Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Orin’s belonged to Kallian her whole life.

Oh, but Orin was made to worship her--the purest of all Bhaalspawn, divine flesh of father, perfection neither Orin nor Mother nor Grandfather could ever hope to match. Kallian was there, so she says, to greet Orin the day she exited her mother’s flesh cavity, a mewling, bloody babe. Barely more than a babe herself, Kallian held her and wiped womb-juice from her face, and promised Orin her love.

Kallian’s been everything to her as the two of them grew--sibling, leader, lover, owner. And Orin has moulded herself to be everything to her too, to learn to worship with tongue and teeth, to be bloody dagger and fleshy shield, to split herself open and be sewn back together, to love and honour and obey.

Kallian’s mouth fits perfectly against hers.

Orin glady lets her sibling devour her, mouth wet and warm, spit sweet as blood as she swallows up every breath Orin takes. Hands all over her body, stroking fingers and scratching nails--there is no part of Orin that Kallian does not possess.

Orin’s own fingers twitch at her side, aching to tear layers of respectable, restraining cloth from their bodies, to press flesh to flesh, kin to kin, to melt into Kallian until no one--no slimy, snivelling little lordling--can doubt she belongs there.

Kallian’s pet tyrant is glaring at her still.

He knows, now, how well she and Kallian fit together, that he could never belong to Bhaal’s Chosen the way she does. Orin’s been by Kallian’s side since her life began, and she’ll be here long after the two of them peel back Gortash’s flesh and leave his carcass to rot. 

Before he dies, though, she wants him to know Kallian is Orin’s, as much as Orin is hers. She pulls back from Kallian’s mouth to trail bite marks across her jaw and neck, shifting just slightly to let the lordling see. Her slaughter-kin’s sighs and moans are beautiful as Orin marks her skin as best she can without knives. Perhaps tonight, Kallian will allow that again. Perhaps now she’s shown her tyrant his place, she’ll make him watch as Orin cuts deep, deep enough to arouse but never, never to destroy. Or perhaps she’ll have no use for him at all, reminders of Orin’s love fresh on her skin.

“We’re arriving, Kallian,” Gortash snaps, suddenly. “Moonrise Towers. If you have any interest in the impression you make on Thorm’s people, you might want to reconsider your current behaviour.”

Orin’s lip curls. Let them all see, let them know the Chosen of Bhaal in all her glory.

Kallian pulls away, slipping off Orin’s lap,leaving her bare and wanting. “Well, if you’re going to make such a fuss…” She shakes her head, straightening out her dress. “Honestly, it’s like you’ve never seen kissing before.”

Gortash makes a sharp gesture in response, growling out a spell, and the marks Orin gifted Kallian vanish. “You look presentable. But my spell only lasts an hour. Cover the… that thing up with some makeup by then.”

Orin’s fingers twitch at her side again. The audacity to imagine he can give orders to Bhaal’s Chosen, to dare to bespell her. How she aches to tear him limb from limb. But that is a privilege that belongs to Kallian.

Kallian, who simply smiles indulgently, and chooses him to clamber over to open the travel-box door, looking like Orin’s never touched her at all.

Orin’s going to snap his tendons and slit his belly, she thinks. Then prop him up to watch her fuck Kallian into a mewling mess while he bleeds out.

She follows Kallian out, eager to breathe the air outside Gortash’s mechanical box again. Air that tastes like death, familiar but so different from home. Death in the temple of Bhaal is full of worship, full of passion. Around Moonrise, it feels empty, old and barren. How many deaths have gone to waste here?

“Retrieve my luggage from the trunk,” Gortash is snapping at a guard behind her, the black handprint on its collar marking it one of his own. “Here. Have it delivered to my room.”

“My butler should be arriving with our bags soon,” Kallian says cheerfully. “If you see a withered little fiend in a ridiculous hat emerging from the shadows, don’t kill him. Well, all right,” she continues, before Bane’s guardling can draw breath to respond, “I suppose you can kill him if you really want to. As long as someone collects our luggage.”

Orin wonders idly exactly what Sceleritas’ orders were. Is he to make his way across the Shadow-Cursed Lands on foot, swallowed by shadows again and again and again, stumbling onwards in a thousand new bodies until he reaches them? It might be a pleasing thought, if not for how long it would take for Orin’s equipment to arrive.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” comes Kallian’s voice behind her. “The Shadow Curse, I mean. How many people do you think have died in it?”

Orin snorts. “Too many who might have belonged to Father. This curse kills with no artistry. It takes without meaning.”

“People die every day,” Kallian shrugs. “If we spent all our time being sad that they didn’t do it well enough, we’d never have any time to get on with our own murders. Anyway, I think it’s pretty.”

For all that Orin worships her, she can be so stupid sometimes.

“Well then!” Kallian claps her hands. “Shall we go and meet General Thorm?” Orin’s not expected to respond; Kallian’s set off already, one hand casually tugging at Orin’s hair to pull her after.

Orin follows obediently.

Not a day goes by that Ketheric doesn’t stand before his daughter’s lifeless body and command her to return to him.

She’ll be with him again soon, Lord Myrkul’s promised him. Become Myrkul’s Chosen, return to the mortal realm, amass an army, and assist in a plot to steal a powerful artefact from an archdevil’s private vault. A miniscule price for Isobel’s soul.

The army is small, yet. Balthazar has returned to him with the usual following of ghouls and skeletons, and set to work building lanterns that allow others to travel safely through the Shadow Curse. A wizard arrived on a boat half a tenday back, claiming she’d been personally sent by Myrkul himself. The leaders of the Banite and Bhaalist cults have sent a handful of their followers to assist before their own imminent arrival. With their help, Ketheric has reclaimed Isobel’s body from the mausoleum and brought her back home.

He can’t be angry any longer that for all of Balthazar’s experience with necromancy, he was never able to do anything more than preserve her body all those years. She looks so peaceful, laid out on her childhood bed as if merely sleeping. He feels Myrkul’s power growing each time he stands before Isobel, a steady reassurance running through Ketheric’s body that his lord will keep his word, that once the pieces are in place, she’ll be returned to him. It’s more than he was ever given in a hundred years of worshipping Selûne.

He’s drawn from his recollections by a rap on the door, and leaves Isobel with a kiss to her forehead. He opens the door with a frown--Moonrise’s other inhabitants have all been made aware that he does not wish to be disturbed when he’s with his daughter.

The wizard, Radija, inclines her head. “Forgive me for interrupting, General. Your guests are arriving.”

An acceptable distraction, he supposes. He makes his way to the audience chamber, taking a seat on the throne with Radija at his side. The Bhaalists are already kneeling, heads bowed in reverence at their leader’s approach, while the Banites remain on guard outside.

“Will Balthazar be joining us?” he asks Radija, more out of curiosity than anything else. Once, he might have wished to impress his guests with the powers he could call on. These days, he sees no reason to care for any opinion but Isobel’s.

Radija snorts. “I think he’s still busy looking for ways to persuade pixies to scream a little less. The noise can be irritating, or so I’ve heard.”

Ketheric simply nods in response, more preoccupied with the three figures entering the room; a human, a halfling, and an eerily pale woman whose race he can’t discern and whose presence he’d not been expecting.

“You must be Ketheric!” the halfling says, smiling cheerfully. “It’s so nice to meet you! I’m Kallian. And this is my little sister, Orin.” 

That the Chosen of Bhaal is a halfling, he’d been prepared for. The warm smile and the lavender dress covered in frills and bows is more of a surprise, for a woman who goes by the name Kallian the Black. He thinks he’d prefer her to be dressed in the dark robes of her cultists, painfully aware as he is of how much poison can hide behind a shining facade of beauty and purity. 

His gaze flickers to Orin, standing a pace behind the Chosen, her deep red dress a little closer to what he’d expect from a Bhaalist. Her smile is quick and sharp and despite her milky white eyes, he gets the impression she’s studying him intently.

The Chosen of Bane clears his throat before smiling, striding forward with a hand outstretched. “Enver Gortash. A delight to make your acquaintance at last. We’ve all heard the stories of the great General Thorm.”

Ketheric pauses before reaching out to shake his hand. From what little he’s heard, Gortash is a politician and, looking him over, Ketheric can’t say that that comes as any surprise at all. Judging by what Radija’s told him of the world beyond the Shadow Curse, Gortash’s outfit is probably very fashionable by the appalling standards of the current century, and he has what Ketheric supposes is a level of superficial charm. Despite an air of confidence, the man’s radiating displeasure--perhaps to be expected in a follower of the God of Tyranny tasked with working as an equal partner to his fellow Chosen. Ketheric finds himself taking an instant dislike to him.

“I’m sure you’re all tired, after your journey,” he says. The days when he wasted time on pleasantries are long gone. “I suggest we begin our business in earnest tomorrow. Dinner is at nine.” Provided Balthazar’s skeletons manage to make something edible tonight, in any case. “If you wish to rest beforehand, I’ve had rooms made up for you. Two of them,” he adds meaningfully, before turning to address the Bhaalist followers still kneeling beside him. He’s learned from his correspondence that their leader is a Bhaalspawn, and given how little Orin looks like a biological relative of the halfling’s, he can only assume the same is true of her. “Prepare a room for Lady Orin,” he instructs them.

“Oh, you really don’t need to--” Kallian begins.

“Most kind of you,” Gortash snaps. “My people can show me to my room. I’ll see you all at dinner.” He sweeps out of the room as Kallian smiles at Ketheric apologetically.

“I’m afraid he’s been in a mood all day,” she explains in a whisper loud enough that surely the whole chamber can hear. “I don’t think carriage rides really agree with him.”

“Little does,” Orin adds.

Ketheric just nods in response. Whatever’s wrong with Gortash, he really doesn’t have it in him to care. 

“Master?” comes a whisper beside him. One of the Bhaalists, Horriss, he believes, gazing tremulously up at Kallian. He and his fellows seem to be taking care to kneel below Kallian’s height, Ketheric notes. “The room. Should we…?”

Kallian tuts. “You’re answering to General Thorm while you’re here, remember, not to me. Show him some respect! If he wants Orin to have her own room, you go and make one up for her. Now, Horriss.” She turns back to Ketheric as Horris scrambles to his feet and runs to the door. “Well, it’s been ever so nice to meet you, Ketheric. I should probably go and check on Enver. Make sure he’s feeling quite alright--”

Myrkul’s presence is settling around him. Distantly, Ketheric registers Kallian’s mouth still moving, and Orin’s face twisting into a scowl, her fists clenching. Whatever problems his new allies have, they can settle without him.

The pieces are in place, comes a voice like rattling bones. You’ve done well. And now, she will be returned to you. 

Ketheric doesn’t give the Bhaalists a second glance.

“Well. He’s clearly got somewhere to be,” Kallian says, as Ketheric strides out of the room. “Go and find out what he’s up to? And remember, we’re not killing anyone for now.”

“While you waste time with your pet? What reason would you see him if not to slaughter?”

“We’ve been through this, Orin, and I got the impression that you didn’t want the details.” They sigh. “I’ll see you later tonight. If you can do as you’re told.”

“You’ll see me either way, slaughter-kin,” Orin hisses, glaring at them. But she sets off after Ketheric anyway, disappearing into the shadows, because she does do what she’s told when it’s important.

There’s nothing that Orin won’t forgive them for. Kallian’s spent years pushing and poking to try to find something, but she gladly takes every slight, every demand, every violation as a new challenge, and Kallian loves her for it. Enver, on the other hand… If he’s willing to stay with them after tonight, they’ll be able to keep him as long as they want him. Whether or not he will want to stay is an entirely different question, and Kallian’s been itching to hear the answer since they arrived at Moonrise.

Enver’s fun. He’s a new experience for them--other than Orin, most of their sexual partners spend their time chained up in a corner of Kallian’s room, or one of their favourite little cells. Their fragile little bodies tend to only take so much before giving out--if Kallian doesn’t get bored enough to kill them earlier, that is. If the Absolute plan has any hope of going ahead, Enver needs to live freely for a while yet, so Kallian’s been experimenting playing with his mind more than his body. It’s been rather slow so far, admittedly, but the carriage ride over to Moonrise might have been the most fun they’ve had with a toy in years.

They wait about ten seconds after knocking on Enver’s bedroom door with no response before jiggling the handle, and at least another five before picking the lock.

“You have no shame at all, do you?” Enver snaps, not looking up from the chest of drawers he’s knelt by, shoving his clothes into. “Did you think breaking into my room would improve my opinion of you somehow?”

Ah. That whole ‘insistence on privacy’ thing. “Sorry. I thought that if you actually wanted to keep me out, you’d have pushed something heavy in front of the door, or cast one of those clever little spells of yours. A lock’s practically an invitation!” They edge a little closer. “We do have servants that can unpack for you, you know. If you need some time alone--”

Enver snorts. “I honestly thought you’d wait a little longer before coming crawling back to me.” He looks over at them at last, lip curled in derision. “I don’t know whether to feel flattered or pitying.”

Oh, now this is good. This, Kallian can use. If he needs to feel important, they can provide. Enver always seems happier when he thinks he’s in control.

“I wanted to see you,” they tell him, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

He slaps them, hard--it would be hard even without the metal spikes of his gauntlet--and Kallian moans. Oh, they’ve got to keep him. It’s not as if they struggle with a little bit of pain--Kallian’s dislocated their wrists out of sheer boredom on more than one occasion--but the unpredictability is delicious. Orin can cut them open, but she can’t surprise them any longer. After all these years, Kallian knows her better than she knows herself, and sees every blow coming before Orin even decides to attack.

They lick blood from their lip, where his gauntlet cut into the skin, and flutter their eyelashes. “Why do you think I wanted to share a room with you?”

He doesn’t buy it, eyes narrowing. “So you weren’t planning on sharing with Orin?”

Kallian shrugs. Lying won’t help, now that they’re at the heart of the matter. “Well… it just seemed a bit silly to have three rooms between us all. I suppose I was thinking… you and Orin would have a room each, and I could go where I wanted.” They wait a moment, watching Enver’s frown darkening, before continuing. “I didn’t expect you to be quite this upset that I was seeing someone else. I mean, I’ve read your letters to Mr Peartree--”

He slaps them again. “And I’ve told you to stop reading my private correspondence.” The derision’s back, and the smug superiority, but from the tent in his breeches, Kallian rather thinks he’s enjoying hitting them at least as much as they're enjoying being hit. “You disappoint me, Kallian. I thought you were smarter than to mindlessly let your own sister use you like that. I suppose your father had better things to do than teach you appropriate family boundaries, didn’t he? And your cult’s sick enough to go along with it.”

Kallian’s silent for a moment, tracing a finger over another cut, this one on their cheekbone. He’s not right. If he wants to believe they only love Orin because no one thought to teach them better, fine, he’s very good at being stupid, but he’s not right. Yes, maybe it had helped to grow up in a place that rejected the idea of taboos, maybe they’d become more confident in expressing their love thanks to Sarevok’s encouragements, but all that did was strengthen that love. No matter how they were raised, there’s no possible world in which Kallian wouldn’t want Orin, any more than there’s a world where they wouldn’t want arms or legs or lungs.

Hearing all that, of course, will probably just send Enver further into a mood, so instead they point out, “If I just went along with Bhaalist dogma all the time, I wouldn’t be with you. Father doesn’t approve, you know. I wouldn’t be terribly shocked if he called off the whole plot, if I just went and abandoned Orin for you.”

That actually gets a bit of a smirk out of him. “Hmm. I get the impression that Bane’s not much happier.”

He doesn’t shake them off when they touch him this time, letting them run a hand up and down his arm. “You know, I was thinking I should give you a treat,” they murmur. “I know I upset you in the carriage earlier, and I am sorry, but you handled it ever so well.” With no sign of resistance, they lean in, mouth almost pressed to his ear. “And defying the god of tyranny for me… how can I possibly repay you for that?”

“I have a few suggestions.” He shoves them onto the bed, holding them there. “For one, you put your sister entirely out of your head when you’re with me.”

Kallian licks their lips, keeping their eyes on his. “I think I can do that…” Or at least, they can manage not to mention her.

They let Enver take control, responding to touches and kisses however they think will please him best. He’s working his way down their body slowly, undressing them as he goes. It’s rather boring, honestly--Kallian prefers to get on with things as quickly as possible--but they’re willing to give him this. They know he’s been getting frustrated over never getting the chance to take his time with them, that he’s been waiting for more than a quick, partially-clothed fumble or blowjob. It’s been difficult, finding time to spend together when they’re both so busy. And when Kallian’s been engineering interruptions. But they’re damned if they were going to give him everything he wanted quite so quickly, and in any case, they needed time to work on him to make sure he wouldn’t be scared off by what he’s about to find.

Enver’s kissing his way down their hip when he parts their legs and practically recoils at the sight of Orin’s name carved into their inner thigh.

They blink up at him, innocently. “Is something wrong, Enver?”

He’s staring at the scar with the same horrified intensity he’d watched them kiss Orin with earlier. “How long has that been there?” he chokes out.

Kallian sighs. “Look, it’s a little hard not to think about Orin at all if you’re going to keep bringing her up--”

“It’s hard not to think about her when you let her fucking brand you!” Enver snarls. “How long has it been there? Since before we even knew each other?”

“Enver, please, I know you know the difference between cutting and branding." His face darkens at that, and they continue hastily. “We did them a few years ago. She put her name on me, and I put mine on her.” They stand up on the bed so they can reach to stoke his jaw, pressing their body into his. “If you’re very good, maybe I’ll put my name on you too, eventually.”

Enver swallows. He’s a smart boy, smart enough to know he should be running right now. But proud enough that he doesn’t want to. 

Kallian holds their breath as Enver struggles against himself. And pride wins out. He pushes them back down, shoving his cock into their mouth, and grabbing a fistful of their hair. “Well you’d best find a way to hide it if you want me anywhere near your cunt in future,” he growls, jerking their head up and down. “And keep your knives sheathed unless I tell you otherwise.” He pulls them off him for a moment, letting them gasp for breath. “Nod.”

Kallian has him.

They nod obediently, before they’re quickly shoved back down on his cock. If it makes Enver feel more powerful to let them hold a sensitive organ between their teeth, well, that’s his business.

The experience of having one’s soul pushed back into a long dead body is a more painful experience than some might expect. Ketheric’s own resurrection had felt like a bolt of lightning running through his body, as joints and organs suddenly learnt to move again.  Isobel’s is likely to be more painful still--Ketheric’s bargain was for her to be returned fully, not to share his undead existence with him. At least the weeks spent waiting has given him time to come to terms with that, and to make sure Isobel’s return will be as comfortable as possible. She will awaken in her room, rather than the dusty floor of a crypt, with her father there to support her as he always has.

Ketheric stands over her body, takes a breath he no longer has need of, and lets Myrkul speak through him, his god’s power flowing through him and finally, finally into his daughter.

Isobel’s body convulses, and her eyes fly open.

The muscles in his face move unnaturally, as Ketheric smiles for the first time in decades. He holds out a hand to help Isobel up, though she’s too disorientated to notice, scrambling unsteadily to her feet herself as she stares wildly around.

“Isobel,” he breathes. “My darling--”

“Where’s Aylin?”

Ketheric feels his smile drop away. How long has he waited, just to hear his daughter’s voice again, for her first words to be of Aylin?

“Dead,” he tells her, more harshly than intended. He tries to school his face into a look of sympathy. “Selûne did as little to save her own daughter as she did for us.” He reaches out as Isobel steps back, one hand covering her mouth. “It’s all right, Isobel. I’m here. We’ve got each other again.” He remembers the pain that came with his own disillusionment in the Moon Maiden--even going through a lesser version of that grief must be difficult for Isobel. “I’m here for you. I will always be here for you.”

Isobel sucks in a sharp breath, taking another step back, her eyes darting around the room. It’s just as she left it a century ago, the familiarity a comfort, Ketheric hopes. He’ll have to explain the Shadow Curse and the devastation of Reithwin to her later, of course. But she needs some time to settle in first, time to reunite with her father, time for the two of them as a family--

Isobel barges past him, yanks the door open, and runs for the stairs.

Ketheric stares unblinkingly at where Isobel had stood before him, at where she should still be standing, before rushing after her.

She’s faster than he’d been prepared for--but then, that’s his failing. He’d asked that Myrkul bring her back in the best of health, and Myrkul provided. He’d asked that she be protected from harm, and Myrkul agreed. Even as she disappears into the Shadow Curse, Myrkul’s comforting whispers promise her safety from the shadows. Ketheric hadn’t asked the same for himself. If he follows now, without a moon lantern or a light spell Selûne long stopped providing him access to, he will never reach her.

