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Orin would have been a perfect ally if she wasn't so demented.
As it stands, they are unwilling allies, which is more than he can say about the Urge, who insists on gallivanting around the Lower City, procrastinating the terms of her agreement.
Thanks to her, he's been seeing a lot more of Orin than he would like.
She has returned with renewed zeal, practically salivating over her newfound obsession with tormenting him.
Instead of her usual routine, which involved leaving body parts around for him to find and smearing important documents with blood, she has found a more effective way of getting under his skin.
Incidentally, it all revolved around her sister.
“Her little friends are so protective of her,” Orin laments, lounging on his furniture and leaving traces of blood, “I tried to send one of her former assassins to drop in on her while they slept, but that gith slit his throat as soon as he climbed in through the window,” Orin cackles.
“I really don't have time to listen to your failures, Orin,” he counters, which makes her laugh harder.
“Don't think I don't know about the Flaming Fist you tried to send,” she taunts, “But how could the lordling know that her newest bedwarmer was a vampire spawn .”
Enver snaps the quill he had been holding in his grip, which causes Orin to break out into a fit of giggles.
“It turns out the worm has more benefits than even you could have predicted,” Orin claps, “Negating the effects of the sun, and allowing that undead thing to walk into your fortress unscathed,” she continues, “I guess my dear sister hasn't changed after all. She still prefers a corpse over you~”
Enver shoots up to his feet, grabbing a stack of miscellaneous scrolls, and grunts out, “I have a meeting with my counselors, you can see yourself out.”
It is not a retreat.
—
He's about to sit down for dinner when he catches Orin in his seat, consuming a bloody dish at the table he dare not guess the origin of.
“Orin,” he grits his teeth, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“Polite as always, my Lord,” she smiles, blood smeared across her mouth and chin, “I bring news of my murder-kin.”
“No doubt it's nothing of importance,” he deflects, moving to sit at a different seat as if her presence does not bother him. He waves a commanding finger for his terrified staff to bring his meal.
“I made her cry today,” she grins, which makes him freeze.
He sends a silent prayer to Bane, to give him the strength to steel his features, to not give anything away, as Orin sighs dreamily.
“Have you ever seen her cry?” She asks, “She’s got the eyes for it. I used to hate the way you would stare lovesick into them. But I understand the appeal now,” Orin continues, “They were so big, stricken with frustration. They watered up so prettily before spilling over her cheeks. But so angry,” she says, “Furious. She would have strangled me with her bare hands if she could've. It reminds me why she used to be the favorite.”
Enver thinks of his next words carefully.
“And what, exactly, did you do to elicit such a response?”
He thanks Bane for keeping the hope out of his voice.
“Nothing much,” Orin grins, “I simply kidnapped a babe under her nose. That little orphan brat she picked up in Rivington? So much fuss over one little girl.”
Enver deflates, dejected. It had been too much to hope that Orin had done away with her lover.
“Don't look so disappointed, tyrant,” Orin cackles, “You’re giving me ideas.”
—
Orin greets him in his office one morning, helping herself to a carafe of coffee before spitting it out in distaste.
He makes a note to toss the carafe as soon as possible.
“What trivial thing are you here to blabber about today?” He asks, already feeling regretful.
“Don't you want to hear about all the salacious things that spawn does to her at night?” she smiles serenely.
“Get out, I don't have time for your nonsense,” he pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation.
“They cuddle!” She shrieks in delight, “It’s disgusting! Holding each other throughout the night. He pets her hair when she tosses about restlessly, she whispers gently to him when he wakes from a nightmare!” Orin is ecstatic.
“Thank you, for that useless information as always Orin,” he won't give her an inch, “How pleased must Bhaal be for you to be wasting your time on trivialities. He must really regret picking her over you as his first Chosen.”
“Your attempts to anger me are as obvious as ever, Lordling,” she smiles, “Sloppy, sloppy! It incites me even more!”
Orin dances about, twirling her blade in the air, in a facsimile of a happy child, “That's not even the worst of it. Do you know what she does for him? What he does to her as she lies under him, subservient and docile as a lamb?”
Enver lets his imagination run wild, but it's a fantasy of grabbing Orin by her hair and smashing her face into the stone floor until her teeth fall out of her skull.
“She lays bare her neck and she feeds him,” Orin is in the throes of ecstasy, “Participating in the act of bloodletting. I remember when she used to drink the blood of her victims, using their bleached skulls as goblets! Now she feeds her lover with her life’s ichor, sustaining his hunger!”
Enver prays to Bane, prays for mettle and steel, but dares not to ask for forgiveness for his weakness.
Grant me apathy, give me strength Lord Bane, and steel my heart against anger. Free me from deference.
