blueprints_bloodstains | Death Stalking Abroad

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Death Stalking Abroad - The Masquerade

Dusk has barely arrived but the Upper City is alight with life and fervor. The glow of lanterns and candles, and the sparkle of dancing lights mingle with the shimmer of fine banners and hangings, all filling the square with color even as all but the natural light of the moon has begun to fade from the sky. All manner of coves and dark corners, alleyways, passages for the more adventurous and indulgent to sneak off and play in.

Tonight is about excess in a way only the especially wealthy could devise.

The guests, all dressed in opulent costumes and masks, each unique and many so intricate and many-layered as to completely obscure the identity of the wearers. Even those who might be easier to tell -- public figures and the like -- well unless they were conducting duties within the event themselves, the rule was that you don't TRULY know who they are until the unmasking. Workers from the lower city consider the yearly soiree a life-changer for one's business, positions here whether it is vending, serving, or performing, are highly coveted and sought-after, as well as sorely guarded. Falling out of favor one year meant being replaced the next.

At the start there is a murmur of excitement, discussions of the city's goings on of late, none so fervently and favorably mentioned as the unveiling of the first completed Steel Watchmen, designed by none other than tonight's Master of Ceremonies: Enver Gortash.

Truly an honor and a sign of one moving up in the world, celebrated here with greater zest owing to his more recent contributions to city security and a commendatory reputation among some of the elite -- rumors of why were known and kept track of with interest. However, there were still a few who only looked on the news with...polite acceptance. Blue bloods through and through, unsurprised at persisting whispers that a pretty face can get you far when you are useful.

Dressed in coppers and carnelians and a mask that obscures the top half of his face, he commands rapt attention as he declares the evening's festivities open, to thunderous applause. The rise in voices and the din of music overtakes the space as he descends to mingle.

Tonight is about establishing a calm. Things going right at a point that will elevate them before the more grisly aspects of the plot are to begin. Establishing trust. Comradery. Ownership.

And the people of the upper city play this game with ruthless precision. No one better to parry, really.

By the time he has made himself visible and available, he is settled into the evening, able to identify far more magisters and patriars by voice and body language than he is sure rules allow, but it allows him to know them, carve a place among them, and forget anything else he had been considering for the time being.

When he and the Dark Urge had more than just a meeting of the minds a couple weeks ago, he resolved that it need not have been more than that. It was deeply satisfying, sated a number of curiosities, and even if it said nothing of how a life of eventual rule might contain a few lively diversions? It was also fine as just a memory that would warm him on occasion.

He didn't expect the subject to suddenly come up again, or to leave it as angry as he was. Even if it concluded that it, apparently, WOULD be happening again.

Probably not for the better when it wound up not occurring at all. And Enver Gortash was not the sort to simply wait in the wings and pine.

Especially when the Dark Urge all but alluded he might as easily seek out the same ends with anyone else.

So perhaps the Black Hand's Chosen might follow suit. Already he's caught a few curious gazes. A few charming introductions. Even the offer of a drink of two (too early yet, at first). But why not? Everyone was here to have fun, after all.

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For the moment, Gortash is allowing this to be as uncertain as it is. He sees the Dark Urge is working his way to some manner of conclusion, and as much as he feels tempted to say something to stop this whole thing from coming apart. But he has no idea what that something would even be at this point. So he has to trust; he has no choice. This alliance is nothing if they will not allow each other to do their own work.

So he follows him back, pulling the robe closed while they are in motion and drawing further away from the fire, but not re-tying it. He made a mistake in not saying anything. Everything in this moment feels up in the air because of this, and the nudity, the change in atmosphere, the silence, all of it leaves him feeling small in a way that does not reassure him. This isn't just about these momentary, pleasurable distractions -- it could harm the plan. And then his one mistake harms him, harms them, but it slights even their gods, and that is a good deal of weight suddenly bearing down on him.

He's waiting for the Dark Urge to let go.

