Toppling from Cauldron to Blaze

[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.

Comments

[unspooling]

Peaceful oblivion. It had been all he had needed to know in the moment it came.

He had died then, stripped of his unholy blood by the Father he had refused. A Father who had disinherited him when he had insisted his family were those who had found him. Those who had stuck by him, even when they didn't understand his affliction. Those who had laughed with him, who had cried for him. Who had been by his side weathering the storms and taking the hits for him.

His god had moved to destroy who he was, not accounting for who he is now. And that had started long before Orin's betrayal.

Bhaal should have known his son's his heart was changed long before this moment.

But his journey had not been finished, and no sooner had he accepted that the scourge of his existence was to be destroyed by the very being who created it, back he is pulled into his body.

He is not the same.

Nothing will ever be the same, and he has made peace with that too. Made peace that he will greet every dawn from now on with gratitude, and a desire to be better. To be more.



That night at camp, as they all take the rest sorely needed, he re-reads the letter and makes his choice. He will greet the new dawn as a better man, and bring Enver Gortash with him, whatever it takes. He sleeps, in deep exhaustion, and there is nothing but the echo of murderous thoughts, like wounds starting to heal upon his mind.

The resolution he shares with his companions at first light is met with such a variety of reactions it takes the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon to sift through and come to any kind of consensus.

Karlach's immediate response is the most difficult to bear, heartbreaking because he's so fond of his tiefling friend. He asks them all to trust him, just once more. Trust that he can make this right, that he can implore the Chosen of Bane to just come with him. He pours his heart out, allows every layer to be peeled from him as his companions each weigh in with their concerns, their thoughts.

In the end, for better or worse, they agree to his request with the condition that if the Archduke doesn't agree, it will fall to him to conclude things in a manner that's best for Baldur's Gate. Jaheira catches his eye and sees within him the solemn promise that he will do what he must to preserve the life of Enver Gortash, but not at the expense of Faerûn.



It is a handful of hours before dusk that the doors to the Archduke's private office are pushed open, the Oathbreaker paladin that stands at the entrance scanning the room for the man he's here to convince to stand down. With his friends at his back, he steps into the quiet expanse of the grand office, eyes not drawn to the table in the centre but to the corner at the back. The lump in his throat is harder to swallow down than he'd like, but eventually his gaze flicks back to the table.

[closeyourfist]

The office has that veneer of new familiarity that is also old thanks to that pocket of recollections the Emperor released back to him, all for a terrible promise. No deal with Raphael. No Orphic Hammer.

It was shocking that Lae'zel understood. Wasn't happy (was she ever) but accepting that if the Prince of the Comet were to be freed, they would have to find another way, and even with time short, she was not about to give up looking. She could not foresake the path of lies that Vlaakith had paved for her to keep the truth hidden and allow the Dark Urge to be placed in a similar position by a Mindflayer.

The place is really only an "office" in how it has been repurposed. Some once grander chamber, lit by the gleam of tall candelabra and torches, for events and pronouncements in its early days. It has probably seen use in a number of ways in the centuries since, now a large space with a small portion of it carved out for one man to live and work, with clearly more with utility in mind than luxury.

Strange, for Archduke of the city-state. But less so if you knew him.

Perhaps he would have been making plans for something more grand, when plans finally came to fruition.

The room is empty of people save for them, and in the far corner, next to a massive stuffed bear, sits a smaller desk with a high-backed chair angled toward it. The shape of legs and the peek of an arm as the man sitting in it takes notes. Perhaps the glitter of jewelry around the hand.

[unspooling]

The stillness of the air comes in stark contrast to the bustling outside, uncomfortable for reasons he doesn't quite grasp yet.

What he isn't hearing sets his teeth on edge, but there's enough of an urge (albeit slightly different to usual) to have him step forward. As his footsteps carry him into the room proper, he chalks up that discomfort to the magnitude of this moment. Of what he hopes for it to be. Between the triggered memories and his newfound freedom from Bhaal, so much is riding on this conversation that he assumes it's that causing the unease.

