Chosen of the Tyrant: Worthy Offering (AU)

[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.

Comments

The Revelation

[closeyourfist]

Enver Gortash's chest burns with exhaustion as he steels himself again to run.

He cannot remember what happened immediately before, if it was magic or poison or some other means that left him dead to the world for a time. Only that he awoke with stone against his back, his arms bound, the stench of blood and fire filling the air, and the sight that greeted his eyes, once open the crumbling, ancient remains of a great, subterranean temple echoing with new life, from the new crop of denizens wandering its halls to the adherents close at hand, mumbling under their breaths in some ancient tongue. Far above him and the rest of the open chamber, with glowing bloodlet eyes watching on, is the fearsome edifice of Bhaal's bleeding skull.

He took in everything he could from this vantage, sensing the danger long before he fully understood it.

The stone table holding was an altar, slatted to catch and drink every ounce of blood that could be exhumed from him, both while alive and dead.

First there was anger. Righteous fury, even. There was an understanding between their two camps, and this was an affront. To bring any of Bane's to their temple, or vice versa, was betrayal enough, but with the intent to kill? And for it to be the Black Hand's Chosen? It was an act of war. But his bravado fell away to something like dumb disbelief at their answer:

He was the Black Hand's offering.

And he didn't believe, didn't let the dread roiling in his guts take over him. Even as ritual began. When prayer and liturgy took eyes off of him long enough to fight with his restraints. He knew locks from childhood and how to deal with them, but even when that failed him, he could slip out -- not without quietly dislocating his shoulder in the process. It slid back into place around the same time he managed to down a bhaalist with their own knife and begin his first breakneck sprint into the dark.

Whatever this lie was, he would return to his lord's temple and retaliation would be swift. Or he would die trying -- and it would be far away from their sacrificial altar, at any rate.

He did not have much time to put distance between himself and any pursuers. And on top of that, there were pressure plates to avoid, leaving the clearest paths in the dark treacherous to human eyes.

And he did not stay ahead for long. A second Bhaalist who got the drop on him -- still so steadfast in their intentions that when the choice was between keeping hold of him or their own entrails, they chose the former. A ploy, he realized, to slow him down. He had to choose to hide, and the third one, he fell upon from the shadows before fleeing again.

The ancient buildings and crumbling pathways feel endless and maze-like, and he is beginning to feel his chest growing tight, burning, and unable to draw full gulps of air. But he can hardly stop until he has another place to duck.

It's in this state that the Chosen of Bhaal catches up to him and has him disarmed and pinned in seconds, well before he could use that knife on his attacker or even himself. Out of breath, slaked in blood that is not his own, his gaze baleful.

This is a face he has come to know well over previous months, their meetings careful exchanges of planning and pleasantry, moves and countermoves that are always understood to potentially be more than simple talk. It could mean the loss of ground, betraying a secret, leaving something exposed that their mutual understanding would not cover. It had been, admittedly, stimulating. It was mostly a mutually beneficial gain that he felt nothing but his deity's approval for. A kind of challenge he could rise to meet with ease and had even begun to look forward to.

In private, but only in private, he had fleeting thoughts of more. He was not blind, so he could entertain ideas of what might be if things were different. Perhaps if this understanding somehow evolved into more of an alliance. (Not likely, but it did not hurt to think about.)

But now he is confronted by why those thoughts were only thoughts before, because now More's the pity has been replaced by what faces him: this man is going to kill him. Either right here or back on that altar. Whether it was a lie they told him or not, it's over.

[unspooling]

When his lord and master - his father - had seen fit to reveal the longstanding debt that Bane owed him, the Dark Urge hadn't yet contemplated what payment could look like. No stranger to the conniving nature of gods, not least Bhaal, that it should be Bane's Chosen who would give value to the currency of this debt payment had been surprisingly satisfying. Aside from the beautifully sharp realisation that this was the perfect opportunity to pin down the cult of Bane, keeping it a fledgling as Bhaal's might grew, he's also due to profit from this arrangement. A gift, from father to son.

His father, Lord of Murder, was clear on how he planned to punish Bane. Keeping his Chosen very much alive and inhibiting the god of Tyranny from selecting another while that remained true. The Dark Urge would have been the only choice, the only one capable of controlling his urges enough to stay his hand almost indefinitely. Skilled enough to cut and slice and maim without inflicting a final fatal blow.

Bhaal's son would have a plaything and Bane would rage in hate at this maddening position he's to be held in.

The meetings with Bane's Chosen - Enver Gortash - had followed the same pattern right up to the last. Business was always at the forefront of their communication, though the Dark Urge had allowed the heat of his desire to slip through to his expression more than once. Imagination taking him to dark places as he patiently looked forward to all the things he planned to do to the man once the deal had been struck. And the dark-haired human was delightful to look at, to imagine upon his face all the expressions he'd be unable to keep hemmed in once his new master took over.

So it had been irritating when he'd slipped free from right under their noses, something that the Dark Urge would punish those around him for later. Though his primary concern is catching up with the human who has, on some level, impressed him getting as far as he has. Outrunning an assassin like Bhaal's own flesh, however, was always going to be unlikely. And so when he holds the man against a wall, one hand at his throat, the other pinning his dagger-laden hand somewhere above his shoulder, he smiles.

"You are exciting prey," he eventually says, the hunger in his eyes a shadowy mix of arousal and hot-blooded designs on murder. It isn't a wonder that Enver believes his time to be ending now. The bhaalspawn takes his time to get that urge under control, allowing it to throb in his blood before compacting it down from the very surface of his thoughts.

"And lethal, at that. I counted three. You will be a fine addition."

[closeyourfist]

Gortash hated the part deep inside himself that saw dark beauty in that look, that hearkened to several such looks like this in quieter meetings that in the moment he saved any reaction to until he was alone again. The arrangement had been too delicate and too important to let slip any potential weakness. Once or twice it had been something like flirting and he had been more than tempted to answer in kind. Even if it was just banter that left him feeling warm and conflicted.

That part still locked far within, regrets that he didn't. Perhaps one thing might have led to another and he very well would have been dead that much sooner. But at least it would have been something before the end. And those are thoughts he cannot have right now when it is so unmistakeably here.

