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Beneath the new bloodstained paperweight decorating his table is an innocuous piece of torn parchment.
Clicking his tongue — the guard flinches, as they should — Gortash slides the letter out from beneath the finger and raises it up into the candlelight. Perhaps he should send a return gift. It's only proper decorum to such a close acquaintance after they've gone through the effort of procuring one so very… fresh. Gortash can think nothing better than his lackadaisical staff leisurely picking their noses as an assassin snuck about.
The letter is succinct.
You are invited to witness a ceremony honoring Bhaal's glorious name. It begins at midnight.
'A ceremony' Gortash drawled. How quaint.
Folding the scrap of parchment perfumed with blood, Gortash secreted it into his drawer while debating exchanging valuable time for dinner and a show. Bhaalite blood sacrifices bordered on taboo and grotesque, and posed a very tangible risk of disembowelment. Conversely, it was such a graciously extended hand — in the literal sense, Gortash mused eying the severed limb being carried away by a servant — not an extension of trust in the tender beginnings of their partnership? Why, Gortash would hardly be the first to snub a branch given.
Summoning his bodyguards, they descend first into the bowels of the city.
When there is no following slaughter, Gortash joins them with his rear guard.
Milky white eyes meet his at the open entrance, and from the red streaking over the gray and greenish swirls over her pale skin, the changeling has already partaken in some of the festivities.
"My revered blood-kin awaits you at father's altar." She hisses, jeweled crown softly clinking and gleaming in the dark. "Follow — swift-footed — lordling, lest your twitching throat make it's last gurgling song under my twisting knife."
For a follower of Bhaal, he muses that this must constitute as a warm welcome.
Stone turns red beneath chandeliers of bodies the further Gortash follows the Bhaalist into the temple. Resisting the urge to tut at the plain stone and gore, Gortash focuses his attention ahead as the visible age of the temple grows beneath a crimson light A set of stairs lead down to a ritual circle. Through the red mist, Gortash can make out figures hunched along the walls; their interest in the ceremony hanging heavily in the air. A sacrificial altar sat in the middle already is draped in this evenings lamb. An assortment of corpses fed the hungry grooves within the floor.
In the candlelight stood the Bhaalspawn.
No clothes adorned their form, and despite the dripping knife in their hand it remains clean. The other hand holds a dripping goblet.
Gortash recognizes the corpse on the floor as one of his opposition.
Admittedly, Gortash does see the appeal, admiring the shiny blood on gold and expensive vestments is immensely satisfying.
Unfortunately Bhaalist aesthetics typically fell somewhere between trite and deathly boring.
"Did you start without your guest of honor?"
Burning red eyes bore into Gortash.
"My flock required refreshments for their voracious appetite."
True to his word, the shepherd passes the cup to another's hands; the newly initiated trembling and starry eyed at the demigod at the center of attention. Bowing shallowly, they scamper off into the dark through the fog.
Such admiration is wholly deserved, Gortash would reluctantly confess such under a knife.
His acquaintance may be the one exception to their asceticism; dressed in nothing but white with scarlet peaking through beneath. Bhaal was generous indeed crafting this form of scale, teeth, and spikes; and too wasteful to leave their child to languish underground in filth.
Their burning eyes did not waver from Gortash as they drew closer.
"And your paranoia delayed you."
"You must forgive the discretion; a temple to your father is not the banquet halls I am usually invited to. I hope in the future we may not require such precautions. As partners."
"Yes." There is a thunder in their throat that cracks on their tongue. "We may. I hope we may nurse a deeper understanding of each other once dawn rises"
Spreading their clawed fingers wide The Dark Urge's gesture guided Gortash's gaze towards the altar and the figure tied to it. Simultaneously, it snaps whatever delicate lull the sacrifice had fallen into, waking with thrashing screams.
Recognition settles sweet on Gortash's tongue like a good wine, and he chuckles lowly.
My, he was in a treat for tonight.