Ketheric falls to his knees and howls. He sobs until his throat is raw and his face is wet with tears, balls his hand into a fist, punching the ground as hard as he can. The pain fades away as quickly as his skinned knuckles close up, his body accepting no injury, so he tries again and again--

There’s a hoarse cry behind him, and the sound of a body hitting the ground. He spins around to see Orin casually wiping a bloodied dagger on her skirt. One of the lesser Bhaalists lies at her feet, her throat slit.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Ketheric asks, with a calm he absolutely does not feel. He hadn’t felt the same instant dislike towards her as he had towards the two Chosen, but he gets the feeling that may be about to change.

Orin barely glances at him, turning her dagger back and forth in her hand. “It heard your mewling, and ran to investigate. Or did you wish to debase yourself before the cattle?”

Ketheric narrows his eyes. Her words are not entirely without merit. But at present, he has too few followers to let them go to waste without his consent. “I will decide when those in my service are no longer valuable. She may have been of your cult, but your leader agreed, while at Moonrise, your people answer to me.” Although Orin, he’s afraid, may be an exception to that rule. “Now. What are you doing out here?”

“My leader sent me to watch you, to find your secrets.” She smiles, sharply, clearly intending to bait him. “She doesn’t trust you.”

“Did you expect me to be surprised that the Chosen of the god of murder doesn’t trust easily?” Ketheric turns away, looking back into the darkness where he last saw Isobel, wiping his face clear of tears. “Go. Give your report. And tell Kallian to keep out of my business from now on.”

Orin doesn’t respond. A moment passes before he hears the sound of a weapon driving into flesh behind him. She’s sitting on the steps to the tower, the corpse of her fellow Bhaalist pulled into her lap as she forces her knife into its chest.

“Kallian doesn’t want me,” Orin says quietly. “They forget their family with Bane’s lordling in their bed. Stupid, selfish, ugly lordling--” She punctuates each word with a stab. “I’m bloodkin, and they abandoned me for him.” Her bottom lip quivers, and she purses them together, glaring down at the corpse. As macabre an image as it is, Ketheric finds himself suddenly reminded of Isobel as a teenager, adolescent pride refusing to let her father see her cry. 

“My daughter abandoned me,” he says, the words out before he can consider whether he even wants to share this with Orin. “Tonight, and many years ago. She became infatuated with a woman--the daughter of Selûne. Isobel was all I had left, and she took her from me. Even with Aylin gone…” He shakes his head, a lump in his throat again. “I’m sorry, Orin. I hope you never have to suffer the same, with your sister.”

“Sister? No, no, no, not sisters for years.” She shakes her head fervently. “My sibling shares nothing with me now.” 

“Of course,” Ketheric says slowly. He’s learned from their correspondence of Kallian’s… issues with gender. Ketheric’s far too tired, and too old, to have any interest in trying to understand that tonight. Instead, he slowly takes a step towards Orin, gingerly taking a seat next to her. “Do you have any other family?” he asks. “Besides Bhaal.”

Orin nods eagerly. “Grandfather is the greatest of Bhaal’s servants. He taught me to slice and stab and maul.” She smiles dreamily, trailing her knife down the corpse’s body, before her expression sours. “Kallian decreed he could better serve Bhaal away from our temple--his duties keep him apart from me now.”

Ketheric tentatively lays a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.” He hardly wants to begin his partnership with the other Chosen by insulting them--however distasteful he found them both--but the image he’s building up of Kallian is certainly not a pleasant one. And that Gortash would try to separate the sisters further…

Orin hesitates, before shifting slightly, dislodging his hand. “Mother died when I was a child,” she continues, giving another almost dreamy smile--nostalgia, Ketheric supposes. “She watches over me still, every night as I sleep.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” He gives a tight smile. “Isobel used to tell me she felt her mother watched over her too.” Personally, all he ever felt after Melodia’s death had been yawning nothingness, but he won’t begrudge Orin whatever comfort she needs after losing her mother so young.

“I saw your corpse-child. Corpse no longer--how she ran to be free of your grave-keep. Scurrying and sweating and desperate. She shouldn’t--” Orin breaks off with a frown, shaking her head. “You want to see her again, don’t you? Would you like for Orin to show you?”

He can’t dare to hope Orin can do what she claims. “If you have a way to track her… I’d give anything.” He’d forgive her for spying on his conversation, certainly.

“Track her?” Orin laughs. “No, no, Orin can do better than follow her fear-trails.” Her neck twists alarmingly and her figure blurs, and suddenly it’s Isobel sat beside him, giving him a warm, happy smile he hasn’t seen in over a hundred years.

Ketheric inhales sharply, feeling his eyes grow wet again.

“I’m sorry I left, Father,” says Isobel--Orin--her eyes large and contrite. “After everything you’ve done for me--”

“Don’t," Ketheric snarls.

He knows Isobel’s face well enough to recognise the look of hurt that flicks across it before her body twists again, and she’s Orin once more. She turns away from him with a frown, returning to trailing her knife across the corpse in her lap again.

It was an attempt at kindness, Ketheric realises. Clumsy and tasteless, but an attempt nonetheless, and more than he’d expect from a Bhaalspawn. More than anyone save Myrkul has given him in a century.

“I neither need nor want a pale impersonation of my daughter,” he says. He thinks Orin flinches at that--unless she intended a deeper thrust of her knife this time. After a century, he thinks he may be a little inept at kindness himself. He sighs, trying to adopt a more gentle tone. “But I’d appreciate some company, if you’re willing to stay as yourself.”

Ketheric catches a brief smile on Orin’s face as she pushes the corpse off of her, letting it roll away down the steps as she turns back to look at him. “Kallian doesn’t want me. Perhaps I have little need of her, either.”

Chapter Text

Enver Gortash is getting the distinct impression that General Thorm doesn’t like him.

It’s not as if he needs to be liked by his allies, far from it. He can count at least a dozen ‘friends’ who might happily see him dead, should circumstances allow. But from the tales he’s heard of Thorm--the ruthless strategist who wiped out a town he’d once ruled over on a mere whim, his callous refusal of surrender--he’d admired the man and hoped the feeling might grow to be mutual. Judging by the terse answers Thorm’s giving him every time Enver tries to engage him in conversation over their dinner, he’s not making progress.

Kallian, at least, is making up for some of her earlier behaviour by being openly complimentary and flirtatious, an almost constant hand on his arm as she gushes to Thorm about dozens of Enver’s achievements. He suspects it may get grating after a while, but for now he’s enjoying the attention--not to mention the black silk and golden jewellery she’s replaced those hideous pastel frills with. It hardly makes up for Thorm’s coolness but certainly helps ease his vexation at the death glares Orin shoots at him whenever she’s not pushing her food moodily around her plate.

For now, he holds his tongue at Orin’s behaviour--and the blood stains that have appeared on her dress in the mere hours since their arrival. If he’s lucky, he can at least use this to help convince Kallian her sister’s far too savage and unreliable to have any place in their work here. While he suspects her own lust for murder outpaces even Orin’s, Kallian’s kills are careful affairs that always seem to serve some kind of purpose. And, of course, she’s capable of cleaning up after herself, rather than attending important diplomatic meals covered in blood.

“Orin, sweetheart, the potatoes are there for you to eat, not to play with,” Kallian sighs, shaking her head. 

Enver suppresses a smirk--potatoes may not be his primary concern, but he’s pleased to see he’s far from the only one losing patience with Orin. 

“I’m so sorry, Ketheric,” Kallian continues, “may I call you Ketheric? I swear it’s nothing personal! It’s a nightmare, finding food she’ll actually eat. And we’re still working on her table manners.”

“There’s few who don’t struggle to enjoy meals under the Shadow Curse,” Thorm tells her impassively. “I’m not concerned with finding slights where none were intended.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’m enjoying it perfectly well, myself! The chicken’s just lovely.”

Enver winces. He may be yet to work out exactly what it is that does impress Thorm but, from what he’s gathered so far, false flattery is not it. And even a liar as skilled as Kallian can’t make enjoying this dinner sound plausible.

With farms an impossibility within the Shadow Curse and outside trade minimal, most of the food at Moonrise is apparently conjured up by Thorm himself, as tasteless as conjured food ever is. While he’s treated them to the last of his outside supplies, he did not, apparently, make the effort to procure anything fresh. Enver feels like the child scavenging stale bread from round the back of bakeries after his parents didn’t have enough food to go round again. Which is not improving his mood, now that he thinks about it.

“Perhaps we can find a cleric to induct into our little cult, and have them summon up a proper feast to celebrate our partnership.” He smiles, hoping to ease the tension growing around them. “I don’t suppose there’s any still hidden away in the Shadow Curse somewhere after that battle of yours?”

Thorm’s face immediately darkens. “No,” he snaps. 

A sore spot, apparently. Well, he did die in the battle, Enver supposes. He ignores Orin’s snort of laughter, and Kallian’s comforting squeeze of his arm, making a mental note that this is the most emotion the General’s shown all evening. “Very well,” he says, shrugging. “If you want to spend the rest of your life--sorry, unlife-- eating tasteless dross, you’re welcome to it.”

That one Thorm doesn’t rise to, simply grunting as he goes back to his meal.

Orin, on the other hand, has unfortunately taken interest, smiling slyly over at him. “If it’s fresh meat you desire, I can share some with you, lordling. I butchered a squealing little piggy mere hours ago--”

“Oh, so it was right after I told you not to kill anyone then?” says Kallian, her eyes flashing dangerously. “I know Ingrid the Cleaver looked delicious, but I’m not rewarding you for going against my wishes, especially when you know she was here to serve Ketheric--”

“Orin acted on my instructions,” says Thorm.

Kallian looks about as surprised as Enver feels, as Thorm calmly continues on. “I decided Ingrid would serve me better as one of Balthazar’s legion. I trust it won’t be a problem. You did agree, your people are mine to command while they’re here.”

Kallian’s silent for a long moment, before giving a sunny, and almost certainly fake smile. “Of course, Ketheric! Well, in that case, will you mind awfully if we take some of the flesh for ourselves? It’s just the bones that Balthazar needs, isn’t it?”

“Do as you wish,” says Thorm, returning to his meal.

“Personally, I’m expecting to get the people I loaned you back intact,” Enver tells him. “If you’re expecting this alliance to be successful.” Not that he sent anyone even remotely significant to serve Thorm--he barely remembers their names--but he has no intention of being walked over. Maybe showing he’s more than willing to stand up to the man will impress him, since he seems so uninterested in any form of cordiality.

“Very well,” is all Thorm says in response, not even looking up.

“He’s not very easy to get along with, is he?” Kallian whispers in Enver’s ear, as if she’s heard his thoughts. “Don’t worry, I still think you’re terribly impressive.”

He rolls his eyes at that, but doesn’t object when she gives him a quick peck on the cheek before jumping down from her chair, clapping her hands together. “Well, I’ll go and see if I can make something tasty out of poor Ingrid then! Oh, and Ketheric,” she turns to him with a wide smile, “just so there’s no silly misunderstandings in future, I want to be clear that my sister isn’t some simple lackey for you to boss around.” She clicks her fingers, turning to the door. “Heel, Orin.”

Orin, Enver’s disgusted to see, can’t run after her fast enough.

Orin sprawls out across Kallian’s bed, idly flicking her knife between thumb and finger as she waits for her sibling to finish carving up their meal and return to her. Thorm had apologised for the lack of halfling-sized furniture, but Orin scarcely remembers the last time she found a bed so comfortable. It’s a rare, unwanted occasion that she sleeps in a bed of her own, spending most of her nights with her legs curled up and cramping underneath her to fit into one made for halflings. While any discomfort is worth being the only one who gets to share Kallian’s sheets, she finds she’s enjoying the novelty of being able to stretch out.

“Well, lunch tomorrow should have a little more taste!” Kallian remarks, as they finally return. “Although I do wish you’d eat a few more vegetables.” They look Orin over, smiling appreciatively when they see she’s already thrown off the layered, constricting respectable clothing Kallian had insisted she wear today. “Ready for me already, I see,” they purr, beginning to shed their own cloth-trappings.

“Let me,” Orin begs, crawling over to help.

“Just don’t rip anything,” Kallian says, raising their arms to let Orin pull their dress from their body. “It might be hard to find new clothes around here.”

Orin nods, pushing Kallian down as she pulls quickly at their smallclothes, eager to press their flesh together.

“Oh, and you’re not to leave any more marks tonight,” Kallian adds casually, as if their body isn’t covered in Orin’s scars, as if they don’t wear their tyrant’s bruises on their face tonight, as if they’re not giving their plaything more than they’re giving to their sister.

Orin rolls her eyes and then bites down, hard, into Kallian’s shoulder, and digs her finger into the cut the toy left on their cheek--it needs to be hers, as Kallian is hers, and hers alone.

Kallian hisses, their knee connecting with Orin’s stomach as their face darkens. “I’m not joking, Orin,” they snap as she doubles over.

“Neither am I, slaughter-kin.” Orin grabs for her knife, discarded on the bed beside them, to hold to Kallian’s breast. Her master they may be, but there are days when Orin wins, lays Kallian out whimpering before her like a sacrifice to Father, days when Kallian looks at her like Orin’s made to worship too. And as much as she hopes Kallian fights back, the two of them wrestling until the sheets are bloody beneath them, tonight she wants their acquiescence, their submission, their worship even more.

“Sceleritas!” Kallian calls, ignoring the blade nicking at her breast, and they’re cheating, the fight needs to be between them and Orin alone--

“No! No butler, no others, you can’t--!”

“You called, Master?”

Orin screams with rage as the butler appears behind her, jerking her blade down into Kallian’s chest, the wound clumsy and shallow in her anger.

“Get my people!” Kallian snaps. “Orin needs to learn how to behave again!”

It’s not fair. Kallian is supposed to be her lover tonight, before she is Chosen of Bhaal. Their games are not for others to play, she hasn’t needed the correction of Kallian’s servants in years, she’s done nothing tonight but ask that Kallian love her. She’s blinking back tears as she rounds on the butler, driving the knife into him, too.

“Really, Orin!” Kallian snaps. “I thought that might be enough to--Oh, die quicker, Sceleritas!” Their own knife is in their hand, they finish the butler quickly, kicking his body to the side, before turning to Orin, one hand pressed to their wounded chest. “Now, it’s up to you how much you have to be punished when the others arrive--”

Orin lunges at them. “If I’m to be punished, let me earn it!”

Kallian’s wound makes their dodge clumsy and slow; Orin collides with their shoulder. She smiles--their bruises will match later--as Kallian tugs at her hair.

It’s a feeble attack; Orin laughs until she realises it’s intended not to hurt, but to pull hair free of the plait Kallian braided this morning, disrupting her vision, disrupting the way her hair matched theirs. She shrieks, swinging her dagger wildly as she pushes head-strands from her eyes. 

“Oh, you’ve more than earned it!” Kallian tells her, using Orin’s distraction to find a defensive footing. It’s of no matter--Orin’s bigger, unbloodied, the advantage is still hers. “I was planning to be nice tonight, but if you’re going to be such a brat…”

Orin has no need for Kallian’s niceness, she prefers the way their daggers clash, naked skin bruising and bleeding as Kallian bites and Orin scratches, the kicking and spitting and panting and sweating and slashing and screaming and bleeding and bleeding and bleeding--

She's almost forgotten her promised punishment before the underlings arrive, led by a Sceleritas in a brand new body, still whimpering and wailing at Orin’s disrespect. They fall upon her on Kallian’s orders, and she screams and spits as her knife is pried from her hand, a mass of flesh pushing her back down on the bed.

“Keep her legs wide open, Horriss, Vrylda. And M’alice, I did not give you permission to touch that.” Kallian snatches Orin’s knife back from her creature’s hand, caressing the blade as they should do her, looking down to where she thrashes and screams.

“That’s enough, Orin,” Kallian snaps. “We’re guests here, remember? You can’t go disturbing everyone with your little tantrums like we’re at home!”

She could do. If he heard her screams, she thinks Thorm might even help her--should Orin want that. But Gortash, if he knew, would care only for Orin’s humiliation, and has already taken far more today than she was willing to give. She quiets herself, instead baring her teeth and glaring up at the creatures holding her limbs.

“Good,” says Kallian, clambering onto the bed to kneel between her legs and turning Orin’s knife back and forth, watching the way it glints with their own crimson. “Remember, this is only happening because you couldn’t behave, and displeased Bhaal. Do try to keep quiet now, there’s a good girl.” They plunge the blade into Orin’s cunt.

Orin can’t help but cry out as she’s sliced open, her body wracked with agony, world narrowing to nothing but pain. Her vision blurs and darkens, voices drowned out by her own sobs and the rushing of blood in her ears, everything fading away but the pull of the knife forcing into her body, in and out, in and out, in and out…

She’s jolted back to consciousness by syrupy sweetness hitting her throat, coughing and spluttering on the healing potion Sceleritas forces into her mouth.

“There we are!” Kallian says brightly, with another thrust of the knife. “It doesn’t count if you just sleep through your punishment.”

The potion burns at Orin’s throat, struggling down between her sobs. She clenches her fists in the bedsheets, tries to focus her body and find the energy to shift, to stretch herself open were Kallian’s turned flesh into fissure, to keep her organs in place as her even as her blood paints the sheets beneath her.

“I was going to give you pleasure, tonight,” Kallian murmurs, roughly swiping their free hand through Orin’s folds and coming away sticky with blood. “But I do enjoy how much better you are at taking pain.” Their fingers go to rub their own flesh-button, stroking their skin with the slick of Orin’s blood.

She watches, between clouds of fog and further potions forced into her throat, as Kallian stretches themself open and eases down onto the hilt of the knife they still hold inside Orin. They let out a low moan as they begin to ride it, the force of it twisting the knife to tear open the raw flesh only just sewn closed by the latest potion. 

Distantly, Orin wonders at the value of the potions Kallian’s used merely to keep her breathing and aware tonight, at how high her worth truly is. Certainly, no one else gets this, not the pitiful pets Kallian keeps chained to their walls, not the underlings watching on in envy, not the tyrant they cast aside in their sister’s favour tonight. This is Orin’s alone, and she howls with gratitude for it.

Time fades with all else, Orin cannot say how long she lies with blood pooling round her legs, walls torn wide again, again, again for Kallian’s pleasure, throat convulsing through snot and tears and sickly sweet medicines. When finally, Kallian tosses their head back, body convulsing as they come apart, Orin can only hope it’s enough to satisfy them.

Orin whimpers as Kallian at last pulls the knife free of her and takes a long slow lick of the blade. 

“Out, all of you,” they order. Orin’s limbs are finally released from bruising grips as their underlings scurry to obey. She tries to pull herself up, her body clumsy and tired and disobediently shaking now it has its freedom, but Kallian’s hand on her shoulder prevents her from moving. “Not you, lambkin,” they say gently. “You rest, now.”

Orin whimpers in relief, collapsing back down as the underlings depart, leaving her alone with Kallian again. “Hush now,” Kallian murmurs, brushing back a loose strand of hair and wiping tears from Orin’s face. “You did so well for me. Here, why don’t you clean your knife off?”

They hold it up for her, let her carefully lick it clean of her blood, and reverently suck the hilt of Kallian’s juices. “See, you can be good when you want to.” They stroke her hair, tucking strands back into her plait, making them match again, between kissing her face clear of tears. 

Orin simply lies bonelessly, exhaustion taking hold. 

“Father and I are so proud of you. I know it’s hard, adjusting to a new place, but I’m here with you. You’ll stay with me tonight, won’t you?”

It’s all the permission Orin needs. She nods, too tired and aching to find words, and settles into Kallian’s blood-wet sheets, smiling as she drifts to sleep to the sound of her sibling murmuring sweet praises in her ear. 

Having to work with Bhaal and Bane’s Chosens is doing nothing to improve Ketheric’s opinions of them.

Gortash sways between seeming desperate for his approval, and pitiably determined to prove he’s the most important person here. Kallian keeps up a grating facade of pleasantness from where she’s draped herself across Gortash’s lap--Ketheric has long since given up trying to question the professionality of that.

The two of them at least seem reasonably competent at what they do, at the very least. They’ve each spent years ruthlessly running their cults, have already performed one successful raid on a devil’s fortress in hell itself, and seem confident in their ability to charm a colony of illithids to their cause. (Ketheric, personally, has a lot less confidence, but is hardly going to mourn them in the case of failure.) If he were younger, if he still cared about anything but Isobel, he might even be impressed. But, as Kallian’s recount of the House of Hope raid trails off as she gets distracted kissing Gortash’s jaw, Ketheric doubts there’s any amount of competence that can make up for having to watch them.