His breaths are shallow and ragged with pain, but forcibly controlled, even if the hand on his throat can easily feel his heart hammering in his chest, perhaps not even solely out of fear. The hand white-knuckling the handle of that dagger like a lifeline cannot move under the one holding his wrist.

"I will not," he grinds out. He's going to die, he will keep fighting until he cannot anymore. He has too much dignity to do anything but. "I lay down my life for no one, least of all your ilk."

[unspooling]

Now that he's caught his little bird, there's a very feline urge to play with him. Almost as though he'd like to let the man off the wall and give him a few steps of freedom before closing his claws around him again. He isn't lying; chasing Gortash had really been an enjoyable experience, the type that tested skills he puts to use every single day. Had the man fully escaped the temple, he feels confident enough that it wouldn't have taken long to pounce on him from the shadows, even out there.

Despite the temptation, he doesn't let the man go. His father's wishes are clear, and this is a gift he'd rather not lose, or seem ungrateful for.

His fingers grip harder at Gortash's throat, the moment gravity starts to fight him the precise moment he lifts the man single-handed off the ground. Whatever struggles he might have been having with breathing before, he's temporarily been given more to battle through.

"Whatever you believe about me, or my ilk, your god's debt has now been repaid and so we accept what he has offered to us. You are mine now, Gortash."

A killer at heart but disciplined to within a millimetre of control, he drops Gortash back to the floor, just enough that his toes can make contact again. The hand with a blade pinned against the wall is pulled away and slammed back against it, an attempt to force the dagger from those fingers before he even thinks about letting him down.

[closeyourfist]

His airways are closed off even more as his feet leave the ground, and for a moment his thrashing doesn't stop, but flags into something weaker, its pace drawn down to nearly nothing. His lungs feel like they are on fire, and his free hand tries to claw at the one at his neck. He was relieved of his gauntlets at some point when he was brought here, before he regained consciousness, leaving his hands and arms bare under his robes and free of what were essentially -- well, claws. Decorative, yes, but a last-second defense should someone manage to get this close.

Those words hit him, and what about it makes it feel less like a lie than when the others insisted? Because of who it was? Who was to say the Dark Urge hadn't been lying at every other encounter before? Even if every instinct told Gortash that such a thing seemed pointless to him. Even if he knew the depth of this man's belief to be the Chosen of his god, and he would not speak of such matters on his behalf and use it for charade.

If he had any wind left to take from him it would be gone, because he believes that. Just as much as he believes he is going to die here, he now also has to let it exist alongside this notion that he is here because the god of Tyranny offered him. Sold him.

His toes scrape against the earth beneath them again, a scrabble of loose dirt and pebbles. A little less pressure, and he's trying to get a breath in without coughing. The hand holding the knife is smashed back against the stone wall, and he hisses in pain as it forces his fingers open, the weight leaving him.

If he had been wearing his gauntlets, it might have hurt more.

There's still fury in his eyes as he looks at the Dark Urge, the flames of a nearby brazier dancing madly across his features and making his tattoos appear to move on his ashen features. But that feeling is slowly being overtaken by pain, confusion.

What did I do?

"Why." The word chokes out.

[unspooling]

Why do the gods do anything, sits upon the tip of his tongue, poised and ready to strike in the face of the question. But it isn't enough of a question - nor is it for him to answer - to respond.

Metal clangs to the ground satisfactorily, and only then does he loose his grip enough to let the smaller man off the wall, his hand keeping a tight grip around his wrist. It's with that wrist he pulls the man close again, twisting him on a point until he's faced away, back to a broad chest and the collar of his shirt gripped as though he's being scruffed like an animal.

At least it seems he isn't underestimating the possibility that Gortash might slip out of his grip. The two hands anchored heavily on his new pet - one at the back of his neck, the other still tight around a wrist pulled up to his lower back - push forward.

They aren't having this conversation here, not when there is a ceremony to finish.

"We will return to finish your joining ceremony and then I will find suitable punishment for running. As fun as it was chasing you, you must learn your place."

[closeyourfist]

Another short, pained sound as he's turned around, his arm twisted and then trapped between his body and that of the man holding him. He feels something stir and immediately hates it and wants to attack it, like someone unwanted coming into his chamber without invitation. Not here. Not now.

He's being moved and it's rather difficult to drag his feet when he's being propelled from behind. With those vice grips on him it is the only recourse he has.

The Dark Urge is taking him back.

But the words -- confusing. Joining? He is hardly a scholar of bhaalist practices but that was not how they tended to refer to their kills. But his strength is failing him; he is being marched to his end. He might be hearing something his mind construes to something like escape.

And that roiling in his gut at the notion of punishment that he cannot quite explain, he has to ignore.

"My place?" He thrashes but it amounts to as little as his feet trying to refuse to go forward. His bravado as his breath returns is all he has. "Surely you're not all accustomed to your quarries offering their necks."

[unspooling]

"Not all of them," is the incredibly unreassuring response, the confusion left to sustain itself for a few moments longer as he steers them back towards the yawning ritual room. Even as they walk, the other cultists have caught up, the glint of metal in the flames that are moody and muted unmissable. There's no reason for any of them to put those sharp blades away. Not when the Dark Urge's new pet has proven slippery.

Only once they're through the entryway to the ceremony chamber, and the altar that sits proud in the middle of it, does he clarify.

"Your life is not forfeit, but you would be wise to not run again. You will not meet your end for as long as I am satisfied with you, but I cannot promise the conditions of which you will be kept in should you continue to test this hospitality."

Simply put, if you run again I will make you wish you were dead.

The steps leading down to the altar are deep and tall, but if Gortash misses any, he'll find himself suspended in the air by the firm grip at his neck. Whether or not it wrenches his joints uncomfortably doesn't seem to factor in.

[closeyourfist]

It is uncertain how much time it takes to bring him back, only struggling less by the time the ritual room is in sight because he has had time to exhaust himself, sparing words for anything else that might save him, trying to feel something he can exploit, but the angle at which he is held is altogether too different from manacles. And then it is near them and he can see killers' eyes in the dark and the glints of blades. His breath is starting to catch.

And then, words.

Your life is not forfeit.

"What is this" It isn't quite whole against his lips, said in a daze because now he understands nothing about what is happening right now.

Joining. He said joining.

Blessed -- the words won't even come to him in mind. Is this an initiation ritual?