Upon the stone, twisted the offspring of the detractor; still adorned in their clerical vestments.
"His Lordship was fond of bragging that his lineage held the blood of divinity." Gortash drawled.
"Three generations removed." The Bhaalspawn confirmed. "It is a suitable vessel for tonight."
No documented rituals ring any familiarity with the word vessel; Bhaal in recent years prefer rivers of blood that only a god on the warpath could wrought to the delicate ritual sacrifice's offered in private. But none the less, Gortash would politely oblige, to further secure his grip upon the Bhaalist's leash.
The undulating dagger is held out to Gortash, which he takes after staring at its stained point for a moment. Bitter poison wafts off the edge.
Uncharacteristically, The Dark Urge turns their back to Gortash.
And they stride up to their prey.
Drinking in the scene, the sacrifice begins to tremble; perhaps knowing their fate more intimately than Gortash did. Indeed, as The Dark Urge leaves deep red lacerations on their thighs as they spread the limbs open with a satisfying popping of bones, they would suffer a horrid fate indeed. Settling inside of them, the first drops of blood dripping down the Bhaalspawn's ample length.
Uncaring of their wails, their hips thrust slowly, ripping more of their delicate flesh open with their organ. It turns surprisingly tender as the cries fade into whimpers. Gortash nearly holds his breath as The Dark Urge's thumbs hover over the sacrifice's eyes.
There is a sickening squelch, a scream, and more crying.
Bloodied holes are carved out of their eyelids; a suppressed shiver runs through Gortash at the shifting iris beneath the gap in the flesh. Gortash muses that it is a shame his business partner detests art with such ferocity, for they possess such precision and care when carving through flesh. The congregation is twitching now, with blood split in the air, but held leashed and silence in the ceremony.
No grunts of pleasure signify their impending release. In fact they do not make a single sound. Other than the blood dying a paler pink between the sacrifice's legs, Gortash would have thought he took no pleasure in the act at all.
The pads of the Bhaalspawn's thick fingers leave scorched and sizzling marks with crackling electricity. The blood between the sacrifice's legs turn pink, despite the fact that The Dark Urge does not still and continues to grind slowly against the whimpering sacrifice.
Stifling his own shuddering breath, Gortash watches as pieces of the sacrifice are ripped away.
As gasps of pain turn to pleasure.
Around them, the glowing relief on the wall turns a deeper shade, almost as if it approved of the display beneath it's gaze.
Beneath The Dark Urge, Bhaal's sacrifice mewls, pliant in the rope bonds.
Meeting his gaze, for the first time since he arrived, The Dark Urge extends a hand to Gortash.
Indignation flares beneath his breast. After a moment of deliberation it is tempered as a necessary sacrifice to their burgeoning relationship.
Feathery touches direct Gortash's hands over the sacrifice's stomach. The significance of such is not lost on him: a Bhaalist and Banite making a bloody mess of an innocent.
Moans grow louder beneath him, but Gortash resolves to ignore them.
He is a professional.
Together they make a pretty puddle out of the cleric, ceasing once their breathing grows shallow and eyes vacant. A silent exhale cues the Bhaalspawn's retreat, an obscene squelch interrupting the silence within the chamber.
"Welcome your new sibling to the fold." The Dark Urge speaks; voice strained. Around him, the followers of Bhaal lurch and twitch toward the sound.
They are hushed as they surround the new initiate, murmuring horrible nothings into their ears, smearing the blood over their ruined eyes. A terrible glint shines beneath their hoods; one that urges Gortash to make his exit swiftly.
"You may leave now. Lest the rest of our ceremonies offend your Banite sensibilities." The Dark Urge says, confirming Gortash's suspicions. "We will speak beneath the next rising moon, together, as allies."
Unable to help himself from smiling, Gortash wipes the blood off his hands on a cloth.
"I look forward to the glorious age we will bring together. As Partners."
"Yes." The Dark Urge blinks slowly. "My partner."