"En-- Gortash?" He corrects himself quickly, not just because there's something markedly private feeling about using the man's first name. A strangeness harking back to times past. Would he have ever dreamed of addressing the man by his first name in front of other people? The faltered step somewhere behind him he assumes is Karlach, the familiarity of his misspoken request for the Archduke's attention sticking uncomfortably.

[closeyourfist]

Almost another name, that.

Ah, what a stolen moment! As surely as the man sitting in the chair hears it, one has to be certain that he would have as well. Would his heart have skipped in his chest?

Would some of that outer facade just begin to crack, like it had when Enver Gortash followed the rather imposing wolf's movements at the masque? Or might it have crumbled right there? Left in much the same state that it had been the night before, after Raphael took care dismantling it brick by brick as he revealed the utter hopelessness of his fate to him?

He would have to thank his soon-to-be client later. Even if there was to be a full exchange when all was said and done, at least he had been given a little time to enjoy hosting his guest.

"I'm afraid not." The devil's voice is metallic and precise, cutting through the silence in the air like a knife, and he rises to fully turn and face his guests. "But close at hand, if we're in a mood to bargain today."

[unspooling]

The scrape of weapons being drawn behind him echo back at that metallic voice, his own hand reaching to his hip, fingers curling around the hilt of his blade. He doesn't draw yet, but whatever calm he had arrived here with is already feeling disrupted. Rucked up like a rug after tripping over the excess fabric.

Raphael. The devil they all unfortunately know.

"You already have my answer, Raphael."

The creeping sensation of something large and shadowy looming from behind is like blood at the back of his tongue, as metallic as the quality of the devil's voice. It hasn't passed him by that Raphael is hinting at the information, dangling it in front of him, there for the taking. But at what cost?

"Wherever you have put Gortash, I suggest you return him. Now."

[closeyourfist]

"Oh, the Archduke and his netherstone will definitely be remaining where they are."

If the appearance of weapons has done anything to sour his mood, he doesn't show it. After all, if they kill him he goes right to where he is planning to go and they are down one stone of their needed three with an angry evolved Elder Brain on their hands.

He purses his lips, looking falsely sympathetic.

"I'd still be waiting at the Caress, of course, but the window for that particular contract is closed. And it would seem you are nearly out of time, so you're going to want to hear the terms of the new one, because I am only going to explain them once."

[unspooling]

"Where is he?"

If he possessed the patience or guile, a tone more befitting a civil persuasion would have been a better choice. What is actually delivered is aggression, like the hammer against molten metal, direct and forceful. He doesn't take his eyes off the devil, the gut punch that this discovery has turned up one that threatens to knock the air right out of him.

Whether he wants it or not, the feeling that Raphael holds the one card he wants is intense. They both know it, and though he's expecting terms to be shared sooner rather than later, he cannot decide if the not knowing is better. Whatever the terms are, they will be costly and far-reaching. And he still has the promise he made to his companions at the back of his mind. He will ensure that Faerûn isn't compromised.

[closeyourfist]

"Oh, so thoughtful of you to ask!" Bright, cheerful in his delivery. Like time is not of the essence. "He is in the House of Hope, enjoying my hospitality and the rightful rest and repast of a proper prodigal son, let me assure you."

All technically true. That is the fun part of language -- honesty need not be straightforward, every word, story and soliloquy gifting a wealth of meanings.

"Probably for the better, given the state of matters. Especially if someone does not deal with that brain very soon."

How he can saunter and carry on so casually in the face of people who would very likely do him violence if he were a different creature and had an ounce less leverage!

"You already know what I seek, once the dust has settled, and I would much rather it sooner than later. So I am either claiming it from the husk of an elder brain centuries from now or you will be handing it to me following your victory, the stones reunited. ...For fun I'll even throw the Archduke in with the stone, if you're feeling so inclined. I'm sure he'll be delighted to come waltzing back into the armageddon the lot of you have created for yourselves."