He feels himself shaking his head.

"I'm not--"

His feet stumble on the stairs and he's lifted and the air is leaving his lungs again.

He's not a Bhaalist. He reaches for that well of power, his boon, that presence that reassures him in his mind and grounds him in this world. He reaches for it only when he is on that precipice where nothing else he could possibly do would have saved him.

And there is nothing there.

[unspooling]

The journey from stairs to altar is a well trodden path that he doesn't seem to struggle with, even if he's fully supporting Gortash's weight at intervals. Whatever confusion seems to be saddling his gift's mind, he isn't racing to clear up. Instead he uses the man's halting disbelief to push him to the altar, bending him over it frontways and face down this time, hinged at the hip and vulnerable.

"Are you going to behave, initiate?" He asks as he leans over the smaller man and, if there's a hint of desire thick against the clothed backside of his toy, that's only half the plans he has for later.

There's a threat he isn't burying at all in there, open and on the surface, and he's more than willing -eager, even - to dole out punishment.

"Or should I nail you to the altar to keep you from taking flight again so that we may finish?"

[closeyourfist]

If those assurances that his life would be spared are indeed lies, now would be one way of ending it. Bent over the altar, his hips against the edge and trapped there by his captor, stopping any impulse to pull away. He is waiting for a blade to slit his throat and that would be the conclusion. At the word initiate it barely escapes again: "I'm not --" and his voice breaks and dies.

The chill of possibility in that threat, the feel of the man holding him, the terrible reality of what is truly occurring penetrate but one thing keeps him prone: The thought of what has already occurred, that he is uncertain of, as some crime he did not know he was committing. That he is apparently paying for. And try as he might he can think of nothing.

A quiver in his jaw that he forces to stillness, commands some control come back to his voice, but the word feels like sickness on his lips. "Please..."

[unspooling]

It isn't an answer to his question, but the question itself had been a falsehood the moment he uttered it into the air. Whether the man intends to behave or not, he will continue to perform these rites. Nailing him down would make it easier to continue, but he hasn't the appetite to leave his new pet in a state that will make him more likely to find unconsciousness sooner rather than later.

No, he wants Enver Gortash to be present in every moment.

His grip changes only to rest at the top of the smaller man's spine, weight shifting as another Bhaalist draws in with a ceremonial dagger, supplying it handle first to the Dark Urge.

"Hold out his arm," he says, voice cold as he directs the cultist, and soon enough Gortash will feel one of his arms yanked out, twisted uncomfortably until his palm faces up.

[closeyourfist]

He only tries once to right himself, but the hand on him stops him from advancing far. Immediately he's down again and he feels his breath threatening to hitch into something less controlled. There is still part of him screaming that he has to fight, but that threat is ever present. Not death but whatever this is, prolonged and still terrible, worse, and he is afraid.

His arm is taken and twisted out. He can't let go of more than a hiss of pain. No more. Not another plea. Let it be death because anything else he can imagine is too much to comprehend in the moment.

Because reality might be too much.

The Dark Urge behind him, his hand on him, and Enver doesn't know if Bhaal's altar would ever be used for that but with aspirants watching on, the eyes of the massive effigy above, he's trembling at the possibility.

[unspooling]

With that palm presented and fixed in place, held down by the cultist honoured enough to be given an assisting role here, he brings the blade to bear. The tip is razor sharp, sinks shallowly into Gortash's flesh as though it were butter. Perhaps the man cannot tell how incredibly talented the Dark Urge is with a blade, to have it only penetrate layers he needs without causing damage to the tendons beneath.

It doesn't matter whether he hears the cries of pain or nothing at all, the line he slices from one side of the man's palm to the other immediately starts filling with blood, a pool of ruby catching candle light. The blade is passed off to the cultist, his own palm outstretched for the same treatment. The moment it slices through his flesh, his grip on Gortash tightens again, the violence of it all inspirational.

Pain.

He speaks in tongues as brings his now bloody hand against the other man's, a low hum of praise for the Dread Lord Bhaal, an offering of this union to worship him. And then his unholy blood mixes with the blood of the human, one that he claims as his under the approving eyes of the massive skull effigy presiding over all of them.

"You are mine," he growls, lips barely a lick from the shell of Gortash's ear, the weight of him fully pinning the man to the stone of the altar.

[closeyourfist]

Enver won't look at the Cultist aiding his captor. Certain there would be too much fear for anger or reproach to reign in his expression. He almost doesn't feel the blade at first, and the sound, even the push of air past his teeth, is as contained as he can manage. Waiting for it to become worse, a wide and long sting like the worst paper cut across the center of his palm. Like somehow it being so shallow made it infinitely worse.

His eyes open when it stops, seeing his own blood pool in his palm, with only the lightest of spilling, and for an instant, he closes them again when he feels light-headed.

The sight of blood does not unsettle so much (though in a place like this, there was enough of it to put that to the test), but his own? That panic spikes, and before he can close his fingers, his hand is covered, engulfed. He sees the Dark urge's massive palm turned down on his own, similarly marked, and the weight of him consumes his senses.

That voice, low and rumbling, so near to his ear he is certain he can feel his lips forming the words, and that fear is still there? But it intermingles with something else that quakes through him. You are mine and in this closeness, the feel of his massive body against him and his mind eager to supply all the terrible things it could mean in this place, even without death a certainty, and some still small voice in his core whispering back in agreement, and no.

No, this is why it was always dangerous.

He can breathe again but it's coming in short, stocattoed bursts.

[unspooling]

With the ritual completed, finally he can shift his attention to other matters at hand. With Gortash leading a few of the cultists on a merry little chase - and now being a trio of Bhaalists lighter than they had been before - there has to be some kind of acknowledgement. His father is actively trying to grow his pool of worshippers, and yet it seems ill-fitting to punish murder.

Perhaps he's feeling more kind than his new pet deserves, the fact he doesn't yank down the man's trousers and take his first fill of pleasure from him in full view of their onlookers a blessing for the new initiate. Though he is keen to ensure Gortash knows his place.

He finally stands, yanking the smaller man up off the altar by the back of his collar - scruffing him once more - and then unceremoniously shoving him out into the open space. There's nothing reverent about leaving him sprawled upon it and, if Gortash is paying attention, perhaps he can understand that under no circumstance should he climb upon it again unless directed there.

