Chapter Text
The transaction had gone perfectly—that alone should have tipped him off. A courier with a too-bright smile, right on time, almost disgustingly deferential? Enver Gortash should have known better.
—
He wouldn't deny it was an ill-considered place to conduct business, this shadowed alley behind a cramped, rundown row of houses. But it was discreet, quiet, and out of the way; it would have attracted even more attention to have hired bodyguards for the evening. His companion would simply have to do, he decided, casting another curious glance up.
The Bhaalists had certainly sent an unusual emissary for this venture, he thought. Once he’d finally established tentative communications with the secretive cult, the first few messengers had been a disappointment. Blustering men full of bravado, all too eager to look down grimy noses at the unworthy Banite their masters bade them deliver letters to. He tolerated them, for a time, certain that the alliance he was working so hard to forge would be worth the effort. Until the last one, a cocky elf barely into adulthood, misunderstood a chilly politeness for weakness, insulted Gortash personally, and made to draw a weapon. The man's hands and tongue had been sent back in a sack.
For nearly a month there'd been no further messengers, until this morning, when he'd discovered a neatly-penned note slid under his front door. The writer, it seemed, had caught word of a stolen Banite relic being smuggled out of the city, and cordially invited Gortash to attend the purchase of said relic. As a token of acknowledgement for his efforts, it said. All he needed do to accept was be ready to depart at the specified time that evening.
It bore no signature. In Bhaal’s Name, nothing more.
He was intrigued in spite of himself, certain that if the cult had simply wanted him dead he would already be dead. No, this was more. Perhaps he'd finally made headway towards his goal? He felt a flare of pride at that, as he concealed a pair of knives in his jacket. He was ambitious, not stupid. The note was tossed into the kitchen fireplace, the appointed time arrived, and he was just picking up his walking cane when the knock came at his door.
Now here he was, picking his way over uneven streets alongside the strangest assassin he'd ever seen. That he knew of, anyhow. He stole a sideways peek at his companion for the trip and wondered just how a dragonborn of this size and color ever managed enough stealth to be successful in the cults ranks. This one had the sense to not deck himself out in cheap armor and weaponry, at least. Perhaps they'd finally sent a professional?
The silence dragged out as they walked, despite several attempts at civilized conversation, with the Bhaalist simply giving him unreadable looks in reply. Gortash was developing a growing concern that the man didn't even understand Common, and was beginning to question his own good sense when his foot caught a cobblestone the wrong way and he stumbled. Faster than he even registered the movement, his arm was held tight and steady in the dragonborns clawed grip. “Watch your step, little Banite,” came an amused chuckle, deep and resonant.
Years of practice kept him from gaping in surprise, at both the speed and the voice. The smooth, unruffled competence was unexpectedly attractive—but those were thoughts for another time. Here was their destination, and there was their smuggler, bustling over to meet them.
The parcel had been handed off without even an attempt at haggling for more coin; something Gortash attributed to the size and inscrutable expression his companion wore while dropping a drawstring purse into the eagerly waiting palm. It would take a braver messenger than most to risk goading that stare, he thought, and he wasn't wrong. It took six.
The alley went from cool and dim, to too-bright and full of choking smoke.
In the sudden chaos, several voices shouted, and something Gortash couldn't see past the spots dancing in his vision roared.
Of course it was a trap, he thought stupidly. He doubled over, desperate to clear the burning air from his lungs, and his breath was driven out of him again when a body slammed into him, hard. He hit the alleyway wall, then the ground. Violent tearing sounds resolved themselves in his ears; he knew by the screams and the warm puddle forming under one hand that several someones were being very badly injured around him. He cursed, rubbing a sleeve against his eyes to clear them, only to find that it was wet, too. Fumbling one of his knives out from his coat, Gortash pushed himself to his feet, back pressed against the wall to ensure that whoever wanted him dead would have a slightly less open target.
When his vision began to clear, he briefly wondered if he wasn't already dead. Three bodies - mercenaries, he guessed - lay bloodied and mangled. Two more circled the Bhaalist warily, and the assassin's arms and face were dripping red. Something chunky fell off his dagger to land on what had once been a face. In one clawed hand dangled a third form nearly unrecognizable as a person, had it not been gurgling and weakly trying to free itself. As Gortash watched, the dragonborn lifted the pitiful thing, opened his jaws, and tore loose what remained of its throat.