When he doesn't and even when he sits, and keeps him near enough to touch but still standing, there for him to clearly see, to be shown, Enver Gortash does not know what he expected, but he will pursue it.

Whatever happens next, he bought it.

He lets the robe fall away, and it pools like shimmering ink at his feet.

The signal becomes clear when the robe slips off the man's frame as though water, rolling off his body to collect at his feet in a puddle. Eyes stay flicked up, though there's an urge tugging at the very fibres of his muscles, daring them forward until fingers meet bruised flesh. He swallows audibly, a strange response from a man whose very existence was made to maim and murder. Bruises are the very least of what he's left lovers with in previous times, and never the only thing.

It eventually occurs to him that this is quite the show of trust. The derobing at such a vulnerable moment. He's asked the man to show him his physical weakness and Enver is giving him that willingly. There hasn't been any strong-arming or pressure to induce a specific reaction, just a request and the return in simple terms that aren't simple at all.

In the end he releases the wrist his fingers are encircling, both hands reaching up and settling incredibly gently against the skin at his slender hips. He's careful not to go over where the bruises already are, but even as he looks he can see the bruises offset from where his fingers land in a mirrored pattern. This time he's holding Enver from the front, but earlier he had gripped him from behind and paid no mind to any damage he might be doing. Next time he'll remember.

"Does they bother you?" The bruises, he means. Whether that's in a physically aching sense or that it is his experience of a hard fuck either way, he's curious what impact this has on the other man and, more than that, his preferences.

It's a mixture of things that lets calm back into his bones: Being let go a gentle reminder that the Dark Urge hadn't until just then, and only for his hands to go elsewhere. The gentle touch of his fingers on his hips, a familiar place even without the bruises there. A correct place. It sends warm waves of hopefulness through him, radiating from there alongside that dull, insistent ache of the marks themselves. Then the question.

It puts him on more even footing. It gives him a chance to assert more control on the situation. And it allows him to ignore any silly feelings of self-consciousness that had no place here. Not in his domain. Not between them.

"No." The answer is quiet, but firm. "It seemed better not to complicate matters at the time. You asked for pleasure without pain, it would have muddled things to talk of gray areas." With one hand he lets his fingers trace over the other man's. "I... enjoy how they feel in some places. Mementos. Reminders in the hours after."

But they heal. Sometimes faster if he applies a salve or takes a potion because work will not allow for time to wait.

It's clear that he allows the thought to permeate beyond his own set of assumptions and experiences, especially when it comes to the idea of pain. His relationship with inflicting it is oftentimes rapid and physically violent, not stringing it out before his final assault on life itself. The expectation of pain as a default is difficult to shake, and part of the reason he had approached the other man asking for something else. Something new.

Despite his own preference for not playing with his prey, the violence he has wrought on others in service to Bhaal has always been nothing but foreplay to the final act. The true climax. And yet here he's presented with the idea of life after pain. Of pain to serve as a reminder of something that had been overwhelmingly pleasurable. That had celebrated life and living, where everybody had walked away with a heart still beating. There's a complicated squirming in his stomach, as though a sensation he's very familiar with has had its wings momentarily clipped, unable to take flight.

The hand beneath Enver's stays where it is, the softness spiking such a different type of experience he doesn't want to not explore it. But his other hand reaches up, thumb brushing over the scar decorating the other man's chin.

"And this? Is this a memento?"

And his feet were very nearly cut right back out from under him again.

Sometimes, he forgot. The scars on his face and striped over different parts of his body never fully faded, but had been part of himself for so long that sometimes they were put out of mind entirely until something drew his attention to them. Rarely by someone else. But it'd be his eyes catching one in the mirror. Maybe an odd twinge when it was about to storm.

"For better or worse, I suppose," he admits quietly, his eyes for a moment finding some glint of light across the wall to hold their attention.

