#perdita writes

“Our commander is j-just this way, Master,” the goblin snivelled. 

Breoch nodded dismissively. All of the apprehension Astarion’s favoured companion may have felt infiltrating the goblin’s base had now been replaced with conceit. It was no secret that drow were slavers and, being a noble, Astarion suspected that Breoch was no exception. Seeing him assume the role of ‘Master’ so naturally only confirmed that suspicion. Honestly, the man was a walking cliché! That thought alone should have filled Astarion with dread. The Sword Coast had no shortage of horror stories with Lolth’s children playing the role of villains and monsters. Yet, he couldn’t help but feel reassured. 

Clichés were predictable.

Unlike their other two travelling party members, Astarion knew exactly how to appease Breoch. Shadowheart could be trusted about as much as a con artist in a courtroom and Lae’zel’s zealotry made her volatile. Whereas a rakish smile and a superficial compliment was all it took to subdue the proud Lolthite.  

“Iblith…” Breoch hissed as he kicked aside a carcass. 

They followed the goblin through the desecrated temple; past the hordes of raiders, guardsmen, rudimentary shrines, screaming prisoners and masochistic acolytes. Astarion observed it all. It was about what he had expected of a camp inhabited by goblins. It had a rustic sort of charm to it, once you looked past the abject cruelty of it all. His companions didn’t look quite so entertained. 

How dull. 

They were brought to an austere doorway, though the door had evidently rotted away centuries ago. Before the goblin could lead the group any further, Breoch dismissed her with a swipe of his hand. Astarion had expected some sort of crude complaint— some half-muttered gripe from the goblin— yet there were none. She left without even a whisper of resistance. 

Voices echoed from inside the room: somebody was reprimanding two trackers. Astarion presumed that the stern voice must belong to the commander they were looking for. She sounded like bad news. Her voice brandished its authority bluntly as it beat the death knell for her unfortunate followers. The party walked into the room cautiously whilst avoiding inciting suspicion from the roaming scrying eyes. 

Breoch froze. A strange smile, almost malicious in its intensity, stretched across his jaw. 

“A Baenre?! What in Lolth’s everloving tits is a Baenre doing in a place like this?” 

“You’ve lost me, darling. What is a ‘Baenre’?” 

Breoch scoffed. “If Menzoberranzan is the body of power in the Underdark, then House Baenre is its beating heart. Baenre has been the most powerful of all the drow houses for time immemorial. They are the elite of the elite— Lolth’s favourite family. They rarely cavort with drow from lesser houses, let alone ally themselves with vermin like this. Oh, this is fascinating indeed…” 

“And what do you suggest we do?” Shadowheart asked. 

“Allow me to speak with her. Jaluk I may be, I am still the most knowledgeable in handling Menzoberranzan mistresses. We should first ascertain what her intentions are and decide whether we should act to thwart them.” 

So he hasn’t ruled out overthrowing the cult from the inside yet, Astarion thought. He shouldn’t be all that surprised that his male drow companion was considering bowing to a strong drow woman. It truly was all too cliché. The man he had pinned his chances of survival upon was falling pathetically short of his expectations. 

It was agreed that Breoch would handle the negotiations. Nobody else was as eager as he was to come face to face with a commander of the Absolute. 

There weren’t many upsides to residing in Cazador’s palace, if any at all, but one skill Astarion had perfected during those two hundred years was deducing a library’s worth of knowledge about a person in just a single look. He could judge not only the book by its cover, but the content of its sequels and the author’s entire biography too. The commander looked like a typical drow: white hair, red eyes, and deep frown lines around her sharp lips. She glanced at them all only briefly, yet it was apparent that she had imposed her own order of importance onto the four of them. Breoch was evidently the lowest ranking member of their group, being both male and a drow, followed by Astarion in third place, Shadowheart in second, then Lae’zel in first. Though her gaze only lingered on Lae’zel a half-second longer, it was clear she respected a strong fighter. 

“We’s been out there for days, Minthara, and there’s still no sign of no camp!” The tracker wailed. 

The one the goblin called Minthara smiled a uniquely cruel smile. 

“Then you have evidently reached the end of your utility. Get them out of my sight— my spiders grow hungry, little ones. We may yet find one task you can accomplish.” 

Four drow filed into the room and dragged the protesting trackers down the hallway. Minthara watched their struggle with the satisfaction of a huntress. 

“Dos orn er'griff morfeth dosst orbben ssor ka dos elendar ulu zirn mina iblith saph nindel, jabbress” Breoch said coolly. 

Astarion didn’t understand a word that Breoch said, but Minthara clearly did. There was a reactionary shock of recognition. Something in his voice that rankled her: something she wanted to shut out. 

“Do not think we are equals, jaluk. Are you here to join my hunt?” She seethed, but Breoch refused to be ruffled. 

“That entirely depends on what we are hunting, Mistress Baenre.” He glided to her desk and leaned against it. He assumed a foppishness that even Astarion might approve of. “I must say, I am awfully curious why a Baenre has chosen a hovel like this to be her hunting grounds. Although I suppose developing a taste for goblins would not be the strangest thing someone of the First House has done.” 

Minthara glowered. Astarion felt a psychonetic tug from Breoch’s tadpole: a fleeting connection as Minthara groped to seize upon him. Shivers prickled up his spine. Though it wasn’t his brain she was scouring, he felt the invasion as keenly as if it were his own. Breoch squirmed: desperate to free himself. 