He coughs politely, and then a little more forcefully as they continue to ignore him.

“Apologies.” Gortash smirks, finally pushing Kallian’s face away from him. “You’re actually rather lucky Kallian lasted this long before getting distracted. And still awake, too! I’m a little jealous, honestly.”

“Sorry!” Kallian adds cheerfully. “But we have been talking a very long time! I hoped we’d be getting a tour of the illithid colony by now. I’ve never seen a real mindflayer before, and the pictures make them look so fun to vivisect!”

Gortash snorts. “Personally I’d prefer a little more preparation before walking into a mindflayer colony. As fetching as I’m sure you’d look sprouting tentacles, darling, it might disrupt our plans somewhat.”

“Gortash and I can manage without you, if you’re in need of a break,” says Ketheric. One of them at a time might be more bearable in any case. And then there’s his concerns about Orin. He hesitates. He has no desire to get caught up in anyone’s personal business… but if he can gently let Kallian know now that her behaviour is harming her family, there’s at least a chance she can fix things before the problem spirals. If that means he ends up bearing witness to fewer public displays of affection himself, all the better. “You could spend some more time with your sister,” he suggests. “It’s always a tragedy when a family is torn apart. I wouldn’t want our project to be the cause of that.”

His suggestion seems to take the two of them entirely by surprise. “What’s Orin told you?” Gortash asks, something almost like fear in the edge of his voice, before disdain overtakes it. “I doubt it’s the truth, whatever she said.”

Kallian looks to be mulling the situation over--and not reacting in the slightest to her lover branding her sister as a liar. She smiles, suddenly. “Well, if you insist, I suppose I simply must go and spend some time with Orin.” It sounds somehow like a threat.

Gortash’s arm tightens around her waist. “Listen, Thorm--Ketheric. I’m telling you this as a kindness. Any… issues between Kallian, Orin and myself are no business of yours, and I sincerely doubt you want to involve yourself. Drop the subject, and we can return to our work. And if I were you, I’d reconsider spending any more time with Orin in future, for your own sake.”

It’s enough to give Ketheric the impression that there is more going on than Orin’s told him, and that getting further involved will get him caught up in their personal business. But seeing Kallian sit impassively in her partner’s lap, not saying a word in Orin’s defence as he slanders her, is enough to make him seethe.

“If we’re to work together--if Orin is to be a part of our alliance--I am within my rights to ask you to work out those issues before they interfere with our masters’ plan. I should at least be made aware of what those issues are.” He thinks back to Orin’s jealousy over seeing Gortash and Kallian together, wondering if perhaps he misunderstood the root cause of that. “Did you bed Orin before moving on to Kallian?”

He knows immediately that he’s guessed wrong--Gortash physically recoils with a look of disgust as Kallian doubles over in laughter, grasping at his shirt to keep from falling off his lap.

“Really, Enver!” Kallian gasps. “I know we weren’t exclusive, but my own sister! How could you?” She slaps a hand over her heart, howling with laughter.

Gortash grimaces, finally shoving her off his lap, roughly enough that Ketheric might be concerned under any other circumstances. “No. I can assure you that I’ve never had the slightest iota of interest in Orin, due to possessing concepts like taste and sanity. I can’t imagine how broken a mind would have to be to see anything to be attracted to in her.”

“He’s terribly cruel, isn’t he?” Kallian tuts, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes as she stands up, apparently no worse for wear. “And he calls Orin a liar!” She shakes her head. “Can you believe it? Orin’s beautiful! Anyone would be lucky to bed her! Don’t you think so, Ketheric?”

At least she’s finally defending her sister, he supposes, but her choice of words is making him distinctly uncomfortable. “At my age, I pay little attention to the looks of young women.” In all honesty, he’s barely paid attention to the looks of any other woman since meeting Melodia, but neither of the other Chosen have earned the right to hear about his wife.

“Really? Well, it’s your loss,” Kallian shrugs. “Enver’s too, I suppose!”

Gortash grimaces. “Yes. Our loss.”

Ketheric’s yet more certain that there’s something he’s missing, after this whole peculiar interaction. And while he can’t fathom what that might be, Kallian’s inconsistent affection for Orin--not to mention her controlling behaviour at dinner last night--have him wondering whether it might be for the best after all that the sisters are spending less time together.

“I think our business is concluded for now,” he says. “A word in private, please, Kallian.”

Gortash frowns at him. “I warned you, Ketheric, don’t involve yourself in this. It won’t end happily for you.”

“I don’t take kindly to threats, Gortash. Now leave.”

“It’s not a threat, it’s a warning.” Gortash snorts, rising to his feet and dusting down his ridiculous coat. “Fine. Enjoy your conversation.” He pauses at the door, lip curling in disdain. “Oh, and because I wouldn’t want you to be missing any important context that Kallian might not consider necessary--”

“Enver,” Kallian hisses warningly.

“I’m not the one sleeping with Orin. She is.”

The slamming of the door behind Gortash reverberates in Ketheric’s ears almost as much as his words, as everything about Kallian and Orin starts to make a horrifying amount of sense. He’d compared Gortash to Aylin--an outsider callously tearing a family apart in pursuit of his own shallow desires. But it’s Kallian who’s the threat, Kallian who's the corruptor, defiling a young woman who can’t see beyond a pretty face to her own destruction.

Kallian hums thoughtfully, sitting herself back down in Gortash’s chair. “I didn’t actually expect him to tell you that, you know. He does like pretending he’s my favourite.”

Ketheric stares at her. “You’re not even going to try to deny it?”

“Should I?” Kallian shrugs. “Enver’s right, this really isn’t any business of yours. Honestly, it’s barely his business.”

“You disgust me,” Ketheric tells her plainly. “While you’re in my home, I will not allow you to continue your abuse of your sister.”

“That’s nice, but once again, this is none of your business. I love Orin, and she loves me. Your opinions--”

“You think what you’re doing is love?” He shakes his head. Whether Kallian understands the perversity of her actions makes little difference to the outcome. “I pity you, Kallian. I pity Orin still more.”

Kallian’s fists clench. “Well, thank you. Does that help you feel better about your failings with your own family? Because it seems to me, when family really loves each other, they don’t run away to hide in a curse rather than talking to each other.” She smiles, sharp and triumphant. “Orin told me all about your little reunion, by the way. Because whatever you might want from her, she’s loyal to her family.”

Ketheric’s on his feet in an instant. “Isobel will return to me! You have no idea--” He takes a deep breath, composing himself. “Don’t attempt to lecture me on family when you’d separate Orin from her grandfather, for nought but your own sick purposes.”

He thinks Kallian might actually look hurt for just a second, but it’s quickly replaced with a look of rage. She looks, he thinks, the way he felt, when she dared mention Isobel. “I did that,” she says slowly, something in her voice quivering, “I did that because he was trying to fuck her.”

It takes Ketheric a moment to digest that. Since his return from the grave, meals have been tasteless, nothing more than a source of nourishment he must diligently consume. He thinks he might skip his dinner today, in any event. “Your whole family is twisted,” he tells Kallian at last.

“Oh, probably!” Kallian smiles, suddenly cheerful and uncaring again. “I mean, it’s not as if he’s a bad lay, and certainly very instructive when I was younger, but, well…” The smile freezes on her lips and he notices her fist is still clenched hard enough that her knuckles have turned white. “I don’t appreciate being in competition for Orin’s affections. With anyone. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and find something to kill.”

Once again, Ketheric’s left to the sound of a slamming door and horror gnawing at his insides.

Orin track-treads across Moonrise, learning the tower’s secrets as best she can. It’s as stale-sad inside as out, crumbling rooms left abandoned for far longer than Orin’s lived. She lingers only briefly in the private chambers--Thorm may not be so forgiving as last night if she’s found digging through his secrets again. She will not risk his wrath digging through the dry bones and dryer papers of the wife and daughter.

She focuses instead on Moonrise’s inhabitants, shifting to one of her favourite forms, a giant centipede that skitters and scuttles between shadows. She finds herself carefully avoiding Kallian’s own people--spying on them is unnecessary when they already belong to Bhaal. And Orin doesn’t need to hear if their thoughts remain on her punishment last night. They were only ever able to touch her with Kallian’s permission anyway, and the opinions of her father’s chattel mean nothing to her.

The Banites are as dull as their master, failing to notice the monster in their midst, and their conversation bores her more than Thorm-daughter’s hidden love letters. She searches their minds instead--she cannot delve and burrow as a full doppelganger, but she can find the feelings sparking at the surface of their mind-matter. Apprehension at the curse which surrounds them. Pride over its position in its silly, worthless sect. Longing for home, for bright skies, for flavoured food, for nothing interesting. Orin moves on to find Myrkul’s underlings.

She finds her way through cracked walls, following the comforting scent of viscera, to where the corpse-wizard works, muttering spells over mewling, broken pixies. She watches with appreciation at how proudly he wears his stolen, stitched-up flesh, how he smiles as his pixies scream. She thinks she might like him.

“I can allow an audience, but I do dislike people going through my things without permission,” he muses after several minutes of work. “If anyone were to attempt that, it would call for… reciprocation.” He smiles, carefully plucking the wing from a pixie. “My ribs came from a Bhaalspawn, you know. I’d gladly take the opportunity to add to my collection.”

Oh, she definitely likes him.

Orin watches for a while longer before returning to her room, and her own form. She takes out her knife--sharpening, cleaning, polishing, making it hers again--as she waits for Kallian to be through with their meeting, to return to her.

The knock on her door a few minutes later cannot be Kallian--they waste no time on formalities when they can simply take what is theirs. Her fingers curl around her knife--she may be forbidden to kill for the moment, but if any underling is fool enough to seek her out, they will know she is still to be feared.

“Orin?”

Her grip loosens at Thorm’s voice, though she will not drop her blade for him. He means her no harm, she thinks, but whatever he does want, she doesn’t know that she can give.

“We need to speak. May I come in?” Reaching out with her mind again, she can sense fear, trepidation, a hint of disgust. Good--nothing that need worry her.

“You fear Orin so much you need permission to enter your own rooms, overlord?” she calls back, a smile on her lips. 

“I wouldn’t disturb you,” he says, pushing the door open at last. “But I’m concerned--” He breaks off as his eyes fall on her, widening as they take in her latest flesh carapace. “What happened to your clothes?” He tenses, eyes narrowing. “Does Kallian make you wear that?”

Orin snorts. “I brought my ugly travel-trappings only at her insistence. This is my creation. Kallian copies and imitates and tans her skins too stiff.”

“So you don’t have anything else with you?” He frowns, shaking his head. “You’re around Isobel’s size. I’ll find you some of her old clothes.”

Orin bites back a sneer. “My flay-skins suit me better.”

“You’ll freeze,” Thorm tells her firmly. “Even in midsummer, heat barely breaks through the Shadow Curse.” He moves to sit stiffly on the bed beside her. “I’m concerned for you, Orin. I’ve heard… troubling things about your relationship with your sis--with Kallian.”

“I love Kallian,” she tells him immediately, crossing her legs over the nagging sting she still feels deep inside her. “Why? Does the tyrant try to turn you against us?”

“Kallian told me herself that the two of you… about your relationship. She’s your family, Orin. You shouldn’t… Her behaviour towards you is wrong.”

She’d hoped Thorm might understand. She’d thought he knew what it was to love family deeply enough to be incomplete without them.  

“Perhaps Myrkul’s sheep have no time for love,” she says, pleased how he flinches at that. “Bhaal does not let taboo disrupt worship. Kallian and I are but extensions of Father’s flesh; to worship him is to worship Kallian, to worship myself.”

“You sound like Isobel,” Thorm mutters, almost to himself. Even so, she might gut him if he compares her to his daughter--running, hiding, deserting in all her sick-sweet purity--again. “I’ve seen how love can be used to corrupt,” he tells her. “I’m concerned--”

They both jump as the door swings open. Normally, Orin would not admonish herself for failing to hear Kallian’s approach, but seeing the way they hold themself, every muscle tensed and frenzy in their eyes, there was clearly no silent sneaking this time.

“Orin, love, you would not believe the people I have to work--” They cut themself off as they spot Thorm. “Get out.”

“Orin and I were speaking,” he says, a low threat in his voice. “And I have no intention of leaving her alone with you.”

Kallian snorts, raising their eyebrows as they share a look with Orin.

She gives them a simple shrug--whatever Thorm’s game here, it will not be her burden to carry.

Kallian gives a shrug of their own as they shut the door behind them, approaching the bed. “Fine. I hope you don’t mind an audience then, Orin. Clothes off. Now.”

Orin offers Bhaal a silent prayer that Kallian won’t want her flesh-channel again, still raw and stinging after last night. But she knows better than to argue when they’re not alone.

Thorm’s on his feet, eyes flicking to Orin in horror as she begins to remove her flesh carapace, then hastily away from her. “You don’t have to do this!” He glares at Kallian. “You can’t force her--”

“I have absolutely no intention of forcing her! Orin, sweetie, could you ask your friend to be a little quieter, please?”

Orin thinks Thorm actually snarls at that, as she pulls herself free of her clothing and takes her place kneeling before Kallian.

Thorm turns back to glare from the door. “Consider yourself lucky, Kallian, that my loyalty to Myrkul outweighs my disgust for you.”

He says nothing else to Orin before he leaves. Perhaps he’s realised that this is exactly where she wants to be, capturing Kallian’s lips in her and pulling their body closer. Or perhaps he’s realised that this isn’t the same corruption that took his daughter. That Orin’s corruption, like Kallian’s, comes from inside, as much a part of her as bones and sinew and the blood of Bhaal himself. That there’s nothing he could say that would ever let either of them escape it.

Chapter Text

The Moonrise operation is growing slowly yet efficiently under Enver’s guidance. He’s finalised trade arrangements with the Zhentarim, completed the blueprints for his steel watcher designs, and made full preparations for the Mephistar raid happening in a tenday.  He’d never expected the prospect of returning to the Hells to put him in such a good mood, but with the Crown of Karsus almost within his grasp, he finds he’s actually excited for it.

And after weeks in the Shadow Curse, he’s pleased to be returning home to Baldur’s Gate, however briefly. Almost as much as Baldur’s Gate is looking forward to having him back, judging by the brief missives he’s received via sending stone. The parliament of peers is missing his advice just as much as he’d planned them too, and he can count half a dozen patriars who’ll be willing to hand over whatever he asks in return for him solving the problems he set up for them before his journey to Moonrise. It’s remarkable how many families have found themselves victims of blackmail within the past few weeks.

He’s trying to work out if he has enough time to fit a visit to the Iron Throne to run a few new experiments into his schedule when Kallian barges into his room, having seemingly given up on even a token knock before entering.

“I have such a good idea for your next invention,” they say by way of greeting. “You should find a way to make blood easy to write with, without it getting all coagulated and stuck in the quill.” They wave a piece of parchment smeared with dried blood in the vague shape of letters at him. “I mean, look at this! Wait, don’t. It’s private Bhaalist business.” They hastily snatch it away again, folding it back up. “Orin and Sceleritas will start throwing fits if they know I showed you.”

Nevermind that he can barely read their handwriting when they’re not attempting to use blood, and the mess they just showed him may as well be in cipher. He can’t say he doesn’t appreciate the confirmation of just how nonchalantly they’ll give up their cult’s secrets to him.

“The point is,” Kallian continues, “I can’t get any more blood out of that nice little scribe you brought in without him passing out again, so I need a way for it to stay fresh and, well, writable for longer.”

“A fascinating concept. Though I think the invention you’re searching for might already exist. I believe it’s called ink.”

Kallian sighs. “Well, if you want to be boring…”

“If you want to be exceptional, you’re going to have to learn to find a way around your limits, my dear. Preferably without doing my scribe any further injuries.”

“He’s fine! He still has all his limbs and everything!” They shove their parchment into a pocket, before climbing into his lap. “I’m tired of writing now, anyway. What are you doing?”

“Debating new experiments to run on some test subjects of mine.” He smirks. “I believe you’re familiar with my prison, the Iron Throne? Remarkable structure. Previously owned by one Sarevok Anchev. Now entirely by me.”

Kallian rolls their eyes. “Yes, Enver, you’re better than everyone else I’ve ever slept with. Tell me about the experiments!”

“You’ve slept with--” Why even ask, he thinks with a grimace. “Of course you have.”

“Of course I have,” Kallian snaps, suddenly sharpness and venom. They exhale slowly, a stiff smile forcing itself back onto their face. “So. The experiments, darling?”

“Right.” That was certainly an interesting reaction, but Enver has no more desire to discuss Kallian’s many incestuous relationships than they currently seem to themself. “Perhaps you’d care to guess the outcome of a previous test of mine? I’m still surprised by the results myself."

Kallian perks up at that. “Ooh, a quiz?”

“If you like. I brought in a group of twelve adults and twelve offspring, and subjected the offspring to a series of increasing physical and psychological tortures. The parents were forced to watch, and told they could end their children’s suffering, at the cost of their own lives. What percentage of the adults do you think took their lives?”

“Oh, I bet it was loads! Lots of people really care about their children, you know. Seventy five percent? Maybe even eighty? Yes, if you were surprised, I’m going with eighty!”

Enver smiles ruthfully. “One hundred. One hundred percent of parents died to spare their children any pain.” He’s speaking through gritted teeth, he realises.

“One hundred?” Kallian shakes their head. “That seems improbable, doesn’t it? Did you, I don’t know, only pick up clergy from the temple of Ilmater or something? I mean, I know I said a lot, but all of them? Can you run it again?”

“A waste of resources, without significant cause to believe my earlier results were flawed.” Without cause to believe that every parent in the world loved their children more than--

“Ooh, I’ve got it!” Kallian claps their hands together. “Get parents with multiple children! And put in a lever for every child, and tell them they only get to kill one. Wait, no, only get to spare one.”

“Thus forcing them to acknowledge they have a favourite,” Enver says slowly. “And if I test each subject separately, I can lie about which child is connected to which kill switch.” The parliament of peers, he decides, can go hang themselves. This is an experiment he’s got to make time for.  “I knew there was a reason I liked you, my dear.”

Kallian laughs. “Oh! This reminds me of a lovely little tidbit I discovered recently. I mean, I know I shouldn’t gossip, but the digging I had to do to find this out! And Orin was no help whatsoever. I think she’s sulking. I should probably check on her, after I’m done with you. Oh, but I wanted to organise a team building exercise, because it feels like no one here gets along. You could tell you people to mingle more, you know--”

“Mmm. This lovely tidbit. Were you planning on telling me what you found at any point in the next hour?”

“Oh! Right! Well! You know about Ketheric’s wife?”

“The blessed Melodia, mother of perfect Isobel.” Enver rolls his eyes. “Yes. I don’t think I could avoid hearing about her if I tried.”

Kallian presses a hand over their smirk. “Oh, no, sorry. I meant his first wife.”

Enver feels his eyebrows shoot up. “No,” he says slowly. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard him mention a first wife.”

“Antinua Thorm, mother of Thisobald Thorm. Divorced just over a year before his wedding to Melodia.” They give a theatrical sigh, a smile plastered over their face. “Seems like poor little Thisobald never got to see much of daddy growing up.”

“I knew it,” Enver spits. “I knew he wasn’t the perfect, doting father he pretends to be.” As if anyone was. “Of course he was hiding something like this away.” And to think he’d ever cared a moment for the man’s approval. “What happened to Antinua and Thisobald then? Are they still alive?”

“No idea.” Kallian shrugs. “I’ve searched through as many diaries as I can find; after Isobel died, he barely talks about anything else. I mean, really! There is such a thing as wanting to fuck someone too much.”

Enver grimaces. “Tell me you don’t genuinely think that’s what’s going on with Thorm. Tell me you’re just trying to rile me up.”

“Oh come on, I know it’s not polite to say so, but no one’s that obsessed with anyone if they’re not attracted to them! I mean, we were all thinking it!”

“We were absolutely not. I can promise you, no one except you is thinking that.”

Kallian actually looks surprised by that. “Orin is,” they mutter mulishly. “Maybe it’s just you who doesn’t see it.”

“Of course she is. Well then, my apologies. A correction: no one who isn’t already that particular brand of sick pervert is thinking that. But please take my word for it, and don’t go asking around to try and prove a point. I can’t see Thorm putting up with that one, and I much prefer you alive.”

“Aw, Enver! I didn’t know you cared!” They laugh, batting their eyelashes up at him. “You’d miss me then?”

He winds a hand through their hair, yanking them up for a kiss. “I’d miss the stress relief, certainly.” When they’re not the one causing him stress.

“Oh, come on! I’m sure Ketheric wouldn’t cut me into that many pieces! There’d still be plenty for you to use!”