The Dark Urge was hardly without mark himself, unsurprising given who he was. For the both of them it hardly detracted from any real beauty. Enver himself drew an appreciative eye, even as he was getting on in years. So it wasn't a vanity thing, not usually. Most paid it little mind, a sign someone had been living.

But they are reminders, and not his mementos, not really.

Again, eye contact. With more certainty in his voice. "And unlike this, not something I'd a mind to ask for."

He understands cruelty. Has plenty of experience with it himself, the perfect impurity of his worship to his father pure in so much as it hasn't wobbled until very recently. Violence and murder need not be bedfellows with cruelty exclusively. But he's familiar enough with both to take Enver's words and hazard a guess. To mark somebody's face can be a cruelty as much as it can be desperation. He doesn't know which yet Enver's scars are.

Regardless he hears the message loud and clear; the bruises are acceptable, the scars are not. The realisation that he hasn't even thought about his blade once since he arrived here sets the squirming all the more insistent in his belly. He pushes on, his fingers brushed by the other man's chin as he speaks, only to allow them to drop away again to his waist.

A thought slams into him unbidden and surprises him enough that his lips part as though there's a gasp that hasn't been fully realised, even though the air in is sharp.

"I will never use you to worship my father." Perhaps it makes more sense to know that his preference is for blades. A blade skilled enough to end life quickly. Cleanly in its efficiency even if he does let the blood spill thereafter.

Gortash feels the weight of what is said but does not comprehend fully, his understanding incomplete because he would never know Bhaal's ultimate goal in all of this. But he still absorbs the importance, both what is apparent and sensing something between shadow and soul that he is not meant to know. The Dark Urge is making an accord known that he has no intention to slake his more -- lethal thirsts. Not here. And while the Bhaalspawn contains many things, the need to outright lie has never been one of them.

And that in itself frees his partner from a thought that has not been far from his mind, even if kept at bay. But just as much as he understands that, he also knows that to give it life through words is a grave show of trust. And inwardly Enver Gortash feels a similar truth.

"This place will not be an altar for my god, either."

Because they are allies. Because the Dark Urge it too much who he is to be something that has needed to be stringently controlled by anyone but himself.

Because in this, they are equals.

His hands find the Dark Urge's face, the warmth of his cheeks, tracing the line of his jaw. Gortash closes the distance between them even further and kisses him. More lingering now, venturing, a promise and something precious.

Edited 2024-08-09 13:23 (UTC)

Unlike Enver, he knows what he's promised and how, in this moment, he's committed himself to failure. Committed himself to rebel against his god's plan, the one that came after the alliance with Bane's Chosen. The one where he ends the alliance with bloodshed and slaughters himself upon his father's altar. The realisation that he would slay himself before Enver is both shocking and freeing in the same breath.

The smaller man advances on him, warm lips pressing to his own and he's reminded of the existence of kissing. Of sharing a soft moment without words, and how kisses aren't always a battle. That he feels more able to comprehend this more readily, he doesn't inspect too closely. As though it will be a marker of how far he has drifted from Bhaal. The bubbling desire to confess to Enver is barely kept under control, and ultimately the only reason he says nothing of it is because he is almost certain soon enough they would be swarmed by bhaalists and both ended.

He stiffens in response to his line of thinking rather than the kiss, unable to just allow himself the experience despite his curiosity, the warmth he feels for the man, and eventually it pushes him to lift his own hands. He breaks the kiss, but not without cupping Enver's face, holding him just far enough away to be able to focus on him.

"This is... dangerous. I-- I cannot confess the truth of my heart simply to put you in harm's way."

"Then do not."

Enver knows, whatever he leaves at the threshold of this little copse of space he has carved out for himself still has ears to hear and eyes to see. That he has decided he will brook no commands about his bed with anyone he did not invite there does not erase who he is or who he serves in this plan.

He leans into that touch, breathes him in.

"Before this begins and after it ends, we return to our duties. We pay what we owe. We are devout and we are chosen. But together we will celebrate our victories, recoup our losses, and the plan continues."

