weren’t trusting you to guard mine.”

Enver’s eyes rolled around in his skull, before he pressed a much more domineering kiss to the spawn’s lips. Durge was still thrilled at the novelty of it – the Urges in him not wanting much more of Enver’s than they did of everyone else. He was able to only bite his lip and not tear it off, only lap at the blood on his teeth instead of wanting to rip the tongue out of the Banite’s throat.

He could ride him right there on the floor, but Enver shoved him off just when Durge straddled him properly.

“Exercise more of that self control, dearest,” he said, humorously, before his face skewered in effort at an attempt to stand up. “Bath, first.”

“They gave us separate rooms,” Durge sighed, completely switching the tone of conversation as he knew to do so well. “Fools.”

The bathroom was shared, and Enver wondered bitterly if they were just given accommodations worthy of a traveling bard, or someone of a similar status. The fact that if they weren’t as close as they were, they would have to use the bath one by one, wasn’t lost on him. So the second would either bathe in the filth of the first, or have to actually ask for a refill. A purposeful dig at just how welcome they were, no doubt.

Luckily, they were more than capable of sharing, even if the water was so cold Enver was hissing for every inch of his body that sunk into it. He wouldn’t be putting himself through that again if it wasn’t necessary, but sadly, after two days and a night of traveling through the shadow curse, it was. Sweat and road dust were the least of his problems; the black blood and shadowy residue of the creatures they’ve had to slay on the way stuck to his skin like dry ink, the smell of death was going to no doubt follow him long after he returned to Baldur’s gate. It reminded him of when he worked at the docks, trading in arms; after a few nights there, his clothes would have soaked in the salty smell of the sea and poverty that he’d have to burn them to fully get rid of it. It was cheaper to just have a set of clothes meant only for those dealings, these days.

Watching Durge strip made him feel at least a little better, he thought as he massaged his aching jaw. The way his bruises and cuts from the fights have already near disappeared, as if his father was upset at the idea of them marring his precious spawn’s flesh.

“I’d assume you preferred to have your own space,” Enver shrugged, fully aware of just how clingy the murderer was, every night when they happened to share a bed. More often than not Enver would’ve woken up with his partner’s full weight laid over his chest, so heavy it made it hard to breathe, but good luck trying to shove over two hundred pounds of muscle off of you when it’s determined to not budge.

“And I’d assume you’d prefer having your very own assassination repellent in bed with you,” Durge snorted mockingly, letting his breeches fall carelessly to the ground. Enver’s eyes wandered to what he was going to claim for himself once more tonight. If they even made it to the bed. “Don’t tell me you trust your own strength to keep you alive?”

“It worked well so far.”

“It sure as shit didn’t work against me.”

“Does anything? Other than a promise of something better?~”

Durge threw him an annoyed look, but Enver received it with a grin, giving the surface of the water a pat in invitation.

“You think yourself far more attractive than you actually are, Vee.”

“That only speaks worse of your tastes, darling. Come on, join me.”

Despite his efforts, Durge couldn’t quite keep a smile from his lips, and Enver knew that he had won. His monster kicked the boots off of his feet and approached, and it would be sexy had Enver not been more excited for him to find out just how icy the water was. It was recent news that the Child of Bhaal didn’t take well to cold, so...

It never happened. Without a thought, Durge cast a spell of burning hands right into the tub, and with a cloud of steam emerging instantly, Enver felt the bath warm to an almost uncomfortable heat.

There was a splash, and then Durge’s face emerged from the steam, grinning ear to ear at just how disappointed Enver must have looked like.

“Don’t give me that face, Vee.” The assassin laughed. “Your lips were turning blue in there.”

“Those are bruises, dearest,” Enver pouted, but then Durge straddled him once more and he couldn’t stay upset at him. Not when now, in the much more pleasant temperatures, he was able to feel his own cock rise in interest when the Bhaalspawn’s semi-hardness pressed against it with a roll of his hips.

Durge kissed him, and Enver could almost just relax, if there wasn’t a voice in his head that did not let him drop a subject when he was having fun with it.

“Am I mistaken, or,” he grinned through the kisses, saw the way Durge’s ears perked up in attention, “did you not just complain about playing my watchdog, hm? And just how humiliating that was?~”

“... Shut it, Vee.” Durge hummed, licked a long strip up his sweated neck. “Your death is mine. You know that.”

“Mhm. Can’t let anyone else have it.”

“That doesn't mean you should rely on me to save you too much.”

“I never did.”

“... You’re still human, though.”

A clawed hand groped at his chest, raked fingers through the hair and scars that decorated it. Enver let out a pleased sigh.

“I am aware.”

“You’ve your limits. Mortal, fleshy, pathetic limits.” Pinch at his nipple, and Enver returned it with an appreciative grip on the spawn’s waist. “But limits none the less. Can’t fault you fully for those.”

“Limits that Ketheric doesn’t have?”

“His limits are in his usefulness. In his mind, no doubt. Would rather have you weak of body and sharp of mind, than immortal.”

Ah, but there was a certain... temptation, in the idea of immortality. Ketheric Thorm has, no doubt, paid for it somehow... But Enver was more than interested in finding out just what the price was. And whether it would be potentially worth it.

But that was for another day.

He was tired, but alive. He had the most dangerous thing he’s ever met seated on his lap and willing to accept him as a mortal, as a lover, even. Even Enver had his limits, as Durge just so kindly pointed out, and he was quite sure he’s reached those about a day ago.

The journey was much harder than either of them has imagined. Even with the experiments they’ve done a tenday ago, even with Ketheric’s detailed map. They managed to figure out some properties of the Curse, and came prepared with objects, infused with continual flames, so they were never fully on the risk of complete exposure to the shadows, but by the Black Hand, did Enver not understand the sheer quantity of the creatures that the Curse was to throw at them. He had enough flaming arrows and spell scrolls to make them not that huge of an issue, but after an hour, two, dozen, his hands were cramping from pressing the trigger, his ears ached from listening to bombs explode and shadows shriek. Without the light and his partner’s much, much better stamina and magic, he deeply doubted he would’ve made it. After sixteen hours, the paths have darkened too much, and even if Enver didn’t wish to come off as so obviously weak, Durge helped him by being the first to suggest they take a rest.

It was a small cabin, one of the many in the ruined cities, and Enver fell asleep the moment he let his eyes close. He still shivered at the thought of what would’ve happened to his corpse if Durge weren’t there, for some reason, without the mortal limit of needing sleep at least once ever two days.

He woke up able to think again, and, much to his surprise, with his head in Durge’s lap. The assassin was sitting in a corner, walled from everything on two sides, with his eyes closed and ears twitching towards every smallest noise outside. There was more corpses around them than before Enver lost consciousness. His watchdog did a tremendous job.

That was over a dozen hours ago, though, and the exhaustion was finally starting to show on Durge’s face as well, Enver noticed when they kissed. Deeper bags under his eyes, the slightest of tiredness sneaking to his voice.

“When is the last time you slept, dearest?” Enver asked, uncharacteristically gentle hand caressing his mad dog’s cheek.

“Got in half a minute to refresh my magic, when you were out.” Durge shrugged.

“You left us-“

“surrounded with a fire wall, arsehole,” he interrupted before Enver could even comprehend the horror of them both being vulnerable in the dark Hell out there. “Just one of those potions you brought with. Y’know. The angel ones.”

“Angelic slumber?”

“Mhm.”

He must have been far more tired than Enver initially thought, if he was forgetting something as basic as a name in alchemy. As if the way Durge was shamelessly nuzzling his hand didn’t tell him enough.

“And before that?”

“Maybe... three days? It’s fine, Vee. I’ll get some tonight.”

Poor creature. Poor, wonderful, powerful creature.

“... Stand up.”

“Eh?”

Durge deserved a reward, and he was quick to pick up on that when Enver gave him a moment to process the order. For once, he obeyed excitedly and without a word, standing with a foot planted on each side of Enver in the tub, water up to his mid thigh – and once Enver sat to his knees, his cock was right at the perfect height for the Banite to show him just how grateful he truly was.

