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[ One of the first 'gifts' that Dammon brought back with him on a return from Avernus, unexpected but immediately and often put to use: a seeing stone. Once they had things like times of day figured out, it was easy to time conversations. But it was such a small but perfect addition, something very much needed to continue Gortash's work here: a reminder that he was going home, and more importantly, that he was not just going back to Baldur's Gate to mourn over a grave.

Once the weight of that started to feel lighter, the conversation came easier. Even as he was coming to know Kael for who he was and was becoming, leaving the door open to speak frankly of what they were before when blanks need to be filled, he was also beginning to learn himself again. Parts of him that were not so readily allowed to flourish anymore once goals changed.

It makes simple conversation easier, more commonplace, that in itself a promise. And the more they did that the more he looked forward to it that break in the day's labors when he would be waiting for that familiar face to appear and to just make smalltalk if that was all they felt like doing.

He's taking off a pair of simple leather work gloves when it begins. No gauntlets. No finery. That's become a rather common occurrence. It's also been gradual, but his hair is definitely getting longer -- he has to tie it back now to keep it out of the way when he works. ]

You first this time. How go the rebuilding efforts?

closeyourfist

https://bg3.wiki/wiki/Letter_from_Hope (The state of the House of Hope post-Raphael)

The suggestion to ask a blacksmith to come along had come from Kael and several others in his party, but Gortash immediately saw the logic in it. Dammon had experience with Avernus as a former citizen of Elturel, but more importantly, he knew how to work with Infernal metal and engines. In fact, he'd been in charge of Karlach's upgrades since her return from the Hells. The once-human, however, had only knowledge of the initial prototype, so he didn't have a complete base to work from, much less a desire to get within swinging distance of the Tiefling, for both their sakes. It created a comfortable bridge, and a possible go-between if information needed to be relayed and couldn't without a potential fight.

Distance was the only way Gortash was going to survive Avernus if she was there. He had no easy answers for her, nor any real desire to make anyone feel as though his presence was a burden. Dammon was therefore an easy solution, and Gortash found himself more at ease with someone to just bounce ideas off of.

Then there had been Hope. Hope, who was the same as she had been all these years. Never aging a day. Neither her nor her sister. She was a distant facet in the House of Hope he had known in his youth, but Raphael had kept his page close once or twice when visiting her. She was defiant and as ever, hopeful, and her refusal to break, even as the edges of her mind frayed, was what kept Raphael from killing her.

But she had looked on a little boy abandoned with pity in her eyes. Even as she could see how a child like him survived under the yoke of his Infernal keeper -- through careful observation, and not lying so much as knowing when to speak, whom to speak to, or speak of, and much too young to have already mastered such things -- Hope herself kept her light burning through the exact opposite. She was straightforward, just as much in her open disgust for the cambion as her platitudes.

He would never understand her bravery. To this day the sight of her filled him with confusion and awe. Not only did she risk torture and ruin at every step for her own sake, but she even once had the means to escape forever. He never knew how she came to have it -- perhaps, he would think later, that Raphael had left it within reach on purpose, knowing she would never leave without her sister. A portal that would carry only one.

When Raphael sent him to feed her a supper, laced with nightmares, after hunger striking, she slipped salvation to him and for the first time in nearly two weeks ate her fill.

Enver Gortash, like too many others in the planes, had been soured to the idea of heroes when he went too long without one to come for him when it was most needed. Until the very last, it seemed. It left him with a quiet, secret reverence he never really came to terms with. Probably because when he saw her again after all those years, and she recognized him, tearfully welcomed him and the rest, with space promised to do their work, he realized what he had needed had not been a hero at all.

He had just been a child who needed someone to act like a parent, for once.

closeyourfist

Considering their first and last encounter ended with being hit so hard it knocked him over -- not even punched, slapped, which somehow made it feel even more demeaning -- Enver Gortash winds up in that cage and for a while only has vague imaginings to give him any sort of idea what is to come. There isn't enough room to stand, which doesn't bother him so much in the end, staying low is pretty much the only hope he has of any sort of warmth or cover. With the sounds of Bhaal's stronghold echoing off of every single wall, he is surrounded even when alone, but alone he allows himself some time for relief.

His tears are mostly quiet and anything louder than a sniffle he forcibly muffles until it has shaken out. He has to remind himself this is not about sorrow. It's about releasing some of this from his system so he can survive.

He is prepared for the worst and soon, but then the Dark Urge is just...gone. Tending to other duties within the temple and out in the city.

