#dreadspvwn

It's been two tendays since Lorn had last returned to the temple.

Something that is not typically a slight — in isolation. Various members of the Murder Lord's retinue have filtered in and out of the temple like pilgrims traversing the Coast, and Orin has been around long enough to know that generally, should a Deathdealer be absent from the Church, it suggests foul play. Someone who got caught, or fell along the wayside. A disparate end to a sorry tale.

Not Lorn. Never Lorn. Orin knows Lorn. Knows them enough to know that they would not fall to death so easily, not unless it was by their own hand, or else another Bhaal-blessed. He is crafty like that; always eager to master the means of death rather than fall victim to it. She supposes that is why Sarevok adores him so — and why, when she had asked about his whereabouts, had been as vacuous as ever. Lorn has his duties to attend to, just as you have yours, Orin. Oh, but Lorn is blessed by Bhaal, didn't you know? That's okay; the Murder Lord loves you too. Hopefully you may survive off technicality and technicality alone. In His name!

A knife finds its way into the throat of coachman, Orin's sudden irritation made apparent. She watches his gore seep into the polished wood of the caravan, the horses running over the sudden crowd of passersby in the heart of the Gate. It is an artless kill, a purposeless one — of which grandfather would almost certainly chastise her for.

Or perhaps not; Lorn had always preached the merits of quantitative murder.

Her lip twitches, and she slips into the crowd, taking on the face of one of the panicked. Then, to the sewers, where the bones of the earth carve out the Murder Lord's domain. Given the buzzing state of the sanctum, it seems as though her beloved slaughter-kin has returned. Without nary a letter to Orin's dedication. She's almost hurt.

There was a silent hum of agreement. Pale hues lingering about the gossiping persons that were to… judge them, perhaps? Not that it would matter much at the end of the day. Between the two of them they surely had the means of talking the people of the village down before they made any hilariously brash actions. Yet, then again, with the lack of common sense that wafted off this crowd it might be a pointless brawl. One could only hope the entire village didn’t try getting involved. That’d be a waste of precious time and energy. And they had more dire matters to attend to still. 

THE VAMPIRE WAS SILENT FOR A MOMENT, apparently that comment hit rather close to home. He did his best to not let his actions bother him, arguing that it was not his fault since Cazador controlled him. Even so, the names of some of his victims had still not left his mind. Sebastian, for example.

Baldurs Gate 3 Asks - Open

@dreadspvwn asked: ❝ it seems you know me better than i know myself. ❞

     "Thee has't a long path to treadeth." The disembodied voice of the skeletal creature echoed out, ethereal and otherworldly in the way it filled the night's silence. "Thee shall findeth thyself there, the same as thy companions."

@dreadspvwn | asked: ❝ there are a few gaps in my knowledge. ❞

Orin's head rolled to the side, a look of disgruntled disbelief contorting pale features. Few gaps, they had to swallow the BARK OF LAUGHTER which rose from its chest. Effective as they were, Orin's sibling new NOTHING of the artistry which slicing and butchery could become. No, no, they insisted on QUESTIONING the zeal and creativity with which it slaughtered. Her butchery was one the oh so revered chosen could not absorb through the thickness of their skull. How Orin craved to DIG IN, use its blade to imprint the concept with her own hand. How sticky and juicy its mind matter would be, spilling freely from the confines of that pale containment.

Not now, not now, Orin.

There is pause at his unholy idol’s inquiry. He can sense it in the air. The land was touched by wickedly familiar divinity. And seep it did. Down into the very marrow of his bones. Clouding thoughts and igniting unsettled desires— services still owed to his bloody god. A pain and a comfort to the twisted corners of his mind. Carefully the pieces are starting to put themselves together, he could see the way it gnawed at them. As an ever watchful eye never strayed far from the teifling. 

“I do, yes. I have since the moment we passed the threshold. Digs deeper the further we go…” He murmurs with a shutter, “It has a vice grip. As if it’s attempting to snuff me where I stand.”

Already he watches them, hues like that of an empty room lingering upon them, when they turn. Studying Lorn thoroughly. Even a glint of admiration if one looked close enough. He understands as much as he’s witnessed over the ages, knows as much as he’s allowed, yet not permitted to speak. How much longer must he hold his tongue, he wonders. “For now.” The assassin’s only confirmation but a few words. Dakara stands then, booted heels carrying him closer yet, trekking around Lorn. Idly he gestures, continuing with a chuckle, “This darkness is having its way with our company, pushing them to their limits, yes, but you’ll not find a blade embedded into your back. Not one of mine. Not of anyone else’s.”