“Hmm. As much as I’d like for you to finally shut up, the smell might become a problem after a while.” Although--he’d be lying if he said he’d never thought about it. Maybe not their death by Thorm’s hand, but his own knife held to Kallian’s throat while they bounce on his cock, arousal and arrogance in their eyes turning to panic as a teasing nick becomes a deeper and deeper gash. The blood running down their neck as they claw desperately, fruitlessly, at his fingers, that arrogance finally fading out all together as they slump into his arms, a lifeless, obedient doll.

“Enver!” Kallian gives a mock-offended gasp. “A little bit of decomposition would put you off? I’m hurt!”

He snorts. “Don’t worry. I’m sure Orin would no doubt find you in whatever pile of refuse I eventually dumped you in. She’ll still be pawing at you when even the maggots have given up.”

“I hope so,” Kallian sighs dreamily. “Anyway! I have no plans to die any time soon, I’m afraid, so you and Ketheric will have to content yourselves with Sceleritas. I told you we needed to do some team building, didn’t I? So! I’m going to introduce you all to the Butler Killing game! You have to kill Sceleritas as creatively as possible, but you only have a minute to get it done, or you forfeit the round. Orin and me play it all the time. I was thinking, for the team building, everyone could imagine him as their least favourite person they’re working with, and really air out some frustrations.”

“Incredible. I might even imagine him as Sceleritas Fel.” It’s more likely to be satisfying than attempting to mentally swap the withered little fiend’s face for Orin’s as he dies, anyway. “Am I correct to surmise that your butler dislikes me?”

“Oh, he hates you,” Kallian confirms cheerfully. “He’s disgusted that I’d sully myself on the Chosen of Bane.” They run a hand over his chest as if to demonstrate. “And he’s terrified I’m going to have a child with you and corrupt the gift of Father’s blood, or some nonsense. Mind you, the rest of the time he’s whining that I should be having children for Father. I think he’s just jealous that he can’t have one of his own.”

“I see. Bhaal does like to keep his favourites within the family, doesn’t he?

“Doesn’t everyone? Oops.” They slap a hand over their mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“Luckily, the most powerful of the Dead Three bestows his favour based on actual skill, rather than inbreeding.”

Kallian snorts. “A win for cobblers everywhere. Oh, don’t pout! At least Bane’s not going after used goods like Myrkul is. I mean, I suppose it fits his little necromancy theme, but I really don’t know what he sees in Ketheric.”

“You’ve never had to prove yourself to Bhaal, have you?” Enver realises.

“Why would I?” Kallian shrugs. “He already made me the way he wanted.”

“With the expectation that you’d give him his next generation of little nepotist favourites, apparently.” He frowns. “Though I hope you are taking all possible precautions to avoid that.” He tends to use his own protection, of course, but it’s always best to be certain. “I’ve no interest whatsoever in fathering any brats with you.”

Kallian waves a hand. “Oh, I don’t usually bother with birth control, I just kill any potential brats before they get that far. I try to wait until they can feel pain--for Bhaal, you know--but I usually just get uncomfortable, or bored, or, well, stimulated, and let Orin reach in and destroy it for me. That bit’s more for us than for Bhaal. Although I suppose, if it ever is your child, I should let you give it a go instead.”

Enver sucks in a breath.

“Sorry! I do try not to talk about Orin, but when it comes up naturally--Oh.” Kallian shifts in his lap, grinning. “You’re not upset, are you? Well, when that comes up naturally…”

“Shut up,” he tells them, breathing still ragged. “Get on the bed. And don’t even think of letting anyone other than me kill the brat I’m going to put in you.”

Kallian giggles, kissing him quickly before jumping down. “As long as you know what you’re doing. Your fingers are lovely, but they don’t quite have the versatility doppelgangers’ do.”

“I’m sure I’ll find something suitable in my toolkit.” Though there’s something decidedly appealing about trying out the unsuitable tools too. It’s going to be dangerous for them in any case, of course. More so than with a doppelganger--they’re handing him a way to make them hurt and writhe and scream in ways that Orin doesn’t get, and if he was aroused before, he’s almost delirious at that thought. He pulls them roughly into a kiss, one hand fisting into their hair as the other rushes to free his cock. For once, he doesn’t stop to care about their sister’s name etched into their flesh, or protecting himself from any diseases they might have picked up from her, or anything other than being inside Kallian now.

Enver’s never quite understood the desire to breed which so many otherwise intelligent people possess. He can’t say he’s any closer to wanting to spend years raising a person until such time as he throws it away, or it decides it can do better out from under his thumb and abandons him itself. But creating an embryo of potential and then personally snuffing it out before it’s even able to think or feel, before it has a chance to live, to love or hate him for it, in service of his own pleasure? He’s not sure he’s ever wanted anything more.

There’s little Kallian enjoys more than watching Sceleritas die. Well, obviously it’s not quite as enjoyable as watching people die when they won’t come back afterwards, people who know they’re about to be gone for good and it’s all thanks to Kallian. Or as enjoyable as making little decorations out of their bones. Or making the choice every day not to kill Orin, to hold the knife to her throat but stay her hand, and kiss and love and keep her instead. But murdering Sceleritas is definitely in Kallian’s top ten activities. Or top twenty, at the very least.

It’s definitely leagues above the hours she spends every single day having knee-length hair brushed and styled, Bhaalist amulets and adornments braided in, and then doing the same for Orin’s.

“I’ll have to kill Scel again,” she says decisively, as Orin slowly untangles a knot. She’s being quiet tonight. Again. Kallian’s always been more of the talker out of the two of them, but Orin’s usually happy to give her some kind of response to go off. In the past few months though, it’s been getting harder and harder to coax her out of her sulks. “This would go so much quicker if he’d just struggled less when I strangled him on my hair.”

“Perhaps it struggled in disgust at how stale, how boring, its master’s kill was,” Orin suggests sharply, yanking the brush hard through the rest of the knot.

“Oh, I know it was hardly original, but this was more about seeing what everyone else came up with! Did you see Balthazar? He was so fast with that vivisection, I almost want to ask him for tips! Anyway, it’s not like any of the others had seen the hair strangulation before!”

Orin just sneers at that, moving on to yank at another difficult knot.

Kallian sighs. “You’ve been in a bad mood since we got back from Butler Killing. What’s the matter this time?” They pray that Enver has the good sense not to have started boasting about their fun from earlier. If Orin’s found out Kallian’s willing to let the Chosen of Bane impregnate her--not to mention, passing over Orin to give him the honour of destroying it--someone’s going to have to pay. Kallian can work out who that should be once she finds out just how upset Orin really is.

“It was ours,” Orin hisses. “Not for sharing, not for them. Our game to bleed him, choke him, crush him, and you let them all play.”

Kallian laughs, relaxing. “That’s what’s bothering you? It’s just a game! It’s not like I invited everyone at Moonrise to join us for an orgy! Although I suppose that’s one way to get Ketheric to calm down about his dead wife… I’m joking!” she laughs, as Orin tenses behind her. “I don’t think even a harem of nymphs could get him to stop moping.”

Orin snorts, lapsing into silence again as she returns to Kallian’s hair. Still sulking, then.

“Fine. If we play again, we can all try out our murders on Ketheric. You two are friends, aren’t you? You can convince him to go for it.”

“Cut or slice or skewer, Thorm will not fall. He could never be an offering to Father.” 

No opinion on the friendship Ketheric believes they share, Kallian notices. That’s… good, probably. If she’d risen to the bait, Kallian might worry that she actually cared. She’s glad she knows Orin better than to think that. “I know. I just thought it might be fun.”

“You waste your talents, blood-kin. If your blood thirsts for excitement, wet it on Bane’s pet.”

“Well, that’s one option. If we wanted to wait for Bane to find a new Chosen and draw this whole thing out longer.”

Kallian sighs, picking at a scab on her arm. Coming to Moonrise was supposed to have been fun, too. It should be a break from boring Bhaalist politics and gloomy, ancient halls and having to have her hair brushed twice a day. Instead it’s boring politics with Enver and Ketheric, the novelty of the most miserable building she’s ever been in wearing off after the first week, and still having to have her hair brushed twice a day. Trying to find new ways to provoke Enver as he grows more accustomed to Bhaalist traditions, waiting out Orin’s ever more frequent moods, putting up with Ketheric’s miserable disapproval. All while trying to pretend she didn’t run out of exciting new ways to murder people in her twenties.

“Maybe we should cut my hair,” she wonders. “Chin length might be nice, for a change.”

The hand holding the brush freezes. “No.”

“Come on, it’d mean a lot less work for you! More time for your art projects--”

“My blade will slash your throat before your hair,” Orin spits. “Do you not want to wear Father’s shrine in your skull-strands?” Her hand snakes up Kallian’s hair, twisting it round her arm until she grasps the roots and yanks back. “Do you not want us as a pair? Would you rather match with Bane’s lapdog, all grease and oil, than have me adorn you?”

“Don’t be silly! I suppose I’d cut yours, too, if I went through with it.” Though that’s distinctly less appealing as an idea. Orin is beautiful just as she is--if she wasn’t, Kallian would have had her abandon her own form to adopt hers instead years ago. But there’s wanting them to match, and then there’s having no appreciation for Orin’s body, all swirling skin and cascading hair that Kallian could spend the rest of her life staring at.

“No, no, no! Orin will not change! I will take your skull charms and honour Bhaal where you will not!” The brush is abandoned, Orin’s other hand pulling her hair from the bottom, tight round her arm, and Kallian moans.

“All right! All right, I suppose you couldn’t do this if I cut my hair. Oh, more, please!” She almost feels sorry for Enver. She’d really thought he’d managed to sate her for today.

“This is not for you, slaughter-heart,” says Orin. But Kallian hears the smile on her lips as she tugs harder, and feels Orin shift closer to press her leg against Kallian’s.

Cutting it was a silly idea anyway, she decides. She’s spent thirty years growing it out, more or less, it would be a waste to cut it now. And Orin’s right. It’s a way to honour Bhaal, and a way for them to match, when Orin hates shrinking down to Kallian’s size and Kallian loves to see her raw and real, free of any disguise. Besides, with the Mephistar raid fast approaching, she’ll get the excitement she’s craving soon enough. And once they’ve got the crown and the elder brain under their control, that’s when everything changes for everyone. Kallian can’t wait. 

Emerging from the hold of the ship carrying them down the Chionthar to Baldur’s Gate, Ketheric blinks up at the sun for the first time in over a hundred years.

He holds no loyalty to Shar any longer; he has no reason to remain in the shadows. Yet he feels a surge of anxiety at the light streaming in around him, reminding him how far he’s come from Isobel, from Melodia’s resting place, from the home filled with memories of them. And this is nothing to how far he’ll be from them in Hell itself.

This is the best way to serve Myrkul, to pay back the gift of Isobel’s life and keep her alive, healthy, and perfect, he reminds himself. Even if Kallian and Gortash are competent enough to pull off the heist without him, he can’t trust them not to cut him out of the deal, should he refuse them his aid. Neither can he trust Kallian to be alone with Orin.

He’d agreed to join the Bhaalists for the voyage almost immediately on hearing Gortash intended to travel a few days ahead of the others. Whether he truly meant to get his affairs in the city in order before the heist, as he claimed, or simply wished to evade any responsibility in keeping Orin safe from her sister, Ketheric isn’t certain. Though he’s quietly pleased his concerns were unfounded--Kallian’s eyes had closed mere minutes after their departure from Moonrise. She’d spent most of the voyage in a twitching, mumbling sleep, clinging tight to a ratty old teddy bear. While his attempts to persuade Orin to leave her sister’s side and take a walk across the deck with him had been fruitless, he’s aware there were far worse things she could be doing than gently stroking Kallian’s hair. The two of them had seemed almost normal--almost sweet--with Kallian asleep, one sister merely comforting another through a bad dream.

Now that she’s awake again, Ketheric’s wondering if it’s the glare of the sun or simply the sound of her voice that’s giving him the bigger headache.

“Orin, look, we’re home! Oh, I did miss the city! I mean, the Shadow Curse is beautiful, really! I love Shar’s work there, but I do miss hunting. Do you think we have time for a little game before we meet Enver?”

“No,” says Ketheric, through gritted teeth. “We have a schedule to keep.”

Kallian sighs. “Oh, I suppose we should, shouldn’t we? But at least let me buy you a souvenir of Baldur’s Gate while we’re here. I went through Enver’s room after he left and found an entire purse of gold hidden away, it would be a waste not to use it.”

“You mean you stole from your lover.”

“I’m not getting you anything if you’re going to talk to me like that! Enver is not my lover. Did he tell you he was? Stupid boy.”

“It was more an observation than an accusation.” Kallian might treat love as a game to share freely with whomever takes her fancy, but it hardly changes the fact of her relationship with Gortash. He leaves the ship before she can continue to argue the point, setting down on a shabby jetty away from the main ports of the city. He still finds himself flinching as the noise of the city hits him. There must be a higher number of living, breathing people just along the shore than he’s seen in the past few months.

Debarking the ship herself, Kallian laughs as she looks up at him. “You look like how I felt, the first time I came out here!”

Ketheric frowns. “The plan was to arrive discreetly. If you brought us to a notably busy part of the city--”

“Oh, no, it’s just Brampton,” Kallian shrugs. “No one cares about anyone’s business here. But it’s all colour and noise the first time, isn’t it? And the smell! I thought I was going to be sick! We came here the first time we left the temple. Orin’s mother brought us to see where her old house used to be before she burned it down. Do you remember, Orin? You were two, and I was seven.” She sighs, almost wistfully. “She threatened to throw us in the harbour and let us drown.”

“Mother threatened to drown me again, again, again,” Orin murmurs, slinking up beside them, having shifted to disguise her appearance--some colour in her skin, her usually white eyes now a bluish grey. She smiles. “But Baldur’s Grave has always been familiar to me, blood-kin. Do you crave my mother’s past attention so much that you’d remind me of your childish weakness?”

Kallian laughs. “Don’t listen to her, Ketheric. I didn’t need to crave attention--her mother always hated me the most. She’s just jealous.”

Orin twirls a braid of Kallian’s hair between her fingers, the smile not leaving her face. “If you wish to be drowned, slaughter-kin, you know I have more talent than ever Mother did.”

They’re… joking with each other, Ketheric realises, as they start making their way to the Devil’s Fee. Teasing one another. It’s almost as disturbing as the revelation that Orin’s mother was not the loving, doting caretaker he’d hoped. He should hardly be surprised, given her upbringing, but he resents the way the woman he’d imagined with Melodia’s delicate features and pale silky hair is warping in his mind into an uncaring monster. Has Orin ever experienced real love from her family, he wonders. If Kallian’s words about her grandfather are to be believed… Ketheric shudders. He won’t think of that.

“So you didn’t often leave the temple as children?” he asks instead. It’s a sensible precaution, he supposes, given their importance to Bhaal. As uncaring as Selûne had proved to be of Isobel, he still wishes he had kept her closer to his side as a child, spent more time as a family instead of letting her run and play throughout Reithwin town. Maybe, if he’d kept her inside Moonrise, she’d have been grateful for any measure of independence as she aged, instead of expecting more and more. Instead of feeling no shame in leaving for good the moment a pretty face caught her eye.

“Not for a while.” Kallian shrugs. “But I knew the way out after that, and which locks to pick.” She smiles brightly. “And then Helena--Orin’s mother--would come and drag me back home, telling me how much she hated me and wished I’d get myself killed up here one day, and I’d remind her Bhaal wouldn’t let that happen because he loved me the most, and then she’d slap me and pull my hair and tell me Bhaal clearly didn’t care too much about that, did he?” She shakes her head, still smiling. “I do miss her.”

“My condolences,” Ketheric lies. “And you, Orin? Did you leave the temple much?”

Orin snorts. “I followed Father and Grandfather’s wishes,” she says proudly, “no tantrums to see the sky, or sneak-slipping away when Mother’s back was turned.”

“She means she was scared of all the noise, and she couldn’t get her skin to look normal enough to stop drawing attention when she was a kid,” says Kallian. She frowns up at Orin’s face. “And she’s still having issues apparently! Why aren’t your eyes brown today, Orin? We’re supposed to match, remember?”

“Her eyes are fine,” Ketheric says swiftly, before Kallian can bully her sister further. “It must have been difficult, growing up as a changeling--”

Kallian lets out a gasp at that, loud and utterly performative, slapping a hand over her mouth. “She’s part-doppelganger, Ketheric, changelings are an entirely different species! I mean, really! It might have been acceptable to call doppelgangers changelings a hundred years ago, but these days, there’s really no excuse for ignorance.”

Orin rolls her eyes, looking as irritated at this senseless drivel as Ketheric feels. “What of your ignorance, slaughter-kin? Do you forget Thorm is grave-old, ancient, risen bones?” She smiles sharply. “And you forgive when he calls you woman, sister, daughter of Bhaal, yes?”

Kallian’s eyes flick between the two of them. “I tolerate it from him, yes, because he’s not under my command. You, I thought, knew better than to repeat his ignorant twaddle.”

Orin smiles, bending down to run a hand across Kallian’s cheek and lingering over her lips. Ketheric looks away. “Forgive any disrespect, sibling dearest. None was meant.”

Ketheric is certain that, privately, Orin is just as irritated as he by Kallian’s incessant need to ignore the fact of her gender. He’s seen Orin’s smiles when he mentions her sister, however quickly she wipes them away.

“Of course,” Kallian murmurs. “I’m so sorry, Ketheric,” she continues, at her normal volume. “It must be difficult, catching up with the 15th century, not being seen as some shining hero atop a noble steed any more.”

“I’ve endured far worse than the state of the world today,” Ketheric tells her, keeping himself from flinching as a cart rattles past them.

“Good!” Kallian claps her hands, coming to a sudden stop. “Anyway, as I was saying, we came to Brampton when we were little to see where Orin’s mother grew up, after her mother ran away from the temple and tried to hide her from Bhaal. They lived in their sad, cheap little shack for a few years before Bhaal found them again and brought Helena home. She never really amounted to anything before she died, poor thing. Probably thanks to too much time spent living away from Bhaal’s influence! As for her mother, who dared to try to take my poor, stupid, dead sister away from the family who loved her--” Her eyes grow dark for a moment, before that hateful, saccharine smile is back. “She had her tongue cut out to prevent her spilling any more lies, and once she was ready, Helena cut her throat herself. My brother Sarevok still uses her skull as a goblet.”

Ketheric holds her gaze. He’s faced down armies, he’s not intimidated by a halfling girl, no matter who her father is. “A pitiful tale. You’ve some reason for sharing it, I imagine?”

“Just a fun tidbit of family history.” Setting off again, she gives a quick tug on Orin’s braid, to Ketheric’s disgust. “Now, I know your legs aren’t what they used to be, Ketheric, but we really do need to pick up the pace a little. Enver will be expecting us.”

Kallian’s words flow like poison through Orin’s head.

They know Orin is not the failure her mother was, the traitor her grandmother was, they know she has served them--served Bhaal--faithfully all her life, will serve faithfully until the day she goes to take her place at Father’s side. They know that Ketheric’s whispered doubts will never sway her from her path, that she only seeks his company when they’re too busy with Gortash to spare her attention.

And yet they speak to Ketheric in threats like honeyed knives. As though they have reason to fear him, reason to think Orin might ever listen to feeble words that pretend she shouldn’t be Kallian’s. As if they haven’t cut each other open, etched their names onto each other’s skin, opened each scar anew with fingers and tongues and worship a thousand times. As though Orin’s given reason to believe there’s anything that could ever cause their parting.

As though they don’t insult her in their need to make their threats, to compare her to her mother. Bhaal himself cast Helena aside and chose Orin, Orin, Orin to bestow his favour. It might be Kallian that Father favours above all others, but it is Orin alone he has honoured by speaking through. If Father doesn’t doubt Orin’s loyalty, Orin’s love, why should his Chosen?

What cause has she given them to think she has any use for Ketheric’s kindness, Ketheric’s worries, Ketheric’s weakness? Kindness, worries, weakness not even meant for her, that she can’t, won’t, mustn’t accept in even her stolen forms, for he understands nothing of her devotion. The girl he really worries for is capable of kindness and weakness too, and Orin will never, never ever be her.