Ketheric didn’t want to go in person – but he was close, and didn’t feel like having a servant slaughtered just now for sending them to check if his esteemed guests were awake yet. It’s been hours. A night, and then some.

He wanted to get the meeting started. And, to not feel the unease of not knowing exactly where a half-rabid Bhaalspawn was, in his house.

He knocked once. Opened the door; and much to his dismay, the room was empty. As was the bed, unslept in. A Bhaalspawn on the loose, then, just as he worried.

There weren’t many living followers of Myrkul around, even they tended to slowly lose their mortal minds when stuck too long within the shadows, despite the protective shield that was there for their sake. Something about the shadows pressing onto them, the threat of immediate, horrific death, had they ever left the safe circle. The point was, Ketheric wanted to keep them, as alive as he could.

A Bhaalspawn running around wasn’t exactly going to improve their life expectancy.

He got himself ready to have to ask Gortash about the whereabouts of the beast he brought in, and after a harsh knock, he heard the Banite’s voice from the other room. At least he was there, while his creature-

... was, also, there.

The Banite was laid in bed, the blanket tangled around his legs the only thing sparing his dignity and Ketheric’s sight, and an equally nude Bhaalspawn was draped over him like a housecat. Or a displacer beast.

Ketheric couldn’t believe his eyes.

The thing’s own eyes were closed, a leg thrown over the Banite, face nestled in the human’s neck.

“Ah, general!” Gortash smiled, carelessly running his hand up and down the beast’s scarred back as if it was nothing. “Forgive me if we’re running late – to a meeting we haven’t set the time for, mind you.”

“... I was expecting you to at least be up before evening, Gortash.” Ketheric managed to keep his voice steady, despite the whirl of emotions that riddled his mind.

Gortash’s grin widened, his face very inviting to a stray fist, and he spread his legs ever so slightly, somehow managing to take space of the servant’s bed the way a king would take a throne. Ketheric avoided looking downward. Especially with how the Bhaalspawn’s arse was just... right there. Shameless and bare.

“We’ll be up in a bit. Certainly hope there is something to eat around here, as well – would hate for my esteemed colleague to have to hunt for his own meal amongst your staff.”

“Can share with ya, fat fuck,” the Bhaalspawn muttered, half asleep, and Gortash only laughed as the creature groped at the fat of his belly.

“Then I suppose I shan’t starve, even if you had forgotten to stock up for us poor souls that still draw breath, my friend.”

And he did, indeed, still draw breath, despite allowing the bloody Bhaalspawn freely nibbling on his neck.

Gortash’s eyes were challenging.

Ketheric’s were filled with a horrible realization that he misjudged which of his two guests was utterly, dangerously insane.

Chapter Text

Ketheric has spent less than an hour around the Bhaalspawn, and yet, he’s already come to learn that the thing did not know how to be still.

It was almost unnerving, how it would sit-both feet up on the chair underneath it, legs fluttering in a way so unbefitting the machine of murder it was meant to be. It reminded Ketheric of when Isobel was little, too small for her feet to reach the floor, and she couldn’t bear to be still for the duration of their household prayer. Melodia would’ve reminded her to be respectful, and their daughter always tried her best to various degrees – but Ketheric did always think that Selune might’ve appreciated a child’s muffled giggles that leaked in her prayers.

.... Clearly, she didn’t care for them enough, though.

“Can’t you sit like an adult?” He asked coldly, arms crossed as he stared down the obnoxious creature that... not sat, wiggled, on the chair opposite of him.

“Hm?” Durge blinked his attention away from the dagger he was playing with, those too-intense eyes finding Ketheric’s. “I’m an adult, Ketheric. I sit like me.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

Get out of my head.

Durge’s grin replaced his confused expression, and Ketheric had a confirmation that the thing was, in fact, browsing through his private thoughts.

“Do not do this, Durge.”

“Do what?~”

Infuriating.

Ketheric blew air from his nose, annoyance crawling up his spine like how he vaguely remembered fear used to, back when he last felt it. He looked to the side, to the door from which they were expecting Gortash to return.

“What is his holdup?”

“He said he doesn’t want to burrow through my bag of holding in front of you,” Durge shrugged, returning to the dagger. And the lines it was cutting into Ketheric’s dining table. “Something about sparing your delicate tastes, I imagine.”

“I’ve been to war, child. Hardly anything delicate.”

“How old do you think I am, anyway?”

It was hard to tell, with elves; but Ketheric wasn’t having it. “Younger than Gortash.”

“.... Why so?”

“Read my mind some more, maybe then you’ll know.”

Durge’s eyes were on him. Ketheric glared back. This time, he caught the dagger before it hit him – the blade cutting through his clenched fingers, stopped mere inches from his face. Bloodied and dejected, Ketheric threw it back on the table. Durge’s expression, posture, nothing changed, even during the attack, it was as easy as throwing an insult, it seemed, and Ketheric was glad he was far past the unpleasantness of dying.

Then the door opened, the Bhaalspawn blinked, and Ketheric took a deep breath to prepare to see this brilliant plan of Gortash’s – only to immediately rethink Myrkul’s sanity when a grotesque, tentacled head was rolled onto the table. His dining table.

“What,” he started, with all the patience of a father he used to be, despite a building headache, “is that?”

“A mindflayer’s head, of course.” Gortash explained, as if he ought to know. “I’m certain you’re familiar with the specie, general?”

Barely.

“Of course. I’m more interested in why is that.”

“Ah, well. I’ll have you know – it is the very center of our masterplan.”

Ketheric was sorry for asking.

Once Gortash started talking, there was no stopping him; but at the very least, he was a decent orator. His plans were absurd, and that was Ketheric being kind. Tall tales of mindflayers, of all the ways they infect and turn people, of elder brain that controlled the entire hivemind... Ketheric could take or leave the science lesson, but it was everything that followed after that made him glad that he’s realized earlier that morning that the Banite was a few screws loose in the head. Repurposing the mindflayer infections, finding a way to command one of the most powerful creatures in existence, taking charge of its hivemind in order to take the world for their Gods... the plan was grand. Fantastical in a sense that it would be incredible if possible, yet without a real way for Ketheric to see a powerhungry Banite, a Bhaalspawn, and a broken man not yet true to Myrkul, manage to pull it off.

Good thing that Ketheric wasn’t there to tell them why it wouldn’t work, though.

He was offered Isobel’s life in return for participating in this – and so, he was going to take it as inevitable.

“Have you done much research on these?” He asked, ignoring his instincts to mock them, as he hinted to the vile creature’s head. “How they affect the hosts? The transformation?”

Gortash bit his lips, something defiant in his glare as he shrugged. “I’ve done my best – but I am of... less than ideal circumstances, in the moment. Difficult to do any more serious experiments in the core of Baldur’s gate.”

“And the Bhaalspawn's spaces?”

“He is not allowed to step foot in our temple,” the spawn finally chimed in, after half an hour of staying quiet and letting the apparent brains of the operation explain it all.

“Too bad. I would imagine it is a useful place for your cursed experiments.”

“Buddy, keep talking, and you won't have to imagine.”

Gortash was eyeing the general for any sign of rejection, of disapproval; but the man was simply listening the entire presentation, only occasionally interrupting to ask for a clarification or some (annoyingly understandable) logistical concerns. So far, he got the feeling that Thorm wasn’t particularly impressed, but, he hasn’t outright called him insane, which was a good sign.

Who would’ve guessed that a man cheating death would see the opportunity in the impossible.

Durge was doing a tremendous job at keeping up the disinterested appearance, just as they’ve actually managed to agree the last night; somewhere while Enver’s face was buried in the crack of Durge’s arse, when the Bhaalspawn happened to be at his most agreeable. Unfair advantage, but Enver would never throw that option away.