“Your own weak maw could never come close to piercing her flesh,” Orin continues, “I remember every inch of her naked skin when I sliced into it. I saw the sorry excuse of a claiming mark you left on her breast. Pathetic. ” She giggles, “The marks he leaves on her are much more impressive. If I were a more doting sister, I would highly approve of her newest match. He suits her more completely than you ever could.”
Enver takes a slow breath, daring to not move a single muscle, lest he fly apart.
—-
He's not even surprised anymore, when Orin comes. Every time she arrives with some new story to test his limits with.
It unnerves him slightly, how Orin gets so close but makes no moves of her own. It's like she's waiting.
For what, he cannot even fathom.
“Even without her memories, she hasn't lost her edge,” Orin says in mock admiration, “The carnage she left in The House of Grief was a masterpiece. Countless bodies left to rot in a hidden tomb. An entire enclave of Shar worshippers, wiped out within a day. And just enough time to get home for supper!”
“I've got better things to do than entertain your fascination with your own sister,” Enver says dismissively, “And you clearly have nothing else.”
“Is that jealousy I hear in your voice? Is it because she still kills, just not for you?” Orin says, “All those politicians, witnesses, and enemies she would split her knife on, just because you asked? Did you think you were special?”
“I knew better than to assume that,” he counters, “You're making our relationship more into what it actually was.”
“Wasn’t it?” Orin mocks, “What was it you said again? My nearest and dearest?”
The damned witch.
Of course she heard.
“Honestly Orin, I thought you knew me better than that,” he scoffs, “Pretty words, nothing more.”
“You want to know how I lured her into my trap?” Orin suddenly switches gears, and her smile drips with venom, “I'm sure you've guessed. Who else would allow her to get that close? Just enough to plunge the knife into her back?”
Orin fades, and in seconds Enver is looking at his own face, his reflection.
His breath stops. He sees a sick smile morph onto his own face, twisted and ugly. His own eyes flash with delight, and Orin speaks using his voice.
“Do you think she suspected it was me when the first strike came?” His voice is slow, smooth, with his practiced lilt, the same playful cadence, “Or do you think it took her longer than that?”
“You treacherous bitch-” he hisses, forgetting himself. His own laugh echoes in his ears followed by the tell tale cracking of bones, and Orin reappears.
“It was neither,” Orin reveals, “Because I came to her as myself. She trusted me implicitly. I was her sister, and I didn't need to trick her to get close. Fool.”
The roaring in his ears drowns out her cackling laughter. He walked right into her trap, and betrayed himself.
He was better than this, how could he have fallen for such a blatant ploy?
Enver schools his features, but the damage is done.
Orin succeeded in getting under his skin.
“Are you still certain it's me that's making your relationship into more than what it was?” Orin asks her deadly question, "Because I think it's the other way around.”
—
The next time Orin curses him with her presence, he doesn't wait for her to open her mouth. He simply notches an arrow into his crossbow, the Fabricated Arbalest, and fires a warning shot over her head.
The Urge had taught him techniques on aiming better herself. If he wanted, he would hit Orin between the eyes.
“My blood-kin got you in a bad mood?” Orin tilts her head, giving no indication she even noticed the arrow flying past her, “Did your cowering underlings report back her merriment? How she drinks on the rooftops and dances with her little friends under the night sky?” Orin sighs wistfully.
“I'm not going to warn you a second time Orin,” he threatens, notching another arrow.
“I didn't know she could dance,” Orin says, and does a little twirl of her own, graceful, “Do you regret not taking her to more of your soirees in the Upper City? Oh, how you used to stuff her into gaudy dresses and hang your useless baubles on her. Dragging her into high society kicking and screaming,” Orin continues.
Enver fires his weapon but Orin dodges it easily, and throws her hands up in mockery, spinning, “Poor sister, she would spend those nights drinking and skulking in the corner, watching you try to talk and blackmail and sleep your way up the ranks. Perhaps you should have just asked her to dance, at least once,” Orin leaps into the air, and continues to parry his next arrow.
He notices Orin getting dangerously closer, and he quickly fires another arrow, before he leaps out of the way of her dagger. Orin giggles, spins, and slashes at him again, as he readjusts himself and quickly steps out of her reach.
He's locked in a dance with her, as she follows his moves and counters with her own, missing him by a hair each time.
“She looks so pretty dancing,” Orin comments between her slashes, “I think this time, instead of throwing her away, I'll keep her,” she says, “I was much too messy last time. Instead I'll slice out her veins, delicately, not to rip them. I'll string her up, nice and clean, and turn her into a marionette.”
Enver ripostes, and breaks away from her enough to put distance between them to fire at her again.
She's eerily fast, and the arrow misses its mark again.