She reaches out to Kallian’s mind--she doesn’t have permission to search their feelings, but if they won’t trust her, they shouldn't expect her obedience. A flood of minds presses in around her as she opens her own--fear, pride, grief, worry, lust, joy, desperation--stupid, worthless cattle living stupid, worthless lives--Orin blocks them out and focuses on the mind she knows the best. She feels the satisfaction she knows so well--the satisfaction that of course the Chosen of Bhaal, the purest Bhaalspawn in existence, carries within themself so often, accompanied by the buzz of thrill, steadily increasing as they approach the Devil’s Fee. Underneath, a hint of seething disdain that pulses whenever Ketheric speaks. She searches for remorse, tucked away in the corners of Kallian’s mind, and finds nothing.

The only attention she gets from Kallian is another tug on her braid as they babble stories to Ketheric of every street and shop they pass, impulsively toss their tyrant’s coins into fountains and at the feet of beggars, continue on their way as though their threats are to be forgotten. As though they don’t care whether Orin heard them or not.

She’ll pack one of her leashes when they visit home for supplies, Orin decides. Ketheric’s told her how he hates Kallian tugging at her hair like a leash, how he thinks it demeans her. How much better to let him see leather and steel and Orin’s own hands tightening her collar and handing Kallian her leash? Let her remind them both that this is where she chooses to be. Let her remind them both that she loves the leash, loves to kneel at Kallian’s side, to crawl after them. To watch from the floor as they play absently with the leash’s end, their knives forgotten in the comfort of their sister’s supplication. 

To know she could reach up and wrap the cord around their neck, pull it taut before they even realise they should fight back, watch them struggle and claw and cry as she ends them forever. 

She wonders if it would be fear or admiration on Kallian’s face at the end. She wonders which she would prefer.

Chapter Text

Enver screams as flames engulf his body.

His lessons in Infernal are going far too slowly for Raphael’s liking. When his master had presented him with a cart’s worth of books and folders to be sorted alphabetically, he knew that he wasn’t expected to succeed, that it was just one more excuse to torture him. He’d decided to succeed anyway. He racked his brains and triple checked every tome he placed on Raphael’s shelves over the course of three hours, looked the devil in the eye and dared him to find fault.

Raphael’s eyes had flicked across the shelves, a sneer forming across his face, and he’d snapped his fingers, and Enver’s world had narrowed to heat and smoke and pain.

He gags on the smell of burning flesh as he realises it’s his own, claws at his arms as they blister and peel, screams and screams until his throat’s too thick with smoke to make a sound, feels his body distorting as his flesh melts away.

Then the smoke clears from his eyes--he still has eyes, he was sure his eyeballs had burst--as the pain and heat come to a sudden stop and he’s left coughing and sobbing on the floor, his body intact.

Raphael gazes down at him impassively. He waves a hand, and the books Enver spent these last hours sorting through fly off the shelves, falling in a heap around him. And finally, Raphael smiles.

“Try again.”

Enver’s nails dig into his palms, his teeth grinding against each other, as he reminds himself that he is not the pathetic, scared little boy bowing and scraping for whatever scraps of mercy Raphael throws at him. He’s forty-four years old, the Chosen of the God of Tyranny, and executing one of the greatest heists in history--after already infiltrating the House of Hope. He’s already returned to his former prison, strode confidently through the halls where once he’d cowered--crawled, even--for Raphael’s amusement, and gathered every scrap of intel he needed without Raphael ever finding out. He’s already beaten him.

Compared to Hope, Mephistar had given him almost no cause for concern. He’d planned every detail, paid Helsik obscene amounts of money to ensure their arrival within the vaults themselves, already past the worst of Mephistopheles’ security. He’d been confident in his allies, for all their flaws, to do what needed to be done. Kallian could crack any lock and disarm any trap, Orin’s shapeshifting and mindreading abilities were perfect for infiltration, Thorm could kill a dozen people single-handed and come out without a mark on him. They’d loaded up with silvered weapons, cast spells and drunk elixirs to protect against the cold of Cania. He’d even planned around Kallian getting predictably distracted by the various treasures of Mephistopheles' vaults, allowing time for her to take more than just the crown, even making note of the treasures he thought would most pique her interest.

Except that Kallian, ever committed to making Enver’s day worse, had turned out to be more interested in the challenges of the traps than the various treatures they were actually guarding. Rather than being drawn to the knife that promised to perfectly flay a victim’s skin without a single slip, she’d been more interested in disarming the pressure pads holding the crystal ball Mephistopheles designed to keep track of his son. The crystal ball Enver had glanced into and seen Raphael, a menacing smile playing across his lips as he looked right back at Enver. Like he could see him too, like he knew exactly what Enver was doing, because there was no way out, nothing that happened in the House of Hope without Raphael’s knowledge, there was nothing that wouldn’t be punished just as soon as he’d started to hope he’d escaped Raphael’s notice, never any use for hope at all. There are footsteps behind him, and there’s nowhere to hide because Raphael’s on his way, and he’s going to burn Enver alive or beat him until every bone is broken or--

He’s jolted back to the present as Ketheric charges past him, warhammer raised to meet two oncoming gelugons. The general advances grimly, shrugging off each and every blow, keeping the fiends’ attention until Orin’s arm shoots out from behind the back of one of them to slit its throat, and Kallian dashes from under the other’s belly, her shortsword slicing it open as she goes.

“Now that was fun!” Kallian beams, her grin of delight surpassed only by Orin’s. “We should do this again sometime. It shouldn’t just have to be big, world-changing plots that get us out having a good time, you know!”

Ketheric ignores her, turns back to Enver with a frown as his injuries start to heal. “You led me to believe you were capable in a fight, Gortash. Do you intend to sit back and watch as we fight off every adversary?”

“You had it under control,” Enver snaps. “Do your jobs properly, and you should have no need of my help.”

Orin laughs. “Is the tyrant too arrogant to fight with us?” Her grin widens as she approaches, slinking round him. “No, no, no. Orin smells your fear, lordling. You want us to protect, to guard--”

“You’re delusional,” Gortash tells her, a smile forced across his lips. “But if you want to run off and find more devils to fight, be my guest.”

“Oh, be nice to each other!” Kallian’s examining a display case holding a small ring which, Enver notices, is notably not the Crown of Karsus. He looks hastily away from where the crystal ball bulges in her bag. “Gelugons are scary! Probably. Oh, cut some pieces off them for me, Orin, sweetheart. I’d love to know what ice devil tastes like! Ooh, make sure you get a couple of mandibles!”

Enver sucks in a breath. He might have been prepared for some amount of time wasting, but they cannot remain in the vaults, not after that. “They might have been expected to report back! You don’t have time for any more trinkets, Kallian, we need the crown now.”

“You were the one who memorised the patrols, and you said we had loads of time! Why change the plans now? If things get really tight, we can just send Orin in disguise to divert the guards elsewhere. Like you planned.”

“You told us not to worry about the first patrol,” Ketheric agrees. “If you feigned your preparations then we need to retreat at once, crown or not, and devise a new approach.”

“I planned this perfectly. That doesn’t mean the extra time is here to waste.”

“It’s not a waste!” Kallian gestures with a lockpick at the ring. “It says here that this can teleport the holder and anyone they choose to take with them up to one hundred miles, to any place the holder’s been to before. Why Mephistopheles keeps things like this hidden away instead of using them all the time, I really can’t understand! Anyway, if things go really wrong, we can use it to get right back to the portal, and probably sell it to Helsik in return for a second journey here later. And if things go right, just think of everything we could do with it!”

“Unless the portal closes before we can get through it,” Enver snaps. “If Mephistopheles realises we’re here, do you think he’s going to waste time setting off alarms to warn us before he locks us in?”

Ketheric sighs wearily. “If it will assuage your concerns, I will return to the portal to keep guard. You shouldn’t have any more concern with patrols at this point, provided your research was accurate.”

“Even if we do, Enver’s really very good with his crossbow when he actually bothers to use it,” Kallian adds cheerfully, clicking a lock open. “We’ll be fine. Only three more to go here, and then I’ll go and get you that crown!”

Enver grits his teeth as Ketheric leaves--whether because he truly feels he should keep watch over the portal, or simply to escape Kallian’s endlessly prattling admiration for the mechanisms she’s disarming, Enver’s not sure. He reminds himself again that he’s the Chosen of Bane, the Hand of Tyranny, and he is not scared of Raphael. He breathes a sigh of relief anyway when Kallian finally slips the ring onto her finger and starts working on the traps surrounding the icy plinth of the Crown of Karsus, beautiful and dangerous as it thrums with power, the three netherstones surrounding it.

He welcomes the distraction when Kallian directs him to help with a particularly devious snare. What’s less welcome is the way she continues to wonder why Mephistopheles makes it so difficult to reach any of his hoarded treasures, a complaint he’s heard dozens of times before, whenever Raphael tried out his newest acquisitions.

“Still stinking of fear-sweat?” Orin hisses at him, fingers long and distended as she fiddles with a lock of her own. “What dangers here do you fear more than Orin?”

He studies her mocking smile, trying to discern whether she knows of his past, or is simply looking to amuse herself. Enver’s never told anyone the details of his imprisonment in the House of Hope, certainly not Kallian, but that doesn’t mean he’s under any illusions that she’s unaware--she’s almost as skilled a stalker as she is a lockpicker. And while he might grudgingly respect her for it, that doesn’t mean he’ll accept her sharing the details of his past with Orin.

“I’m disgusted by you, not frightened,” he snaps. “Sorry to disillusion you, if you were under the impression that I find you formidable in any way whatsoever.”

Kallian tuts. “Keep steady, Enver! This whole network we’re working on’s rigged up to the vault’s main security system.” As if it’s his fault her sister insists on provoking him.

Orin’s laughing now, meeting his eyes as she retrieves a bloody gelugon mandible from her leggings, her teeth sharpening to snarl at him before she bites into it.

“Are you trying to make yourself ill, or just to be as disgusting as possible? Because if it’s the latter, you really don’t need to put any effort in.”

“No, no, no, Orin is helping, distracting it from its fear-stink. What’s wrong with the little tyrant? Is it scared I won’t share?” She pulls out another mandible, laughing as she dangles it in his face.

Enver snarls and shoves her back, forcefully, and for a split second, as her eyes widen in alarm, he thinks she might finally realise he’s not to be trifled with. And then he remembers. An alarm blares out across the hall and the smell of sulphur fills his nostrils.

Raphael’s claws dig into his scalp as he holds Enver’s head under the pool of restoration, a constant cycle of drowning and recovery. He’d stolen a few sips from a wine glass set up on the House of Hope’s lavish banquet table, throat parched from the arid Avernus air, and Raphael had smiled and told him he need not go wanting. His lungs fill with so much water that they burst and then reform and burst again and still he struggles for his freedom, energy constantly refreshed, but never, ever enough to wrest free of Raphael’s grip.

Enver sees the world in flashes. Once icy walls, consumed in hellfire. Orin on her feet, blade in hand. A patrol of gelugons spilling in behind them. Kallian grasping the Crown of Karsus as she scoops up the stones, the ring of teleportation gleaming on her finger. He grabs her hand, fingers closing over the ring, thinks of the portal, of escape, barely registers Kallian’s shriek as they vanish, shoves Thorm at the portal, pulls a still screaming Kallian in behind him, kicks aside the infernal marble to close the portal up, back in the Devil’s Fee, back on Toril, back safe from Raphael.

“Orin!” Kallian screams again--as she’s been screaming since the two of them teleported.

“Gortash,” says Ketheric. “What happened to Orin?”

He’s saved from answering by a new, wordless shriek as Kallian charges at him, netherstones abandoned on the floor and shortsword drawn.

Ice and fire and blood and guts and screams and sulphur--Orin would delight, if only she had Kallian revelling in it beside her.

She’s no fool, no simple sacrifice waiting to be made--as much as the devils' bodies sing for her blade, to fight until she is nought but gore and bone, there are too many for her blade alone. She will find Kallian, and together they will cut down any devil in their way, and then turn their blades to the snivelling, fear-flushed traitor tyrant.

For now, she lashes out only when a skittering tail or sharpened claw gets too close, laughing as the devil lord’s underlings tickle at her skin, laughing that they might ever think themselves a match for one loved by Bhaal. She runs and slinks and skitter-craws up the walls of ice that spring up around her, shifting from centipede to Orin to devil on her way back to the outer vault, to the portal. To Kallian. Kallian, who’ll dull the shrieks of the alarms and the ache in her lungs, who’ll sharpen knives and teeth and kill a hundred devilings for Orin.

She scales another ice-wall, drops down into the outer vault as herself again. And there is no portal. No Kallian.

No. No no no no no no no no no no.

Kallian wouldn’t go, wouldn’t leave her here, not for anything, not for him. It’s Orin who’s wrong, Orin who couldn’t track their entrance in a maze of ice and alarms. It’s Orin whose shoulder stings where a tail tip caught her, whose stomach squirms from soft, slimy devil-flesh, Orin who's fallen short again, because Kallian loves her.

Kallian loves her, more than any trinket, weapon, scheme, more than the crown (the crown she reached for instead of Orin), more than scared, stupid, Gortash who ran instead of fighting (who Kallian ran with). Kallian can only be in the vault, nowhere else in this plane the ring could have taken, so Kallian will be waiting. Kallian must be waiting.

Devils on her heels, she needs some place dark and quiet to hide away, (like a trapped rat waiting to die because there’s no way out, no way except the portal and it’s gone and Kallian’s gone,) some place to plan, to think (except what is there to think except that Kallian is nowhere in the vault, nowhere on the same plane as Orin, took crown and tyrant and left Orin to die).

She growls, spinning suddenly, knife catching the thigh of the devil behind her before its bulging eyes can blink. Orin the Red is not afraid to die, won’t hide away from Father to slowly starve within her tomb. She slashes, cuts, gouges, makes rivers of blood from insect bellies, makes art of their deaths as she crafts her own, all red and white and blood freezing into ice. She will be beautiful, her corpse-meat a shrine to Bhaal--even in the depths of Hell they will know Father’s name. She will make Kallian proud.

Bhaal guides her blade to the chinks in armour-skin, her knife twists deep as she thinks of Gortash, wearing scorn and repulsion as a shield as he takes what’s hers and hates Orin for his own theft. Ketheric left with them, she thinks, as the next stumbles from where she caught its calf, bends low enough that she can pierce its eyes. All fake concern and kindness before he had what he really wanted, whatever he saw in Orin forgotten now. She strikes them all down for Kallian, her love, her god, her betrayer. She would die gladly for her love--but not for Kallian to run into his arms. In ecstasy would she bleed out from Kallian’s blade--but not for the devil-bugs that cut and sting and claw at her body, as her vision starts to cloud. She shrieks and strikes--strikes again, fury and pain and trying to find some meaning in her death (when Kallian is the only meaning she’s ever lived for).

Perhaps there is no more meaning, something whispers deep inside her, twisting and cramping in the depths of her stomach. Perhaps she dies here, alone and forgotten, as Kallian continues on, Bhaal’s Chosen, his favourite, the holder of the Crown of Karsus, as the whole world bows down in worship the way Orin once did. Perhaps she’s never meant anything more than one more corpse to pave Kallian’s way.

Enver’s hands are on his crossbow, bringing it up to bear on the screaming halfling rushing at him, offering a quick prayer to Bane that he doesn’t have to kill one of his co-conspirators in their moment of triumph.

It’s Ketheric who spares him, grasping hold of Kallian’s arm as they rush past. They give another wordless scream of rage, twisting and thrashing in his grasp, teeth bared as they glare between him and Enver. It’s hard to believe they’re the same silent, expert killer from Mephistar, now clumsy and indignant as they hang from Ketheric’s grip, spitting and kicking impotently.

“Gortash,” Ketheric says again, his own voice icily neutral, even as Kallian’s teeth snap at his arm. “Is Orin dead?”

Enver shrugs. “If she’s lucky.” From the way Raphael spoke of his father… Enver’s fairly sure it’s the sort of thing he should be saying he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy, but that bridge was burned after half a childhood fantasising about the delicious irony of Mephistopheles getting hold of his own parents. As it is, he finds he doesn’t really care one way or another what happens to Orin now.

“He left her,” Kallian shrieks, tears streaming down their face, as they continue aiming ineffective kicks at Ketheric. “He set off the alarms and teleported us away and left her, all for his stupid crown.” They fling it across the room, as if it’s not the most powerful artefact they’ve ever had the fortune of even laying eyes on.

“Orin caused the alarms herself!” Gortash rushes to grab the crown, hastily checking it over for damage. It’s fine, of course. The wizard Karsus didn’t design an artefact that could be damaged just from falling on the floor. “You all knew the risks! She was collateral damage!”

“Orin will return to the outer vaults if she can,” Ketheric reasons, completely ignoring him. “We reopen the portal for her.”

A jolt of fear runs through Enver’s body as Ketheric takes a step towards the infernal marble he knocked aside, intent on completing the circle again.

“What? No! We can’t risk anything following us through here! We can’t risk losing the crown when we’ve only just got it!” He stomps down hard on the bundle of incense making one of the points of the star, crushing it underfoot, causing yet another scream from Kallian.

Ketheric rounds on him, eyes finally flashing with anger. “That was unnecessary. I knew you were selfish, Gortash, but I thought even you had some modicum of maturity.”

“I’m selfish?” Enver barks out a laugh. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m the one trying to keep us safe, while you’re the one about to invite an army of devils into my city because, what? Orin helps you feel better about the fact that your real daughter doesn’t love you?” He scoffs. “Find another girl to imprint on. Try looking for a sane one this time.”

Ketheric’s hand is on his warhammer. “How dare you--”

“Don’t even think about killing him,” Kallian snarls, twisting in his grip. “Orin’s not your family, you could never love her like I do, I’m the one who gets to kill him for this! So get off me, or I’ll cut you into pieces too!”

“You hear that?” Enver glares between the two of them. “You don’t love Orin like Kallian does,” he mocks. “Did she tell you, while you were trying to play happy families, that the two of them think you want to fuck your daughter?” His smile is bitter with only a hint of spite, as Thorm recoils. “That’s what you’re trying to save, Ketheric.”

“Well, maybe we wouldn’t think that if he didn’t so clearly want to fuck--”

Ketheric snarls, shoving Kallian away so forcefully they practically fly across the room.

Enver hastily fumbles for his crossbow again--a precaution quickly proven necessary as Kallian meets his eyes with a glare, pulling out a throwing knife.

He lets loose a hasty bolt, hitting their shoulder as a blade scrapes across his arm. They’re off their game, he thinks bitterly--Kallian’s faster than him and capable of devastating precision, they shouldn’t have missed at such close range. To abandon that in grief and anger is bad enough by itself, but to abandon it for Orin?

“Don’t,” he tells them, as they reach for another knife. “You’ll run out of knives long before I run out of bolts.”

They don’t listen of course, and the next graceless, grief-fuelled knife is equally, disappointingly easy to dodge.

“Fighting solves nothing,” Ketheric snaps. He’s at Helsik’s desk now, searching furiously through a drawer. “The diabolist must have further supplies, Kallian. If you truly care for your sister, help me find more incense instead of wasting your time with petty vengeance.”

“If you understood Orin at all--”

“You cannot still be trying to get her back!” Enver yells. “You heard what I said, didn’t you? It’s not just Kallian who thinks you’re a depraved pervert. Orin--”

“Orin believes what her sister tells her,” Ketheric snaps. “Were it not for Kallian’s influence--”

“You think she’d be less of a psychotic bitch without Kallian keeping some kind of handle on her? Have you met the woman?”

“Are you so blinded by your hatred of her that it’s never occurred to you that Kallian is the elder?” Thorm shakes his head. “Who do you imagine taught Orin to think the way she does? If she doesn’t understand what it truly means to love family--”

Kallian gives a derisive laugh. “And you understand better than us? Did you forget the part where your daughter ran away from you--”

“--Then Kallian is the source of that,” Ketheric snarls, face twisting in rage. “Unless that’s something else you learnt from Orin’s grandfather.”

Even Enver’s surprised by the sheer malice in Kallian’s eyes as their face turns red, then white, and then they launch themself at Ketheric, screaming again as they repeatedly drive their sword in and out of his flesh.

It’s as if they’re determined, in Orin’s absence, to become as violently insane as she was, Enver thinks with a shudder.

Ketheric shoves them aside, unaffected as the flesh begins to close up again, and starts pulling open another drawer. “Enough. I will not abandon Orin to a grudge. The incense, Kallian.”

“Fuck you,” they spit, thrusting their sword into his stomach one more time, leaving it there as they move to throw open a trunk. “Just so you know, she only likes you because you sound like him, anyway!”

“Well, aren’t you magnanimous!” Enver glares at Ketheric as he casually dislodges the sword. “You think rescuing Orin will make up for your daughter hating you so much she’d rather run out into a curse than spend five minutes around you? You think it will make up for abandoning your son? Are you seriously going to risk everything for Orin, after walking out on your own child?”