Gortash is also no longer shaded by type of privacy gained from being covered by such a large body. Instead he's free of a heavy hand anchoring him down, but that puts him in the dead centre of everybody's attention, adrift without any mooring at all. Dozens of eyes are on him, waiting.

"Strip," he says, monosyllabic and yet that word is full of all the power that he wields.

[closeyourfist]

Given what horrors his mind was already dreaming up of what more might occur on this altar, being suddenly thrown away from it leaves him even more off-kilter. Being unable to predict his surroundings and situation is just one more way he feels out of control and not himself.

But somewhere in that, a sliver of very short-lived relief. A second or two where he can collect some semblance of his senses, with one less thing battering jis psyche.

And as he's pushing himself off the ground -- that command.

Gortash pales, his blood running cold. He's aware of every set of eyes on him. All of them. And for just an instant, one has to instinctively wonder, along with whatever slight he's apparently done to be abandoned, how much of a crime was it to kill to escape what he believed to be his own death?

He wants to say "no" and anyone can see it's a breath from being on his lips as a reflex. But the fear is also just as apparent. The shine of unbridled emotion in his eyes, the tremble in his jaw that warns him not to try to speak.

The total weight of it all leaves him frozen.

[unspooling]

A barely perceptible nod not even a breath after the incorrect response, and the cultist holding the dagger behind Gortash leaps forward. That cruel blade is semi-careful as a hand grips hard into the back of his dark hair, the first slices into his clothes nicking the skin at his back enough that it would hurt. That it draws red lines so close to spilling over, and slashing of the garments keeping him modest is almost frenzied.

"Do not destroy him," comes the dark instruction from the bhaalspawn as his eyes drink in the sight of a man forced to comply whether he wishes to or not. And this is only the start of the lessons he intends to teach the former Baneite.

There's enough hunger brimming in his stare that it adds to the grim nature of this all. He wants Gortash naked, not only because it's a deterrent to bolting but also because what other purpose is the man to serve beyond being available to fuck any time he desires? Every flap of fabric sliced from his frame echoes into the cavernous space, silence everywhere else. The cultists watching. Waiting. Bearing witness to this indecency and relishing it.

[closeyourfist]

The sound he makes on being grabbed from another angle is purely from being startled. There is struggle, first from uncertain defense, instinctual and then the vain panic that takes over. That he's not cut deeper and more often is frankly a shock in itself. It's sickening that he wants to hurry an apology, do some manner of appeasement and show he can comply, but it comes out of something old and forgotten in him that he can't uncage.

That order. Do not destroy him. And he's still.

I told you to be careful of his face, Nubaldin.

As he's disrobed and the remains of his finery destroyed. For a moment, he has the look of someone not present for a moment.

That canvas is mine to paint.

His eyes aren't seeing the people he's looking at for a moment, and when he comes out of it, when his mind is no longer in Avernus, his cheeks are marked with tears.

[unspooling]

Satisfaction floods his system as he watches on, every new piece of exposed skin a delight that sets ablaze his desire for carnal violence. He intends to visit it all upon the smaller man, helpless in the face of his new life, his new reality. Wherever the man is transported in his mind's eye, as he is parted with the last shreds of luxury, the Dark Urge takes note.

He doesn't understand it fully yet, but he sees something there to leverage. To use in order to cow this man in ways that he should be. The cultist finally releases those dark tresses once every inch of skin is exposed, put on display like a cheap piece of meat ready for ravishing.

There is nowhere to hide here aside from the long shadows that don't truly conceal, especially for those among their number who have darkvision. The Dark Urge is one of them, his eyes getting a full show of the fruits of his Father's gift to him, originally from Bane.

The urge to tear that flesh apart is just as intense as he can feel his hunger to claim his spoils intimately. And he intends to do that, but the desire to share with these worshippers doesn't figure into his appetite today. He intends to sate it alone.

"Come, Gortash. Time to service your new master."

He turns on his heel, rounds the altar and moves towards his chambers, the stairs jaggedly jutting down beneath the giant skull effigy of his Father, decorated down the centre with the flowing blood of their sacrifices. The sentiment is clear. One last chance for Gortash to obey without needing to be forced. The alternative is left for the man to imagine himself.

[closeyourfist]

Enver collapses when finally released, the last fingers of pain in his scalp receding. His feet harder to unclothe with a knife than the rest of him, so wherever he wound up was more a benefit in the moment for them. He's left surrounded by the remains of his robes, aware of every gaze in the dark, even ones he is certain he cannot see, wanting nothing more than to make himself smaller, but something in him fights that desire to shrink.

It doesn't leave him in a very defiant stance, as those feelings remain very much at war within him. The demand to be strong and fight back has very few defenses against the suffocating terror of what may be about to happen to him. Perhaps not on the altar, but at this point it is one more thing in the face of so many witnesses. Some twisted mirror image, in his mind, of a king uncermoniously dethroned. Reflected in a hellscape and the parts acted out by horrors. Only instead of it ending with his head on a pike -- this.

The Dark Urge's voice comes down on the image forming around him like the crunch of a blade, and he almost freezes again.

Not just because visually, for just a second, it looks like he is stepping off into nothing.

But the warning, even if unspoken, is clear to him immediately. Because perhaps too much of this feels too much like Avernus that he is finding something familiar. Something he doesn't want but in the center of that he found a way to survive, and he has to hold onto that right now.

He rises just as he feels in the air that a second longer and someone would have moved to correct him. He doesn't know what he would have done if that happened, how he would have reacted. But he follows, uncertain of anything but the Dark Urge as a central focus, the one part of this landscape he fully recognizes. The sound of his bare feet on smooth stone echoes and each step downward sends that anxiety in his stomach sinking further.

He avoids the stream in the center, and his stomach turns. He has to ignore it, even more aware of how straight he has to keep his gait, not to betray another weakness and very cognizant of the fact that if he falls over the side he has no idea when or where that ends.

For now, the tears are left unaddressed, like the blood running down the steps. It's not his blood, and for now he has to tell himself the tears are not his either. Some echo of a boy that is no longer and nothing more, if that is what is going to get him through this alive.