[unspooling]

He wants to hollow out Raphael's smarmy face with his fist. And it feels different. Not the all-consuming ache of hunger for bloodshed gnawing inside him. The pale echo of that is wasting away, existing as scars on a psyche but shrivelled in a way that is quickly eclipsed by other things. How long that may last, he isn't trying to hold out too much hope either way.

No, the violence feels too righteous. Just, even. Retribution for wrongness, the answer to a grievous move whose only countermove should be punishment. He feels his fingers itching to either run the devil through or start swinging.

But the hand at his shoulder is enough to bring him back out of that dark tunnel. Enough to pull him to the light and keep him on track, because that's what this situation needs. Somebody able to shoulder a predicament like this without feeling like they may fall into murderous pieces at any moment.

There is no question about what the answer must be. The quakes are considerably worse even in the short time they've been in the city, even if his own mind is stuck on the fact Gortash is in Avernus again. The memory of the first time they went to steal the crown is hazy at best, but that detail he remembers with clarity.

"We don't have time for this," he finally says, voice still a ground up mess of barely restrained emotion. It doesn't take a genius to see that Raphael has got them in an impossible spot, and with no other answer forthcoming from his companions, he must agree.

"Gortash and his stone for the crown. Is that what you're saying? How do we even know you have him, or that he's in one piece?"

[closeyourfist]

"I have the stone, that much you can be sure of." An indulgent smile as though every question doesn't have the edge of a threat to it. "And you can waste time tearing everything apart here trying to prove me a liar. But in the end you will have to come and see, won't you? Our mutual friend found a way to the Hells to retrieve the crown. You can use it to come, sign your contract, and retrieve what you're after."

A house call seems only fair. The lot of them kept him waiting in that house of ill repute for how long?

"I suggest you not take too long. Enver might start to feel too settled to go, not that there will be much of anywhere to return to after a point. He's a bit old to be a paige anymore but I am sure I can find something for old time's sake."

A jaunty little wave of his fingers.

"Tick tock goes the water clock."

And then he is just gone. In a blink, the parting of eyelash from lash blew him apart as well.

[unspooling]

"Bastard!"

It isn't just the one voice behind him that proclaims Raphael a bastard, but he's too busy staring at the now empty space that the devil has left behind in his wake. His mismatched eyes confirm he has certainly gone, that it isn't just a trick of invisibility. He remains unmoving for a few moments, slowly becoming more aware of all the physiological symptoms he's so very used to, but with a twist of discomfort buried deep in his chest. A sudden creeping that becomes a cascade of fragments of knowledge pulling together to form a bigger picture.

He's a bit old to be a paige anymore but I am sure I can find something for old time's sake

The racing of his pulse in his ears, the blood rushing until he feels like he can't hear anything else. The way his skin starts to burn, his fingers start to curl into fists. The only reference he has for this level of physiological response is how it felt on the hunt for prey, the moment immediately preceding that first cut, when his entire body was singing with worship, with imminent sacrifice.

"Fuck," slips loose far more quietly than the random object he finds his fingers snatching up, hears it smash against a stone wall before he's cognizant of what's happened. The vase sits in pieces at the base of the wall, his gaze stuck on it blinkingly for a moment before he comes back to himself. Not a blackout like before, and perhaps they can all take some kind of comfort in the first thing he reached for being an object and not a living thing.

Somewhere behind him he hears Karlach say something, but he's not yet properly resurfaced from the way his mind starts to race towards something more practical than the seething he can feel drowning him from the inside. If he could choke on the own heat of his blood, he feels it in a way he cannot momentarily explain.

Eventually, though, the old habit of controlling and suppressing things to achieve a goal filters back in, something of old applied to something wholly new. He turns to face his companions and they wait, are leaving space they barely have spare for him to step into. And how he steps into it matters. He's acutely aware of that too.