Ketheric’s head snaps round to stare at him. “How do you--” His face hardens, the flash of shock gone almost before it appears. “You speak of events from a century before you were born, Gortash. No fractured knowledge you think you hold will lead you to understand my choices.”

“Of course! My sincerest apologies! It’s perfectly fine for you to abandon your son, because it was years ago, and I’m sure he was an even worse son than you are a father--”

Ketheric slams the drawer shut, glaring at him. “I tore my town apart for my daughter’s soul, dedicated myself to Myrkul for her return from death itself, and you think me a bad father, simply because Thisobald was determined to make nothing of himself? I will not mourn for a boy with no greater ambition than to drink himself into oblivion.”

“Do you hear yourself?” How did he ever have the slightest modicum of respect for this man?

“You’re really not over your parents loving your brother and sister more than you, are you?” Kallian snipes, pulling a potion from the trunk and throwing it aside, the glass smashing onto the floor. “They sold him to a devil, you know, Ketheric.” They’re even louder than usual, their gaze unfocused as they plough through the trunk, a tremor running through their body. “They couldn’t afford to feed three children and, well, I don’t imagine it was difficult to decide which to get rid of!”

“Or maybe, I was just more valuable than a pair of ambitionless halfwits!” Enver spits. “You think I’d ever trade being exceptional for something as worthless as love?”

“Please, you always want to be the favourite! You’ve been jealous of Orin from the moment you met her!” Another bottle smashes against the floor. “I bet you were planning to get rid of her all along! As if that might actually make me care about you!”

“You’re as insane as she is if you think that had anything to do with you. It was a consequence of her deliberately provoking me, and we’re all lucky she was the only one who paid the consequences of it!”

“You were behaving irrationally throughout our trip,” says Ketheric. “Is your argument that your judgement was clouded by your… previous association with devils? Why were we not all made aware of your troubles beforehand?”

“Because it wasn’t a mistake!” Kallian snaps. “Because his parents were mean, so he thinks everyone else should have to suffer like he did! This isn’t even the first time he’s got someone else stuck in the Hells, you know! He trapped one of his own people in Avernus once!”

“What are you talking about? When did I--” He stops, remembering the bodyguard, and rolls his eyes. “That must have been almost a decade ago. If you’re going to claim you’ve never cared about me, maybe don’t dig up every insignificant employee I’ve ever let go.”

“Oh, don’t worry! We are done here, Enver! I’m reopening that portal and getting Orin back, and if she’s--” Something hitches in their throat, and they shake their head. “--If I can’t get my sister back,” they say slowly, “I won’t stop until I’ve had vengeance on every last devil in that vault, and then I’m going to find you. And don’t imagine there’s any amount of pleading about the forces of Hell attacking, or Bane wanting us to play nice, or anything you can say that will stop me destroying you!”

“I can promise you, if I’d known you’d react quite so pathetically to not getting to fuck your deranged sister any longer, I’d never have wasted a moment on you in the first place.” What was it he’d even seen in them to make him overlook all of this? “But I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. I’d be far happier if I’d been able to trap her in the Hells on purpose.”

They grab for another knife, predictable and impulsive and woefully unattractive--and Ketheric slams down a handful of incense. The portal reappears in the centre of the room. And a tall, devilish figure rises up from inside.

“Don’t--” Enver fumbles for his crossbow, his feet rooted to the spot and hands shaking as much as Kallian’s as the gelugon rises out. “Close it!” he begs Ketheric, hating the whine in his voice. “She’s dead, she’s gone--”

The gelugon turns its eyes on him, hissing, and its neck snaps to the side. Enver gasps in relief he’d never imagined the sight of Orin the Red could make him feel.

“Orin!” Kallian shrieks again, rushing forward to throw themself into her arms as Ketheric quickly recloses the portal behind her.

Orin snarls, pushing Kallian off her and limping towards the stairs--Enver finds he's pleased to see her mistake at least cost her some blood.

“You're injured.” Ketheric takes a step towards her. “I can heal you.”

“You think I need your soft comfort-prayers?” she spits. “You think blood holds any fear for Orin?”

Ketheric ignores her and reaches out to take hold of her shoulders, a glow covering Orin's body as her wounds heal. How sweet. Enver pulls his sleeve tight around the bloody slash Kallian's knife inflicted on him.

“We got you back as quickly as we could,” Kallian says pleadingly. “Gortash is the one who closed the portal. I was ready to kill him for you, I swear--”

“Your word-flap can wag all you want, sibling, your blade still does not.” She tears herself free of Ketheric’s grasp and heads quickly to the stairs, ignoring Kallian’s and Ketheric’s calls for her.

“Well!” Enver claps his hands together. “Congratulations, you got her back! I hope she’s worth it to you.”

“She is!” Kallian shoves past him, hurrying after. “Orin, please.”

Ketheric pauses to take one of the netherstones from the ground. “None of these theatrics would be necessary if it were not for your actions,” he says, as if Enver’s supposed to roll over and apologise in the face of a lecture.

“Get out of my sight,” Enver snaps, grabbing the crown and the other two netherstones, before heading for the stairs himself. “I don’t want to see any of you again until we’re back in Moonrise.”

Orin’s already gone by the time they make their way down, the shop door swinging closed behind her.

“Pleasant trip?” Helsik calls from the counter. “I don’t mean to be a bother, but I’m afraid we do need to discuss payment.”

“I paid you in advance,” Enver snaps. “You’re not scamming us out of another penny.”

“Ah.” Helsik smiles sharply. “I’m afraid you only paid for one trip in and out of the Hells. I believe you opened up the portal a second time, for which Lord Mammon is tragically uncompensated.”

Kallian rolls their eyes. “Oh, well done, Enver.”

“What a shame for Lord Mammon.” Enver turns to go.

“Leaving without settling the bill?” Helsik tuts. “Very well. I suppose I can make up the difference sharing a few snippets of that delightful little argument of yours. I didn’t know three people were capable of so many psychological issues! The incest, the slavery…” She turns to Ketheric. “After hearing about their families, I wouldn’t have thought there was any negligent parenting abysmal enough to shock me. Yet somehow, you succeeded. Quite an achievement, really. I’m sure my contacts will be fascinated.”

“Everything I’ve done is for my daughter,” Ketheric growls through gritted teeth, at the same time as Kallian sneers, “As if we care who knows!”

Enver finds he just wants today to be over. “Shut up, Kallian,” he tells them, grabbing the bag they’re holding the crystal ball in and tossing it onto the counter. “A live feed of the archdevil Raphael. I’m sure that will be useful to you.”

Helsik’s eyes light up as she takes hold of it. “Excellent. You can consider your debt settled.”

Kallian looks for a moment as if they want to object, but they simply give a mulish mutter that, “My bag is not part of the deal,” and grab it back from Helsik before heading to the door. “I hope your death’s as pathetic as you are, Gortash,” they snap, slamming it closed behind them.

Helsik coos over her new acquisition, giving a slight wave. “Next time the three of you have a quarrel, you might want to consider who else is around before shouting quite so loudly. Just a suggestion.”

Next time, Enver thinks, he’s leaving them all behind in Hell.

Kallian rushes after Orin through darkening streets, as her sister continues to ignore her.

She walks quickly, purposefully, as if she’s forgotten her legs are twice the length of Kallian’s. As if she doesn’t care.

“Orin!” she calls again, as Orin sets off down an alleyway leading in completely the wrong direction to the temple. She’s panting from the exertion, her shoulder throbbing unpleasantly from Enver’s stupid crossbow whenever she moves. “Orin, sweetheart, please. Where are you even going?”

“Grandfather’s,” Orin calls back, her pace not slowing.

Something like fear twists deep inside Kallian’s chest. She shoves it away, angrily. Sarevok isn’t--Orin won’t-- “You know you’re not allowed to see him alone!” And Orin doesn’t disobey, not for something so important. Orin can’t disobey, not about this. “If you’ve really decided now is the best time for an unscheduled, unwanted visit, you at least need to wait for me!” she snaps.

Orin rounds on her. “Wait for you? Like you waited for me, blood-lamb?”

“I didn’t--”

“Your word-flap wags and wags and wags but still never tells how Grandfather offended Bhaal so that he’s forbidden from our worship-home, why you allow him to send others to Father but don’t give him that honour himself.”

Kallian hesitates. She still wonders, sometimes, whether she made the right decision in letting Sarevok live to see how much better than him she was. Her worries that Orin might not have forgiven his death are nothing next to her current fear that--she shakes her head. As if there’s ever been anything to fear from Sarevok.

“You’re more than welcome to send him to Father yourself, if you want!” She hurries over to Orin, reaching out. Up close, she can see the tears glinting in her sister’s eyes. Orin shoves at her injured shoulder as she approaches, and Kallian falls back with a yelp. “You know I can’t risk him trying to poison you with his heresies! Of course I’m not going to spread those heresies myself!”

“Is my faith in Bhaal so weak that a few lies might shatter it?” Orin turns back, moving away from her again. Back towards Sarevok.

“If you had faith, you’d be listening to me! Please, Orin. All I’ve ever wanted is to protect you!”

“Protect?” Orin’s a flurry of movement as she spins back around, hand shooting out to grab at Kallian’s neck, pulling her off the ground and pinning her to the wall, a blade glinting in her free hand. “You left me! Left me for him, for lying, snivelling, frightened--”

Kallian splutters for breath, clawing at her fingers. “Orin--I can’t--”

Orin sneers, dropping her to the ground, her knife coming to rest beneath Kallian’s chin.

“He grabbed me before I realised what was happening! There was nothing I could do!”

“You think it better, that you let the tyrant-god’s weasel control you? Are you so weak that you sheath your blades for his poisoned words?”

“No--”

The blade presses against her throat, as Orin glares down at her. “You let him change you, slaughter-kin. You share our games, you think to cut your skull-strands, you give yourself to his wishes, his commands.”

“Orin, I swear, Gortash and I are finished. Whatever mistakes I made--and of course I can’t think rationally when half my very soul is trapped in another plane!--I don’t even want to touch him again.” She reaches out tentatively to stroke the hand holding the knife to her throat, hating that she can’t risk moving her head for a kiss, hating that Orin stands too tall for her to even reach from this position. “I’m sorry for anything I ever shared with him, but my heart has always been yours.”

Orin’s face softens, her grip on her knife wavering for just a moment, before she glares back down at her, batting Kallian’s hand away. “Then let us bleed him dry, make him grave-meat for Father, hang his corpse-pieces through our temple.”

Kallian hesitates. “We will,” she says softly. “Of course we will. We just… we still need him--Father still needs him--for the crown, and the brain and--” Orin’s knife nicks at her throat. “Lambkin, love, I promise, once we control the elder brain, Gortash will be the first to die! We’ll kill him in whatever way you want!” The knife strokes across her neck, shallow, but widening. “When I thought I’d lost you--Orin, I swear, I was ready to throw it all away and defy Father for your vengeance! But asking me to defy him now…”

Orin knows as well as she does what such a suggestion would mean. The knife draws back an inch, shaking in Orin’s grip. “I meant to die for you,” she whispers. “I mourned that you wouldn’t see.”

“Oh, love…” Kallian breathes. “I would never miss it. Even the gods couldn’t keep me away.”

Orin looks ready to believe for just a moment, before her face twists into a scowl. “Gortash is greater than the gods then?” she jeers. “Greater than Father?”

“Of course not! I got you back, Orin! But nothing like that will ever happen again. I--here.” She pulls off the ring she took from the vault, reaching out carefully for the hand Orin doesn’t hold the knife to her throat with. “Wear this for me, always,” she murmurs, slipping it gently onto Orin’s ring finger. “Let it always help you find your way back to me. Let it remind you, let it remind anyone who sees you, that I love you, more than any treasure on any plane. That I’m yours, as much as you’re mine, and I will give you the world if you let me.” She presses a soft kiss to Orin’s hand. “My sister, my heart, my Orin.”

Her heart still beats in her throat as she draws back. If Orin wanted, Kallian’s just handed her the power to leave, to go almost anywhere on the Sword Coast. To go straight to Sarevok. But she won’t, Kallian tells herself, as Orin stares down at her, hurt battling adoration in her eyes. Orin will always choose her.

“Let us be love-bound,” Orin says suddenly, desperately. “If you would have the world see, then make me your wife.”

The breath catches in Kallian’s throat. “You know what that would mean.” There’s no wedding the two of them can have that isn’t blessed by Bhaal. No wedding that doesn’t end in death. Eternal devotion together, so the scriptures say, but Kallian would personally much rather be alive to be able to enjoy that sort of thing.

“So you flinch from consecrating our devotion. Is it Orin or Father you refuse to honour?”

Kallian meets her gaze with a glare. Her very existence honours Bhaal. She’s killed hundreds in his name, will kill thousands more. He has no right to ask for her life too. “I can honour you best by keeping you by my side.”

“Then you think Father does not deserve the gift of my blood?” She sounds so pleading it makes Kallian’s heart break.

Not as much as I do, Kallian doesn’t say. “Father gifted you to me,” she points out instead. “Father made us to love each other, in his name. He wants me here, and he wants you with me.”

Orin snorts. “For Gortash to scorn and sneer at? For Ketheric to pity?”

“You think getting married would change how they see you? Whether we lived or died?” She reaches out and squeezes Orin’s hand. “When have we ever cared what anyone else thinks about us?”

Orin remains silent, her only answer is to raise her knife again, caressing Kallian’s cheek with the flat.

“I love you,” Kallian reassures her. “I’ll keep you by my side all my life, and I promise, when we go to join Father, we’ll go together.” She won’t dwell--she never dwells--on the fact that halflings are liable to outlive doppelgangers by centuries, that her baby sister is already catching up to her in maturity. She’s Bhaal’s divine flesh. There is no mundanity she will allow to steal her sister from her. “But we have a world to conquer first. Just think what we could do with the crown--how many deaths we could give Father! Think how happy he’ll be with us when we’re the only two people left in the world!”

“And then? When we stand alone in a carpet of corpses, with none but Father to watch, will you take me as your love-bound, your blood-bride? Will you give me your blade as I give you mine?”

Kallian presses a kiss against Orin’s blade. Her sister doesn’t mean it, of course--she won’t mean it, won’t truly want to die when there’s only the two of them left. Just as Kallian won’t find herself bored once the moment finally comes, won’t be caught up in any of her mundane worries when there’s nothing left but the ultimate romance of herself and her love standing side by side, the world standing still around them. “I’ll give you everything you ever want.” After all, Orin will be as happy as Kallian is for the two of them to live as gods, eternal and together, nothing left to get in their way.

Kallian watches Orin battle with herself, face twisting as the knife shakes in her grip. A tear rolls down her cheek and she closes her eyes, letting out a sigh as she finally drops to her knees, surrendering to Kallian, to herself. She’s never looked more beautiful.

Orin sheathes her knife as her mouth finds Kallian’s and Kallian drinks her in, the sweetest taste she’s ever known. She pulls her sister closer, and vows never, ever to let her go.

Chapter Text

Orin is well loved after her return from the devil lord’s treasure-prison.

Kallian takes her back home, where their underlings bow and scrape and kneel at their master’s approach. Orin prepares for a hand tugging at her hair, an order to crawl or shrink down--but none comes. She alone is permitted to stand taller than Kallian, ignored by the murder-lambs knelt in worship as they lead her back to their room.

They tuck her into their bed with her childhood dollies and the worn out teddy they still cling on to and demand she rest after her ordeal, feed her tea laced with sleeping draughts when she pleads herself capable. She bids a drowsy goodnight to Mother, watching over Kallian’s bed as she adorns the room, more attentive in death than ever in life.

When she awakens, Kallian has already visited Grandfather to share the tale of their success, and another visit so soon is forbidden for fear of drawing attention to his killing court.

Orin pulls their hair and scratches their flesh as she shrieks, demands again to know why murder’s forbearer is forbidden so. It ends as it always does, with Orin a mewling mess under Kallian’s clever tongue and graceful fingers, squirming flesh-peak after squirming flesh-peak until every thought of Grandfather is gone from her head, replaced only with those of her slaughter-sibling.

Afterwards, Kallian is keen to test the limits of Orin’s oath-ring. They take her hand and together they see how far they can travel, how quickly, how many underlings can accompany them. They flit between Moonrise and home in seconds, and return to the Shadow Curse’s castle with a dozen more of Kallian’s people.

With Ketheric still on his way home in the tyrant’s ugly, metal travel-box, slow and stumbling, no magic jewels to guide their way, Kallian takes up his throne with a laugh.

Their eyes glint in mischief as they part their legs, beckoning Orin closer and pushing her in to kneel. She feasts rapturously on their juices, face pressed deep into her favourite folds of flesh. Kallian’s murder-lambs go about their business around them, well used to the way Bhaal’s Chosen contorts under Orin’s tongue. It’s the Banelings who take interest, the silly weasels whose god bids them to both crave their own dominance and to bow down to a fool like Gortash. She feels their admiration for Kallian’s power mixed in with their lust for the way her sibling whines and whimpers, bare legs locked tight round Orin’s neck--as if any of it is for them. When Kallian screams and shakes above her, nails digging into Orin’s scalp as they press her close enough that air is replaced fully with flesh and kin juice, Orin revels that it’s for her alone.

She happily spends her day knelt at Kallian’s side, their hand stroking her hair and lips as they command from Ketheric’s throne. When they tire of their puny legs dangling inches above the ground, Orin gladly falls to her hands and knees before them to let them rest their feet.

Ketheric and Gortash return that evening wearing matching glowers. 

Kallian waves lazily from the throne as the tyrant skulks away, sparing barely a glare, with the crown and stones that obsess him so. They laugh when Ketheric demands that they move, that they dismiss their underlings, that they cease to degrade Orin in his presence. 

When he approaches, fists balled and voice raised, still spitting demands of them as if he has the right to do so, Kallian finally jumps from his chair with another laugh, feet bruising Orin’s back as they go. They pull Orin up by her plaits again, whispering a command in her ear that she fetch them a netherstone, before telling Ketheric he should thank them for dismissing their footstool for him. That sets his silly protests off once more. Orin slinks away on Kallian’s commands, rather than listen further as he pretends she doesn’t belong with her sibling.

Gortash doesn’t look up when she picks the lock to his room, his crossbow pointed her way as he tinkers with a jar of skull-flesh.

She reminds him one of his master-rocks is rightfully Bhaal’s, rightfully Kallian’s, and he shrugs and agrees to relinquish it if it will get rid of her--as if Orin has any desire to stay longer in his oily work tomb than necessary.

He tosses her the netherstone, and she catches it easily. A thrum of power runs through her body as it sits in the palm of her hand, candlelight glinting off the surface, red like fresh-spilled blood, beauty and power to change the whole world and Orin stares, mesmerised. 

She looks up, finally, to find the tyrant’s eyes on her.

He opens his mouth, almost hesitant, as if about to speak, before shaking his head, scowling and raising the crossbow again. 

Orin leaves quickly and brings Kallian their prize. The netherstone’s rightful owner squeals in delight, cooing over the gem, before pulling Orin down to smother her face in thankful kisses. It’s the only reward she needs.

With their treasures won, the Chosen meet more often to plot and plan. Orin tolerates her time apart from Kallian more easily when outside their work Kallian spends no more time with their tyrant, and Ketheric tells her wearily how the two prefer now to snipe and snarl than to parley.

While Kallian plots, Orin explores, venturing out into the shadows with her ring snug on her finger. Flitting from spot to spot before the darkness weighs too heavily on her bones, she’s able to travel further than the lantern carriers Ketheric sends out to hunt for his absent daughter and find further recruits to their cause, lost souls willing to swear to any god in return for the moon lanterns’ protection.

She finds herself growing fond of the stillness of the shadows, silent as the Chosen and their underlings squabble amongst themselves. Plants and people alike twist into works of art Orin envies even as she admires. She thinks she understands what her sibling saw in the curse, on their first journey to Moonrise, even weeks after Kallian claims they’ve grown tired of relentless gloom. 

She shrugs off Kallian’s disinterest and instead shares with Balthazar of the horrors she finds in the lands around the tower; the thorn bush that swings and bites while the body trapped within lies still and decays, a single shadow dragging the weight of three child-sized skeletons, the sick-lair where she crouches and watches a sawbones cut his patient open, each new slice and scream a marvel. The corpse-wizard listens eagerly to her tales of terrors and shares his own studies in turn, shows off his sibling, flesh stitched together and raised from its nothing-existence all the better to live by its brother’s needs.