“That plan of yours is massive,” Ketheric finally stated, staring at the head.

“World domination tends to be that way, general.”

“It would take years. Decades, even.”

As if Gortash didn’t know. He planned his escape from the House for half a decade; he was a patient man, when he had something to work towards.

“Pardon me, but do you have anything useful to add? General?” Annoyance seeped from his voice, yet slid right off of Throm’s icy facade.

“I wouldn’t speak if I hadn’t, Gortash. A habit you might wish to try some day; but not my current point.” Thorm stood up. “A grand plan requires a grand space – follow me.”

Intrigued, Gortash got up, alongside with a bored looking Durge, and they followed the dead general deeper into the dark hallways of his once grand towers.

Ketheric knew that Gortash was going to enjoy the structure that was buried under the Towers from the moment the man first mentioned a bloody ilithid colony; luckily for them, and nobody else, Ketheric happened to have just the right spot to grow one.

The plans for the Sharran temple that would remain right underneath the towers were never completed, after his architect disappeared and whatever horror moved into the temple that already existed, but by then, Ketheric was dead, and no longer caring for what happened to the second goddess that left him behind. The now defiled temple was not connected to the one that was left unfinished under his home, and the screams of Dark Justiciars have long gone silent enough to not bother him. What he has locked in the heart of the temple laid as unapproachable as it ever was, which was truly all that mattered anymore. No matter whomst Shar might have sent to retrieve it, they never returned, and Ketheric was content.

But who would’ve expected for the second, unfinished temple to come to be useful; Gortash’s dark eyes shone with greed when the Bhaalspawn cast a spell of daylight to reveal the rock walls and incompletely paved grounds, the massive cave that would never find a use that would honor anyone, it seemed.

“Oh, general,” there was leer to his voice, excitement to the clap of his hands. “How wonderful of you to simply have this, laying around!”

“It’s a cave,” Durge huffed meanwhile, and Ketheric was starting to truly get annoyed with his attitude. “I live in one that’s better than this.”

“Ah, but dearest, imagine!”

“I’ll imagine a more interesting place,” with the attitude of an entitled teenager, Durge shrugged, and had the gall to turn away.

“Do not put any of my people to blade, Bhaalspawn,” Ketheric warned him, growing far colder with the beast at its sheer lack of intrigue for what was their plan – but what should he expect, from someone who clearly had no thought for anything not screaming for mercy?

Pathetic, really.

Durge waved him off and left, and Ketheric felt his eye twitching at the mere idea of any of his soldiers acting like that. Gortash didn’t seem too bothered by the blatant display of carelessness, though, as he was already walking deeper into the cave with a step of a new homeowner.

“... I will assume it to your liking.”

“A little small, but an excellent start, general.” Perhaps Ketheric judged him wrong, and it wasn’t greed that plagued the human. When he looked at the old general with wide open eyes and an unappealingly wide grin, it reminded more of a child, fresh with enthusiasm, unaware of its own limits. “Of course, we’d need some slave labour to expand the walls, and to figure out how a colony would even spawn, but I have it on decent authority to believe that once started, it feeds itself into growth, where of course slaves come in once more, and-“

Ketheric did listen to him, nodded at appropriate times, tried his best to see the image Gortash was painting with overly enthused waves of his hands. A tunnel there, a considerable expansion there...

“You wish to turn my basement into a mine full of slaves?” He asked, just to make sure, and Gortash frowned at him.

“No need to ask what you already know, general. I’ve never seen a place more appropriate to hold prisoners than your humble home; don’t tell me you’ve not thought about it?”

“There was no need to, until now.”

“Until now, but now, there is. There shouldn’t even be a need to use force, or any real restraints; if they don’t wish to participate, they can always be allowed to leave.”

“How kind of you,” Ketheric commented, dryly. His longer footsteps easily caught up with Gortash’s, now side by side as they descended lower, down the half-crumbled staircases.

“How kind of you,” the Banite corrected him in the same breath, “You are the dead general committing horrors against the living. I am a mere... councilman from Baldur’s Gate, who knows nothing of what lays here.”

Ketheric nearly rolled his eyes. Nearly.

“I take it I am meant to play the part of the villain in your grand plan?”

“Our.”

“Your.”

“... Ketheric.” The man has stopped walking, turned to the Myrkulite, and the annoyingly false smile has dropped as his hands rested on his hips. Ketheric’s stayed firmly crossed over his chest. “If this fails, we will all be villains in any historical footnote that will become our legacy. History won’t atone any of us.”

Ketheric felt his lip pull up in a sneer, an expression he’s been most unfamiliar with in years yet Gortash somehow managed to drag out of him by his mere presence and... everything else, really.

“And if we succeed?”

“Then we will be the ones writing it, and there will be nothing to atone for.” There it was, mask of annoyance finally dropped, and Ketheric was at last faced with the mind that designed a plan as ruthless as one he was just told of. Cold eyes. Calculated. “Need I tell you, general, you’re here to play your part of the plan, no matter what that might be, and you are to play it well. It is what our masters decided.”

“And what is the Bhaalspawn’s part in all this?” Ketheric intrigued with a lifted eyebrow and mockery in his voice. “To warm your lap during your glorious victory over me? To make getting rid of your opponents as easy as a moan and a whisper?” He huffed something akin to a laugh. “I’ve followed many of plans, Gortash, but never one of a madman who’d attempt to tame a mad dog by spreading his legs.”

He was still going to go along with the plan, he supposed; if it was what Myrkul required, for Isobel’s life. It didn’t have to mean he had to bear any respect for his co-conspirators.

“You yourself are a proof of why the plan will work,” Gortash stated, and even if all he earned was another mocking huff in turn, the human stood unswayed in his confidence.

“Oh? Do enlighten me, with what that could possibly mean.”

“You see what you wish to see. What the spotlight centers on. Immortal or not; you still carry the blindness of Fae’run.” A corner of Gortash’s lips has lifted, and there was something in that look – internal laughter at a joke Ketheric did not get. “We shall use that to win, my dearest general. Shine a light bright enough onto what we want them to see, and they will stop looking for shadows in the dark.”

Ketheric’s stopped smiling.

There was something he missed, it hit him.

They stood there for a moment, as Ketheric’s mind swirled over everything around them, and his first thought was that he should’ve seen an attack from behind coming, but no. That would be expected.

Air around of them was stale and cold, it showed itself as a puff of heat whenever Gortash breathed out, the little blur in the light of the-

... Light.

That the Bhaalspawn cast, right before he left – but left to where?

To his credit, Gortash didn’t as much as make a noise when Ketheric’s fist clenched around his throat; his teeth shone under the light, such an ugly grin he had now that the general finally saw through him.

“Where is he?” He hissed, pulled the Banite closer, but his hand shook from rage as anxiety suddenly twisted in his gut. “Where did you send him?”

Gortash snorted, right into his face. Droplets of spit fell on Ketheric’s dead skin, and then he didn’t have time anymore. He threw the man down, walked away, then ran, and the rotten human’s mocking laugh followed him all the way to the exit.

‘Melodia would understand, if she knew my aim. She too, I believe, would have turned to Myrkul under such conditions as these. Our darling will live again. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t raze the world entire for her s-‘

Durge was just turning the page as the door burst open, and there stood the enraged general. That was okay. Durge knew he was coming since the moment he smelled his corpse from coming up the stairs.

What a sight he was, though – he’s clearly ran all the way there, probably skipped stairs, and his previously neatly combed hair were tousled by the movement, shoulders raising and falling with breaths he probably didn’t need to take.

“You bloody-“

“The Moonmaiden cannot be so unfeeling – so cruel,” Durge recited, cutting him off with a general's own accent that spoke from the diary he’s read just a bit earlier, and he got to watch the other’s gaze flicker with panic, for all but a moment. “Not towards her most devoted servant. Not after Melodia.”