Shadowheart had supplied their next lead, reminding him that the Sharrans had been spying on the two Chosen when they had headed to a diabolist in the lower city. And so with time not on their side, the ragtag group sweep through the city, arriving in a bustle of barely contained energy and fuelled by the urgency of their new task at the Devil's Fee.

He doesn't allow the diabolist much room to deny his request. Any complication surrounding his lack of memories doesn't figure into the way he converses, suddenly the simplicity of what he needs to achieve collecting as raw power in the way he carries himself.

His message is clear: I will carve a path through you if I need to, though I would prefer not to.

It's convincing enough of an assertion that when they do finally filter into the House of Hope through the portal, it is still fresh without a fight. Given his thoughts to the matter of Raphael, it's likely for the best. He will not allow the cambion to continue to exist, cannot allow it.

So, to be faced with not even a sniff of a welcoming party, that impotent rage has to sit idle beneath his skin, a lack of avenues for it to find a conclusion apparent. He isn't surprised that Raphael continues to make him work for another audience with him, and that sits about as well as anybody is expecting.

The snarl of fury is barely a word as he moves for the large set of double doors, closed tight until he forces them open with strength alone. A bloody-mindedness that calls so much of who he has become to lead, but the hunter beneath never far behind. Murdering was never about anger. But he can feel the pull of wanting to kill driven by something altogether consuming and it is rage.

"Raphael," he bellows as he invades the entryway towards the large banquet table ahead, the wolf at the door of the devil, the duality of who he was and who he is represented here by the fury tugging at his features. Gone is any effort to control how angry he is, unlocked by that singular sentence that annotates the rest of what he hadn't understood of Enver's scars. It all overlaps messily, memories of complicated, blasphemous moments and the context by which his human had been tortured.

[closeyourfist]

The House of Hope is much as it would be remembered. Raphael sits at his table across from the doors that are thrown open. Its contents do not overflow with goods as they had before. Finely dressed in gilded linens that sparkle in firelight. A single plate of grapes and cheese sits near the host, as well as a fresh contract and quill. He balances a chalice lazily in his hand as he regards the Dark Urge's display of anger with lidded amusement.

A careful watch on where he and his party had gone? Probably a very good instinct on his part. He now knows exactly who Enver Gortash and the Dark Urge had used to get to Cania before, and that can be addressed after all this is over and done with.

There were other ways he might have gone about it, because he could feel threads of discord in these walls very shortly after he arrived at the fortress to await them. Already he was thinking of little loopholes. Ways to squeeze in a little extra punishment that the little shit had rightly earned in his absence.

But really, hadn't he expected as much? Nubaldin never did figure out how a child Enver Gortash had gotten away before, and Raphael had "forgotten" to relieve the human of his gauntlets before putting him away for safe keeping. Just to see if things got interesting. Get some of that residual fire out before he completely crumbled.

Even creatures of high order could do with a spectacle every now and again. Just a shame that whatever was and likely still is transpiring in his dungeons he hadn't been present for. But the Dark Urge had actually arrived a little faster than expected; it left little time for additional errands.

"Never one to disappoint, clearly. Come to save your city at last?"

[unspooling]

The words slice all the deeper into him the more he succumbs to the depths of this anger. He can feel the fury shear whatever soul he might have left, and now isn't the time to contemplate how many ways he could not have a soul left, most pressing now is the tadpole in his brain.

Just as before, there is no echo of the Emperor in his brain, nor that of his companions. Here, in the House of Hope, whatever disruption Raphael has been able to slide in place seems to hold.

Perhaps it's for the best. Concerning himself with what the illithid wants is an additional complication he simply cannot handle for now. Not least because making decisions needs to be under his own volition, as much as it can be as while he's actively being extorted. The devil looks almost completely at ease with his chalice dangled so casually, but in his minds eye he imagines using it to cave the cambion's face in.

"So far all I have seen is hot air."