He yanked at Minthara’s collar and kissed her. Astarion’s jaw dropped. The connection shattered. For a moment, all was still. Silence suspended in the air as delicately as floating spider silk. Until…

Thwack! 

Minthara punched Breoch squarely in the jaw, which would have knocked him off his feet if he hadn’t caught himself against the desk. There was a crisp sweetness in the air as Breoch wiped the blood from his lip. Astarion reflexively felt for the handle of his dagger; his tongue tapped the tips of his fangs.  

“Clearly you were never any good at Charhylniss…” Breoch taunted. 

“You insolent jaluk, I should have you—...!” 

“Did you like it?” Breoch straightened to his full height: he was at least a head taller than her. His breath curled out dangerously in icy wisps. “Having your head forcefully examined against your will? If you have a question then ask it, True Soul.” 

Her fists remained clenched, ready to strike again. She assessed her opponent carefully. For the first time, Minthara actually paused to look at him. She studied the details of his face: the white scales and single piercing blue eye. An unsettling revelation seemed to dawn on her in increments; each realisation formed a new crack that shed light on an idea previously unthinkable. The very way she viewed him shifted from fury to…uncertainty? 

Now this is an interesting development, Astarion mused. Perhaps our drow isn’t as predictably pliable as he first appeared? 

“You're a True Soul?” 

“Is that so strange? That an esteemed and powerful sorcerer like me could also receive the Absolute’s blessing?” 

“A faern you certainly appear to be, but esteemed…?” 

Astarion watched her physically recoil as she spotted something on Breoch’s throat. 

“Most definitely not.” 

She looked disgusted by whatever she’d seen. Presumably the tattoo he had there, though Astarion couldn’t understand why it would provoke such a visceral reaction from her. Must be some weird drow thing— given how smug Breoch looked. He could ask Breoch about it later, though he wasn’t sure he was curious enough to listen to him regale him with more sordid stories about Menzoberranzan…again. Two hundred years spent living in the infamous City of Spiders and the drow was still a terrible bore. 

“We are hardly so different now, Mistress…”

Minthara sighed. The upper hand was slipping away from her and she was eager to claw it back. “Then it would appear that we're working toward the same goal. We are seeking an artefact, True Soul. It is of utmost importance to Her that we find it.” 

“What manner of artefact is it, Commander?” 

“You will recognise it when you see it,” she looked pointedly at Lae’zel. “It's currently in the possession of a band of raiders hiding within a refugee camp. Perhaps you may have located it on your travels?” 

“We have not,” Breoch lied confidently. “After we crashed here and heard Her voice, we gathered ourselves and tried to find your stronghold.” 

“You were on the nautiloid ship? Then She has decided: you will join my hunt and retrieve the artefact for me.” 

“Hm…we have yet to fully explore this temple to our new goddess. Maybe we will look around a little more before agreeing to leave again so soon, hm?” He slid past her to stand with his party. As much as he hated to admit it, Astarion was somewhat relieved to have Breoch within blade’s reach again. 

Minthara scowled. “You must obey my authority, jaluk. Do not test my patience.” 

Breoch licked the crusted blood from his lip. Crackles of draconic ice formed at his fingertips. “Nor you mine, Mistress.” 

He sauntered through the hallway before Minthara could bark another order. To call after him now would only be a show of weakness: a demonstration of how little power her words held over the unruly sorcerer. The opportunity to pursue him came and went, leaving Astarion and the others to tentatively follow Breoch’s lead. 

The conversation had taken a very different turn to what Astarion had envisioned: not exactly worse than he’d thought, just…different. He didn’t exactly have high expectations of Breoch to start with. Yet somehow, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, Breoch had surprised him.  

“Did they give you a name?” He inquired.

“No, my lord.”

“Did you ask for their name?”

“...no, my lord.”

“And what did they look like?”

“There were three of them, sir. A knight accompanied by two cloaked figures,” she stated matter of factly. Gortash remained silent, feigning patience, as he waited for the young guard to continue in her description. She fumbled on. “The knight appeared to be a tiefling, sir, and was wearing full plate armour so I couldn’t see their face. They weren’t much taller than me. I couldn’t see much of the other two as their faces were hidden under their hoods. The knight insisted that they should speak with you, though gave me no other reason.”

Gortash returned his quill to its inkpot and leaned back in his chair. The descriptions weren’t familiar to him, and had the visitor been a Flaming Fist then the porter would have introduced them as such. He could hardly blame the girl for being so incurious about his visitors: that was the reason he’d hired her after all. He sighed.

“Escort them here, but make sure that we have an audience to welcome them,” he instructed. The porter bowed her head and slipped out of the room.

Gortash sank deeper into his chair. His mind whirred with the machinations of his grand design. Each cog needed to perform its function with precision if he was to succeed. He’d spent many hours pouring over maps, diagrams, and blueprints; he’d drafted timelines and schedules and agendas, most for official business, but many for his own personal project. A vision of a future he’d cradled in the shadows of Avernus’s flames, and had nurtured as he clawed his way up to his esteemed pedestal. It was a recurring daydream of his and he loathed to be prised from it.