He is fed. And with the odd spell from passing acolytes and servants kept clean. The cold of the bars winds up providing some relief to the side of his face, and the swelling is nearly gone by the time his keeper is present again. Which could have been days, by his reckoning, or another spell he mistook for merely tidying him up.

He might call several days of reprieve time to prepare, but all it has really done is give him far too much to conflict inside his head.

Fear at the uncertainty of his fate.

A million imaginings of how he might make his escape again, but even the route he took before becomes more and more twisted the more he tries to work it out in his head. But even if he were navigating a place completely deserted, there are Baneites waiting somewhere in the streets above. He is as good as dead if he leaves, and he knows it, and damn it all, he does not wish for death in any measure.

The Dark Urge's presence is an immediate threat on several fronts now. But he is also Enver's only source of relief, and this intermingles with memories of how things were before -- meetings and conversations that occasionally left Bane's Chosen uneasy, but that he'd begun to secretly look forward to. But in the here and now he also feels certain and undone at the idea that the bhaalspawn may be his tormentor and not to be trusted or denied but he is also the only part of that former existence that remains. So when he finds himself longing for that, it becomes a longing for him as well.

But then there is again fear of what is to come and what has been. Let alone that this has all been the first he has been any sort of intimate, good or bad, with another person since before he ever heard Bane's voice. It has also been a very blessedly long time since he had the misfortune of any of that unprepared or unwanted (blessedly years after the House of Hope). And it took him more than a few days to recover. All that agony was not as bad as what was suffered in the moment, and that is the part he is afraid of. He's not that naive anymore, but he knows how much damage the Dark Urge could do without even trying. Without even meaning to kill him.

That very well might be an inevitability. Which is why he has to try to find a way around that. He won't escape if he tries, and the response to any such attempt would be punitive. The only thing he can do is try to talk. If he'll even let him.

If he even comes back.

But then he does, and it sickens Enver realizing what a terrible mixture of too-much energy, of fear, of hope and hunger the sight of him creates.

He sits up and immediately hates it. His back complains; his body is an instant victim to the open air at an angle that it wasn't prepared for. But his hands go to his lap rather than the bars. He's mindful of what is being done and is careful not to interrupt anything that looks pressing. "...Will you speak to me, Dark Urge?" he realizes he doesn't know how else to address him, but that may be the first time he has directly said it out loud to him. "Please."

closeyourfist

Orin's stone has been obtained.

Enver Gortash is just coming into the floor of his office when the voice touches his mind. Familiar, though heavier. Closer. Like breath he can feel on the back of his neck.

Anticipation. He feels it himself, the sudden rush and thrill of the dawning thought that there were no steps but the last at this point. Soon the Dark Urge and the rest of the rogue True Souls would return and they would journey to the Underground to finish this. The Elder Brain would at least be back under heel.

The Absolute Plot, at last, would move confidently forward.

His men from the temple stand at the ready for orders. Better to get them posted in the city, just as soon as it was certain it was time.

There is no remaining trace of Bhaal's living flesh.

The Archduke halts mid-step.

Bane does not speak needlessly or without thought. His Chosen knows to heed his words and their clear intent.

Hear me. This changes nothing. The plan continues with or without Myrkul and Bhaal's hands to help guide it.

And he feels something like a hand closing around his mind. Not enough to hurt, but a clear sign it could. A warning reminder.

He responds immediately, with no waver in his voice because that is what that silent command requires. "This changes nothing." The Dark Urge is dead. And he feels the band around his chest tighten. He draws in a resolute breath. Because he will take in air. He will not show what presence in his mind and in the very air around him does not want to see. "The plan continues."

He was always going to be gone. Cruel to have deluded himself into thinking otherwise.

Feel that, and be done. There is more to do, imminently.

The disciples go about their duties at his back as he continues to cross the chamber. He doesn't notice when they actually fall. Neither of them do.

When they bring the stones, take them or bring the rogues along. It is time to assume your rightful place.

And that voice bleeds into every tendril of sensation, washing over those places that hurt like something caustic, refusing to soothe but unwilling to be what is chased away. Bane feels more present, like a firm hand on his shoulder. A presence in the doorway of his mind.

Prepared to see the end.

Reminding him, perhaps, that he rules alone today. As he should. But he never was, truly.

Footsteps bring him toward the back of the chamber. Some of the traps arm themselves.

He doesn't notice them immediately switch off.

The Black Hand is telling Enver now, because what would have happened if those people came to him and he knew only then that the battle with Orin had cut their numbers down? Rude. An attempt to compromise him. But he is prepared.

Feel what you must now. Then never again. You promised yourself this once already.

He doesn't realize until it's too late that the person he senses nearing him is not, in fact, one of his footmen.

