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There were many ways Enver liked to spend a nice summer evening. This wasn’t one of them.
It was supposed to be a simple job, intercepting a shipment of crystals for his Motivators, stealing them from under the nose of an arrogant baldurian businessman who was unlikely to have decent security.
He had miscalculated.
Now they were pinned down on the upper floor of a large warehouse, ducking behind crates with their stolen goods as guards sent arrows and spells their way.
And his bhaalist accomplice was frustratingly calm.
“A little more urgency would be appreciated.” Enver’s tone was sharper than normal, the stress of the situation getting to him. Durge, on the other hand, seemed perfectly calm, flipping a dagger in his hands as he waited for their opponents to come closer. His keen eyes never left the guards, yet he didn’t seem to be in a rush.
“I’ve got it covered.”
“Really? Because I wouldn’t consider the situation covered in any sense of the word.” He ducked slightly as some manner of fire spell burned through the top of his improvised barricade. Durge hadn’t even bothered to counterspell it.
“Even after all this time, you still doubt me.” It would have sounded like an accusation, if not for the amused grin on Durge’s face.
The dragonborn peeked around the corner, finally tucking his dagger into his belt, apparently deciding that their foes were close enough.
Enver knew his companion was slightly mad, but seeing the sorcerer walk directly into the line of fire still startled him. “What the hells are you doing?”
He cursed slightly under his breath as Durge ignored him, preparing to waste more expensive healing potions on the reckless bhaalist.
The bhaalist in question was standing in the center of the room, untouched by the barrage as a shielding spell shone around him.
And yet, he doubled over as if in pain.
Enver watched with morbid curiosity as Durge’s claws sank into the skin on his face and shoulder, splitting it to release what lurked beneath. Sharp spines pierced through skin, a painful sign of what was to follow.
In a flurry of blood and teeth, massive limbs unfolded from the dragonborn’s body, each adorned with a plethora of razor sharp spikes. Four jaws opened in a bone-chilling scream towards the sky, as if the beast was celebrating its momentary freedom. Or perhaps just the bloodbath it was about to create.
The Slayer.
A creature he had read about, but never seen in the flesh. He had thought it a lost magic, destroyed by Bhaal’s fall.
He never suspected that Durge possessed that particular ability.
Enver was granted a reprieve from the assault as the terrified guards aimed their spells and weapons at the most prominent threat, allowing the banite to peek his head out enough to witness the carnage.
The Slayer moved with a speed that seemed almost unnatural for its size. Not that any part of it seemed natural- It was born from Bhaal’s darkest desires, after all. Enver barely had time to register anything but a flurry of claws and flesh, coupled with the last pathetic attempts at resistance from the guards. The creature showed no mercy, reducing the guards to piles of viscera in mere moments. Its limbs dug and tore through bodies with terrifying ease.
And then, as suddenly as it started, the screaming stopped.
The creature was covered in burns and shallow cuts by the time the dust settled, but it didn’t even seem to notice. Enver strongly doubted that there would be even a scratch on Durge when he transformed back- transmutations were handy like that.
Silence permeated the room-turned-battlefield, only broken by the faint sound of the Slayer’s clicking and chittering. It showed no sign of turning back into the Dark Urge’s dragonborn form as it scanned the room for prey.
And then Enver moved.
The debris shifted slightly under his boot, making the Slayer’s attention shift to him in an instant.
He was the only living being trapped in a room with murder itself.
Enver wasn’t easily scared, but he felt a cold wave of fear climb up his spine as the Slayer moved closer.
To his surprise, the creature didn’t leap at him as it had done during its massacre. It approached slowly, like a predator sizing him up. Its massive arms weren’t brandished threateningly, instead padding on the ground as it crept closer, as if it was bringing itself closer to his height.
It was all points and sharp edges, none of it meant for anything but murder. And yet, it approached him gently. He couldn’t know for sure if it was genuine, or simply an attempt to get close enough to skewer him. It hardly mattered, if this thing wanted to kill him there was little he could do to stop it.