A small number of his most trusted sellswords filed into the room and stood around the perimeter. Their weapons were worn proudly, but not yet drawn. He stacked his papers loosely. The young lord was cautiously curious. Scheming came as naturally to him as manipulation to a devil. Only time would tell whether his ambitious plans would bear fruit.

The strange trio marched into the room. For a moment, there was a reverent stillness. All three of the strange figures remained motionless: their stance was that of three solemn statues. Both of the hooded figures kept their heads bowed. The knight stood with their hands behind their back, perfectly upright, with their helmet obscuring their face. Two curled horns sprouted from the helmet, giving them the appearance of some powerful fiend or an exceptionally disciplined goat. At first glance, Gortash had no way of identifying exactly who had entered his chambers unannounced, although it didn’t take long for him to spot the various religious insignia that adorned the knight’s armour. It would seem Bane had blessed him that day.

“Good evening. Pleasant as it is to meet you, I must say that I wasn’t expecting any visitors today,” he spoke with an easy smile.

The knight’s head jerked to face him. The sudden movement caused many of the sellswords to twitch for their weapons, their fingertips grazing the handles of their preferred blade.

The knight was still.

An aura of malice radiated from them. The air swelled with an oppressive weight, its heft seemed to squeeze at Gortash’s heart, and a prickling of apprehension seeped through his veins. The knight turned to the hooded figure to their left and nodded.

At their silent command, the figure produced a small flabby square and flung it on the young lord’s desk. Blood splattered across the various parchments strewn on its surface. The guards leaned to peek at the strange item. The patch of peeled skin had been branded: both with Gortash’s coat of arms and the Hand of Bane.

“Your calling card, I believe,” the knight said. Their voice was cool and level; clean as a sword slicing through empty air. “You left it on my doorstep.”

“Yes, I may have left someone there. Though last I saw him, he was alive. Am I to presume that this is all that remains?” Gortash replied with barely concealed elation. The knight flicked their tail, but did not speak. All eyes in that room were fixed on Gortash as the guards waited for the command to attack, which did not come. None of the strangers appeared to feel threatened, nor did they appear to pose any immediate threat. If Gortash’s suspicions were correct, this was a calculated risk worth taking.

He turned to the de facto leader of his entourage. “You are dismissed.”

When the mercenary swivelled as though to speak, a slight narrowing of the eyes from Gortash was all it took for the dwarf to acquiesce. As efficiently as the squad had entered the room, they retreated again at Gortash’s command: leaving the nobleman alone with the three figures.

Away from the prying eyes of his servants, Gortash was now able to scrutinise the three figures further. Upon closer inspection, he could begin to identify subtle differences between them. The knight was completely motionless, yet stood with the unparalleled poise of a swordsman. Their very presence carried a gravitas that few paladins could emulate. Of the two hooded figures, the one to the knight’s right was as still as them— not even their shoulders moved with the act of breathing. The figure on their left was more restless by comparison; their hands clutched the fabric of their robe and their head trembled with the effort of restraint.

The knight finally met Gortash’s gaze. His eyes seized upon the various adornments of their armour: the skulls and droplets motifs; anatomically accurate depictions of hearts pierced with blades and gnolls’ claws; immaculately polished yet dented by years of use; a blood-red cape hung from their shoulders.

They had to be the person he was looking for.

“An explanation, Banite,” the knight announced as an order rather than a request, “if it so pleases you.” They bowed their head in deference. Their manner flowed between that of commander and foot soldier. An acute demonstration of their awareness of rank, yet a clever concealment of their own. Gortash grinned.

“Well, that rather depends on who I am addressing, knight of Bhaal.” He placed his elbows on his desk and interlaced his fingers. The tiefling’s tail flicked again. They paused.

“I am not merely a knight. Though I suspect you knew that already…”

“Oh? And what makes you say that?”

“I’ve seen you…in a dream.”

“You’ve dreamt about me? Well, I’m flattered.” Gortash taunted.

Thwack!

The knight’s tail thrashed against the floor. Gortash jumped. In his excitement, he’d almost forgotten the danger of trapping himself alone with Bhaalists. Their dread aura began to encroach on his hubristic self-satisfaction.

“You are Bane’s petty tyrant. His chosen.” Their voice grew spiteful. They spat the word ‘tyrant’ like blood from a split lip. Gortash would almost have been offended if he wasn’t so inordinately pleased that the very person he’d scoured the city in search of— the one person who could make his grand scheme a reality— had simply fallen into his trap.

“And you must be Bhaal’s chosen?”

“Scion.” They corrected. The figure to their left snarled. “And his Chosen.”

“Then let us speak as the two chosen of our gods.”

The knight fell still again. Two glowing red orbs peered out from the slats of their helmet and glared at him.

“Sister, stand at the door and stay your hand,” they turned to the trembling figure to their left. They lowered their voice to a growl. “Lest I have need to remove it again.” The figure flinched and whirled on her heels. Her long braid peeked through the opening of her cloak as she skipped out of the room.

Gortash gestured for the knight to sit, but they did not move.

Instead, the knight removed their helmet and ruffled their hair. They dropped the helm onto the desk unceremoniously. All their poise melted into a more comfortable fluidity; their armour clanked as they shifted their weight from one foot to the other. Their transformation from a living weapon to Bhaal’s latest prodigy was complete. They scowled at the trimmings of wealth Gortash had used to furnish his study: the walnut bookshelves laden with unread tomes; the ostentatious carved mahogany writing desk; a bronze fireguard sculpted with swarms of devas and cambions; the marble-effect mantlepiece (which was probably just polished granite); gold plated lanterns, garish tapestries, and at least three portraits of his smug face.