[unspooling]

Keen hearing picks up the sound of bare feet against stonework. Had he not, his cultists would have been all too eager to drag the human down these steps after him. He's not yet sure if he can feel disappointment or vicious victory at Gortash finally doing as he's told without needing force. The Dark Urge is more than aware of how intelligent the man is, that he likely is of a mind more towards self-preservation than self-destruction in the face of this new life.

That he's already falling in line bodes well, even if it means having to find reasons to punish him outside of non-compliance just for the thrill of it.

The chamber entrance itself is flanked by another couple of cultists who, when Gortash walks past, will step in front of the open stone frame as though providing a visual cue to how caged the man is now. Of course, should he prove too slippery, there are plenty of cages available to keep him in.

It isn't until he's by his lavish, large bed that he turns, cold eyes fixing on the human, uninviting and hungry. There isn't any welcoming warmth there, the only heat that eventually seeps through is his desire to pleasure himself using Enver's body. That he remains alive is an amusement all on its own.

"Closer," he beckons, and his voice is a trap, one that's entirely obvious but there is no turning aside. This is Enver's final destination, whether he wants it to be or not.

[closeyourfist]

Trapped.

It's all his mind can think when the cultists come up behind him, after the initial reaction. A tense sound as he pulls back from the door, expecting attack over anything else. A pang of betrayal that slowly ebbs once it's there. He doesn't trust not to still be attacked even if he complies.

After all, punishment was still promised, and he's not sure if that part has already begun or is still imminent. He has a place to learn and his senses are still so overwhelmed he doesn't fully comprehend that.

He tucks his injured hand close to himself, with no other means to protect it. Blood stains his palm and fingers but has become sticky as it dries, radiating heat and a sharp but slowly dulling pain.

Closer.

That draws his attention back and a shiver of -- fear? Of what he's sure is about to happen, of everything he can't see coming after. And more: he can't forget that long before this he had felt some stirring at the Dark Urge's presence and how his mind couldn't have imagined any of this, but he should have. And that part of him, still and small, is ever present and persistent, growing when it knows its presence may be the only thing to carry through this.

Let yourself want him because it will either save your life or end it more quickly.

Dread at first arrests his body again and he feels light-headed; it starts to rib his balance. But he can't let that win out. Not where he is. He has no idea where he'd wake or in what state. If he'd wake up at all.

The bed is also the only relatively safe looking corner of the room, which makes it that much more apparent a trap, and it's one he has to walk into.

Nothing, where he would reach for advice, for relief before.

The fact that he even has a moment to wrestle with everything anchoring that hesitation is a miracle in itself. But he forces his feet to move. Tries in vain to steady himself. Stop the shaking that only feels more and more present the nearer he draws.

[unspooling]

Deeply aware that he's given the human a very narrow space to exist within, the Dark Urge can't quite suppress the entirety of his unsavoury desire. They haven't ever discussed anything as crude as rumours of what followers of Bhaal engage in, but there are plenty of them around the Gate. Enough to scare not just small children but adults alike. Tittering whispers making it into even high society functions, hushed tones gossiping at events attended only by patriars.

Have you heard? Bhaalists are all related because they practice incest.

Can you believe it? Bhaalists desecrate the dead by fornicating with their victims after they have already passed.

Shocking, isn't it. Bhaalists eat the flesh of those unlucky enough to be stalked to them.

As Gortash walks the distance between them like a man heading for the gallows, he wonders which of these the human has heard. Which of them he's thinking about now as he's forced into the pit of vipers. In here, there are plenty of ways he could end the man before he's even reached the bed. But that would be a waste, not to mention displease his Father.

And so he forces his lust towards his sexual arousal instead, the display from barely moments ago at the altar enough to fuel the fire at his core. The deeply possessive nature of the ritual and, here and now, the claim he intends to stake on the man's body.

He waits until Gortash is close enough that he can feel the air move, despite its heaviness. Eyes pinpointed on the human's expression as he points at the spot directly in front of him. It's clear where he wants the man to step to.

"What's the matter, Enver? Did you think I didn't notice those fleeting glances when you thought I wasn't looking? You were practically begging for me to notice you."

[closeyourfist]

Gortash has certainly heard a few rumors. Those persisted even when he was a child. And there had been that narrow escape, back then. Just before...that night. And he'd been so relieved to find his way home afterward--

He shakes his head to clear it, and it's not a well-hidden gesture. One more sign there is probably a good deal weighing on his mind than just the moment.

But it was a long time before he heard those rumors again, not until he was back in Baldur's Gate again, but he armed himself well, and they rarely targeted the organizations that ran underground. It wasn't impossible, but more often when the signs of their passing appeared it would be out of the blue to remind the more normal people that the horrors still existed.

And by the time he served the Black Hand and began to move up politically, it was the sort of thing to put out of mind as just a thing that made the imaginings more frightening and provocative to the layperson. When the meetings began, it became a matter that was not his business if it did not have to do with the work they were doing. Or perhaps, because of that understanding, the rumors became things not to think about because it all meant he did not apply.

The Dark Urge points to a spot in front of him and despite the ritual moments ago it feels...inappropriately close. Because of the state he was in. Because of the injuries they now both sported. Because the air was thick with dread? Anticipation? Certainty of what was to come.

He picks his way to the place he's directed to. His eyes stay on him in a way that isn't his usual -- everything else in the room feels like too much. But if it is not the Dark Urge's eyes, it is his mouth as it moves, his hands.

And then he speaks, and at his given name being spoken, his cheeks bloom with their first sign of life besides then exhaustion that nearly took him when he fled.

His eyes move to an outer wall. He almost doesn't answer; he's not certain if he should, but the threat of making this worse for himself looses -- albeit quietly -- the first answer that came to mind, exactly as it formed in his head: "...I didn't think you weren't looking."

[unspooling]

Whatever effect the human is driving for - and to the Dark Urge, it must be something - the sharp smile that tugs at his lips is almost instantaneous. He looks amused, darkly so, as though the answer the man has provided fulfils whatever he has been waiting for. It's not that he towers above Gortash as much as he does others, though there's enough of a height difference for him to be looking down to maintain eye contact. But it's the mass of bulk that he carries in thick bands of muscle that make him broad as well.

It's a terrifying prospect to have somebody as big as he is be able to keep to the shadows as though he simply melts into them.

