Anthology: Is the color of midnight different than the color of sun?
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“I had thought you would use knives,” Gortash said conversationally to Bhaal’s Chosen as they supervised the removal of the Bhaalspawn’s bones and the ancestral torture racks from the Hall of Wonders. They had cut an efficient and bloody swathe through the guards without setting off a single alarm and if his information was good, which it was, they would have the Hall to themselves for a precious few hours before the next shift arrived. It would be more than enough time to retrieve all of the Bhaalist artifacts, plus a few other pieces he found particularly interesting. All in the name of hiding the cultish nature of the theft, of course.
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The answer frightened him more than it soothed him. The High Primate so rarely took a personal interest in the details of any single red room, content to supervise from on high. He wasn’t sure if their involvement boded well, as a blessing from on high, or ill, as a delicate sign of their displeasure in his ways of running the rooms. But perhaps it was neither of those things. Perhaps he was merely being overly paranoid. They were to play host to some unusually distinguished guests at this particular occasion, after all, men and women from some of the most prominent patriar families in Baldur’s Gate. Perhaps the High Primate simply wished to ensure that everything was displayed to its greatest advantage, to better lure in adherents that would fill the temple’s ever hungry coffers. Yes, that was the most likely explanation.
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Reasoning and potential future issues aside, he needs competent allies in the here and now. He’s hardly in a position to turn them away given the circumstances. And he’s confident in his ability to, given time, bring them back to their proper place in the world. He’s charmed them once before; he can do it again. All their other little toys and temptations won’t stand a chance, not in the face of he who knows them best. Besides, they’re here now. They’ve come to find him – alone. He’s already taking the lead. He clasps their outstretched hand and smiles. “To our alliance. May it prove most satisfactory for both parties.”
They smile back at him and squeeze his hand in return. “To our alliance.”
In some mad fit of sentiment, he sweeps their joined hands up and presses a kiss to the back of theirs, exactly as he had done on the night they first met. He catches, just at the edge of his vision, the slight widening of their eyes and parting of their lips, in what might almost be surprised recognition.
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Would You Give the Devil This Dance? (Would You be a Part of His Plans?) by Chronurgy
Fandoms: Baldur's Gate (Video Games)
20 Feb 2024
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Gortash's steps are quick and precise, sharp somehow, and his feet are always too exactly where they should be. They come crashing down with exactitude at the precisely correct moment, giving his partner’s feet absolutely no quarter. He moves with rigor, executes every turn, dip, and move competently, but he doesn’t seem to feel the tug of the music. He doesn’t flow, doesn’t express anything as he moves. He is as precisely stiff and mechanical as one of his machines. He misses the point, misses the romance and the drama in the dance, treats it like Wyll used to treat his painting lessons: as a necessity rather than an art. And the man is domineering when he leads (and he only ever leads), steering his partners around the floor with an iron will. He seems to Wyll like someone too focused on controlling the thing to enjoy it. In short, his dancing is competent but it is not beautiful.
Or was not. Not with any of the others.
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Lae’zel hears them, as they enter this temple to their heretical god. Hm. No. That is inaccurate. Had one of her varsh caught her including such a line in one of her reports, they would have beaten her for the inaccuracy of her words. Rather, as she lays bound to the altar of one of Faerun’s numerous and inconsequential gods, she hears the cultists react to the arrival of her compatriots. The groaning and scraping of the massive stone doors are followed by a wave of whispers that spreads out through the temple at breakneck speed, breaking over the altar she is restrained upon, lapping at the feet of the istik who has anticipated so eagerly the arrival of her kin.
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