“I suppose introductions are in order?” Gortash said.

“I suppose they are, Lord Enver Gortash.” They tilted their head and smirked. They wielded their silence like a shield, using it to skillfully deny Gortash the information he desired.

He continued to feign patience, but it was beginning to wear thin.

“I am Shrike,” they continued at last. “Chosen of Bhaal, his scion and executor of his divine will. I am the blood-soaked knight and the embodiment of murder incarnate. Though, it is just the two of us here, so we can speak plainly without the need for such epithets. Chosen to Chosen.”

The cloaked figure walked to the door and stood sentry. Gortash watched the figure curiously, yet when he looked at Shrike again they were grinning. Their red eyes burned brighter and their lips curled to bare their pointed teeth. He could see they were itching for him to ask about the third person in the room, but there was a familiarity in the way their eyes flickered like hellfire that rendered him speechless. Shrike moved closer and leaned conspiratorially.

“You don’t need to worry about her, Enver. She is one of yours, well…was.”

The figure lowered her hood. Her eyes were no more than empty sockets crudely scraped of their contents. Crusty trails oozed down her cheeks; peuce and ruddy splatters coated her face, and painted a stark contrast to the pallor of her skin. Her complexion a beacon of her undeath.

“Placing a spy among my clergy was a bold move, but not necessarily your wisest.” Shrike said.

The spy’s lifeless wounds seemed to gaze through Gortash, as though her blindness allowed her to see past mere flesh and blood and touch upon something deeper. She was hard to look at. Corpses had never bothered Gortash, but there was something about the reanimation of undead that unnerved him— those killed should stay dead as the dead tend to keep their secrets. Unlike many of his servants, Gortash had at least made the effort to learn her name, not that it mattered much now.

“I thought you were Bhaal’s Chosen, not Myrkul’s?” He asked with faux humour. Shrike’s grin only stretched wider.

“I am. The girl was murdered by my hand, so her soul was offered to Bhaal. What we choose to do with the remains is of no interest to him. Father doesn’t mind if we imbue a few cadavers with false life for our own…amusement.” Shrike walked over to the spy and studied her face proudly. They delicately traced a finger around her socket, then picked at a dried edge to reveal a flash of clean bone. They pressed a tender kiss to her cheek. “Her presence is comforting to me. A bloodlust like mine is not so easily sated. Sometimes it’s better to maim a corpse, than to spill fresh blood needlessly.”

Now that Shrike had removed their helmet, Gortash watched the myriad emotions that passed across the bhaalspawn’s features. In that vision, they moved like a machine, heartless and cruel as Bhaal bestowed his gift of the Slayer upon them. But the creature in front of him looked no different to any of the other hapless tieflings littering his city’s streets. Their crimson hair defied gravity as it grew upwards in a fiery mane; their horns curled like a ram’s and were tipped with red. The red mark emanating from their left eye shifted and flowed, changing in shape and size, like a web of ever-flowing blood. There was a gentleness there he hadn’t expected to see: a vulnerability usually culled from Bhaal’s number. It was almost hard to believe that this tiefling was responsible for the rise in violent murders in his city. This was the person with whom his fate was inextricably bound: for good or ill.

“I must say, you’re not quite what I had expected. I don’t mean this unkindly, but you are much more…personable than most bhaalists I’ve met.” Gortash said cautiously. He had imagined this conversation countless times, perfecting his responses to subdue and satiate the bhaalspawn’s bestial urges, and coax them into an alliance. Yet he’d never pictured this: a Chosen of Bhaal who seemed so haunted, and yet unfathomably faithful.

Their tail flicked. “Were you expecting me to slink in through your window, muttering about how your blood whispers to me and how I long to pierce its melody with my blade?” They grinned again. “That is more my sister’s style than mine.”

“And what is your style?”

“I murder: pure and simple. I arm myself and cut down my sacrifice in my father’s name. A specific target with a specific purpose. No tricks, no theatrics, just murder. Disciplined. Perfect slaughter.”

There was an undeniable militaristic streak to their mannerisms. Perhaps they preferred following orders than giving them? There were so many questions he wanted to ask: were you a soldier; where did you train; what battles have you fought; how many have you killed— but he wouldn’t— he knew better than to pry too deeply too soon. It was better to redirect the conversation to the most important question on his mind.

“I thought as much. The sacrifices to Bhaal are unmistakable. It’s taken me weeks to conceal your existence from Duke Ravenguard’s Flaming Fists, and suppress rumours of a bhaalist resurgence.”

“What?” Shrike’s smile dropped.

“Why don’t you take a seat?” Gortash gestured to the seat again, only this time Shrike complied. Their tail curled around their leg as they sat down.

“Why would you do that…?”

“Sometimes it helps to have friends in high places.”

Shrike leaned back in the chair and crossed their arms. “And I suppose you were looking for friendly blades in low places, little tyrant?”

“Perhaps, though I had a much grander purpose in mind than petty political assassinations.”