Ketheric stepped over the mangled remains of his mutated dog without a blink; he most likely could just revive it all over again, if needed. Durge remained on the bed, half expecting the general to smite him then and there, but much to his surprise, he hesitated some more at the doorstep.

“Is that what it takes to drive goddess’ most loyal stray from her?” The assassin wondered out loud, theatrically flipping through the old diary. “Because truly, Throm. No wonder you’re barely loyal to Myrkul, if that is how easily you flip. One dead daughter, and you throw all devotion away?”

That did it, replaced hesitation with anger, and next thing Durge knew, Ketheric stood at the foot of the dusty bed that was just a bit too small to fit a man of Durge’s height. He attempted to snatch the diary, but it disappeared from Durge’s hand just before he could do it, and so instead, his fist aimed itself for the assassin’s face.

He was blinded by rage, and that made it easy; a spell of misty step, right up behind him, and then it was nought but brute force to shove the man face first onto the bed.

“C’mon, Thorm. Easy.”

“ GET OUT.”

“Oooh, scary. Would little Isobel not like me in her room?” Durge found himself grinning, ear to ear, as the grieving father struggled underneath him. It wasn’t the first time he’s seen it, not even close to it – he’s slaughtered plenty of pretty girls in front of people who loved them; and their fathers, no matter how proud or strong they were before, always lost their minds at that.

Is there anything as undoing as a daughter, he sometimes wondered; and then he saw Orin and Sarevok, and thought their family must be above such mortal feats.

He got lost in thought for a moment, just enough for Ketheric to get one hand free from under his body, and slam his elbow straight into the assassin’s cheek with all the force of a man who’s lost it.

Fun.

Before the darkness cleared from his eyes, Ketheric had him by the throat and has swung them around, practically pinning Durge down to the girl’s bed with a brutal knee to the thigh, just where the fat main vein ran – if Durge was someone else, he would probably be stuck. He’d know best; he’s pinned plenty of people in that exact position.

“You vile wretch,” Ketheric was practically spitting from anger, the veins in his eyes popped and painting the yellow of his cornea a disgusting orange. “Who gave you the right to-“

“My father is a god, Thorm,” Durge spat right back, finding leeway just enough to bring his free leg up for leverage. “I’ve right to do anything.”

Before the man could reply, he got a knee to the groin, and much to Durge’s delight, it didn’t do almost anything other than make the old general headbutt him straight in the face.

“You’ve no right here, in my home. In her room.”

The world spun with the upcoming headache, got just a little more red – and then there was a knife at Thorm’s rib-cage, right where it ended, and where the softness of his belly begun. Durge pressed the tip upwards, leant further up into the choke Ketheric had him in, stole the breath right from his mouth with how close they were.

“Do you know how hard it is to clean decayed gut from silken sheets?” He asked through grit teeth of a smile, and Ketheric’s whole body stilled.

He did know, or, at least, he could imagine.

“... Why.” He ended up saying, using all the air in his lungs for one word and then not filling them up again, as if he worried a single twitch would urge the assassin to slice him open right onto little Isobel’s bed.

“You weren’t honest with us, buddy,” Durge told him, pressing the blade just a little higher, just enough to make the fearsome general cringe. “Loyal to Myrkul, all that bullshite; He’s still not paid his promises to you, has He?”

Ketheric tried to pull himself off of the assassin, but with no luck; Durge hooked his free leg over his waist, his free hand around his shoulders, and forced him down into something that could from outside easily look like an embrace of lovers.

“Has He?”

“... My daughter’s heart, beating again. That is His promise.” The general finally replied, in a voice much quieter, fury reduced from burning to an ember. “Once He fulfills it, He will have no servant more loyal than myself. I don’t expect you to understand.”

“I do not,” Durge agreed, twisted the knife further. A single droplet of stale blood dripped down the blade, and the assassin shivered with disgust at the man that should have been murdered so long ago. “But I am not here to fix behaviors of any gods; we have a plan to fulfill. And your senile arse better be committed.”

We have a plan. We have to fulfill it.

Ketheric was underestimating the Bhaalspawn’s actual involvement with the whole thing, it seemed. Not just a blade to hire or a dog in search of something to rut into; the sly thing stared at him with dark eyes that betrayed nothing but dedication, intelligence. Lack of care, too, but only for Ketheric’s personal boundaries and feelings.

He could, metaphorically, live with that, if in return that meant an ally far more capable than it initially appeared.

The dagger was still poking him, slowly penetrating the skin under just the right angle to be able to slice him open to the navel at the slightest provocation. He didn’t need to see a knife to believe that.

“... I do not wish to see you in this room ever again, Bhaalspawn.”

“I have a name,” the thing, the man, hissed, and the blade got just a little deeper. “You will use it.”

“Durge. You’re never to enter this room again.”

“Why? Because it’s been untouched since little Izzy died?” Yes. And now it was defiled. “Sentimentality will do nobody any good. You fucked the whole land already; the room’s been fucked as well, ever since you let out that curse.”

His grip on the spawn’s throat tightened, only for the dagger to threaten to permanently soil the only sheets that still held a whiff of Isobel’s scent to them, so Ketheric took a deep breath... and released the menace. One hand against each side of the man, and Ketheric’s head hung low in a moment of sadness as it all settled in.

He hasn’t been to that room since Isobel died, that was true. He hasn’t been prepared to see it, not like this, not with the vile Bhaalspawn sprawled on his darling daughter's bed, reading his private thoughts of the days when he was at his lowest. He wasn’t prepared for the violation, for old wounds to be torn open so easily, there was no need for the spawn to break into this room and wait for him there, when he could easily read through Ketheric’s diaries in his own bed. But no, he was here, and the walls still looked exactly how he left them when Isobel was here last... only for the dust on them, on everything, to remind him of just how long it has been.

Durge’s hand on his cheek disgusted him, but the dagger didn’t allow him to risk smacking it away, and so it wiped off a tear before it would ever truly leave the former father’s eye.

“Don’t cry, general,” the creature hummed, and when Ketheric looked down upon it again, there was not a wink of compassion in those flaming pink eyes. He wondered if a Bhaalspawn was even capable of understanding the agony of grief, but... it helped, that he didn’t see any. There was no pity. Only focus.

“... Let go of me. Durge.”

Ready to get back at him at any moment, the spawn released him, and Ketheric pulled away from its grip and blade. Part of him knew what to expect before he even saw it for himself, so when he turned to the side and noticed Gortash standing in the doorway, he wasn’t surprised.

The human’s throat has already started to turn into a palette of blue and purple bruisings from where Ketheric grabbed him earlier, and that was the sole consolation for having to be seen himself in a distressed state.

“Gortash.”

“General.” The human was smiling. Ketheric wanted to hit him.

But... he saw it, now. The danger of the duo he was apparently now forced to work with. Not a mastermind and his pet, but something worse, far worse – collaborators. Experts of their own fields.

Oh, how wrong he was before.

Durge sat up and stood from Isobel’s bed, carelessly wiping the dirty dagger into the sheets, and Ketheric felt a moment of panic and rage bubble up inside of him in a blink – but then, Durge dared to move closer, clawed hand resting on the general’s.

“There’s nought to bitch about. Stop it.”

“I’ve told you to-“

“Memorials are to be kept for those that are gone, Thorm. We’ll get your bloody daughter back, and this will only be a room with dirty sheets then. Aight?”

Ketheric paused. Stared. The assassin was an inch taller than him, a thing his tactical mind only vaguely registered in the back of the swarm of thoughts that a sentence spoken so matter of factly threw at him.

“Necromancy, dearest?” Gortash questioned, but something in the way he was smugly checking his nails told Ketheric that the bastard was there for far longer before he noticed him, and that he knew. “And here I thought your Father wouldn’t approve.”

“He wouldn’t,” Durge scowled, “but if Thorm’s not loyal to Myrkul, he’s not loyal to the plan, and we can’t afford a weak link in a chain of three. Father can take it up with Myrkul himself if it’s that much of a bother.”

