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.
no subject
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.