Shrike straightened their back as their tail began to unfurl. Just as Gortash had suspected: the oathbreaker craved a new purpose. This would be far easier than he could have ever anticipated.

“Do you know why Bane, Bhaal, and Myrkul have always failed in the past?” Gortash asked as he leaned back.

“Bane’s inability to compromise?” They taunted. Gortash continued to smile warmly. Shrike continued. “Bhaalspawns’ innate drive to destroy one another, losing their advantage of numbers in favour of one strong— but ultimately ineffectual— warrior? Or Myrkul’s utter apathy toward anything resembling mortal ambition?”

Gortash chuckled. It seemed the two were more aligned in their thinking than he could have hoped.

“Yes, exactly. ‘The Dead Three’ have spent so much of their time fighting among themselves that they will never accomplish anything. When instead they could have acted as a triad, unified toward a singular goal. Alone a god is powerful, but not infallible. But if the domains of tyranny, murder, and necromancy were to combine their strengths, well my dear, we would be unstoppable.”

Shrike laughed in disbelief. “You really are Bane’s silly little tyrant, aren’t you? It’s impossible! Bhaal would never allow the black hand of Bane to wield his bloody blade.”

“True, but that’s not for Bhaal to decide, is it?” He gestured to them. “It’s yours. You said it yourself: you are ‘the executor of his divine will’. He chose you because he knew you would succeed where others had failed. You are not like the Chosen before you— blinded by faith— you can see the bigger picture. We could dare to do things differently. We could achieve more than our Gods dare dream of.”

Shrike was stunned. They had dropped the pretense of disinterest and were visibly shaken by his words. Their jaw hung slightly agape. Gortash had prided himself on being a compelling orator, yet it was rare to witness somebody fall prey to his force of personality so readily.

“You’re…serious?” Shrike recoiled deeper into their seat. “This isn’t some— …some poison you’ve concocted to drip in my ear to better stab me in the back later?”

“Deathly serious, my dear.” Gortash stood and held onto the back of their chair. He leaned in closer to their ear. “I am proposing an alliance: Bane and Bhaal working together as equals, or partners, if you will.”

Shrike stared up at him blankly. They could hear him, but it was as though they weren’t listening to him; their attention appeared to direct inwards, like they were listening to a silent voice within themself.

Gortash pressed his advantage. He began by regaling Shrike with the tale of Karsus and Netheril, much like it had been told to him, though with significantly fewer fiendish theatrics. They listened. Silent. Impassive. He told them of the crown— told them of its power— and how it had been sealed away in Mephistopheles’s vault. He paused to allow them to interject, like he’d rehearsed a hundred times in his private hours. The tiefling shuffled in their seat; their eyes locked onto his performance, but they remained silent. Then he spoke of the elderbrain and its power to create swarms of thralls. Shrike leaned forward. Finally, it seemed he’d piqued their interest.

“...with the power of the brain, we could create an army that would rival even the greatest militias across Faerûn. You could kill as many of the mindless hordes as you and your God desires. Imagine it: death on a scale that would make Tempus weep.”

He paused again, only this time Shrike deigned to speak.

“It seems you have it all figured out, little tyrant.” Shrike’s claws pierced the arm of the chair. The dread aura that encircled them pressed down on Gortash as his breath hitched in his throat. “But you have overlooked a rather pertinent detail…”

They rose to their feet and skulked toward him. Gortash froze.

“Do you know why I murder? Do you know why murder is a sacred act?”

Gortash found that he was unable to speak. He could hardly breathe. He thought he knew the answer, but the way they’d asked the question suggested that he’d been mistaken. The very question was a sign that he’d made a fatal miscalculation. He shook his head.

“Murder is not simply the act of killing. Any beast can kill. Hells, even a pebble could kill if it fell from a great enough height. But only thinking, feeling creatures like us can murder.” They stepped closer and closer, causing Gortash to reflexively shuffle backward until he felt the bookshelf at his back.

He was trapped. Shrike snarled.

“Murder is the act of taking a life. It is a tacit acknowledgement that there is value in that person’s life and you are composing a tragedy with their life as its genesis. Murder is driven by a purpose: a vendetta, greed, lust, envy, or rage. It is callous. It is calculated. Or it is rash and passionate and violent.

When a soldier kills another in battle, we do not call that murder as that is their duty. When a doctor switches medicine for poison to end the suffering of a dying man, we do not call that murder but a mercy. When a dog mauls a baby to death, we do not call that murder but a predator’s nature. And when we kill a criminal, we do not call that murder but justice. Life is sacred. Therefore the taking of it is a sacred act. Murder destroys the very thing— the very people— that give the world meaning: the storytellers, the mothers, the artists, the healers, the sellswords, the kings, queens, friends, family, everyone! Murder is the ultimate price any one could pay, and I dutifully pay my respects.

I have no interest in thralls. I don’t care for power. And my assassins are sufficient to continue my father’s worship.

If I am to destroy bloodlines, then I will spill that blood with my own blade until the Chionthar runs red.”

Gortash didn’t see Shrike draw their blade, but he did feel its sting against his throat. He couldn’t breathe. The air fizzed with heat and acridity. His hands seized.

“Killing you, however…” Shrike mused as they traced his carotid arteries with the tip of their dagger. “For the injustice of assuming I’m no better than a beast, killing for killing’s sake? Or to topple a vindictive tyrant before he falls to his own hubris? Those are reasons worth killing for…That would be a most magnificent murder.”