Ketheric felt a lump in his throat, but at last, he managed to move enough to shove the spawn’s hand away. “And what can either of you do, to help? I’ve a necromancer at work already – Myrkul is willing to bring her soul back, but everything else must be done by me. It will only take time.”

“If your necromancer can bring her back in a decade, then with some help, perhaps we can sever that time into pieces,” Gortash suggested, his voice for the first time not completely unwelcome. “With my resources and connections, and our savant sorcerer’s own researches; well, who’s to say. It will certainly be faster.”

Ketheric disliked them, both of them, severely.

But.

But.

He sighed, and sat down, on Iz’s now soiled bed. Neither of the duo seemed to have any intentions to leave the place, and Ketheric was done showing weakness in front of them, now that he wasn’t caught off-guard anymore.

“... We can create a teleportation sigil outside of the border,” he finally said, not needing to agree to accept their help for them to understand. “If you’re going to be coming here more often for research, that is. I can grant you a space downstairs, while we work on expanding the basement.”

Gortash clasped his hands together.

“Ah, there we go, general! I’m so glad we found the problem we can fix for a better collaboration!”

“Mhm. As for the slaves; not far ahead is an entrance to the Underdark with a vast duegar population – decent workers that not many will miss.”

“... That would ease us of much suspicion, yes... give me a moment-“

Gortash brought out a notebook, quick to write down the ideas they threw around, and Durge’s suggestions were far more helpful than those before. Ketheric found the old tactician in his blood slowly waking up, brought to life by a promise, and an idea perhaps worthy of entertaining.

His fingers brushed against the sticky spot on Isobel’s bed. He ought to change the sheets, before she comes home.

Chapter Text

The clock ticked. Enver was so terribly bored that he started to focus on the sweat droplets on his forehead, the way they trickled down his temples, and put them in a mental competition of which would reach his jawline first.

Opposite to him, Raphael finally made his move; an underwhelming one, after taking twenty minutes to think it through. His ruby red Mystra moved forward, to steal one of Enver’s marble white knights, and the devil looked so annoyingly smug about it.

“I’ll admit you’ve had me in quite a bound there for a moment, mouse,” he bragged, and it took all of the kid’s mental power to not roll his eyes in a way that would only serve to get them blackened again. “You are getting clever at this.”

Behind the cambion, the true devil sat, stretched out like a beast that they were on the plush bed; Haarlep’s ember-like eyes caught Enver’s, and the creature winked at him as they watched the two play.

It’s been hours.

Enver didn’t think saying anything would’ve been appreciated in the moment, so he just nodded, his mouth dry from just how bloody long this entire game was, and he rather stared at the lanceboard as if he had to seriously think of his next move.

The clock ticked. The sweat droplet on his right side won, catching onto the jagged scar on his chin before he wiped it away. Today, the Hells felt even hotter than usually.

He could’ve won the game easily, he always could, but that wasn’t the true lesson he was here to learn, he’s learnt that the day when Raphael slammed his face into the ebony board hard enough to knock out his last baby tooth after the child’s beaten him too many times too easily. The point wasn’t to win, it never was; the true teaching here was to know just how smart he was supposed to make the cambion feel.

So he moved his Selune forward, left behind an opening to Raphael’s victory, and hoped that maybe this fucking time, Raphael would actually notice it, and they could end this whole charade. The move put the cambion’s own knight right in Enver’s hands, and he pretended not to see the twitch of his eyebrow that followed it.

Notice, Enver urged him in his mind, frustrated beyond himself when Raphael reached forward, touched one of the figures, then let go of it – even though he should move it now, but gods help whoever was going to point that out to him – and returned to pondering. Enver was half tempted to bash his own head into the board if the cambion wasn’t going to finally notice his open path to victory. He wanted to go back to the library. This was eating away on one of the rare days he’s had when all his chores were done and no punishment awaited.

It was Haarlep who helped him, in the end; by now knowing that little Enver started giving their beloved master an easy time about two hours into a game, and that they only needed to look for it. The creature has walked over with that sultry sway to their hips, wrapped their arms around their older lookalike, and purred into his cheek. Something about hurrying up so that they can have their own fun, or whatever today’s excuse was. Something about being hungry.

“Why not stop playing with your food, my lord?~” they breathed raw lust onto Raphael’s skin, and the cambion shivered, before swatting them away. “Aw. You’d really prefer to play this, when that,” the incubus pouted, their hands traveling up their sides, hips, a clawed finger up their crotch, a move Raphael no doubt felt on his own body from the replica, “is all but crying out for you?~”

Enver couldn’t remember the last time he was this mindnumbingly bored.

“Move, harlot,” the master complained, anger flashing in his eyes as Haarlep swooped a figure from the lanceboard, dragged their forked tongue over the thing. “You vile creature, let go in this-“

He’s snatched the figure from their hands, but their saliva on his skin was already sending a flush to his cheeks – but the incubus was ignored the moment Raphael went to put the slightly shinier figure back on the board. The realization widened his eyes and brightened his face, and with an obnoxious “Ah!”, he finally took the path Enver opened for him, and won the game.

“Wonderful try, mouse,” the cambion boasted, at last in a good mood, and allowing Haarlep to coo and kiss over him, their hands already moving to undo the buttons of his tunic as Enver watched with all the impassion he felt. “Ah, you’ve got a lot to learn, but worry not; one day, you might achieve your full - however lacking - potential.”

“Oh, wow, thank you, master,” Enver replied flatly, itching to leave. “I sure wish I could reach your level one day.”

“Foolish thoughts of a mortal, my dear,” Haarlep was already dragging him towards the bed, and with that near-giddy flush to his cheeks, Raphael followed. “But I am willing to give you some of my time to sharpen your skills some more. Tomorrow, perhaps – leave me be, for now. I’m sure you’ve got something to do.”

“Thank you, master,” Enver’s feet didn’t quite reach the floor from his chair just yet, so he did the little drop he needed to do, and bowed deeply to finally let his eyes roll the way they’ve been wanting to.

“And that’s a win, dearest,” Enver grinned, taking Durge’s knight and blocking him in fully. Six turns was all the Banite needed to wipe the floor with him, and Durge was feeling proud of himself.

Last round has ended after only five, after all.

Enver was a smug bastard about his skills, but it was so rare Durge’s found something he wasn’t naturally good at, that this lance game thing intrigued him to no ends, even if they’ve only been going for under an hour. It passed the time at Moonrise, where even after two years of visiting, air itself still dragged like a slug through a salt field.

“How long have you said you’ve been playing for?” Durge asked as he went to set the board for their next game – not that much’s been needed to change, seeing as they barely did anything in the round, anyway.

“Little over thirty years?” Enver shrugged. “But if it’s any help, I’ve been pretty good from the very start. How about you?”

Little over thirty minutes; but Durge didn’t feel like the already overconfident Banite needed to know that. It was hard to get into games of all things when you’re busy leading a cult from before your voice has a chance to drop. He wasn’t even sure who’d he have to play with even if he would’ve acquired knowledge of the board.

Luckily for him, he didn’t need to think of a reasonable lie; not when the unwelcome stench of another Banite washed over them, and one of Gortash’s gross arsekissers slid into the room.

“High Imperceptor lord Gortash,” the man greeted, bowing all the way at his waist in a way that made Durge roll his eyes. He moved his figure; one of the peasants, two places forward. Enver was oh so generously allowing him to start. Not that it changed much.

“Speak, my trusted servant.” Enver didn’t even bother to look at the man for longer than needed to determine his rank; which was, if Durge remembered the Banite titles correctly, a quite low one.

Enver made his own move, the same one he’s done for last two rounds, when Durge opened the exact same way. Definitely not because the assassin was yet to figure out how other figures were allowed to move.

The Banite didn’t move from his bow when he spoke, eyes respectfully trained to Enver’s boots. “The portal to Mulmaster has been prepared, my lord. We only await your presence to proceed.”