If not for the grounding weight of his coat, he was quite certain that his heart would be beating out of his chest.
His hand curled around the flash grenade in his pocket, but he couldn’t bring himself to use it. He had the distinct feeling that antagonizing the beast would destroy any chance he had of survival.
He did, however, question his own decision making as the Slayer finally got to him. It looked even bigger up close, towering over him. He hadn’t even noticed that he was moving until his back hit the wall.
When a large hand came up to hold him in place, it almost knocked the wind out of his chest. It was big enough to almost span the width of his torso, and he was held firmly in place by a claw on either side of his neck. The tail was raised behind it, a dagger-like tip aimed at his head.
He wanted to speak, to try to bargain with the monster, but no words came out.
His hands instinctively tried to pry the claws from his throat, but the Slayer merely lifted a second set of arms to pin his hands to the wall. The hold itself was surprisingly gentle, even as the spiked skin dug into his wrists. And when the horned head finally lowered, it seemed mindful to keep the tusk-like protrusions from piercing skin. He could feel its breath in his hair, irregular puffs that reeked of decay.
It was smelling him.
Enver forced himself to relax, despite every bone in his body telling him to run. Adrenaline coursed through him, making his limbs restless.
The fourth hand gripped his hip tightly, as if to stop him from moving. The Slayer’s movements were clearly carefully measured, subject to the iron grip that Durge had on his urges. Enver had to trust that the Slayer didn’t want him dead. He had to trust that Durge could control himself, even in this form. Moving would just make it harder for the bhaalspawn to keep his lethal limbs away from Enver’s fragile mortal form.
It had never been clearer just how much Durge was able to push his father’s control to get what he wanted.
The thought sent a red hot shiver down his back. He could feel his body reacting, not with fear, but with arousal. Unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome. Enver had always known his preferences were fucked up. His time in the House of Hope had taught him that sex was all about pain and power, but even he had to admit this was a new low.
The Slayer seemed to notice the change, a hollow screech echoing from its chest in a strange imitation of laughter.
When it finally let go, it carefully moved one limb at a time, seemingly all too aware that the slightest movement could spell death for the human. It seemed almost experimental, as if Durge was trying out something brand new. Enver had a suspicion that he didn’t typically hold the reins when the Slayer took over.
The smart thing would be to stay put, to wait for Durge to return to his regular form. But unfortunately, the behemoth presented a far too intriguing opportunity.
Standing before Bhaal’s Slayer, one of the most feared monsters in baldurian history, and knowing it wouldn’t kill you? That was power. And Enver wasn’t ready to let go of that power just yet.
As he moved closer, the creature’s head tilted slightly, as though it was confused by his lack of fear. It backed away further, shaking its head to warn him to stay back.
But it was Enver’s turn to be in control.
“Hold still.”
The Slayer growled, but obeyed. A smug smile threatened to split Enver’s face in half.
His hand lightly traced the contours of the large clawed hand closest to him, examining it in great detail. The Slayer was pure bone and muscle, sinewy tissue with no protective layers.
Deep set eyes followed his every move as his fingers moved to the spikes, and eventually the horns that adorned its head.
The efficiency of its form was fascinating. His mind was brimming with new ideas for his Steel Watch based on this alone.
The rapidly moving tail behind it reminded him that he was on very thin ice, even as the rest of the Slayer’s body was frozen. He wanted to keep pushing. He didn’t usually consider himself a reckless man, but this was intoxicating.
When they had first initiated their alliance, Enver had thought the bhaalist little more than a knife-wielding maniac. And yet, he had managed to surprise him again and again with his brains, his skill and his power . Today was no exception.
“You are magnificent. ”
Even the creature’s tail stilled at that, as if it was confused. He wasn’t sure how much Durge understood while in this form, but he was fairly certain that the Slayer had never been met with anything but fear. It sneered slightly, as if rejecting the positive sentiment.