And just as quickly, she retreats, and the dance is over.
Orin bows, and she gives him a smile he cannot even begin to place.
“Til next time, my Lord,” she says, before she disappears.
—
Orin haunts him nightly, even when she isn't there. Her laughter rings in his ears, and there is no escaping it.
It'll be a relief when she's dead.
Orin is waiting for him on his dining room table, lying casual as anything, playing with her blade.
She doesn't even deign to look at him when he hovers over her.
“I'm busy Orin,” he warns her, and still, her eyes don't move from her dagger.
“I think I might be jealous of her,” Orin sighs, “Her sweet paramour is so romantic. Maybe there's something to taking an undead as a lover.”
“Go be disgusting elsewhere,” he hisses. He doesn't want to hear this, but something compels him to stay.
“Last night, he brought her to a cemetery in the Lower City,” Orin continues, “And they made love on his grave. It was sickeningly beautiful.”
“ Orin,” he warns, “ Get out now.”
“If Father would have let me, I would have killed them there,” Orin sighs, “I would have slit his throat while he was atop of her, and while she choked on his blood I would have torn her heart from her chest. I would have left them there in the dirt, naked as babes, for the city to find them.”
He should leave. He should go before he does something very, very stupid.
“I had plenty of time to sneak up on them; he lasted until the sun rose-”
Enver moves without thinking, goes to strangle Orin and slit her throat himself, but she is a viper, and she strikes. His world spins and he's on the ground with her blade to his throat before he can blink.
She's grinning from ear to ear.
“You child,” he hisses up at her, “What do you want? Is it me, Orin, my attention, you so desperately want? Well you have it. Now get off me!”
“She asked you that once,” Orin whispers, “Did you listen to her then?”
All at once, every part of his body grows cold.
“No,” he groans weakly, but it's not an answer to her question.
“Don't look so disgusted,” Orin glares, “My sister was the one you so brazenly forced yourself on. As if I would ever let you touch me.”
He chokes out his next words. “So is that what this is about? What this is all about? Because we had sex?”
“Rather charitable to call it that,” Orin spits, “She was ruined afterwards. How she wallowed and screamed and raged for what you did, what she let you do to her. Pathetic, shameful, weak. It was a tragedy that she was named Father's Chosen, when she wouldn't even cut your filthy hands off. I begged her to let me do it, to help her be renewed, cleansed in your blood, but she made me swear not to. She admired you, and couldn't bear the thought of giving you up. It made me sick.”
Enver feels all the water in his body dry up, and there is no spit, no saliva left in his throat to swallow around. His ears ring as he listens to Orin's confession.
“She loved me,” he tries again, weakly.
“She might have,” Orin snarls, “But we both know there is no room for love, just for us, us Chosen. She fought against it because she loved our father more than she loved you, and you ruined it. Sullied her with your lust. What I did was a mercy . And still, Father bids me to stay my hand. As if she deserves a chance to reclaim her title. I had to rip, and tear, and claw what should have been mine out of her unworthy hands!”
Orin finally moves off of him, and she's on the other side of the room, seething.
He stands up and rubs his neck, pulling his hand away when he feels nothing, no scar, no blood.
“My oath to you both , still stands. My blade will not taste your flesh. I will never know the satisfaction of watching the light leave your eyes. But I will find solace that you will never lay a hand on her ever again.”
Enver decides he's heard just about enough from her.
He pulls a vial of Alchemist Fire from his coat and lobs it at her. She jumps back but not far enough, and she screams as the flames lick her feet.
“Hear this, Orin, that I am tired of listening to your wailing. And I'm not about to let your obsessions ruin what we worked so hard for. It's my mistake, to tolerate you as long as I have. The only pathetic one here is you.”
He throws another vial of Fire at her, forcing her back. His carpet is ruined, his curtains on fire, but he feels no heat. There is only ice in his veins.
“You let petty jealousy get the better of you. All for attention from your exalted Father who didn't love you best. Sickening, wretched creature that you are.”
“ Silence!” She screeches.
“Your precious, weak little sister gave me a vow of her own,” he continues, “She will hunt you and put you down like a dog, and bring your stone to me. We will rule together, and you never had a chance at stopping us.”
“Liar!” she screams, “She promised me your head! In exchange for the child she will betray you and bring me your stone! She promised.”
“We’ll see, won't we?” He grins, finally feeling like he has the upper hand now, “But I think you know as well as I who she would choose.”
“She loathes you,” Orin hisses, “She hates you down to your bones. Before and now. I will have my due, lordling.”
“Get the fuck out of my house,” he snarls, final.
—-
Enver unofficially moves into Wyrm's Rock Fortress, and he never hears from Orin again.