Black. The feeling of fingers that were bearing down bleedingly hard, pried away.

closeyourfist

A kind of anticipation had been plaguing Enver Gortash's nerves since Orin came to him earlier in the day and left him with unexpected news but also a dire warning.

Unexpected news placed it too casually. But it had to be, else he would not know what to do with himself in the moment and then nothing would move forward. No one would tolerate that, not the restless elder brain ready to shatter her confines, not his god who even now he felt a disapproving unease from, a band of caution wrapping about his mind and warning him to remain on course. Of course his pursuits would lead him to investigate, to use new windfalls to his advantage.

But what he was not to do was waste his time or resources on some idle dream that had been agreed was better put away.

For the good of the mission as it was, but for his own good as well. There is no time for grief -- he already agreed to that. And if he allows himself some silly fancy over incomplete information now? He is just opening himself up to it again, and far too close to the eve of his conquest. When he needs most to be focused on the plot.

But the Dark Urge is alive and even as Enver prepares for the ceremony that will dub him Baldur's Gate's first Archduke, the largest step so far to seeing the great plot come to fruition? All he wants is to see him or see proof that Orin was mistaken. That need only ramps up when he receives messages confirming that a certain group has been sighted.

And then they were nearly here. And then it was suddenly very clear they would be arriving at the same time as the coronation -- which could bode ill. Orin had said the Dark Urge did not have his memories, and he had slain Ketheric Thorm. There was no reason to assume she had been wrong. He might very well have a fight on his hands.

But he just wanted to see him. He needed to.

So when new guests entered the Receiving Hall, for a moment all the air was gone from his lungs. But he did not fail in his duties. He would not allow so much as a hair to slip out of place as he begged his public indulgence while he welcomed an old friend.

His pulse was hammering even as he walked with the gait of something serene an certain.

closeyourfist

Setting: AU, Sans the Absolute Plot: The Cults of Bane and Bhaal are quietly re-emerging in Faerun and in the City of Baldur's Gate have a tenuous understanding to go about their operations without disrupting the other. Their Chosen, mortal representatives imbued with the boons of their respective gods, meet every other month to coordinate and have been doing so for the better part of a year.

Unknown to the Chosen of Bane: well, several things. The first being that Bane tends to select his Chosen carefully, not just by character but looks he admires the most, typically possessing them, living as a man and ruling, all while they remain helpless passengers within their own bodies -- and he never chooses another until after his latest has died. His current is the first selected in centuries, and this truth has been kept from him and never enacted. The second, that while it is the task of a god's Chosen to enact the will of their deity and manage their growing temple as their most devout? Quietly, a number of his most loyal have been preparing to see his numerous duties delegated. The last: there is a reason that Bane has not descended into his Chosen, even as his temple flourishes anew under his leadership.

There is a longstanding debt to Bhaal that has finally come due. A debt that cannot be paid without true sacrifice. And what greater worldly sacrifice could the God of Tyranny offer, but the life he cultivated to be his first rulership in this new Toril? And what should he expect from the God of Murder, but to end that life on the altar, leaving Bane free to select anew?

Probably more, all things considered. Even if he is not a tactician first, Bhaal has never been one to be underestimated. His first true Bhaalspawn in centuries, born with the lusts of his divine father -- all of them -- cannot serve every need at the end of a blade. Nor should he be expected to. Especially not when Bane's answer has been so long overdue.

Add that without an active Chosen to head Bane's temple, efforts to rebuild will stagnate, and that would mean there's really no competition for territory anymore.

And the meetings really have been going so well.

unspooling

Though this entire version of the plan hinges on retrieving the Crown of Karsus, he feels as though they have nothing to lose by pursuing it. Nothing, of course, except their lives at best and their relative freedom at worst. It isn't until afterwards that the bhaalspawn lets a lick of 'what if' touch him, and even then it's muted, stuck beneath the elation of his plan proceeding the way he had intended it to. Satisfaction exists just beneath his sudden and all-consuming need for blood.

When he had taken the idea to Enver, he hadn't been sure yet of the details. He knew the location of the crown and what he planned to do with it, but assaulting an archdevil's vault had always come with the snag of how to get there.

His Banite ally had been more than connected enough to have answers, the diabolist he had in pocket arranging the portal. The remaining work had been to firm up all details and then execute, and he'd been steadfast in refusing to allow a shred of fear invade.

The agreement had been that he wouldn't slaughter and leave behind traces of their crime unless absolutely necessary. Risk to their own limb or life would have been all the permission he'd need to deviate from that agreement, and yet their journey had been remarkably smooth.