The sight of death didn't unsettle Gortash, but this wasn't just death. This was a hungry, bloody monstrosity in the guise of a man. Every nearby surface was somehow covered in body parts or fluids. The scaled thing before him snarled as it chewed on its prey, and hurled the body at one of the remaining attackers, who staggered under the unexpected impact. The last attacker standing gathered what remained of his good sense and turned to flee, but underestimated the unnatural speed of his opponent—one frantic step was as much as he got before being dragged backwards by his sword-belt. A wet dagger flashed and the man's innards spilled out at his feet.
It seemed the most prudent course of action was to remain exactly where he was, as still as possible. Gortash wasn't convinced yet that he was exempt from this carnage. He could only watch in fascinated horror as the creature leapt bodily on the final mercenary, tearing at soft flesh with teeth and claws well beyond any point at which the man might still live. It crouched, animalistic, over the shredded corpse, burying its muzzle inside the open chest cavity.
They didn't send a Bhaalist, Gortash realized, blankly. They sent a Bhaalspawn.
There had been rumors, of course; there were always rumors. None from anyone he'd consider remotely trustworthy, though, given that few could have knowingly laid eyes on one and survived to gossip.
What other explanation could there be? This thing, this beast devouring its prey mere feet away from him—there was no semblance of rational thought in the way its eyes burned in hunger and feral delight. Gortash gripped his small knife harder, and wished he'd brought something with a little more punch to it. He couldn't just stand here all night, however, plastered against the wall, hoping he'd somehow escape the creature's notice. Surely it was an optimistic sign that he still drew breath?
“Well,” he said, as if the sight spread across the alley was an everyday occurrence. Perhaps it was, for the Bhaalspawn. “It appears I ow—”
His skull cracked sharply against the wall, blood-soaked claws pinning him by the neck, trapping the rest of his words behind an unnatural grip. All he could see was the snarling, glistening maw, sharp teeth and cold breath, poised a hairsbreadth from his face. The tip of a dagger pierced his side. His own was driven hilt-deep between the monster's ribs. A very long, very breathless moment passed.
The pressure at his throat lessened enough to allow air, if only just. Gortash realized the thing was studying him, a flicker of sense in the way it regarded him, tilted its head to one side, seeming to consider what to do with him. It opened its mouth once more–and began to lick at his face.
Its tongue is blue. It was a bizarre thing to notice in the moment, while instinctively craning his face to one side in a pointless attempt to evade the appendage. Longer than he would have expected had he ever given the matter any consideration, colder too, and the slimy thing dragged across his cheek and brows, smelling of meat and iron. It was licking the blood off his face. A rather pointless endeavor, he felt—his coat and anywhere the monster was touching him was covered in blood now too.
“Little Banite, ssssoft Banite.” Was it reassuring, that it remembered who he was, at least? Some small measure of temporary safety? His guts were still where they belonged, at least. It was unsettling, though, to hear civilized speech from it after that display. “How pretty your skin would look, if I flayed it from your bones. I could make a rug.” It's nose whuffed at his hair as it sniffed him.
Gortash understood this was a tipping point, that his life literally hung dangling from the claw of this Bhaalspawn’s finger. A test. He must re-establish the balance of this encounter in his favor, and quickly.
“I daresay the benefits I offer your people outweigh the temporary pleasure my death would bring,” he said, with a smooth confidence he only mostly believed in.
“Benefits.” A cold snort blew against his face. “All deaths benefit Lord Bhaal. Yours will be no different.”
“I wouldn't dream of begrudging your Lord his due,” he reasoned. “But imagine the souls we could gather if we allied together. I could provide you an eager stream of them, lambs to be ruled over, with plenty to be offered to your master as you please.”
That earned him another snarl, a slight twist of the dagger-point in his side. He'd need to have that tended to soon, if he walked out of this in one piece. “I don't need a Banite to carry out my holy work,” rumbled the dragonborn, and gods below, why was that sound so appealing?
“Of course you don't,” Gortash said, a note of reassurance in his tone. “I only suggest that with more resources at your disposal, you and your people might proceed… more efficiently. I have a proposal, if we might discuss it in a slightly more civilized location?” He smiled, and withdrew his blade from the looming creature in a gesture of goodwill. It looked down as if only now noticing it at all.
“Efficiently.” Its eyes met his again, its face unreadable to him. And suddenly it laughed, low and murderous, and he found himself freed from the wall to brace his weight heavily on his cane. He winced at the jolt of pain that shot through his leg. The Bhaalspawn removed his dagger. “I will hear your proposal, Enver Gortash,” it continued. “Pray to your master it amuses me.”
The dragonborn took a step back. “Go clean yourself up, before I mistake you for another meal.” Gortash felt the tingling pull of magic in the air, and his companion vanished.
Infuriating thing. Disgusting, he told himself, straightening his coat and preparing to stumble home, and knew even then it was a lie.