“You’re going to Mulmaster?” Durge asked boredly, responding with his own move; still same as last round, he tried to see if Enver was going to make the same opening as he did then. He left one of the pointiest figures open then, if he remembered correctly.

“I’ve got a mass to lead in Lord Bane’s altar there; you’d understand, had the church of Bhaal had any important holds outside of Baldur’s gate.”

The non-subtle insult left Durge thinking about throwing one of the heavier figures into Enver’s head, but he held back, and instead observed carefully when his Banite made his next move – same opening as last time. Good.

... Probably.

“We’ve places you don’t need to know of; but our important masses have our people come to me. You know, the way you do with the halfgod you worship.” His peasant moved through the opening, cornering the pointy figure, and Durge held back a grin as Enver’s eyes rested on it for a moment longer than they did before. “Not that I expect a mere servant of his god to understand that.”

“A daring move, to march this far with just a peasant,” Enver replied with a flat voice, as if he hadn’t just been mocked, but Durge supposed that the both of them were willing to stretch out the limits of their tolerance for eachother. It was fun, to see how far they stretched exactly though.

“Hey, I know at least one filthy peasant who’s made it quite far by just going forward, can’t blame me from learning from hi-”

Enver kicked him under the table like a petty child.

Durge powered through with only a sharp inhale through his nose, able to not let the suddenly sharp pain in his shin show on his face. Apparently, Enver’s limits were a bit more limited when his worthless slaves were around.

Pity.

“Fucker.”

“Language, dearest!” Gortash stood up to avoid the deserved payback, his obnoxious laugh warming something vile in Durge’s heart. It swelled into a thing even more akin to affection when Bane’s Chosen picked up his coat, and returned to the game just long enough to move his knight and win.

So the knights moved diagonally, huh.

Gortash was almost completely sure Durge has never even touched a lanceboard before, but there was something incredibly endearing in the way the usually savant monster completely bombed – metaphorically, for once. He tended to detest playing against people who were so clearly below his level, but with his assassin? It was fun seeing him study the board so hard, with so much interest. Gortash was sure that if he had asked, the Bhaalspawn could recite the last hour move by move.

He had a vague idea that this was probably how Durge approached any new topic; with passion and interest Gortash’s really seen outside of himself. It was the same with his machinery, Durge was in no way as talented with it as Gortash was, but he learnt quickly enough to be able to do the bare minimum of manual labour when he happened to be helping the Banite around his workshop. He was no inventor the same way Gortash was no surgeon, but it wasn’t like he needed to be, either of them.

He made a mental note to remember this game, and to see how long it will take Durge to improve at it. Once he actually learned any of the rules, perhaps.

“Do you plan on returning to Baldur’s Gate anytime soon, dear?” He asked as he was fastening the belt of his coat, feeling the calming effect of the enchanted fabric embrace him like arms of an incubus. Magically safe. Numbing.

Durge was still staring at the board as if it’s insulted him personally. “In a few days, perhaps. Waiting for that bloated corpse to return from wherever he’s gotten lost.”

“Balthazar?”

“Mhm.”

“I’m sure he loves that you’re sending him around like some choreboy.”

Durge huffed. “Thorm insists the mistake of nature works with me; I have to put it to use somehow. Besides, he’s as dead as everything out there is, anyway.”

The assassin has never liked the necromancer, and Gortash could understand it, to a degree. A Bhaalspawn wasn’t exactly fond of those who messed around with what was dead and what wasn’t, and Durge tended to project his loathing of Ketheric’s existence onto the one man right beneath him.

“Once Thorm’s darling daughter is brought back, you can put the necromancer back in the dirt,” he suggested, only earning an annoyed snort from his assassin.

“Yeah right. If only.”

“Well,” Gortash sighed, stepped a bit closer to give the Bhaalspawn a supportive pat on the shoulder. “I must be going; good luck with your research. Come see me when you return to the Gate?”

“Mhm,” Durge moved too fast for Gortash to see, much less avoid it – but it’s been so long since he actually needed to avoid his assassin’s deadly grip. His throat was grabbed, he was pulled in... and the only thing to happen was a sweet kiss that pressed to his lips as the Bhaalspawn grinned against him.

Gortash let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, then turned it to a yelp when Durge used his moment of dropped guard to bite his lip, hard enough to bleed.

He should’ve seen it coming, he really should’ve.

The Banite behind them twitched in his place, but stayed complacent, the way he should be, and Enver didn’t bother struggling in the too tight grip, he merely opened his mouth to kiss the Bhaalspawn back as hard as his lover preferred it.

“Annoying bastard,” Durge affectionately called him once he let him breathe again, and his eyes were so stupidly playful. “Think you can meet up with that merchant in Mulmaster, if you’re there already?”

“Hm? The slaver?”

“Yeah. You mentioned you’d need more pixies for that lamp you were talking about, didn’t ya? Got news she might’ve gotten a way to get a decent batch quickly.”

“Ah, right.” So sweet, his monster remembered. “Will keep that in mind, dearest. Now, if you’re done with whatever display of public humiliation you think you’ve been putting on-“

“Use a healing potion,” Durge rolled his eyes as he let go of him, and Gortash smiled, despite the pulsating pain in his bloodied lip. “See you in Gate, then.”

“So I shall.”

He left Durge to ponder over the lanceboard some more, heading off with the Banite servant finally rising from his bow and following closely behind him, head still lowered, the way it was supposed to be, when someone of his lowly rank was around Bane’s Chosen. The Banite didn’t say a single word about the display he’s just witnessed; which, good.

Gortash decided he didn’t need a healing potion; let his people see just how well he’s had the Bhaalbabe trained, for it to restrain itself from causing any serious damage. His assassin had it coming, anyway.

The Banite has left the towers, the shadows whispered in Ketheric’s head. He felt him step outside, him and the others that he’s brought, the few steps it took from the edge of the protective shield Myrkul has granted his followers, to the teleportation sigil on the stone by the bridge. The group’s living, pulsing presence disturbed the shadows, but the moment they’ve touched the sigil, they were gone, and the absence of death that they brought was quickly taken back over by the shadows.

All was right, once more.

Moonrise towers were so uncomfortably lively, since the Banite and his Bhaalspawn started appearing at it. They were the reason for dozens of slaves that now dug stone under Ketheric’s home, they brought in their own people that kept an eye on those slaves, they brought themselves, that undefeatable, annoying presence that was as alive as it was insufferable.

And yet, Isobel remained dead.

Not for long, perhaps; the Bhaalspawn and Ketheric’s own necromancer have worked together quite well, despite the immediate dislike son of Murder had for the other dead man. Young Gortash has also sniffed out a supposed mummy lord back in Baldur’s Gate, and the research on resurrection of those long dead was supposedly proving to be slowly building towards something...

A lot can change, in two years; especially after a century of deathly darkness. It still felt to be happening too quickly, if Ketheric could be honest with himself. The disturbance in death and sorrow, the sudden near-reality of his dearest Iz coming back.

He often found solace in her room, these days; even after it was so ruthlessly violated by the Bhaalspawn and himself; her sheets have been replaced, her walls cleaned, and somehow, that idea, that hope, allowed the broken father a moment of reprieve from the chaos that has snuck into his home.

“Whatcha doing, buddy?”

... Unless the chaos followed him there, that is.

Ketheric didn’t bother to open his eyes to honor the Bhaalspawn with his attention; acknowledging him at all was plenty enough.

“Have you really nothing to do, a mere minute after Gortash leaves?”

“Hard to play lance by myself, ykno?”

The creature – the man – moved almost soundlessly, had it not been for the creaky floorboards. Ketheric heard him walk around the room, pick something up from Isobel’s dresser.

He’s come to expect Durge’s inability to stay still, since they’ve met for the first time – but that didn’t mean he ever got any more used of it.

“I do not care,” he replied truthfully from where he sat, on the ground by Isobel’s bed, in a kneel almost like a prayer as his forehead rested on the soft matress. “Find other ways of amusement.”