Every word is as eloquent as he's come to expect from Enver, especially when they're outside the realms of the type of carnal lust they engage in together. Hardly surprising given what he's learned about the man, even before they took a step to deepen their alliance in a way that had been less expected, and yet still of value. It's an uncomfortable feeling to realise how violently perspectives can shift from one moment to the next. The deeply unsettling feeling at keeping the true plan to himself, of feeling the guilt at allowing Enver to continue referring to it as if he understands what it truly is.

That in itself digs into his chest in a way that does take his breath away. He can feel his grip on reality starting to slip, as though he's in a death spiral, losing his sense of self and inevitably ceasing to exist before he's supposed to. His only anchor is the smaller man keeping hold of him. His vision evaporates into darkness as he closes his eyes, simply rests his forehead against Enver's for a moment before coming to a decision. Damage control. As much of it as he can convincingly muster.

"Yes. I should return to my duties. I-- thank you for reminding me."

For the moment he allows himself to feel just that contact. Close. Such a small and innocuous thing, but it feels intimate in a way that is different from everything they have yet done. No expectation of anything else, which makes it sting less when the Dark Urge says what he does.

"You're certain."

He did offer further before. But something they found here already feels just as heavy on him, and he is feeling the hour more and more.

So it is to leave the door open for an answer. But also accepting if it stays as it is.

The question almost haunts him before the other man has finished asking it. Is he certain? He doesn't feel certain of anything, much less about whether he would prefer to take his leave or not in favour of his duties. Part of him understands well enough that it isn't just duty driving him from this place, but to sift through everything else beneath that excuse would be to unseat him all the more abruptly from the tenuous balance he has as it is.

So his hands slip to Enver's shoulders where he rubs circles with his thumbs briefly rather than squeezing, yet another moment he takes another step away from Bhaal. The choice to not cause pain, to not leave marks.

And then he starts to stand.

"I must."

Gortash took a careful step back to allow him room, his heels catching the edges of his robe waiting on the floor, an unseen signal to his position in the dim light. He does not argue. He has enough sense to know that whatever the Dark Urge is wrestling with, pressing the issue is likely to make things worse.

Perhaps more work is called for -- whether because it has already been too long, or perhaps this conclusion they have reached here has redoubled its potency early.

He cannot say, it is not his place to guess at this juncture.

"I'll look forward to hearing of your progress, then. However much is pertintent to share."

I have already shared too much, hangs like a weight around his neck, the complication of still feeling as though he hasn't shared the most important part leaving him spinning momentarily.

It hadn't been his intention to seek the man out only to leave again before exchanging more of themselves physically. The desire had bubbled just beneath his skin until the cold light of reality had shone upon his confession.

He wants to stay but he needs to leave.

"Goodnight, Enver," he finally says and he should take the space and see himself out. Should put a stop to this evening's complexities to go and worship in the most simplistic way that he can. There's a moment he wants to find something else to give, another word to slot into place, to share just a touch more of himself before he takes himself away. But the word isn't one that he knows, and it's only the brief visual of Enver's lips that prompts him into further departure from what he knows. He leans in and presses a kiss to the smaller man's cheek, a novel thing and the inevitable nail in the coffin.

And with that he finally takes his leave.

The kiss had been unexpected, but sweet. And a wordless confirmation, of sorts. He would be back. Everything was not ruined. He said goodnight, not goodbye.

The Dark Urge's last footsteps heard before fading from perception were a few minutes gone by the time Enver Gortash picked up and replaced his robe again, tying it at the waist and traveling out into the greater room to straighten his desk and douse the remaining candles. The fire would begin to die down, and in a few hours servants would be by to get the place lit and aired again.

He would hopefully sleep a little longer after that, but he expected he would probably only allow himself a little time to rest before he was up and back to work again, as much as his body would complain.

His bed felt a little cold when at last he found it again. Perhaps it could stand to be a little bigger.

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Death Stalking Abroad - The Masquerade

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