It isn't until after they have returned, Mephistopheles' vault lighter by the extraordinarily powerful artefact, and he has long left Enver in order to sate his dark urges that something strikes him as odd. As though he's run his finger over a smooth piece of wood only to find the tears in the grain. He had escorted Enver from the shadows his entire walk back from the diabolist, ensuring his safety. But once he was back within range of a mounting defence, should there be retribution, he peels away to worship Bhaal.

It's in the clarity of freshly spilled blood that he abandons his plan to leave for Moonrise Towers and instead doubles back on himself. The usual path to Enver's chamber is a well trodden one, but he purposely takes a different route as he works his way back.

He isn't stopped once, and for a moment he wonders if Enver has gone so far as to give him automatically easy access whenever he needs it. The traps aren't quite so discerning. He spots them immediately, used to them being deactivated when he's visiting with Enver, now poised to make him sorry for paying a visit at all. It all feeds into a sense of tension, one that he hadn't been able to pay enough attention to ahead of sacrificing lives to his father.

It isn't until he permits himself entry to the man's space that he's greeted with light. Enough of it to betray a very distinct lack of sleep, or attempt at it. Given the energy it had taken to find and steal the crown, he finds his concerns validated. His own semi rejuvenation, gleaned from intense worship, hasn't completely freed him from fatigue, and he can only imagine how Enver must feel

It keeps him momentarily quiet rather than allowing the name that lives on his tongue more often than not these days to slip loose, just in case, against all odds, the man has found reprieve from consciousness momentarily. He stands well out of range of the vicious traps, on the precipice of Enver's primary dominion, vision flicking around in search of the man himself.

closeyourfist

Dusk has barely arrived but the Upper City is alight with life and fervor. The glow of lanterns and candles, and the sparkle of dancing lights mingle with the shimmer of fine banners and hangings, all filling the square with color even as all but the natural light of the moon has begun to fade from the sky. All manner of coves and dark corners, alleyways, passages for the more adventurous and indulgent to sneak off and play in.

Tonight is about excess in a way only the especially wealthy could devise.

The guests, all dressed in opulent costumes and masks, each unique and many so intricate and many-layered as to completely obscure the identity of the wearers. Even those who might be easier to tell -- public figures and the like -- well unless they were conducting duties within the event themselves, the rule was that you don't TRULY know who they are until the unmasking. Workers from the lower city consider the yearly soiree a life-changer for one's business, positions here whether it is vending, serving, or performing, are highly coveted and sought-after, as well as sorely guarded. Falling out of favor one year meant being replaced the next.

At the start there is a murmur of excitement, discussions of the city's goings on of late, none so fervently and favorably mentioned as the unveiling of the first completed Steel Watchmen, designed by none other than tonight's Master of Ceremonies: Enver Gortash.

Truly an honor and a sign of one moving up in the world, celebrated here with greater zest owing to his more recent contributions to city security and a commendatory reputation among some of the elite -- rumors of why were known and kept track of with interest. However, there were still a few who only looked on the news with...polite acceptance. Blue bloods through and through, unsurprised at persisting whispers that a pretty face can get you far when you are useful.

Dressed in coppers and carnelians and a mask that obscures the top half of his face, he commands rapt attention as he declares the evening's festivities open, to thunderous applause. The rise in voices and the din of music overtakes the space as he descends to mingle.

Tonight is about establishing a calm. Things going right at a point that will elevate them before the more grisly aspects of the plot are to begin. Establishing trust. Comradery. Ownership.

And the people of the upper city play this game with ruthless precision. No one better to parry, really.

By the time he has made himself visible and available, he is settled into the evening, able to identify far more magisters and patriars by voice and body language than he is sure rules allow, but it allows him to know them, carve a place among them, and forget anything else he had been considering for the time being.

When he and the Dark Urge had more than just a meeting of the minds a couple weeks ago, he resolved that it need not have been more than that. It was deeply satisfying, sated a number of curiosities, and even if it said nothing of how a life of eventual rule might contain a few lively diversions? It was also fine as just a memory that would warm him on occasion.

He didn't expect the subject to suddenly come up again, or to leave it as angry as he was. Even if it concluded that it, apparently, WOULD be happening again.

Probably not for the better when it wound up not occurring at all. And Enver Gortash was not the sort to simply wait in the wings and pine.

Especially when the Dark Urge all but alluded he might as easily seek out the same ends with anyone else.

So perhaps the Black Hand's Chosen might follow suit. Already he's caught a few curious gazes. A few charming introductions. Even the offer of a drink of two (too early yet, at first). But why not? Everyone was here to have fun, after all.