“Do you play lance?”

“... I haven’t, in a while.”

“You haven’t done many things in a while, buddy. Being dead and all.”

He could hear the halfgod put down whatever it was that he was looking through, probably one of Isobel’s books, and move again, his footsteps carrying that odd rythm of a mind that always played a song for noone but itself to hear.

Durge’s stopped right by Ketheric’s side, waited for a moment, two, and then, his thigh brushed against the general’s, as he joined him in a kneel.

“... What are you doing, Durge.” Katheric sighed, forced himself to ask, and as he opened his eye to glance at the intruder, the young man has rested his cheek on the side of the bed and was staring straight at him.

“Trying to understand. This isn’t where you’d worship Myrkul, is it?”

“I’m not worshipping.”

“You’re kneeling.”

“A man can kneel for many things.”

“But you’re not sucking cock, either.”

“Y-“ A thought got stuck on Ketheric’s tongue, as his head whipped to the side to face the bloody child that apparently couldn’t help himself from such moronic remarks. “... You are not amusing.”

The brat grinned, still leaning onto darling Iz’s bed as if they were far more friendly than they were. “But it made you move, didn’t I.”

“How hard is it, to leave a man to grieve?”

“I don’t get why you’re grieving; she’s coming back.”

“I-“ Ketheric sighed, turned his head back to the bed. “... I don’t expect you to understand, son of Bhaal.”

“I don’t.”

Despite his much, much better judgement, Ketheric thought about it for far shorter than he should’ve, and then let a sliver of the hatred locked within, slip out.

“You halfgods never do.”

It was apparently Durge’s turn to pause before his voice returned, somehow losing that purposefully annoying undertone of smugness it tended to have. “... You’ve met other halfgods?”

The question was earnest, intrigued, and Ketheric gave up on having his peace while the monster of a man was bored and interested in him. He let out a deep sigh, then turned around, sitting on the rug with his back leaned onto the wooden bedframe that creaked under his weight, even without his armor.

“Yes, Durge. I’ve met one.”

“.. Which one did you like more?”

“What.”

“Him or me? Which one’s your favorite?”

He wouldn’t believe that the Bhaalspawn was actually asking to know – or care – about his opinion, but Ketheric thought back of that vile, awful woman... and the answer was surprisingly easy to find.

“You. Any day over her.”

“Whew,” Durge whistled. “That bad, huh?”

“You could not fathom.”

“Try me, buddy.”

Durge made himself comfortable as the old man tiredly turned his head to look at him; Ketheric barely resembled a mighty general that day, and the assassin was deeply intrigued by this new side of him.

There was just something so, so... exhausted, about him. As if his body were aware its soul’s time alive was long overdue. Deeply sunken eyes, creases of an eternal un-smile, the paper-like quality to his skin and the veins that showed so clearly through it. He looked smaller without his armor, in mere tunic and pants, fine of quality and practical, but at the same time, lack of armor only empathized the wide shoulders and strong built of a man who would be fierce in battle.

Durge’s fingers itched to get deeper in whatever old wounds were pestering the general in the moment.

Time between them passed, surprisingly lacking real tension, before Ketheric eventually gave up, and started to chase off Durge’s boredom.

“Her name was Aylin,” he practically spat out the name, with so much hatred that it sent a delightful shiver up the assassin’s spine. “Daughter of Selune, gods curse her.”

“Sheesh.”

“My Isobel... She fell, head over heels when she first met her. Paladin of Selune, just like her father,” a joyless noise escaped his throat. “She never stood a chance after that creature got her claws in her.”

Oh, the spite that veiled off of the usually stoic general – his voice broke under the weight of his sorrows, and Durge found it so terribly intriguing. Enver was a mortal creature of anger and vengence, and the assassin always thought it fascinating, but Ketheric? Those feelings were new, unique, a man so broken he couldn’t shatter any further.

Ketheric’s dead eyes finally felt a little bit alive when they turned to Durge next, and an excited shimmer snapped itself through the assassin.

“Could you love a mortal, halfgod?”

“I can. I have.” Durge shrugged. Perhaps, the general was surprised, because his accusatory glare turned to something else, that the Bhaalspawn couldn’t quite place.

“... And?”

“Oh, you want my stories, now? Thought you wanted me to leave you alone.”

“You initiated this. I am continuing it.”

“Heh. Fair, then.” He took his sweet time to make himself comfortable, stretching his arms out until his arching spine gave a satisfying pop, and then leaned his head to rest upon Ketheric’s shoulder, just to feel the general flinch in discomfort. It was intimate. Too familial. Durge reveled in forcing that upon him. “Loved my parents, once.”

“I was under the impression that your only parent is the god that made you.”

“Hey, I’m not falsely advertising; true flesh of Bhaal, through and through,” Durge waved him off, before any doubts could start forming. “But I mean parents parents. You think Father just left a babe in the temple? Couple of nobodies from just outside of Baldur’s Gate who took in a drow child at their doorstep.”

His leg bounced slightly against the floor to make up for his restfulness, while he was leaning onto the man still and Ketheric watched him, unreadable.

“And?”

“And what?” He still remembered them, when he bothered to; the sea shanties ma used to sing, the way her fingers danced over her lute. Mum’s warm arms that would’ve picked him up, her voice that’d scream at people who dared look at him like he wasn’t right. The way mum danced with him through their little kitchen while ma played songs from their times over the seas, the burnt smell of bread they left on the fire for too long because they got distracted. Tears and shock and worry in their eyes when they first found him wrist deep in that songbird that couldn’t fly well enough to escape him.

The sounds mum made when she choked to death, the terror in ma’s eyes before Father reaped their souls and the lights went out.

“What happened to them?”

“I killed them.” Durge hummed. “As will I everything else. But I did love them.”

Ketheric hasn’t moved yet.

“... And you never mourned?”

“Don’t know how. Or why, really. Everyone will die one day – I s’ppose there wouldn’t be much need for me to be able to regret the inevitable.”

It didn’t understand; of course it didn’t. Why would it?

Ketheric almost wanted to laugh, but a part of his anger released the Bhaalspawn from its clutches. It wasn’t Durge’s fault to have been made this way. This halfgod was at least honest with his own monstrosity, he didn’t go around pretending to be able to feel things mortal beings did.

He has once begged her, begged daughter of his goddess to leave Isobel alone, to give her a chance at love like the one Ketheric has known with Melodia; but no, Aylin claimed that he didn’t understand. He, who has suffered a broken heart for decades, with only the product of his and Melodia’s love to keep him together. And poor Isobel followed her immortal love into death, and Selune, who kept her own child safe and alive for eternity, could not bother to offer the same grace to Ketheric’s.

His fists clenched at the thought alone, the memory of Aylin, with not a scratch on her, bringing Isobel’s impaled corpse back to his home. The woman daring to try and console him, tell him that she was with Selune now, while Ketheric’s soul tore itself apart and he cried for his baby girl that died as a notch on the halfgod’s bedpost.

The Bhaalspawn’s chuckle brought him out of his worst memory, and as Ketheric looked down, he noticed that in the moment of grief, his hand has clutched for one of Durge’s – and the assassin allowed it, for whatever mockery he might’ve thought it to be.

He tried to pull away, but he couldn’t, the beast was terrifyingly strong, even compared to the old paladin, so he gave up, and sighed.

“It’s pain,” he said, at last. Durge’s ears perked up, but he didn’t move more, simply listening for once. “To grief. Someone you love is gone forever, and you remain, and whatever part of you that was theirs is torn away with them.”

“...”

“I wished to tear my mind apart so that I could forget, my Isobel, my Melodia, the man I was for them, but not even Shar could give me the mercy. Consider yourself lucky, to not know the way a hollow chest can ache.”

“... Yeah. I guess.”

“Has Gortash never explained grief to you?”

“He’s too much of a spiteful arsehole to get attached to anyone like that – don’t think he’s ever really mourned, either. Not much to grieve when you start with nothing, is what he said.”

