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closeyourfistOrin'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.
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.