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.
The Revelation
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.