In other words: where's the proof there's even anything here to bargain for?

[closeyourfist]

"You are quite right, of course."

The clawed fingers of the devil's free hand snap. The sound echoes in the chamber resoundingly like a vibration conducting on bone in the water.

Enver Gortash appears in an instant and nearly blunders into the table. The sudden change in lighting, scenery, even the quality of the air sets him visibly panicking for a second, and when he flails fresh droplets of crimson spatter from his gauntleted fingers.

But whatever quarry had his fury before, it dies with them wherever he's just been plucked from. His eyes are over-dry, sunken and heavy with too many waking hours kept company by tears. Beneath the finery of his robes an angry mark is visible, red and welted but not quite breaking the skin.

At first his stance draws lower into almost a crouch, uncertain but more fortified as his gaze casts about wildly to orient itself.

"Now now, Enver. This is no way to present yourself to welcome guests."

A finger raises, and with it so does his posture seem to straighten. His breath catches, and he visibly forces it to quiet. And then his eyes finally lock with who is standing there.

And now he cannot breathe at all.

It's a trick. He's finally gone mad.

"Asked and provided: more than hot air. One intact netherstone. I would not expect a signature without as much, of course."

[unspooling]

Out of thin air comes Enver and, for the briefest of moments, relief from everything. It's there in a flash, just the sight of him alive is enough. But then the details start to filter in. The beyond wary, desperate panic to orient himself. The red welt, just visible enough between the laces of his shirt. The way, after he draws himself into such a defensive posture, he is forced upward until he's ramrod straight. The blood dripping from his gauntlets.

What he sees in return is the drow half-elf paladin with his companions at his back, very much looking like a fight is close at hand. The briefest glimpse of relief is visible, one that switches almost immediately to pure anger. As pure as fire itself, stoked from a place of such intense feeling that it threatens to take on a life of its own. It's a new expression, one that never made an appearance before Orin had assumed leadership of the cult of Bhaal.

When I start talking, do it.

A message sent to Astarion using the connection of their tadpoles. The ring on his own finger a new addition the moment he set foot inside Devil's Fee.

"What kind of fool do you take me for?" He finally asks, forcing his eyes away from Enver so that they land squarely on Raphael again. He's stalling for long enough that Astarion has the opportunity to stealth the partner ring to his own onto Enver's finger. A tall order, but one that the elf had insisted was child's play.

[closeyourfist]

Raphael lets out a small guffaw of a laugh that says he could certainly count the ways. But which way could he mean? Does he believe the Archduke is a forgery? Did he notice he only spoke of the stone? Likely that one, and if the half-drow had let it slip his mind, he would have taken advantage, but really, it was just there to take in Gortash's reaction. The possibility that these people were here to claim the stone alone and leave him to his fate.

And his reaction was muted but it was there. Everything was a fight to draw from him. So the agony was really only bubbling under the surface somewhere, its only telltale signs the way his eyes fell. Too proud (or perhaps too wise) to beg for reprieve, so quietly resigned.

He would have spent the whole night unraveling that.

But Raphael's focus remains trained on the Dark Urge, who was much more giving in his reactions. His anger bloomed on him beautifully. And even with time short -- or even because of it -- he can only continue to draw it out.

"You? Hardly. Why, whatever do you mean?"

[unspooling]

He stares hard at the devil because it would be more difficult to look at Enver again and maintain as much control as he has. Raphael sees his anger as entertainment, and that's exactly what he wants. That he has no idea of the depths of hatred that exist within the paladin at this moment in time, it's all down to the control the half-drow exerts, a metaphorical fist kept tight around that blazing hot ire that struggles to get loose.

It seems as though he's contemplating those words, a few moments ticking by before he seems to come back to himself.

By now, there a circle of metal clinging around one of Enver's fingers. And he is aware of that with a simple confirmation silent to all but those with tadpoles.

