SLAYER

MANIFESTO: 13 Uktar 1482. I, Orin, called the Red by the Shallar, daughter of Helena, granddaughter of Sarevok Anchev, DO VOW in the name of Bhaal my Lord of Murder to serve HIS UNHOLY WILL. I shall become an Incarnation of Slaughter, and the pain and humiliation inflicted upon his temple by the IGNORANT MASSES of Baldur's Gate shall be REPAID A THOUSANDFOLD. This do I swear and attest with my own heart's blood.

Independent ORIN THE RED of Baldur's Gate 3. Carved by Key (they/them). Triggering content will be featured 20+ only. Affiliated with: @cosmikal, @n1ghtwarden, @meetsorcery, @hellsforged

@0euvr | asked: a form of porcelain / large body laid out upon a chaise lounge under the gentle rays of sunlight that comes in through the near floor to ceiling windows. a satin chemise chosen for the presentation, the rich red falling over alcina's curves. an enchanting model for the artist.

Orin's fingers gripped the delicate brush's handle a bit too tightly, her hold more suitable for PINCHING A NERVE 'til it simply burst from the strain. There was a tingle of delicious pain at her finger tips from the pressure and the changeling sharpened their focus on that pricking. That sensation was preferable to sink into rather than the sight before them ; the MOST ENTICING VISION of the lady of the castle. Draped so gracefully across the meticulously crafted chemise ( which beauty was PUT TO SHAME in comparison to the woman atop of it ), the lady seemed so lovely her presence burst from the confines of her body. Orin was certain that one of those razor sharp nails would flick its throat, blood would flood her mouth and it would feel similar to the way its mouth WATERED AT THE SIGHT OF HER.

Art, which often comes all too naturally to them, seemed JUST OUT OF ITS GRASP right then. The lady seemed too ethereal, too haunting to be captured by a mere brush and canvas. At least not by the hand of Orin. Orin could create the most macabre of violence, as awe worth as it was stomach twisting. It is what these hands were bent and broken for, to perfectly exact the will of the Dreadlord. And ANY PURSUIT out of slicing and gouging was not within Bhaal's wishes but especially any form of passion. Passion of music, passion of theatrics, passion of art as well. All of them were FULLY CONSUMED by Bhaal, every sinew had a hook sunk in to puppet every part of their every breath and every killing. Don't waste any time crafting anything. Only rushed back alley stabbings would do, no need to twist the blade 'round the intestines to YANK from heated belly. The ground was only to be stained in his name in blood, any innards SQUELCHING onto the ground plopping in a pathetic heap was a WASTE. Why build them to be a perfect sadist then discourage it ???

Orin's brow furrowed in displeasure at the unpleasant memories and questions, brush pressing against the canvas. It was red, Orin was beginning with the lady's most inviting mouth, one of the features which drew her in from the VERY BEGINNING. Always curled in a knowing, resplendent grin. Always encouraging them to draw ever closer, forget the carnage which it had knew ALL OF ITS YEARS and indulge in a violence of DESIRE AND NEED. The lady had shown her how to tangle oneself, every nerve every vein every bone in a way that did not require ANY FORCE whatsoever bloody all the same.

@murderreign

He was LOSING SIGHT OF THINGS. It was oh so painfully obvious to Orin ( and seemingly Orin alone ) that Bhaal's favorite's neck had a rope wrapped 'round it. It was only a matter of time before the SHOVE came and they fell down down down until the snap of the rope, the SNAP of the neck. It would be the lordling who coiled the noose, Bane's favorite little pawn. How a soul in the Dreadlord's ranks, but especially the flesh Bhaal crafted with his BLOOD DRENCHED hands, fall for such poorly crafted fantasies ??? Though every sheep followed Bhaal's chosen so very closely that they could SMELL the sulfur clinging to his organs within. How it GRATED on its nerves, whiddling away at the sinews until the tissue beneath was SCARRED beyond recognition.

" The little tyrant has curled his fingers and THRUST his nails deep into your FLESH, blood-kin, " they spat the words at him, any thought of holding in the venom dripping from her words banished from her skull. Without the watchful eye of ALL WHO FELL TO THEIR KNEES ( no regard for the dirt and harsh stone of the temple nor the scabs which would litter their flesh ) at the mere breath of his name, Orin had no concern.

@palespawn | asked: ❛ that actually sounds delicious. ❜

Of all of those who traveled with the weapon, the vampire was a personal favorite of the changeling. It was vampires, much like those who followed Bhaal, who were FORCED underground. As the fleshbags above walked over the stone roads, WRIGGLING AND CRAWLING on the unmarred ground as maggots picked and prodded at a rotting carrion, they lived beneath. FORCED to retreat due to their nature, DESPISED by those whose bellies were oh too sensitive for even a drop of blood. The lining of mucuous 'round the viscera there was easily dissipated at the first sign of a PRICK of a finger. Pathetic, the lot of them. Merely fodder for the Dreadlord, an appetizer for the vampires, ONLY GOOD FOR THE BLEEDING.

Mouth WATERED at the mere thought of rivers of sanguine pouring down its throat. The warmth of the crimson filling them all through their abdomen, mixing and congealing with their own innards. FUELING them, becoming inseparable from its own fluids. The only creatures outside of Bhaalists that could understand was the vampire. They would never know the satisfaction the rest of a body's insides could bring the palate, how WHOLE one could feel after every limb had been butchered for the tasting. Though they were certain that he hadn't heard their macabre, blood soaked thoughts, Orin chose to believe he knew exactly what titillated its appetite.

Distracted, she was just so very distracted.

@sangreprince | asked: ❛ i know that you're trying. i see that you're trying. ❜

To be seen is to have one's belly SLIT open. Orin felt the wound unfold to give away to its most private of parts, first the crimson seeped through the striation. Pouring down pale stomach, then down down down to the floor. The truth of the changeling pooled there, growing WIDER AND WIDER until the sanguine puddle reached to him. Desperate and all too forthcoming, waiting to sink into whatever part of him it could. And when that mortification wasn't enough, intestines BURST FORTH. Everything making them up plopping and squelching in a viscus pile. Orin needed to gather it all back up, COLLAPSE to her knees and gather the unspooling tangles of their innards. Cover it all, conceal it all, get it out of sight away from his eyes.

Obsidian stained lips set in a thin line, brows pulling together DEFYING his observation in a petulant display. " Try, try, try just to end rolling around in the muck. Rolling until limbs TANGLE, bones wrapping around themselves, sinews tearing until SNAP goes the bone. There is nothing I try for, foolish piggy. " There was a gleam in his eye which GRATED ON ITS NERVES, something which all of his time baring witness to the world has not rid him of. This misguided belief that there could be something BETTER was plain in the way he spoke to her. What was meant to be a boon was enough to convince Orin to pay not a word of his any heed. It would sooner reach into their ears, delving and digging until her nails found what deciphered the sounds leaving his lips into words. SCRAP, CRUSH, CUT until the was no way for him to reach her.

just u wait until my father hears about this