All his strength drained from his body as he crumpled to the floor. Gortash felt like he was dying. He was going to die at the hands of this bhaalspawn, yet he could not find the strength to move nor scream. Terror coursed through his veins. He was frightened of Bhaal’s Chosen and every sinew screamed at him to run.

“Do you understand it now, Enver?” Shrike pressed the tip of their blade into his throat until they drew blood. “Just how precious and fragile one mortal life could be. Or do you only care if it’s your own? Bane’s tyrants rise and fall like the ebbing tide. Even Myrkul’s bones will crumble into dust. But murder…? Well, murder is absolute.”

Shrike watched as the tyrant trembled under their gaze. Where was his god now?

A sudden shock jolted Gortash’s limbs. A singular second of clarity before the great snuffing out; a last ditch effort for survival. He reached for their dagger, slicing his own neck in the scuffle as he deftly seized the blade from their grasp, and launched himself at them. The attack was futile, yet his chest felt lighter, like he could finally breathe again.

“Is this really how you want this to end? To follow the same path to oblivion that your forebears walked?” He panted. Gortash had buried too many hatchets and skeletons under too many burnt bridges to give up on his grand design now. Bhaal or no Bhaal: he will see this through.

Shrike sauntered over to his desk to retrieve their helm. “...your plan lacks focus. It is impossible to unify three Gods’ congregations without a unifying goal.”

Blood gushed down Gortash’s neck and soaked into his shirt. The fabric clung to his chest as he pressed a handkerchief to stem the bleeding. “So you will help me?”

“I will help you…find the motivation to finish your plan.” They put on their helm. “I will return in three days, and you will have a second chance to propose an alliance with me. If I am convinced, then I will agree to your terms: completely and without compromise.”

“And if I don’t persuade you?”

“Then I will kill you. And you will be powerless to stop me.” They smiled and walked to the door. “So scheme away, little tyrant, after all…your life depends on it.”

Gortash stumbled to his feet as the door closed behind the bhaalspawn. He stamped bloody handprints across his papers as he propped himself up against his desk. The cut was only surface deep, but he bled like a swine. A small price to pay for the shift in fortune it granted him. Perhaps it was his brush with death that made one bloodied palm print look like a skull. He drew a triangle, a crooked halo for an amalgamate deity, and admired it.

He laughed.

5. Describe their idle animations!

Most of Breoch's idle animations would be general preening: fixing his hair, polishing his rings, or inspecting his nails. Occasionally he'd summon an ice knife and balance it in his palm.

If left alone at camp, then Breoch would sweep the dirt out of his tent or relax by playing spider solitaire.

6. How would the player go about meeting them in Act 1? What is their introduction?

Tav here is a generic half-drow from Baldur’s Gate

If Gale hadn't fallen down the well, they never would have discovered this place.

Spiderwebs covered every surface of this cavern, creating vast walkways across the deep crevasses. One could almost spy the fluorescent glow of the Underdark down here as great holes burrowed down further into the abyss. Tav kicked the phase spider's corpse, satisfied that they had finished off the last of their attackers. However, something was off. Dotted around the cave were several clusters of spider eggs, yet their matriarch was nowhere to be seen. They tread deeper into the cave. A string of curses echoed around the space; the voice was cursing in Undercommon and the words were familiar to Tav.

Turning a corner, the group spotted the towering matriarch spider hovering over an ensnared drow. He had evidently fallen foul of the spider's web and was now wrapped securely in her silk cocoon. She had paused in her attempts to bind him as he berated her fiercely. Astarion giggled to himself at the irony of it all, and even Shadowheart couldn't suppress the wry smile that twitched at her lips.

"You are by far the most ill-mannered spider I have ever had the misfortune of meeting, madam! Your time here on the surface has evidently dulled your sense of decorum." The drow cursed in a refined Undercommon dialect, the kind that Tav had only heard from the great families of Menzoberranzan. A few magic missiles and arrows to the spider's head were fortunately enough to scare it away.

The drow's head snapped in Tav’s direction and the air around them almost seemed to grow colder. "Lolth preserve me…I successfully avoided filthy surface dwellers for two centuries, only to now have four here to laugh at my misfortune." He muttered mostly to himself.

"Watch what you say, or I might be tempted to leave you there," Tav couldn't resist quipping in Undercommon too. The drow flushed sheepishly, a little embarrassed that his words had been understood, but he soon recovered himself and smiled.

"Hm, I am impressed. Your Undercommon is some of the finest I have heard from a traveler." Flattery seemed as effortless for him as breathing, and Tav couldn't help but feel at ease in his presence. The man was rather unusual looking for a drow elf, although not altogether unattractive. His hair was a midnight blue tinged with rose at its ends, the complete opposite of the pure white prized among drow nobility. His pale lilac skin looked almost iridescent in the faint light, and was adorned by patches of shimmering white scales across his cheeks and forehead.

Tav had seen similar scales on a couple of others: a feature commonly found among draconic sorcerers.

He could prove a powerful ally, Tav thought.

His eyes further betrayed his draconic heritage. The right eye was the deep crimson characteristic of Lolth-sworn drow, a gift from their goddess, but his left eye was a piercing blue, presumably derived from his white dragon ancestor. A deep scar ran between his eyes, yet it didn't detract from the innate magnetism that drew them to him.