"Did you really think you would dangle something precious in front of me and I would come running without a plan of my own?" His expression switches, a red haze starting to descend on his awareness, and the air grows thicker.

Slowly he pulls the adamantine blade free of its scabbard, nostrils flared and lips starting to tug into a smile riddled with violence. His blood is singing for it, but it's all his own desire. All his own want to make this devil pay for all he has wrought upon somebody he remembers enough of now. Somebody he cares for deeply.

"Did you really think I would let you darken his doorway again after this?"

[closeyourfist]

The next minutes are a blur. Raphael aiming at first to demonstrate a need to keep things diplomatic on the Dark Urge's part. A simple spell. Not enough to fully injure the Archduke. Just -- hurt him enough to remind everyone he can.

Imagine his surprise when nothing happens, save perhaps an odd shudder from the Paladin. It is enough to leave him temporarily stunned. He knows where he directed his magic, but he sees the shimmer of its effect elsewhere.

Things kicked off very suddenly from there. Raphael very suddenly had the full force of the Rogue True Souls falling upon him, and Gortash rather suddenly vanished from the fray, pulled into the safest nearby corner as the Master of the House and his servants all filed in to eject the now no-longer-welcome guests.

Astarion and Enver Gortash were not completely ignored, but neither were especially helpless. Though the human was decidedly less handy without a ranged weapon in hand and he moved with the kind of stunned tension that came of someone too shocked to be completely present in their current reality, carried by adrenaline and not much else.

When the dust clears, he still looks warily uncertain what has just occurred, save that Raphael lies dead. Everyone in the House of Hope that could pose a threat, or deserved it: dead.

He can't quite feel himself, or who he is, for a moment. Because he's not sure about all the eyes that turn toward him now. He doesn't know what any of this means. But he sees the Dark Urge and everything else disappears for a moment. He remembers what caught hold of him before:

He's alive. He came here to find him. The stone, surely.

[unspooling]

The fighting creates the channel he needs to filter all that anger into. In the end, he doesn't know if Raphael had fully realised what had brought the entirety of his fury down upon him, but he reaches a point where it doesn't matter. The devil is dead and that feels as though it could help Enver eventually.

The battle was hard fought and only just won, his companions in almost as much of a bloody mess as he is. His body feels beaten raw in so many different ways, though the single moment of what feels like healing doesn't come from Shadowheart, but instead Enver. Their eyes lock and, for a moment, all he can do is allow the full effect of everything he has discovered tug at his heart.

He wants to say that he remembers enough. Remembers that they have been far more to each other than he had known the last time they had met. So much has happened over the last few days that he doesn't know where to start, and all he can do is convey a look of promise. The promise of so many things.

"Are you alright, Enver?" Why pretend as though that isn't the name that presents itself to the tip of his tongue when he wants to call the man by name.

[closeyourfist]

His given name has been used like a bludgeon since he was dragged here, drawing into sharp focus an old familiarity he had done much to purge from his life.

And beyond these unholy halls, saying it would have been seen as too personal in casual conversation with just anyone. It was an overstep that no one with any amount of decorum would dare to make -- and that was something Raphael both understood and felt called to trample on. He had always known him as Enver first, so the fact that it was seen as a violation was just a very easy low-hanging fruit for him to pluck.

So to hear it now, when the Dark Urge he had met at the Coronation would have never dared. Whose eyes didn't and couldn't look at him the way they did now. It all felt like a trick, even if -- beyond more of the devil's cruelty -- he could not imagine why such a thing would be attempted.

All of it could be a lie. The battle. His former keeper slain. The face he is seeing, the voice he is hearing.

And he feels something familiar creeping in. A hand closing around the heart beating in his chest. And he is raw. Because he might be facing down a deception but it's a beautiful one. He can have it for a moment because he knows what is about to come.

"Is it you?"