When Ketheric hears of her explorations, he presses a screaming pixie-torch into her hand, lecturing her on the need for more protection than Kallian’s oath-ring can provide. He hesitates, hand pressed over hers as she grips the lantern’s handle, and begs that she look out for his perfect, pretty daughter in her travels. 

Orin bites her tongue and doesn’t tell him how she aches to hunt his screaming spawn-kin through the night, cut out those pretty eyes and slice her limb from limb, dig inside her ribs and devour her heart. She pulls away, claiming Kallian has need of her, and doesn’t stop to wonder whether Ketheric would even notice Orin’s absence if she slunk back to him in Isobel’s skin.

She toys with Ketheric's lantern for a while, turning the handle just so to make the fairy inside scream and sob. When she grows bored, she wraps the lantern in the gnarled roots of a tree some miles from the tower--she is no child in need of more protection, whatever Thorm thinks of her. Instead, she makes the tree her den in the midst of her playground, and makes a game of how far a simple torch can lead her before the shadows drive her back.

Running, racing through the dark, she’s eventually able to reach a broken building, tucked against the shore of the Chionthar. She catches her breath against the wall, giggling between gasps of breath, when she’s dazzled by light and a cloying voice she’s heard but once before.

Orin’s torn between a desire to flit away unseen, forget this place before Ketheric can ask of it, and one to press forward with her blades, slice and cut and kill before she has to hear another word. Ultimately, with footsteps fast approaching, she twists, changing her form to that of a dull human chatteling who once sought to join Father’s temple, intrigued, amidst her disgust, to discover what is so incomparable about Isobel Thorm.

“Quick, come inside. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe here--the Moon Maiden protects this place.” Isobel speaks before even looking at Orin to see she is no quivering babe, frightened of the shadows. When she finally does look, hand tugging at Orin’s to pull her into an empty hall, it’s with an open, stupid smile, as if Orin’s very presence makes her a friend. “How long were you out there?” she babbles. “Gods, you’re lucky not to have been swallowed up by this curse! But you don’t have a lantern, you’re not one of my--one of them.”

“One of them?” the human chatteling asks, while Orin wonders--has she seen her father’s people on their pixie-lit patrols? Does she have skull-meat enough, in her pretty little head, to realise she should hide?

“I--There are more dangers than the shadows, out there,” Isobel tells her. “This might be the only safe place for miles around. I’m doing what I can to fight the curse, without drawing attention to myself. It’s… not a lot,” she admits. “Sorry. I’m rambling. It’s just--it’s been so long since I’ve seen another person. Oh, where are my manners? I’m Isobel. Cleric of Selûne.”

“Darvin,” the chatteling tells her. Whether the name is truly his, or that of another pointless piece of meat who left barely a stain on the world, she doesn’t remember. Once she’s finished with the Thorm girl, left her as naught but meat herself, he’ll be gone again. “I’m a traveller. I was set upon by a band of brigands--they killed my travelling companions, guts spilled out onto the grass--and I found myself lost here in my escape.”

“Gods, I’m sorry.” Isobel takes Darvin’s hand again, squeezes. “That must have been awful for you. I can pray for them, if that would help? That they find comfort with whatever gods they worship. Or if you need me to perform any funeral rites…?”

Orin resists rolling her eyes. The girl’s as saccharine as expected, pure goodness dripping like pus from her every word, a wonder that Ketheric never choked on it. “Perhaps later, once I’ve had time to digest.”

She nods. “It must be a shock. Come, sit down by the fire. If you need water, food…” Does she ever tire of her suffocating selflessness? Has she ever thought to offer sharp steel in place of succor? “It won’t be particularly tasty, I’m afraid. I have to summon it myself, through Selûne’s grace--everything I could find in the inn was rotten.” She hesitates, glancing sideways at Darvin. “I… don’t suppose you have the date? Only I’ve lost track of time, with the constant nights,” she continues, hurriedly.

She’s no way of knowing how long she lay as grave-meat, Orin realises. No way of knowing how the years have passed, how long the world moved gladly on without her. “Alturiak 12,” Darvin tells her, and smiles. “1392 DR.”

Orin watches closely as her prey’s pale sight-jellies widen in panic, a gasp catching in her gullet at the idea that her home’s become so warped in a mere year. She waits eagerly for wailing tears and frightened screams, for the girl to fall apart as if Orin’s carved her false date into flesh as well as mind. But Isobel hides her panic coughing into her hands, succeeding even in settling her thoughts. “Of course. Hard to believe the curse destroyed so much, in so little time.” She looks up from the hands she hid her distress in, face hardened. “But anything Shar can destroy, Selûne can fix just as quickly.” So here is her steel, wrapping around her worries as shield, rather than blade. How dull.

“Then leave it to Selûne to fix.” Darvin frowns at her. “Why stay here, alone, in the midst of a curse?” If it’s for Selûne, she’s a fool, her god is either too weak or too uncaring to give her anything more than this dusty lair. Perhaps she stays for Ketheric, close enough to run home, should her need for affection ever outweigh her naive pride. Orin’s blade twitches at the thought.

“I have a responsibility,” Isobel tells her, “as a cleric of the Moon Maiden. And,” she hesitates, watching Darvin close, as if trying to decide whether to trust his dull, placid face, “I’m hoping, if I can help Selûne, bring her solace even out here in this nightmare, she might be able to give me some answers. Some comfort. You see, I--I lost my wife to the curse. She--” She shakes her head, tousled skull-strands falling round her face. “Sorry. You’ve had a difficult day, you don’t need to be burdened with my problems, too.”

“What happened? Tell me.” Ketheric, certainly, has never spoken of his spawn-kin’s lover as though their bond was anything more than as a temporary fascination. But Isobel speaks as though it’s a matter of a fact that the child of a god thought her worthy to take as a lover, as a wife, that she could ever be the moon-child’s equal. Surely it’s she who deludes herself, sitting in her crumbling crypt, wishing for a past she’ll never get back.

But Isobel simply shakes her head again. “I wish I knew myself. She’s every--she was everything to me. It’s hard to believe she’s truly gone.” A slight smile flits across her face. “Sometimes I don’t think I really do. I think I’d feel it--I’d know, if she was truly gone, if she’d never find her way back to me.”

What right does she have, to assume her godly love might defy Bhaal’s domain to return to her? What right to forsake her father to sit and pine for one so far above her? Orin yearns to ruin that love, so pure, so devoted. To ruin lovely, perfect Isobel, to push her to the ground and tear her ragged cloth-trappings, dig out her guts as teeth rip into fragile neck and rosy cheeks and supple breasts. Let her scream and plead, until every thought of her moon-wife is gone from her pretty head and she’s broken and debased and worthy of neither lover nor father nor god.

“What about you?” Isobel asks her. “Do you have a wife? A husband?”

“A wife,” Orin tells her quickly, thoughts returning to Kallian, to how they’ve forgotten their tyrant for her, taken no new pets, fully content at last with their sister’s love alone. She will not sully their loyalty on the Thorm girl, the soft fool barely deserving of even the caress of Orin’s blade along her pale flesh. “I’ve known her all my life, but we only recently promised ourselves to each other.”

“You must be eager to see her again,” Isobel smiles. “If I can see you safely out of this curse and on your way back to her, I will. But travel’s dangerous, even with Selûne’s protection. Rest tonight, so we can gather our strength, and I’ll do what I can to get you free of this place tomorrow.”

She’s so pathetically trusting, so quick to turn her back on a stranger, to believe her god’s light might be any protection against a knife in the dark. She bids Darvin rest while she fusses to make up a room for him, wiping away dust like her kindness isn’t a thicker rot, her open heart oozing out over everything it touches.

Orin can’t wait to kill her. She’ll flay the skin from her body and wear her as the prettiest meatsuit, paint her lips in the girl’s blood, make a choker of her hair and jewels out of her teeth. And then she’ll return to Ketheric in her trophies, let him finally see her as the fierce killer she is, finally realise she is no more a child in need of his protection than he is capable of providing that protection. Finally, he’ll look at her in hatred rather than pity.

She watches Isobel fluff her pillows, dreams eagerly of her screams, the horror in her eyes as Orin strikes, surpassed only by her father’s when he sees her work. How Ketheric will rage and despair and hate, all in deference to Orin’s work. How he’d never have the nerve to treat her as a precious, fragile thing again.

Perhaps it would be better to wait, to draw out the hunt.

Yes, she decides. Far better to wait until the shadows have driven Isobel to madness, until the loneliness and fear press closer, until she’s given up all hope of her god-love’s return. What a finer offering to Bhaal she’ll be, stinking of dread and despair.

Darvin’s hand goes to his neck, asks whether Isobel saw him lose an amulet in his haste to escape the shadows, and heads downstairs to check where they sat by the fire as Isobel warns not to leave the inn without her. Orin smiles as she takes up a torch, opens the door, steps outside, throws back her head and lets Darvin scream in terror. As Isobel’s panicked calls and footsteps approach again, she throws her torch to the ground, stomping out its meager light before twisting her oath-ring with a final agonised shriek.

She’s giggling as she arrives back in Moonrise, wriggling back into her own skin, Darvin now nothing more than a ghost to haunt Isobel’s nightmares.

Later, as she did yesterday, and every yesterday before it, she tells Ketheric that she found nothing.

In his dreams, Enver walks through grand halls of obsidian and granite, past miserable bodies huddled at his feet. He moves as if wading through pools of tar, comforted by Bane’s presence as he catches flickers of hellfire in the edges of his vision and the faint scent of sulphur. They never fully leave, his dreams are ever touched by the Hells--but the flames have been higher, brighter recently, and in the distance he hears footsteps of someone walking freely, apart from all the broken messes sobbing for mercy on the floor.

He lets Bane press further in around him, the feeling of tar rising up to his chest, coating his body in his Lord’s protection, in the reminder that he’s stronger than all of them. There’s a pleasurable warmth as he continues on, radiating out from his core. Bane curls tighter around him, and he chokes back a moan as the pressure increases delightfully. And then a sudden, sharp pain where the warmth was, and his eyes jerk open to see Kallian raising her knife from his cock, blood glinting in the candlelight.

“Get off me!” Enver goes to push her from his lap, and finds his arms resisting, and tension on his wrists. He tugs fruitlessly at the ropes binding him to the bedposts, glaring daggers at Kallian. “I know it’s useless expecting you to get the concept of basic manners through your skull, but I didn’t realise even you were stupid enough to think, ‘I want nothing more to do with you,’ means ‘I want you in my bed again.’”

“Oh, we both said a lot of things that I’m sure we didn’t mean.” She’s in the black silk outfit he always loved, the skirt riding up as she straddles his leg and the neckline pulled down as far as it will go while keeping the pretence of dignity. As if the idea that a few flashes of thighs and breasts might make him forget everything else doesn’t just add insult to injury.

“Believe me, I meant every word,” he snaps, pulling at the restraints again and trying to shove her off his body. “Get out of my room, now, and I might not kill you come morning.”

“Funny, you didn’t seem all that upset a moment ago.” She runs a thumb up his cock, collecting a bead of blood. There’s no permanent damage, as far as he can tell, just a shallow cut running along the length of his dick. A feeling of moisture--he suspects she was sucking him off before deciding she needed to cut him open. And he’s painfully hard. “Actually,” Kallian licks the blood from her finger, setting the knife down on his stomach so she can squeeze him in her other hand. “You seem like you’re enjoying yourself now, whether you’re willing to admit it or not.”

Enver grits his teeth. “It’s a biological reaction, you stupid bitch. I’m not--” he breaks off, hissing, as she pumps her hand again.

“Anyway, I think it’s time we both stopped dwelling on that little unpleasantness in Baldur’s Gate!” she says, all too cheerfully. “You did upset me there, for a bit, but, well, I realised today that I’d just have to forgive you. For the baby’s sake.” She smiles at him, pressing a hand to her belly. “Because I would so love for you to be the one to reach up inside and kill it for me.”

He curses the way his cock twitches violently in her grip. “You’re pregnant?”

“Well, yes, keep up Enver. Of course, if you really don’t want to deal with it, I’m sure Orin would be more than happy to kill your baby.” Another smile, far too filled with teeth. “Once I’m finished here.” She dips down, licks the slash down the side of his cock, before taking him into her mouth again.

Enver squeezes his eyes shut--he’ll enjoy this far more without having to see her watching him, eyes glinting with malice. And he can enjoy this-- is enjoying it--as long as he imagines he’s with anyone other than Kallian the Black, as long as he imagines he still feels Bane’s presence around him. A lesser man might cry out for his god’s help, but Bane’s no doting, coddling parent to rush in and solve his followers’ problems for them. Enver would never respect a god like that enough to worship, and Bane would never have taken as his Chosen a boy who needed help just to escape from Bhaal’s halfling brat.

He wills himself to relax, stops pulling at his bindings to instead rub them against the bedposts so they start to chafe. It’s the ropes that are the issue--he hardly objects to a beautiful assassin deciding she has to pleasure him so badly she can’t even wait until morning. Her mouth’s warm and skilled and tight around him--he’d be a fool not to want this. He’d be--of course he wants it. Of course.

The pressure builds further and further. He’s on the brink of an orgasm when Kallian pulls back, switching to pressing infuriatingly light kisses along the side of his cock and he snarls in protest. “So,” she murmurs, between kisses. “Ready to admit how much you want to kill our baby with me? Or are you going to keep sulking?”

“It’s hardly a baby at this point,” he snipes, as finally the ropes start to give. “It’s been, what, two months at most? Did Bhaal never bother to give you any biology lessons?”

Kallian rolls her eyes. “Aww, were you hoping to wait long enough to see all its cute little fingers and toes when you pull it out of me?” She licks the tip of his cock, making sure to scrape her teeth against his foreskin. “I’ve got a whole world to take over, Enver. I can’t wait around incubating the thing for you. Maybe if you’re very good, I’ll think about keeping the next one for you for a little longer.”

“And maybe I’ll kill you before we reach that point.”

She laughs at that. “You keep saying things like that. You really think I’d let--”

The ropes finally snap. 

He has a hand round her throat in an instant, the other grasping for the knife she left sitting carelessly on his body, bringing it up to her breast. The look of shock that flits across her face is something he’ll relish for months.

He could kill her now, so easily. Consequences be damned--it’s his will she lives or die by, not Bane, nor Bhaal, nor any other god. If Enver Gortash wants someone dead, he has the power to take their life the way he takes everything else he wants. If he wants someone dead, they won’t live long enough to hurt him. He tightens his grip around Kallian’s neck.

When he tugs her into a kiss, he tastes his own blood and precum, and Kallian smiles against his mouth.

The knife nicks at her skin when he uses it to clumsily cut away her smallclothes, though he suspects the noise of protest against his mouth is more due to damaging her clothing than to any pain he’s caused her. 

“Next time you start getting me off, don’t leave the job half done,” he hisses, pushing into her cunt with little care for her comfort. It’s disappointing, but hardly a surprise, to find she’s already wet and more than ready to take him.

“You loved it,” Kallian murmurs, nipping at his lip.

He doesn’t deny it--he’d hardly have let her continue if he hadn’t --focusing on chasing his climax, on getting what he wants. 

Kallian moans against his mouth, one hand gripping his hair, the other snaking down to play with her clit. Enver allows it, lets her get closer, lets her cunt clench around him as he finally reaches his own orgasm, almost having to bite back a whimper as he spills himself inside her. He gives himself only a brief moment of bliss before pulling her off him quickly, roughly shoving her to the floor before she has a chance to finish herself.

“Get out,” he tells her, as she picks herself up from the floor, pouting.

“What, all that, and now you don’t even want to kill the baby?”

“I’ll cut the brat out of you tomorrow night. For now, you’ll let me get some rest. Unless you want me sleep deprived for the operation. But I assumed you’d want to keep your organs intact.” Not that it wouldn’t be enjoyable to puncture an artery as he holds her life in his hands, her body completely under his control.

“You really need to learn how to stop relying on sleep,” Kallian tells him. “But if you insist. I suppose I’ll just have to get Orin to finish me off tonight.”

“You do that,” he agrees. “I’m sure she’ll love to know how quickly you came running back to me.”

The doubt that flashes across her face is gone almost as soon as it arrives. “She’d love to know how pathetic you were about it,” she snaps, spinning on her heel. “Goodnight, Enver.”

Enver rolls his eyes as she leaves. As if he hadn’t been entirely in control of the whole situation. He relocks the door behind her, adding an arcane lock too. Not that that’s likely to deter Kallian--he decides to push his heavy desk in front of the door too, just in case she gets it into her head to disturb him any further tonight. He’s sweating by the time the desk’s in place--between that and the earlier excitement, he’s better off opening up a few canteens of water to wash himself thoroughly before sleeping. He scrubs at every inch of his skin and changes into fresher, more comfortable bed clothes, decides he may as well change the bedsheets too, while he’s at it. He blows out the candles and settles back into bed, ignoring the way every shadow in his room seems to twist into Kallian’s form, her smug, smirking face leering at him from the darkness. 

It’s dawn by the time he finally sleeps.

Ketheric grows ever more weary of his co-conspirators.

They were irritating enough glaring daggers at each other and devolving into petty insults every few minutes. Seeing them wrapped in each other’s arms again, Kallian once more detailing her plans from Gortash’s lap, he thinks he may have preferred the glares and insults.

The worst part, more sickening even than Kallian’s giggle as she toys with the laces of Gortash’s shirt, is the flare of indignation he feels on Orin’s behalf. He knows, as well as Kallian must, that she’d see this as a betrayal, nevermind how disgusting the thing Kallian betrays is.

But perhaps that’s a good thing. Orin’s loyalty to Kallian has only seemed to grow since their return to Moonrise. While she’s never been fully open to his attempts to point out the depravity of her ‘relationship’, he’ll catch the occasional wistful look when he suggests a life out from under Kallian’s thumb, the quick smiles when he draws attention to her sister’s flaws. She’s been quicker to quash them since the heist, quicker to tell him how Kallian loves her in such explicit detail that it sends him shuddering from the room. But even Kallian’s twisted approximation of love has to be doubted when she wraps herself up in Gortash. If anything might make Orin see the truth…

Ketheric clears his throat, staring stonily across at the two of them. “Perhaps I could handle the rest of your duties today. You seem like you wish to… reconnect. I, ah,” he swallows down the taste of bile, “I used to walk the battlements with Melodia. It could be…” he barely resists gritting his teeth, making sure his hands are hidden below the table before balling them into fists, “quite romantic.” 

“...This would be before you set a curse of eternal darkness and misery on the land?” Gortash asks, staring at him in bemusement.

Kallian giggles nastily. “It’s a very sweet idea, Ketheric, but we do already have plans! But if you’re still happy to do all the work, well!” She flutters her eyelashes up at Gortash. “Shall we go and get on with reconnecting, Enver, dear?”

“I’ll be with you shortly.” Gortash smirks. “Once I’ve made sure the General knows what he’s doing.”

“Don’t take too long!” She pulls him down into a sloppy kiss that has Ketheric glaring at the table again, before scurrying from the room.

“I’ve been commanding soldiers since before your parents were born,” Ketheric points out as she leaves. “I can handle--”

Gortash waves a hand, dismissively. “I’m sure. Nevermind that. What are you playing at, Thorm? A romantic walk? Really?” 

“An… attempt to extend an olive branch. I admit, I have not always been… supportive of your relationship--”

Gortash snorts.

“--But I understand why you feel… drawn to one another. It’s only natural that the two of you be together.”

“What, because we’re not related? Or because you think Kallian’s a woman?”

“What I think is irrelevant,” Ketheric snaps. “I’m sure it’s… chivalrous of you to support her delusion--”

“I couldn’t care less what Kallian calls themself,” Gortash shrugs. “Or what equipment they’re working with.” 

“You can’t mean--” Ketheric shakes his head, finding his skin crawling. Kallian’s perversions are bad enough, but the idea that Gortash might share them? As little as he can stand Kallian, he finds himself wishing that she hadn’t left the room, hadn’t left him alone with this. “If she was a man-- You wouldn’t--” 

Gortash actually has the audacity to laugh at that. “Gods, you really haven’t moved on from the 14th century, have you? Maybe you should try taking it up the arse yourself sometime, see if that can’t calm down the uptight traditionalist drivel.”

Ketheric recoils, bile rising in his throat as his hand finds his warhammer. “Take one step towards me, and Bane will be in need of a new champion,” he warns.

Gortash laughs all the harder at that. “I’m flattered, General, but you’re not my type. I prefer men who aren’t withered old skeletons.” He smirks. “If you’re really looking to end that century long dry spell of yours, your best bet’s probably Orin. She sees you as a father figure, doesn’t she?”