The human stops in front of him and it's all he can do to not wrap his fingers around his bare neck and choke the life from him. The urge demands satisfaction but his desires are pushed again into a less lethal direction. Easier when he catches the pink bloom in the man's cheeks and he laughs, derisive and cruel.

"So you wanted me to see your desire?"

He's certainly insinuating something even if he doesn't bother to name it. As though he has the right to have an opinion on that without Gortash particularly being able to express his in return. By now, it's likely clear that the Dark Urge isn't interested in hearing. Certainly not for the next few hours.

"What a desperate little toy," he says and, rather than touching the human and breaking any anticipatory tension, he moves, circling around the smaller man, never touching but incredibly close. He doesn't make a secret of the fact he's looking Gortash over, objectifying him purposely.

"Perhaps this will be everything you had hoped for after all," he adds, and it isn't an offer of anything respectful or hopeful. He's still slowly circling the man, powerful steps that give the impression of prowling more than anything. Imminently ready to pounce.

[closeyourfist]

There is something about saying something without forethought -- too honest -- that hearing a laugh in response makes his stomach drop into something like nausea. For a moment, it casts everything in a light he hadn't anticipated. The possibility that everything he had feared would happen in the ritual room, up until this very moment, all the way back to every word or glance he second-guessed in their meetings? Was all in his head.

Which, even after the obvious danger, was one of the reasons he never responded and kept it to himself.

He is surrounded by viscera and crumbling masonry, standing in as literal an interpretation of the Hells as you could get without exiting this plane, and for just an instant he feels hideous and it is infuriating that this emotion penetrates the fear ruling everything else. All he can do is internally scold himself.

But only a possibility. The 'joining' and the form it took. The Dark Urge's very deliberate turn of phrase here and throughout. That stops it from being a certainty but there is already so little room in his mind for even a phantom anxiety.

Then the bhaalspawn doesn't touch him, but it isn't the relief it should be, because the closeness as he circles spells it out very clearly: this is still happening, but he's not going to just get it over with. He can feel his eyes on him. The word toy makes something inside him squirm uncomfortably.

Everything he hoped for? Not in the slightest.

But something slips into place. Something that feels certain. This is going to happen. Pain will be an unavoidable side-effect. He has no idea what state he will be in when there is at last any sort of reprieve.

And nothing he is about to say is about delaying or stopping any of that. For the moment it is because he should, and he doesn't know how capable he will be of saying it afterward. And the Dark Urge may yet silence him.

Gortash's eyes go to the floor.

"It isn't." He swallows. "In any situation where I saw myself going to you, it did not involve disrespecting your temple. I did not know the nature of my being brought here and believed my life to be in immediate danger. I was not told, and I do not know why." If he had been told? If Bane had said to him his failure and sent him away, his anger and his heartbreak would have been correctly aimed. But in the end, he would have done his duty. "For what I have done, I apologize."

[unspooling]

Whether the man senses it or not, the Dark Urge keeps at his back, a threat looming from behind. The choice has an intended purpose, to keep the human on edge. But, despite everything, a glimmer of what he can only acknowledge as vicious approval threads its way into his thoughts. He isn't surprised, Gortash is the Chosen of Bane for a reason, and that he is able to nakedly stand in the presence of Bhaalspawn and express himself in this manner is fascinating.

Truthfully he's seen more lethal men say far less, piss trickling down their leg purely out of fear. The thought is always there to punish, to rain down violence without a second to temper that immediate behaviour. Instead, he leans in, his lips barely a hairs breadth from the curve of Gortash's ear, even though he continues to keep clear of actually touching.

To share what he knows should slice into Gortash just as deeply as any blade could, but perhaps there is a part of him that is bestowing a reward for still possessing the wherewithal to speak this way. Toys aren't fun if they break immediately.

"You are what Bane chose to surrender to pay his debt to my Father. He offered you up like a lamb to the slaughter." He pauses there, eyes dropping to the hollow of Gortash's throat from where he's able to see over his shoulder. He can see his pulse, the way it's still very much present despite standing nakedly in the middle of Bhaal's favourite child's bedroom. By all rights, he should be dead.

There's enough to go on in the other man's explanation for him to draw a few conclusions of his own. That Gortash was completely loyal to his god was something not to be sniffed at. It made the lack of his being told ahead of time extremely suspicious, though not all that surprising.

"The god that has forsaken you assumes that you will meet a violent end here in the Temple of Bhaal. But my Father is wise to the God of Tyranny's games. If Bane wants a new Chosen, he will have to wait for your ultimate demise. And I do not intend to let that happen anytime soon."

From another mouth it could sound almost protective. A sincere expression of worrying for somebody's wellbeing. But just as always, this is nothing more than the gods trying to outdo each other and a devoted son serving his Father devoutly.

A finger finally connects to Gortash's spine, starting at his lower back and drawing a line up to his neck as though slicing open his spinal cord. It's firm but not painful, a curiosity rather than a punishment. Soon enough he moves that hand to one of the man's shoulders, pressing down in a way that doesn't so much request he gets to his knees rather than demands it.

[closeyourfist]

Enver Gortash does not expect an answer of any kind. Maybe correction for speaking out of turn, given the tenor of the scene thus far. For everything happening and with no clear sight of anything coming and how much this threw him, this was just one more thing he could not predict. He could barely plan for the moment much less days, tendays, years in advance, and he hated it. He hated feeling this helpless and uncertain on so many levels.

So to receive an answer, and not even one he could have planned for, and clarity with it, nearly takes him off his feet. He hears the Dark Urge's voice behind him and he raises his gaze to the wall ahead of him. His breath is on his ear and just the barest imaginings of his lips close and his body is treacherous in how it quakes at that feeling, unable to untether fear and want from each other.

But then the answer is that answer. And it does, indeed, cut him to hear. Bane is the God of Tyranny for a reason and those that follow Him understand who and what he is and glorify him. Enver Gortash was -- is is Chosen, and to be pronounced as such is to be marked as that god's right hand walking among mortals, their most devout.

And he was. Most devout. And now slighted.

Bane truly meant to see him dead as soon as possible. And in all likelihood, arranged it in the hopes that Gortash would take as many Bhaalists as he could before he went.

He sold him.

The human's hands clench at his sides. The cut one stops before he can reopen it, the pain a quick reminder of the injury there, a momentary distraction to stop his fury from further building.