But then he grew too bold. His hand moved too fast, too close to the Slayer’s throat, and within seconds he was pinned to the floor. His ears rang and he tasted blood in his mouth from where the impact had made him bite his own tongue. His hands clawed at the foot placed on his chest, desperate to free his lungs from the crushing pressure.
Strings of bloody saliva fell onto him as the Slayer’s jaws opened above him, ready to bite down.
His arms flew up to shield his face, bracing for the pain.
And then the pressure suddenly let up, the Slayer’s form swept to the side as if yanked by a leash.
Beside him, panting on the floor, was a blood-soaked dragonborn.
The Slayer’s teeth had left a faint scratch on Enver’s arm.
It had been inches away from biting his head off.
What a thrill .
A sharp laugh escaped Enver as his bruised head fell back to the floor once more, soon followed by a full blown belly laugh. Durge looked decidedly less amused.
“That was stupid.” His voice was still raw. He wiped the remaining viscera off with sharp movements, clearly pissed off.
“Oh, but so very interesting, my dear.” He grimaced slightly as he sat up, the pain in his head blooming through his skull at the movement. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, it hit him like a rampaging rothé. He didn’t even notice Durge approaching until a scaled hand seized his jaw and turned his head painfully, to allow the bhaalist to inspect the wound.
“You got lucky.”
Enver was left to stumble to his feet on his own, only to be met with a potion bottle to the chest. He barely managed to catch it.
It was one of the expensive ones too, pulled from Enver’s own pack. Usually he would have voiced his displeasure more openly, but he had pushed the bhaalspawn far enough for now. So instead he downed the healing potion, feeling the skin on the back of his head knitting itself back together.
Durge could deny it all he wanted, but Enver had felt his hesitation, the way the Slayer had stilled under his touch. Luck had very little to do with it. Durge had kept murder itself from ripping out Enver’s throat.
Durge’s realization that he didn’t actually want Gortash dead was still fairly new, so for Enver to have this kind of influence over even his most feral form, with something as simple as a kind touch…It had to be unsettling.
Not to mention, Enver had compromised Durge’s carefully crafted control, pushing beyond the already stretched boundaries. Durge had almost killed him, and not on purpose. And then he had stopped himself.
Stopped the purest embodiment of his father’s will.
He didn’t envy the bhaalspawn the war that was undoubtedly happening in his head. It was probably best that Enver broke the ice sooner rather than later, lest he wanted his partner to be distracted by religious guilt for the rest of the night.
“That was quite a show. I had no idea you had it in you.”
His casual tone had the desired effect, as the bhaalspawn gave him a withering look.
“I almost killed you.” There was no guilt in his voice, just a statement of fact.
“But you didn’t.”
Durge sneered slightly at his lack of fear. The Slayer was meant to be the ultimate weapon, murder incarnate. For the banite to treat it like any old polymorph was a blow to the bhaalspawn’s ego. Still, Enver preferred an annoyed bhaalspawn over a conflicted bhaalspawn.
“Perhaps I should have.”
Enver’s movements grew bolder, moving closer to the bhaalist. “My dear, we both know you’ll want that privilege all to yourself. I have the utmost faith that you won’t allow anyone else to steal your kill, not even your god-given form.” The appeal to the bhaalist’s personal desires was blatant, hardly a subtle attempt at manipulation, but it was effective. His hands traced a path down Durge’s arm, a mirror of how he had examined the Slayer, until he held Durge’s hand in his own. “You’ll want these hands to kill me. You’ll want to make it last.” As he lifted their joint hands closer to his own throat, he felt Durge’s fingers twitch slightly. “Until it’s perfect, you won’t kill me.”
He said it with such certainty, leaving no room for nuance. He needed Durge to believe it. To believe that the Slayer could be trusted around Gortash. He had sensed a hint of hesitation in the beast, something Enver could grab onto and turn to his advantage. A challenge he was all too willing to take. The thought of Bhaal’s Slayer obeying him as easily as the bhaalspawn himself did… It was intoxicating.
How could he resist?