Hailey Jensen Art

“To think, you’ve been travelling with these fools this whole time and none had the slightest idea you were one of my nearest and dearest . You and I initiated this plan after all.”

His words twist inside you. The mere thought that you could ever be part of such a plot is madness. A madness your curiosity lets him spill. His smile doesn’t falter as he weaves a tale of silk and blood: of how you plotted to steal the Crown of Karsus, enslaved an Elderbrain, bent those that disagreed to your will and turned your ferric daggers to the streets in the Absolute’s name.

“... that was until you disappeared and Orin became our poor substitute. Ever since you felled Ketheric, she’s become even more treacherous. She only cares about blood, and your blood and mine are of particular interest to her.” He brushes the corner of his mouth as he continues and something lurid stirs in your gut. “Given this, I think it would prove fruitful to renew our pact, sworn upon spirit and flesh. You do no harm to me, nor I to you. And when you slay Orin, bring her netherstone to me. Together we will rule Faerûn as Gods , as the Absolute.”

Your sick urge snarls at his words and a vision floods your mind. You see the world stained red with death, crushed under your heel and made anew under a bright bloody sun– a future that’s yours and yours alone. You shake the thought away and t ake his deal with a practised smile. It’s a fool’s bargain. Soon Bane’s little errand boy will be the latest in your group’s growing collection of pretty corpses.

Those shadowed eyes linger on you as you start to turn away. “You know, I tolerated Orin, but I liked you.”

Of all he’s said, it’s those words that pierce the deepest. They’re almost familiar, an echo of something now rotted away inside you. Perhaps you could have wanted him once, long ago in the ghost of another life. You picture your knife skewering his heart, his blood flowing onto your hands like the sweetest summerwine.

Now that is a gift you’re going to savour.

You let your companions shower you with their metallic revulsion as you exit the room. You can hardly blame them. The revelation that you were… are … part of the Abolsute’s plot is a lot to think on.

Strangely, it doesn’t revolt you as much as it probably should.

***

Bathed in the true blood of your father, you seek out Orin’s hiding place. You chase her scent miles below the surface, long past the old bones of the city and into the carrion stench of Bhaal’s temple. The faithful greet you with glee, watching like rats as you approach her altar.

The wet gash of her mouth stretches into a smile. “Oh you still don’t remember what happened here, do you bloodkin?” Her laugh is high and cold at your silence. She stands from the stone, her body shifting into a perfect mirror of your own. “How my knife split your skull, your brain juices sticky and sweet. A hole big enough for the worm, your body a bloodsack to feed it”

It’s the last piece of the puzzle. Of course it was her that did this to you, desecrating your body out of petty jealousy and reaping the reward of all your work. Anger roils like spitting oil through you as her laughs morph into a screech. Her body snaps and convulses as the twisted limbs and teeth of the slayer burst forth.

Your fingers itch as she towers over you. You’re going to enjoy this.

Red mists your vision as you lunge. You’re precise, brutal, a silvered dagger in the air as you slice any piece of skin that comes near you. You can only imagine what your companions are witnessing: Bhaal’s two chosen, the trueborn and the usurper, both growing wetter with crimson as they try to carve the title from each other's flesh. You refuse to relent, biting back your cries as her claws rend your skin, stabbing over and over and over until your muscles burn with the effort. Orin gives back in kind… but it is her that finally stills.

Breath gargles in your lungs as she falls. She crawls to you, low as a dog, moaning and gasping before melting into nothing but gore at your feet.

It’s your own kindness in a way, she deserved a much slower execution.

From the sticky pile you pull her netherstone. The power of the Absolute, one step closer to your vision of the future and she will never be a part of it. You run your hands over her remains and imagine stringing up what’s left at the entrance of the temple as a warning.

Long live the true heir.

Scaleritas throws up his hands. “Master. He is near. He comes… for you!” He shudders with delight as spectral blades pierce him and his blood pools onto the stone. A figure appears in that sticky mirror– someone strong, familiar. Your father.

“Child of Slaughter, I come to give you your inheritance. You will use it to lacerate this world.”

You feel his wet hands caress your body, moulding you anew. His impatience, his hate, his power, it all courses through you until you stand tall as the being you were always meant to be.

You turn and see your companions watching on, poppy-stains of your victory blooming over their clothes.

“You’ve done it. You’ve accepted his madness,” someone whispers.

Madness? you think. What a concept, you’ve never felt sharper, the true curved dagger in Bhaal’s right hand.

They move toward you, a thousand questions hanging silently between them. Are they desperate for reassurance? To know that they will be spared when this world runs red with your desire?

You smile and tell them as such, but feel your knife hand twitching. Some should remain under you, that much is certain: the Vampire Ascendant, a new God of magic, Shar’s true chosen, each could be a useful tool if held with the proper leash. As for the others? Well, their usefulness will be shown when you dig your claws into the brain and sup its power.

***

You jam your blade into the beating matter of the Netherbrain, twisting and scraping until you feel it submit. It shudders, lashing out with psychic screams before it finally shrinks to the power of the Netherstones. Standing upon it, high above the ravages of Baldur’s Gate, it’s almost a humorous sight. After everything, this God is just meat. The same as everything else under your hands.

The Emperor stands before you unharmed. It holds the stones in its claws, ready to give the command to end it all. You shiver with mirth. All that power in the hands of some tentacled abomination, Gods what a thought. No. Not while your vile lungs still draw breath.

You’re silent as the wind as you drive your knife through the Emperor’s back. You stamp on its face as it crumples to the ground, not stopping until the black bile of its final thought has all but dribbled away.

You gather the Netherstones, the beating heart of the Absolute now in your grasp. You look at your companions, their faces painted in various hues of terror. You tut. It’s alright, you can fix that for them. You hold your hands aloft and feel their tadpoles sing to the tune of their new master. You wash their fears away, stitching their mouths into much prettier smiles as they fall in line behind you. All will succumb to the fate of glorious murder eventually, but perhaps they can wait until Baldur’s Gate is silent. A reward for their middling help.

You stride to your throne, watching a red moon rise beyond. The city continues to burn as you get comfortable. Your city you think, how beautiful it is as it blooms in fire and screams. And this is just the start. The world is but flesh to shape– it subjects your sheep to slaughter.

Oh you could sing.

You suddenly feel Father’s eyes upon you. They’re not happy, not yet. When every creature upon this wretched plane has perished, when every heartbeat has been stolen and the light of life extinguished in your palm, only then will he be proud.

That’s your future. And you cannot wait to revel in it.

Sitting back, you utter one final phrase and descend into the chaos below.

“In Bhaal’s name.”