The drow tilted his head. He savoured being under Tav's inquisitive gaze. Then, as though growing restless, he looked Astarion up and down before his eyes rested at belt level.

"You look like you know how to handle a blade. Would you care to cut me free? I'd be most appreciative," the drow practically purred. Compared to his noble eloquence in Undercommon, his speech seemed more stilted now he'd switched to Common. The language sounded foreign coming from his lips— a deeply accented pattern of intonations that mirrored his native tongue. Yet it was no less charming in the attempt.

"I thought drow enjoyed being tied up?" Astarion teased, relishing the flicker of annoyance behind the drow's smile. "Are you sure you don't want to stay there a little longer?"

The drow pressed against his silk bindings, arched his back, and a quiet satisfied sigh fell from his lips. "Mmm…I know we drow are known to indulge in a little bondage now and again, but this is a little excessive…" he levelled his gaze at Astarion through half-lidded eyes, "even for my tastes."

"Just cut him down, Astarion. You two can flirt as much as you want back at camp," Tav grumbled. Astarion did as he was told, not wanting to argue with their group's unofficial leader, and cut the drow loose. The drow pulled the strands of silk from his lavish clothes and dusted himself off.

"Thank you," he bowed and offered his hand to Tav in greeting. They placed their hand in his; his touch was as cold as plunging bare hands into fresh snow. It almost stung as he raised their hand to his lips. "I am Breoch, eldest son of House V'ysse. It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Pleasure, my name is Ta—...!"

Another psionic blast hit them as their tadpoles' connection collided once again. A whirlwind of images through Breoch's eyes flashed in their mind: the warm skin of unknown lovers, the modest decadence of an onyx bedroom, and a male drow's twisted smile. Then a flash of white as Breoch severed the connection.

Tav wrenched their hand from his grasp. They stumbled backwards and slipped on the ice on the ground. The icy surface centered at Breoch's feet. His skin glistened like blades of grass on a winter's morning, a layer of frost spread from his fingertips and up his neck. His breath crackled in wisps of vapour as he tried to calm himself.

"They got you too…" Breoch said at last.

"It seems there's a few of us around," Tav replied, their head still reeling from the phantom pain they'd just experienced. Astarion helped them to their feet. "I keep stumbling across them everywhere."

"I just want to be rid of this parasite and go back home to Menzoberranzan. This problem is bigger than anything we could possibly imagine. And as much as it pains me, on my dignity as a drow, I think we'll need to work together."

"Even though we're 'filthy surface dwellers'?" Tav asked with a raised eyebrow. Breoch winced and sighed deeply.

The evening was particularly calm at the sea. The Liberty was being gently lulled to sleep over the sluggish waves. There was a storm brewing far on the horizon, its tall clouds made even darker courtesy of the full moon. But if Prince Luka averted his eyes from the boiling bulks of lightning, he could pretend it was a tranquil evening, just like the one a month ago. 

He found it hard to believe that four whole weeks had passed since the Liberty had set sails to take him to faraway lands in search for a suitable match. Despite his mother’s objections, his father, King Jagged, had been unusually insistent on finding Luka a bride worthy of the crown prince. And Luka, ever the obedient and good-natured son, met princess after princess, heiress after heiress, some daughters of noblemen in the mix as well. Some had been stunningly beautiful, others - as he’d been told - unimaginably rich. Some had talent for embroidery, flower-arranging, cricket or other skills considered useful in high society. Some had shown interest in music, either in singing or playing instruments, yet Luka found each performance lacking the essence and passion he so desired in a soulmate. 

Juleka, his sister, mocked him for being picky. The truth was much simpler. His heart had already been taken, only he couldn’t say so out loud.

How could he, when he hadn’t even laid eyes on the one he’d fallen for? When he wasn’t even sure she existed, that he hadn’t dreamed of her that night of the full moon a month ago?

Such thoughts ran through his head, as Luka stood on the prow gazing on the dark, oily waves, straining his ears, searching for the notes of the song that had captured his heart. The melody had seemed out of this world, sung in a bizarre language, in a scale he’d never encountered despite his thorough musical education. Yet in some unfathomable way it had reached right into his soul and imprinted itself in his memory forever. 

Wind picked up, ruffling Luka’s hair and filling his lungs with salty air. The prince pulled out his guitar, he strummed the strings, listening to the wind whispering in the instrument’s belly. He felt the world holding its breath and he found himself waiting, wound tightly just below the breaking point.

Then came the song. 

Vibrant notes carried over the ocean, pulling at his heartstrings like no melody had ever done before. Luring him in, making him want more, making him wish it’d never end. Luka gasped, realizing this was his moment of truth, that he hadn’t been imagining things or slowly going crazy. He had been right the whole time. 

For a few moments he let himself be submerged in the music. When it filled him to the brim he took a deep breath. He raised his guitar and joined the song in an impossible duet, just like that first time one month ago. 

The voice, searching and wistful at first, turned joyful, excited even, as if the guitar was a long missing friend. It greeted the new addition with enthusiasm, relishing the new harmonies, new possibilities that came from combining the vocal and the instrument. Unified the voice and the guitar transformed the song into something greater than its parts.

It flew over the water. It echoed in the ship’s hull. It filled the sails.