What a miserable existence, is what Ketheric would’ve thought two gods ago. But now? He could’ve almost admired it, had he not seen the way the Banite looked at Durge, and saw the exact same sparkle Isobel’s eyes used to have before the Moonmaiden allowed her to die.

But the Banite knew what he was in for.

Isobel couldn’t have.

“Pfffff.”

Durge’s sudden laugh surprised him, but when he looked down to see what got the assassin laughing now, he found himself looking up instead – the man has straddled him, pinned him to the bed with such a mocking look on his face that Ketheric’s first instinct was to hit him.

He failed; Durge caught his wrists and pinned them down, and the general was trapped, like a bloody-

“You talk so much shit ‘bout immortals, buddy,” the grinning monster told him, made himself comfortable on Ketheric’s stiff lap. “Almost made me think you weren’t one of us.”

“I am not-“

“You’ve that audacity, yknow?”  

“Durge, if you don’t get off of me right now-“

“That whole, me me me mentality. Boo hoo, immortal got your daughter killed and your goddess didn’t help; all gods care for are the souls deaths of their followers give them. Selune didn’t give a shit, Shar even less, and Myrkul sure as shit won’t – but that doesn’t matter to you, does it?”

Ketheric tried to twist from under the younger man, but all he achieved, much to his horror, was to have the Bhaalspawn grind his hips down on him, and the realization dawned on him that this was by far the closest he’s been with anyone since Melodia’s death.

He wished he had at least worn his armor.

He wished the Bhaalspawn weren’t as pretty as he was.

“No, allll that matters is bringing little Izzy back,” Durge continued, sharp teeth glistening under the muted light of candles in the room. Oh gods, they were in Isobel’s room. “Ever thought she might not want that?”

“That doesn’t matter, she shouldn’t have died!”

“And yet!”

The creature laughed in his face, and Ketheric slammed his head forward, right into the assassin’s nose.

Something cracked.

Warm blood sprayed the general’s face as he lunged forward, grabbed the unholy beast by the throat, shoved it down, down on the ground where it needed to be.

When he killed Aylin for the first time, he did it just like that, hands on her neck to crush it, before her wretched mother weaved her back together.

Aylin had screamed, clawed at him, begged him that he was better than this, but then voice got squeezed out of her, and when it returned, it only cursed his name from then on.

Durge did no such thing. He pulled Ketheric closer, wrapped his legs around the general’s waist.

 “You don’t care if she doesn’t want it, do you?”

“Shut it.”

“It’s okay, buddy,” the choking didn’t do much, the assassin’s grin remained right where it was, and it was there still when Durge grabbed Ketheric by the hair and met his snarl with tongue. “Don’t matter what she wants, does it? You’re owed her life. Selfish bastard.”

Things moved so fast, then.

Ketheric’s guts spilled open because he never saw the beast reach for its blade, and he coughed stale blood into Durge’s mouth when he forced something akin to a kiss to his lips.

It’s been so long since he felt warmth of another.

Last time he was on top of someone, it was to crush Aylin’s skull in with the heavy handle of her sword.

Perhaps he should’ve done this to her, back then, he thought in a sick part of his mind, perhaps this would’ve hurt her more than any deaths ever could. But it didn’t matter. Durge’s hands broke apart his ribs, and Ketheric’s intestines collapsed wetly onto the Bhaalspawn’s stomach.

Isobel’s room – gods, they were still there – reeked of abdominal gasses, death, rotting blood, but in a way, it was almost fitting, Ketheric thought as he tore off Durge’s pants, and punched the brat in the face when he just wouldn’t stop laughing.

His god will fix him, he remembered, bitter and furious, shoving the boy’s legs apart to take what he’s been teased with so. Nothing you do will ever change that, she won’t die.

He hit Durge again, again, fucked into him hard enough to make sure it hurt, but the creature still laughed, grabbed for him and his claws dug so deeply into the father’s back they left scratches over his ribs and spine.

Aylin didn’t have claws.

Not all monsters are this obvious.

Those same hands, bloodied and gory, cradled the old man’s face, and Ketheric’s furious thrusts stopped when he met the boy’s eyes.

Durge’s face was wet from tears that rained upon it same way Ketheric’s blood did, and still, still, there was nothing but intrigue underneath them. The boy smiled, even – pretty in a way no spawn of murder should ever be, and Ketheric found himself trapped under that gaze.

The last time someone has looked at him with anything but hatred, it was Isobel, assuring him she will be fine fighting at her lover’s side. Ketheric and her, they both died on that day.

“You are just like us, Thorm,” Durge told him, insulted him, praised him; then shoved him over, so that Ketheric’s head hit the edge of Isobel’s bed, hard enough for his scalp to tear. The assassin has straddled him, grinding leisurely with the father’s cock still deep within him.

“You-“

“Much more interesting than most living folks I meet – it almost makes up for the sins of your existence itself.”

He rode him, hips smoothly rolling over as Ketheric’s hands found their way to the boy’s waist, feel skin on skin of a body that was so unequivocally alive on top of him. For better and for worse. The broken cheekbone from his punch before was already healing on the godling, but Ketheric couldn’t look away, not when the kiss he was given was so sweet, he could almost taste a living connection through all the blood, and the feeling did not leave him even when Durge grabbed a firmer hold of his face, dug clawed thumbs through his eyes, and gripped him by the eyesockets to bash the father’s head into the edge of the bed until the world went black.

“The bed is ruined.”

“Get her a new one.”

Ketheric huffed in annoyance at the Bhaalspawn, but oddly enough... he felt better. Bloody, covered in his own stale gore, standing in the middle of his once safe space that was now absolutely and utterly defiled, with the man who was responsible for it... and he felt lighter. Better.

“Yeah, who’d think emotional release would help?”

“Stop reading my- have you been doing this the whole time?”

The brat grinned, rolling his stiff shoulders and still very much completely nude. Ketheric avoided looking below his waist as he stood up.

“And what if I did?”

“I told you to stop it.”

“You kept seeing that... Ayleen, was it? Instead of me.” Durge laughed. “Almost feeling insulted, buddy.”

“You initiated this.”

Gods, his daughter’s room was trully fucked, as Durge would’ve said. But Ketheric didn’t feel the same ache in his chest that he thought he would’ve; Isobel’s death was terrible, it turned him into a terrible, rotten man. In an odd way, the state of the room fit the grim reality.

Didn’t mean he wasn’t going to clean it before Iz returns, though.

“I didn’t initiate shit, you’re the one who assaulted me,” the kid faked offense, and Ketheric couldn’t help but roll his eyes. If nothing else, it was easy to slip right back into the routine with Durge, even after something like.... well. That.

“Next time, you are not allowed in this room.”

“... Next time?”

Ketheric bit his tongue, but what was said was said; he eyed the assassin, the quickly fading bruises on his neck, and thought that a better man would’ve at least felt bad about what happened.

That good man died with Isobel, though; and unlike her, he was quite sure he wasn’t coming back.

“Next time,” he confirmed, and Durge threw a laugh at him.

“Shameless old fuck,” he called him, as if Ketheric wasn’t far past beyond the point of caring – Durge completely switching up his tone and conversation threw him off-guard just as it always did, though. Not that he’d let it show. “Anyway, if we’re done with you moping around; you said you know how to play lanceboard?”

“... Yes.”

“Great. Teach me?”

Chosen of their gods all carried this smug aura of someone who would not take no for an answer, and the Bhaalspawn was a prime example of it. But, Ketheric supposed that if he was now one of them... well, he wasn’t going to take the no of Isobel’s death. He could start to see what Durge meant, calling him kin of the same rotten blood.

He sighed.

“Under one condition.”

“Hm?”

“Put on a robe. Pants. Something.”

Durge’s laughter always disturbed the mausoleum-like silence of Ketheric’s home, but as he listened to it now, he allowed it to instead remind him of times passed – and those to come.