The Dark Urge's touch, solid and tracing the line of his spine, calls him back to the moment. He is tensely still, his senses lighting up as his muscles follow this minuscule bit of contact, in search of further sensation be it hurt or otherwise. Then that finger becomes a heavy hand on his shoulder, and he comes down as directed, careful as he doesn't quite trust the impulse to balance himself by reaching for the bed. The rug beneath him feels strange on his knees and legs, a halt to cool air there.

He hates that this somehow feels safer. More of him feels covered. But the position is submissive, supplicant in a way he had seen of other adherents. To their deity and to him as his Chosen. But he hadn't gotten to his knees for anyone in a very long time.

[unspooling]

The information is shared without care for how it is received, though it doesn't preclude the Dark Urge from paying attention to the reaction. He can see the lines of Gortash's body change, the way fingers curl inward to fists. That sends another thrill of violence through him and, briefly, it takes every scrap of control he has not to lash out and beat the man senseless for no reason other than he wants to.

But his need is sated for now, and so eventually he rounds the human to stand over him from the front. There isn't a more symbolic arrangement than Gortash being on his knees before his new master, and it paints a pretty picture for the Dark Urge in a way that pleases him.

He smiles, and it is darkness.

"Use your mouth to pleasure me, toy."

If the human hadn't already guessed where this was going, the order most certainly does clarify what his captor expects here. As yet there's been no ramifications for his swift dispatching of the trio of Bhaalists sent after him. If it looms as a threat without any indication of when punishment will be enacted, all the better to torment the man with.

[closeyourfist]

Is it the command that makes him shiver and his stomach drop or that word? By now Enver has lost count of how many times he has dropped his eyes out of contact, ceding ground. But he closes his mouth to keep his breath steady.

He knew this was coming. He has to tell himself that. He has to let that bring if not comfort, at least some stability.

And it has been years, nearly a decade of life. Very much beside the point, because even when he has seen fit in the distant past to do this, to fall to his knees and bend lips and tongue and hand to such an undertaking, he was never one to do so from a submissive place. As surely as a spoken command could, he acted with the intent to leave someone begging.

This has none of those undertones, and those feel unwelcome here. He is to see to this with obedience, and the thought of it somehow leaves him feeling more naked than he already is.

So when his lidded gaze slides back up, first to the Bark Urge's belt and the beginnings of all this, then to his eyes, only briefly, to clearly address him, he slips into a state that he hasn't felt in a long time but comes back to him with the frightening clarity of muscle memory he didn't even know he had retained.

(and somewhere very far back in the reaches of his mind, he hoped He heard and felt spited in it)

"Do I have your permission to undress you?"

[unspooling]

"How else do you plan to satisfy me?" comes the response and if Gortash hasn't already arrived at the conclusion that nothing he's likely to do in this moment will be met with praise, this is could serve as evidence enough. Any shimmer of approval at the human remembering to ask permission first is suppressed by the Dark Urge's fiery lust. It's just as chaotic as it always is, carnal desires spilling over onto each other and creating a slick mess of aroused interest that he pushes outward.

A hand reaches into Gortash's hair and grabs, grips dark locks hard and tugs back so that he is forced to continue to look up as he speaks. A move designed, surprisingly, not purely to form a power play but, additionally, measuring his desire. The bhaalspawn is unused to expressing any desire for another

His expression contains depths of hunger that should be intimidating on their own, less the fact that his reputation likely precedes him. He is Bhaal's favoured for a reason.

"Hurry up," he adds, now too impatient to wait and instead uses his own hand to tug down the waistband of his trousers enough to expose himself. His cock, semi-hard but getting more interested by the moment, flops out immediately in front of the human's face.

[closeyourfist]

This was neither the time nor place to explore exactly why he hadn't been seeking praise. Enver Gortash came of age in a world of Devils: missing a step was a trap. If you did not assume there were rules in place, blundering over them was an excuse for punishment, not for your ignorance.

He learned a long time ago to anticipate such things.

The hand in his hair stops his forward momentum for a second. He feels himself leaning into it more to reduce pressure, but the Dark Urge's eyes on him are as they were in those meetings but tenfold: they made him feel the way he does now, in a way. Unhidden. That his want was in no way truly secret, and anything could be done with it -- whether it was simply to leave him squirming or to show him before his own god how much he could take before his resolve totally crumbled.

Now he was trapped in that feeling in a more literal sense, hand holding him out of the way while the bhaalspawn freed himself and made his own growing desire quite plain.

That does something to him, to see definitively that they were not merely discussing something one-sided, that perhaps he was not going to need to coax this man into accepting pleasure.

He was ready for it, intent upon it; he was already thinking of it, and now Enver was, too.

He doesn't have as much building up to do. His good hand works first, drawing more of the man out, fondling the shape of him from balls to shaft to establish how he intends to work the length. Then his mouth follows, his tongue strokes up the length of the underside, passing the head into his mouth when he reaches the edge again.

And gods, he doesn't expect the moment to hit him like it does. The uncertainty of his own fate is drowned in renewed desire, in knowing he's thought of this and it's no longer some secret, impossible imagining. A shiver electrifies his whole person, and he takes more.

[unspooling]

"More," comes the command after a few moments of enjoying a hot, wet mouth, submissive in nature and the gift he is going to make the most of in every way that he pleases. Gortash represents the very spoils of a war that hasn't been fought, the very apex of his Father's own scheming to keep Bane's reach contained and hampered.

Cut the god of tyranny's following off at the knees. Or perhaps carved out the heart. The idea is quickly swept aside and replaced by another: Baneites are hardly known for their passion, or their heart. It's their iron fist instead that the Dark Urge considers as he looks down at the human and finds that idea laughable.

The humour is the scratchy, itchy kind that exists to live under his skin in a way that feels briefly maddening. At least his new pet is keeping his teeth to himself. It's hardly like he needs to lay down any threats at all for it to be so obviously a terrible idea.

He waits, relishing the sensation of his cock being serviced quite so obediently, but if the human doesn't comply with his wishes - 'take more of it' - he'll soon find it no longer remains an option.

"I want to see you choke on it."

[closeyourfist]

By this point, Enver knows that right now he is delaying what is probably the inevitable moment where this stops being the kind of oral he knows how to do and simply becomes face-fucking, and he doesn't know how well he's going to be able to control teeth or gag reflex once it reaches that point. The most that he can do is what he can, while he can, to prove there is something worthwhile in not pushing it to that point.