[unspooling]

Grateful for his companions making themselves almost immediately busy, he limps to the human, pain secondary to his desire to close the space between them. Closer, he knows now, than they have been in some time and in all meanings of the word. He still stops at a respectable distance, part of him now understanding that he is not only drenched in the fruits of his violence, but also that Enver has been here, in this traumatic place, for too long already.

"Not exactly as you knew me," he admits, too far changed to ever claim otherwise. There's the matter of his disinheritance to explain, but there isn't the time now. Not when they still have the matter of the brain to deal with. He still needs to convince Enver that there is only one way that this can end.

All of that falls by the wayside for a couple of breaths as he simply soaks in the feeling of being close again. Of remembering parts of them.

"And I will explain it all to you, as soon as I can. But we must leave this place now. Together."

[closeyourfist]

The brain.

The gravity of what remains to be done and what is at stake makes it real. If it were false, the moment would remain here. And he remembers standing in a similar place in Cania, with more to be done and the dire need to return to a less Hellish plane. Together.

And the Dark Urge did bring him back. They left that place, and they were safe.

It is that and the present, of bearing witness to a Dark Urge sating his need for violence on deserving flesh but not out of some internal call for blood but a fury he had never known in him and at the same time remembered on an intimate level. His limbs move without logical thought to guide them, and he grabs into him -- gore be damned.

Something familiar once but different. Some savage desperation to be nearer, to hear his heart beating and know it is real.

Even as he feels fingers somewhere within him, clenching like claws and threatening to tighten.

Just give me a moment.

[unspooling]

Ready to catch Enver should he fall, he returns the touch, his hands reaching to hold the man in the only way that feels right. Here and now, it feels ridiculous that there could be anything getting in the way of a conversation they sorely need. One that's only about them, and not the rest of Toril.

All the more when his fingers feel the flesh and bone of a man once his lover. A man who he is - and was - in love with, and that he only realises now with the perspective this new life has given him. He wants to shout that part aloud, the sudden meeting of his past and his present clicking in a way that provides him such depth of understanding.

He almost forgets to breathe, the sudden shaky breath in a belated physiological reminder that it's still required. That they are both alive, and that none of that will matter if they don't stop the plan and destroy the brain.

"I have you," he says, moving to support and steer the human back towards the portal.

[closeyourfist]

Even if it were a lie, it's a comforting one. A short instant of quiet and warmth that he last felt what felt like years ago. Back when the plan had really started. A plan that had been intended to come to an end in a way that would have twisted the dream it used to be.

A nightmare where he would be a passenger in his own body, as his God spoke with his mouth, saw with his eyes and claimed dominion on a captured world. And how long would a surviving Dark Urge have remained there?

All the more alarming a thought when they passed through that portal, the air around them was Toril's again -- and that presence in him comes down like a sudden weight.

That fist closed, and the human suddenly slumped. His eyes are overtaken by shadow.

[unspooling]

Even as they walk to the portal, the healing magic of Shadowheart bathes both him and Enver. He nods his gracious thanks, his focus primarily on getting to that portal and back out the other side to what awaits. With a sideways glance at his companions - checking on each of them with his eyes - he doesn't look back to the portal until he's satisfied.

Only when they're nearing it does he squeeze the human's shoulder, one last bolster of shared strength. A meaningful look follows, one that intends to show that they will pick this up on the other side, back at the Devil's Fee.

When he steps through the portal first, it is into the ritual circle they used as an entry point. How much time has passed here is difficult to tell, but even as his trailing hand comes through the portal, his fingers are still interlinked with Enver's. No portal would have him let them go when it came to leaving Avernus, so strongly had he felt about showing the man he meant what he said. Together.

He's barely got his gaze thrown back over his shoulder to search for Enver's materialising form that the ring around his finger kicks into action. Truly together, is the last thing his mind supplies him, the onslaught of sudden damage to Enver hitting him in an instant. The rest of the party are greeted with the sight of the duo motionless on the floorboards, hands still entwined, and after a stunned moment of inaction flood to their aid, trying everything they can think of to bring them back.