Enchanting. 

Mesmerizing. 

Spellbinding. 

Luka was lost in the music, in the feeling of finally being complete. He reached deeper to the underlying rhythm and discovered it synchronized with his own pulse, a perfect harmony of two heartbeats. The heartsong he’d been looking for, the one he’d been drawn to, the one he’d been destined to join. His soulmate, he realized, opening his eyes.

And then the storm hit.

***

It wasn’t unusual for Marinette to sing in the evenings nor was it uncommon for her to dream of the adventures in faraway lands, above the sea, among the two-legged people she frequently spotted on the beaches and on those wooden sea beasts called ships. Yet, she never dared to sing above the surface, allowing her voice to be heard by ears other than those belonging to the merfolk. At least not until that last full moon, when she had succumbed to the strange desire that had awakened in her, urging the little mermaid to swim up to the surface and let her song flow freely over the waves. 

Something told her that was where she was supposed to be, and that was what she was supposed to be doing. She never expected to be answered back. She never would have guessed her performance wouldn’t be a solo, but instead a duet out of this world. 

The boy had been standing in the moonlight, high over the water. His dark hair had been tinted blue at the tips, as if he’d dipped them in the ocean. His eyes reflected the moonlight, glowing unnaturally bright, while he stared out into the darkness with a faraway expression upon his handsome face. She’d wondered what he was dreaming about at that moment. At first she had thought he’d been singing, but then she noticed the instrument he’d been wielding, a brown box with strings. The melody had been divine, soft and tender, reaching out, searching. It found her song and entwined itself with it, creating a new harmony, filling the pauses, completing the rhythm, until the song became a perfect amalgam of water and land, of above and below, of human and mer. 

It had left Marinette wanting to follow the ship, to never separate from the boy. And she might have just gone for it if it wasn’t for Tikki. Her crab chaperon had caught up with her at the last moment. She pinched Marinette’s tail, quite painfully, snapping the girl out of her reverie. The ship had disappeared from sight long before Tikki finished scolding Marinette for her unauthorized evening swim. 

Since then the little mermaid anxiously awaited news of ships passing over their kingdom, but none of them sported the characteristic eyes and whale-like smile of the boy’s vessel. She almost lost hope she’d ever see him again. Her heart ached at the thought, as if that stranger, who hadn’t even seen her, took a part of her with him and she’d never be complete again without it. 

Tikki must have had a word with Alya, because her guppy childhood friend kept a close eye on Marinette for the whole month and asked a lot of pointed human-related questions. Finally Marinette was able to coax Nino, the googly-eyed turtle, to ask Alya out, freeing herself of her orange-tailed friend’s company.

As luck had it, this was the night of the full moon. Marinette feigned going to bed early to get King Tom and Queen Sabine off her scales. Then, she set out to find if she was indeed as lucky as she’d been dubbed by the royal court. 

Anxiously, Marinette swam to the surface and began her siren song. She sang of all the hopes and dreams, the feelings that came to her that fateful night, the heartache that followed. She felt the world falling silent around her, bewitched and enthralled by this new song. The wind carried it into the night, but only the moon listened.

She almost gave up, but then she heard the soft and sweet sounds of the instrument - guitar, as she’d learned - calling out to her. 

She saw him standing on the prow, eyes closed, fingers dancing over the strings. His whole being seemed to be consumed by music, her music. Marinette would be a liar if she said she didn’t like the thought. But just as he seemed to be spellbound by the melody, she felt similarly smitten. She hadn’t even locked eyes with him, yet she felt the connection between them, a bond stronger than anything she’d experienced in her life. 

At the next flash of lightning, he opened his eyes and looked straight at her. Marinette froze, hypnotized by his gaze, unable to look away. Her voice died in her throat, just like the guitar grew silent. 

A beat of silence. Two heartbeats. Three - and then came the hurricane drowning everything in rain and wind. 

Marinette found it difficult to stay above the water, the waves tossing her any way they liked. She tried her best to stay close to the ship, because each time she resurfaced she saw him standing right there, despite the gusts and the rain, looking for her. As if he cared for no one else in the entire world. As if the storm, the ocean’s wrath didn’t matter to him at all.

As if he had eyes only for her. 

Another lightning bolt struck dangerously close and she dove below the surface for cover. When she reemerged, several other humans had appeared up on the deck, scurrying about with a chaotic, frantic energy. Her eyes darted around, seeking out her musician, but she couldn’t spot him anywhere among the men. A round object bobbed on the water, tethered to the ship with a thick rope, while the crew kept shouting and pointing towards it. 

Marinette’s stomach clenched. Chills descended down her spine, shaking the fin of her tail. Something was wrong. She dove to where the crew were pointing. At the next flash of lightning she saw her musician frantically fighting the currents, kicking and waving his hands. Despite his efforts he kept sinking further and further down, pulled back by a maelstrom he’d gotten caught in. 

Never in her life had Marinette raced so fast. In a blink, she was at his side, wrestling with the vortex, pulling him away from its clutches. She wrapped him in a tight embrace, shielding him from the currents, but stopped her finning when he looked at her in astonishment.

‘Hi,’ she uttered shyly, suddenly extremely aware of their closeness.

He opened his mouth to reply but only a few bubbles of air came out. Then, he passed out in her arms.