He can go further, and he does. Adjusting the placement of his jaw, broadening but also focusing the movement of his tongue, seeking out every vein, every sensitive crevice. Meanwhile keeping his hand working.

He's out of practice, not that he was exactly studied in such things to begin with. So he can only go with what he already felt drawn to do. Let that fuel him, keep it burning hotter than that mote of panic that is now threatening to overpower it.

He doesn't dare pull back; he's not even certain the Dark Urge would allow him, even if it is just to move on him, to simulate that thrust.

[unspooling]

No matter what Gortash had planned to try to appease him with, it likely was never going to be enough. The Dark Urge is hungry for violence and, since he cannot murder the man at his feet, using his body forcefully will have to fill the gnawing hunger as best as it can. The sensation itself is something that draws pleasure forth, coaxing in a way that, was he a different man, he may appreciate. But the reality is that sex for him is a weapon, a way to dominate and control. A different flavour of violence and, usually, foreplay to the main event. Murder.

Both hands grab at the human's hair now, locks sticking up between his fingers at all angles as he takes a firm hold. Whether the man knows what's coming, or whether this will be an unpleasant experience throughout, it's incredibly clear he doesn't care.

The first thrust against the man's face is sharp and hard, whether Gortash manages to keep his hand in the way remains neither here or there. The Dark Urge has enough of a hold on his hair that even if he passes out, his mouth and throat will get used regardless. He could tell the man that if he relaxes it will go a lot smoother for him, but where's the fun in that?

[closeyourfist]

There were only a few moments before the shift came. Both hands in his hair provided at least a second of warning, but that still doesn't stop the alarm from setting in, that first thrust drawing a halted sound before all air stops.

Don't pass out. Don't vomit.

He winces.

Don't shed tears.

You can breathe.

His jaw aches before he forces himself to adjust with a shudder. He has to relax himself before his nostrils will take in any air. His hands brace themselves on the Dark Urge's hips.

There's no telling whether it gets worse after this, and if he falls apart now he won't make it through the rest.

[unspooling]

Drinking in the sensation of panic, the one he reads in the human's expression, the only thing he takes from it is the desire to do more. To fuck harder. His motions are vicious; short, sharp snaps of his hips that never pull his cock out much further than the back of Gortash's mouth. The wet, tight heat of his throat beyond provides too much pleasure and delight in how forceful it is.

He feels fingers against his hips, almost wishes that they would clutch at him hard enough to hurt, so he can feel just part of what the other man may be feeling. Silenced like this, he has to take what feedback the man's body is giving him outside of verbal.

In the end he gives the man all of two opportunities to get a proper lungful of air, pulling his cock out enough to create the space for it. For some time, all that can be heard in the Chosen's chambers is the way the Dark Urge fucks his toy's throat, commentary only used to needle at the man on his knees more. And then, without warning, his hips slow, one last thrust forward before he's spilling over, a grunt drawn from his poison lips and his fingers twisting in dark locks so tightly, to keep the human still, there's little chance it doesn't hurt. He empties himself until he has no more, pulling out and gripping at Gortash's chin to yank his gaze upwards.

Expectation, even through the slight haze of his orgasm, is brimming at his features.

What do you say, toy?

[closeyourfist]

It is more pain than it is anything else, but once he knows what is happening, once he has resolved to bear through it, some of that panic pulls back from the forefront and he can just focus on surviving what can only be described as an assault.

The moments where he is allowed to take fuller breaths come out of nowhere for him, and seem only to be there just to see if he will resist, even just out of reflex, and his body wants to. It's when the most sound can be pulled from him, where his jaw, his throat, the back of his head, all of it wants relief, and it won't end yet. But it's not much more than the stutter of a whimper. Uncertainty what is happening and being pulled headlong into it again.

When at last his mouth is released, it is with a gasp after a valiant effort not to choke or worse, gag. The redness in his face will take a moment to recede as air returns. But as surely as he can feel a stream of seed escaping the corner of his mouth, he can feel his eyes beginning to burn.

How is he here? How is this happening again?

The hand on his chin takes his attention from that thought, sends it somewhere to the pit of his stomach to fester. All while all he can think of is the feeling of too-strong fingers on him and eyes that shoot ice into his limbs.

And as sickening as it is, his body commands him to answer that unspoken question. To do what he has been taught to do, because this is the face and the Dark Urge is the name of who holds his fate now. This is who will deem him worth protecting, or comforting.

Until I'm a burden.

And all he feels like is dead weight right now. And how dare he make him feel that way? How dare He? How dare anyone?

The vehemence that rises up in his expression would be deadly if an expression could cut like a knife. It wants him to act, but the tears that fill from his eyes chase some of that heat out of him.

Probably better it stole any will he had to act or speak, because he likely would have chosen poorly.

[unspooling]

"Ungrateful wretch," comes the accusation at the lack of response outside of the expression, even though the Dark Urge feels a thrill work its way through him. The anger even behind those tears is something he wants to inhale and enjoy, probably not to savour but just being able to taste it would be enough. Instead he swings his arm and backhands the man across the left cheek, wanting it to hurt enough to draw a yelp out of him.

As much as he enjoys the fire in Gortash, there really did need to be some kind of answer to the triple murder during his escape. That three Bhaalists were bested by this man is all the more intriguing, especially now that he's had the human kneel for him and swallow his cock.

Whether or not Gortash is flung prone to the floor by the force of being struck, the bhaalspawn moves away from where he's been standing, tucking his rapidly wilting cock back into his trousers. Guests of this nature don't usually last long, but toys of Gortash's particular skillset and current mood certainly aren't permitted to be freely able to range where they wish to. And so he's barely got a few steps away before he calls out:

"Put my toy away."

It'll become intensely clear that he's talking to cultist guards, and given how much he hasn't had to raise his voice, it's likely that they've heard everything standing guard at the open doorway.

"He will need plenty of rest for what plans I have for him," he adds as three cultists descend onto Gortash, six hands gripping at him and forcing him up to his feet. There's a cage set near the east wall, big enough for a man of Gortash's height to lie horizontally if he chooses to. Though at half the height of its length, it's impossible to stand up in.