“You’re disgusting,” Ketheric snarls. “A twisted, degenerate--”

“Yes, I’m the problem.” Gortash rolls his eyes, getting to his feet.

Ketheric rises himself, warhammer protectively in hand, despite what Gortash considers to be reassurance. 

He gives another chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re truly rattled, aren’t you? Don’t worry, I’m just on my way to attend to my… fatherly duties with Kallian and our unborn child.” He smirks. “You’re surely not against a pregnancy bringing a man and ‘woman’ back together? Oh, I know it’s hardly as romantic as abandoning your first wife and son to jump into bed with a pretty little moon worshipper--”

“What are you--Kallian’s with child?” Ketheric should hate this. He should be furious at this disruption to their plans, at their recklessness, concerned for the babe’s future--he doubts either mother or father are truly prepared for the responsibilities of parenthood. And yet… “Does Orin know?”

Gortash’s smile drops away. “I’m sure Kallian will tell her if it becomes her business to know,” he snaps. “Until then, let’s not upset the murderous psychopath any more than necessary, hmm? If you want to tell her, be my guest, but I don’t think Bhaalists have a concept of ‘don’t shoot the messenger’.”

As if any knowledge could hurt her more than staying at Kallian’s side. As if Gortash has any right to shove his perversions in Ketheric’s face and then act as though Orin is the threat here. 

“Enjoy your time with Kallian,” he says. “Let me worry about Orin.”

“Fine,” snaps Gortash. “But if you insist on petting a rabid dog, don’t come crying to me when you get bitten.”

He waits until Gortash has left--until he can breathe easily again--before he goes to find her.

There’s just something about being restrained, not by anything as mundane as chains or ropes, but by the knowledge that any movement could puncture their organs that Kallian can’t get enough of.

Enver kneels before them, sleeves rolled up round his elbows and gaze intense as Kallian’s ever seen it as he slowly works his fancy little orbitoclast inside them. They’d be the first to admit--well, second, thank you Orin--that Enver’s hardly the prettiest pet they’ve ever taken. But absorbed in his work--and hard as a rock over it--they think he might be one of the most beautiful things they’ve ever seen. Gods, Kallian’s glad they decided to keep him.

“You know, this all feels a lot more clinical than it does with Orin,” they tell him. Orin’s fingers grow and twist up their insides like they belong there--and really, they do. Enver hasn’t a hope of knowing their body the way she does, of course, but he’s making up for it as best he can with his toolbox. The speculum holding them open deliciously painfully, the clever little torch powered by magic rather than candlelight held in the mage hand floating beside them, even a periscope in case Enver gets lost--not that he appreciated Kallian suggesting that he might, of course. All Kallian had to bring was a couple of health potions, within easy reach on the bed next to them, just in case of mistakes.

“More professional, you mean,” he shoots back, fancy ice pick inching further into their body. “I’m surprised she hasn’t accidentally killed you yet, if you move this much for her, too. Do keep still now, my dear, I’d hate to puncture anything too important.”

Kallian waves a hand, enjoying the way Enver’s jaw clenches at that. “I’ll be fine. Orin perforated my bowel twice when we were younger, it was nothing a bit of healing couldn’t fix.” And certainly nothing next to the pain of a successful abortion, or even a period these days. Which is fine. If Bhaal’s decided their every period should be more painful than the last, if after every abortion these days there’s a few seconds--never more than a minute!--where their heart stops beating, he’s clearly just noticed how much enjoyment they get from pain.

“Even so, I think it’s for the best that you take care--I can be terribly clumsy you know.”

The sudden movement of the mage hand dazzles them, torch dropping abruptly from its grip as it darts out and swipes at the healing potions next to them, pushing them from the bed. Kallian flinches at the sound of glass shattering as they hit the ground.

“You see,” Enver smirks. “Awful case of butterfingers.”

Kallian stares up at him, heart thumping in their mouth as his eyes and torch return to their cunt and their promised safety leaks out on the floor. “Enver, wait--”

“You know, I don’t think I will, my darling.” The orbitoclast moves inside them. “You’ll just have to take some extra care.”

He could kill them, right now. It wouldn’t even have to be on purpose--and it’s not like he doesn’t have reason to do it on purpose, after some of the things he said (after how scared he looked) last night. But he doesn’t know their body, he’s never done this before, all it would take is one wrong artery--

“You’re getting wetter,” Enver observes incredulously.

There’s just something about being restrained.

Enver chuckles, his free hand stroking up their labia. “Well, at least you’ll die happy--”

The door suddenly swings open suddenly and Kallian barely keeps themself from jumping in surprise. For one brief moment they think Enver planned it, planned for them to impale themself on the spike sitting inside them so he wouldn’t have to take the blame from his god. But he looks just as off guard as they do at the intrusion. 

And of course, he’d never have invited Orin.

“Liar!” she shrieks, slamming the door behind her. “Lying little rat, you said, you promised, you were finished with your filthy little pet, finished till we bleed it dry and hang out its entrails--”

“We’ll talk about this later!” Kallian snaps, as commanding as they can possibly be while laid out on a bed unable to move, with Enver’s hand still inside them. “Go and play with your corpses for now.”

“Or just jump from the roof of the tower,” Enver mutters. That lovely spark of arousal in his eyes is replaced by a dull glower now.

“You let it pump its filthy tyrant seed inside you, let its poison fill Bhaal’s sacred temple! You disgrace Father, Baneling maggot growing in your guts!”

“Yes, well, now I’m letting him take his Baneling maggot out, so honestly, the problem’s solving itself--”

“No, no no!” Orin shrieks, stomping her foot on the floor like she’s still a child. “You give it what should be Orin’s to take and touch and tear! Lying, traitorous, faithless harlot!”

“I’m Bhaal’s Chosen! I’m hardly faithless--”

“Oh, Kallian’s all that and more,” Enver snaps. “But I’m performing quite a delicate operation here, so if you want them to survive long enough for you to get your no doubt twisted revenge, get out so I can concentrate.”

For a brief moment, Orin’s actually quiet as she glares at him, before her face twists into a sneer. “Is it struggling? Does it not know its master’s body like Orin does? Do its fingers fail where mine thrive?”

Enver snarls. “She might be your master, but I answer only to Bane!”

Kallian’s eyes flick between Enver and Orin as they will themself desperately to keep still. “He’s hardly had a chance to know me as well as you do, Orin!” They really don’t want to insult Enver when he holds the power of life and death over them, but if Orin keeps bothering him… “You know how important you are to me,” they try. “But we’ll talk later.”

Orin turns her sneer on them. “My slaughter-kin has nowhere to be,” she says, sitting down on the edge of the bed--Kallian and Enver both bite back gasps as the mattress shifts under her weight--and crossing one leg over the other. “We talk now.”

Kallian glares up at her. “Fine! If you’re that eager to get punished... And don’t you dare try and pretend you don’t want it, if you’re going to be such a brat! Enver, stop. We’ll do this tomorrow.”

Enver’s smile is entirely humourless. “Sorry, my dear, but as I believe I mentioned--” the orbitoclast starts moving again--“I don’t answer to you.”

“Enver--”

“You think I’m just going to walk away and let her destroy what’s mine?” he snaps. “Either get your sister under control, or shut up and stop complaining.”

Oh, they’re both going to have to be punished for this, Kallian decides. There’s taking some initiative, and then there’s being completely disrespectful. And risking their life. They quickly toss aside the idea of calling Sceleritas for help--he’ll hardly be able to help with their current position, and they really don’t need a lecture about letting a Banite put a baby in them when they know they should be making use of the beautiful bhaalspawn shapechanger their Father so kindly provided them with.

“You know, I really think you’d enjoy this more if Orin wasn’t here,” they snap, watching Enver glare sullenly down at them.

“Undoubtedly!” he agrees, mock-cheerful under his glare. “So get her under control.”

Orin leans in to watch, her shoulder almost brushing against Enver’s as she stares into Kallian’s cunt. She tuts, shaking her head. “Perhaps it would find its work easier if it knew to make her juices flow looser. Does it not know to arouse?”

“I mean, I was more aroused before you started annoying me,” Kallian mutters, as Enver switches the torch to his left hand, the mage hand floating up to ineffectually try to push Orin back. “Why are you even here?”

“You lie and sneak and dishonour your family, but Thorm tells truths. Oh, but Orin doubted him, Orin called him the liar!” She pouts, crossing her arms. “Orin trusted Bhaal’s Voice on Toril would never stoop to grow a Baneling seed within her walls!”

Of course Ketheric had had to stick his nose in. As for how he’d know they were pregnant… They glare up at Enver, who’s apparently too absorbed in his work to even notice their displeasure.

“I’m through the cervix,” Enver breathes, licking his lips. “I’ve found it. Oh, here we are…”

Kallian shrieks at the sudden jolt of pain that rushes through them, phantom knives stabbing at every inch of their body as their heart stops beating.

“Ah.” Enver almost sounds regretful as his eyes flick to the shattered healing potions on the bedroom floor. “Did I hit something I shouldn’t have?”

“No,” Kallian gasps, fists clenching in the bed sheets as black spots dance in front of their eyes. “No, that’s just Father telling us it worked. It’s dead.”

“It could hardly be called alive, at this point,” says Enver, ever the killjoy, as he starts slowly edging the orbitoclast out again. He gives a contented sigh. “And now, it’ll never have a chance to live… Orin, move.”

Orin’s fingers brush against Kallian’s thigh, where another of Enver’s spells covers up the scars forming her name. She rolls her eyes as she begins to trace them. “Are the lordling’s fingers not skilled enough to work around mine? Little pink maggots working their way out of my kin.”

“Just as a reminder, Kallian, if you die, make sure Daddy dearest knows it’s all your sister’s fault.” He pauses, frowning. “Hmm. Fetuses don’t have souls to send off to the gods. Is that why he’s angry at you then? Doesn’t it count as a real offering?”

“Bhaal’s not angry at me!” Kallian snaps, biting back a whimper as their body cramps up. “Not all of us are wimps who can’t take a little bit of pain, you know!”

“We’ve talked about this, my dear, and cutting through the dermis is not ‘a little bit of pain’. But you have my sincerest apologies. I forgot you were utterly incapable of doing anything wrong in Daddy’s eyes.”

“Of course I am!” Even if there had been a reason to doubt that, they know Bhaal doesn’t want them to have a child with Bane’s Chosen. The fact that he reacted as usual to them removing the child just proves the pain is reward, rather than punishment. “I’m Bhaal’s divine will on Toril and if I don’t want to raise a child, then he doesn’t want me to either!”

“You raised me,” Orin says quietly. 

Kallian’s gaze snaps to their sister, though she refuses to look up at them, her own eyes staying fixed on Kallian’s thigh, as though she might see through Enver’s illusion to her claim on their skin. 

“You told me you wanted me.”

There’s… a lot Kallian could say to that. That it had been exhausting to raise an infant when they were still a child themself. That they wouldn’t have needed to if Helena had shown the slightest interest in caring for her daughter herself. That if they lived their life again, they’d make the same choice every time.

In any case, none of that means anything next to the time they watched Helena’s blood pool around her corpse, Orin’s tiny hand holding the knife over her. Next to Helena’s tales of how she killed her own mother, whose name they’ve never learnt, still forbidden from being spoken long after her betrayal. Kallian and Orin have both seen her grandmother’s skull held in Sarevok’s hand, bid goodnight to Helena’s corpse before they sleep, and agreed the two of them are never, ever having children of their own.

“And you seem to be trying your best to make me regret it,” they say instead. “Oh, don’t sulk! You don’t even want children!”

“Just another moment,” Enver murmurs, easing the orbitoclast back out, blood and viscera dripping off it. “Look at that. Beautiful.”

“Aw, does it not know how to attend to its master’s pain?” Orin asks, watching him--her sulk quickly forgotten, Kallian’s pleased to see.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare rob Kallian of a precious gift from Daddy!” Enver says cheerfully, eyes fixed on his orbitoclast.

Orin snorts. “Then I shall attend.” She shoves Enver aside, diving between Kallian’s legs to push her face into their cunt, eagerly licking up the viscera left dribbling out.

The punishment can wait, Kallian decides, taking advantage of finally being able to move their legs to wrap them around Orin’s shoulders, pulling her closer.

“I expected a little more finesse, for all your supposed years of experience,” Enver snaps, somewhere off to the side.

They look up at him, one hand still gripping his little orbitoclast, the other floating hesitantly next to the tent in his breeches. Kallian extends a hand, licking their lips. “Need some help, darling?”

Enver looks tempted for a moment, but his eyes flick back to Orin and his brow furrows in disgust. “I think I’ll leave you to your degeneracy,” he says. Coward. “You can keep the speculum,” he adds, as his mage hand packs up his tool box. “I don’t want it back after her mouth’s been anywhere near it.”

Kallian moans as Orin’s tongue snakes further inside them, cramps lessening under the pleasure. “Oh, go on then. And thank you for this evening, Enver. I’m sorry it didn’t work out quite as we had planned.”

He just snorts as he turns away. “I meant what I said. Get her under control before you end up regretting it.”

“Oh don’t worry, she’ll be punished,” they tell him sweetly, ignoring the way Orin nips at their labia in response. They’re hardly going to let Enver get away with his behaviour tonight, either.

They tangle their fist into Orin’s hair, giving another moan--it’s only slightly exaggerated--as Enver leaves. “Ohh, yes. Just there! Of course you’re under control, aren’t you, love? You act out and throw your little tantrums, but you know where you belong, don’t you?”

She bites at them again, harder this time, teeth digging into their folds and tugging, and Kallian yelps, laughing. 

“Well, if you’re that upset, why not go running after Enver?”

She doesn’t, of course. Orin stays where she is, lapping up cum and blood reverently, easing Kallian’s pain, any complaints forgotten entirely. Exactly where she belongs.

Chapter Text

Orin is still Kallian’s greatest love. Even as her sibling wraps herself back up in the lordling, even as she plots longer and longer to rule crown and brain and world, even with a new art project consuming her thoughts, she still loves Orin the best. Orin has little need to hear her say it.

The Chosen have taken part of the alien colony for their own, tested their crown on a bulging head of flesh-worms, affirmed their domination. She’d killed well that day, dancing with Kallian as their blades sliced and slashed, painting them both in silver blood. Afterwards, Kallian’s pet had flapped his jaw on and on about how his magics and tools would protect them from the elder brain they still sought to make theirs, keeping them safe amid walls of flesh. Orin had sat by an acrid pool, carefully carving back sticky flesh to find brittle bone, more interested in the shape of a mindflayer skull than in the tyrant’s crafty speeches and empty boasts.

Kallian had been enamoured with the colony, with its walls and carpets of flesh. She’d carved out chunks to bring back to her room, and spent the last week slowly working the flesh into a model of Moonrise Towers. It’s a dull, ugly thing; flesh harvested from a mere construct, no screams or sobs as it was offered up to Father, a worthless imitation of true art. Yet still, still, Kallian scrapes away at it, pushing and prodding at fleshy arches and gutterings.

She doesn’t even look up when Orin slips into her room, engrossed in a clump of pretender flesh. “Well, I think I’ve got all the turrets sorted! What do you think of the staircase? It’s so difficult to make right angles with this thing! No, don’t touch me, this is delicate.”

Orin glares at the thing, as hideous now as yesterday, while Kallian babbles on, giving no pause for any answers Orin might have. Once, there had been meaning to her art. On Orin’s twentieth birthday, Kallian had presented her with a dollhouse, a priceless castle made entirely of teeth, each pulled from the skulls of her victims, home to fingerbone dolls held together by sinew. Orin had treasured it more dearly than any artwork of her own, until Kallian had shoved her butler’s dying corpse away too forcefully, and he’d stumbled back into Orin’s house, shattering half the rooms. She’d cried and screamed and given Kallian new scars that day, and Kallian had promised she’d fix it as soon as she had the time. She’d begun her plot with the tyrant a scarce tenday after.

It matters little, so far away from home, in any case. She kneels beside her sibling, presses a kiss into Kallian’s neck. “I can give you flesh more supple, more yielding, than your stale tower.”

“Maybe tomorrow. I really want to get the railings finished before dinner.”

Orin snorts. “Dinner is passed, an hour back, slaughter-heart. We fed without you.”

That gets Kallian’s head to snap up. “An hour? I thought--Oh, what a nuisance! I’m supposed to be spending time with Enver tonight. Ugh, why does everyone want my attention all the time?”

“Why give the lordling attention at all?” Orin snaps. Why set her hours aside just for him, when all Orin gets is ‘maybe tomorrow’ and ‘but you’re always available whenever I want you’? “Why pick him clean and leave him to rot, then return to reanimate his slimy, putrid carcass when you promised to leave him in his grave?”

“You’re never going to let this go, are you?” Kallian mutters. Finally, she pulls away from her pretend-art, turning her scowl on Orin. “I made a mistake, all right? Is that what you wanted to hear? I gave Enver up, and I realised I made the wrong decision, and I decided to try to fix it and move on, which is a lot harder when you keep digging it back up.”

“You gave him up for me.”   Whiny and pathetic, even to her own ears.

“Orin,” Kallian sighs, rubbing her own face. “If your heart stopped beating, I’d give up half of mine to keep us together. But you can’t ask me to give up my happiness, just because it inconveniences you, sweetheart. You know I love you, you know you’re my favourite, but you demand more and more and more from me, and then you wonder why I’m spending less time with you?”

Orin’s guts twist beneath her skin. “Your lips spit vows of love, but your hands have shown none in a tenday, blood-kin.”

Relief floods her body as Kallian’s fingers dance across Orin’s jaw, her mouth claiming Orin’s. Fool that Orin is. Relief drowns away any vigilance, leaves her unprepared for the blade tickling her collarbone, drawing a trail of red in its wake. 

Very well--they can explore each other’s bodies with knives as well as they can tongues or fingers. Orin’s hand moves quickly to find her own blade, but Kallian’s own digs deeper as her boot stamps down, crushing Orin’s fingers to the floor.

“I already told you, Orin, I’m busy. Why don’t you go and play with Enver, since you’re both so needy today?”

Sparks of pain blossom in Orin’s knuckles as Kallian’s heel grinds down. She snarls up at her. “Leave me my fingers so I might peel back his skin, and I will gladly bring back fresh meat for your art.”

Kallian tuts, shaking her head. “No, Orin. I’m trying to decrease your libido, not get you more worked up. And honestly? You both need to be punished for your behaviour when I decided to take Enver back.”

Her intentions drip like poison into Orin’s stomach. It’s not the first time Kallian has given her away to be pawed at by others, but such a punishment as their separation usually befits a serious crime--challenging Kallian before her underlings, allowing her eyes to wander outside her family. Is a plea for Kallian’s attention really so great a transgression as to throw her to him?

She should have dug her teeth and fingers into the Thorm girl, when she had the chance. Nevermind her loathing for the girl, at least then she’d be deserving of Kallian’s wrath.

But then, perhaps… There's some hope, honey amidst the poison. None but Kallian have ever lived out the night, after sharing in Orin’s body. Her sibling is wont to regret these punishments just as much as Orin is, turning on those she’d earlier gifted in jealous fury and spending hours reminding Orin who she belongs to until there is no crimson left to drain from their bodies.

“You’ll slaughter him afterwards, for me? As you’ve slaughtered the others?” It’s as much a plea as a question.

“You know I will, eventually. Just as soon as we don’t need him any longer.” 

Later, later, later. Always later, as if Kallian doesn’t plot on and on and on. Fine. If her master wishes, she’ll go to the tyrant--and no doubt find him no more eager for them to join flesh to flesh than Orin is. She needs only touch him a little, purring words and trailing hands down his body, before he reaches for his weapons. She could enjoy it, even, feast on his fear-stink before returning to Kallian, her orders fulfilled as well as Orin is able. “Then let me up, so I may go to him.”

Kallian’s smile is as sharp as the blade tickling at her throat. “Don’t be silly, Orin, you can hardly go to him like this. ” The blade moves, tracing gently up the curve of her neck, barely puncturing her flesh. “If Enver realises it’s you he’s with, he’ll probably kill you. And you know I can’t allow him to do that--or to touch your body. Luckily for us, it doesn’t need to be your body that he’s getting.”

Poison turns to ice in Orin’s gut. “No,” she whispers, then louder, “No! Give me to him as you will but do not ask me to play the simpering fool, eager for his slimy touch!”

The crushing weight on Orin’s fingers is lifted for a brief moment--before she can think to move her hand, Kallian’s boot comes back down, hard, and she howls as she feels bones fracture beneath the pressure. “Well, maybe next time I’m with him, you won’t be quite so eager to insert yourself into the action!” Kallian tells her cheerfully. “Come on, Orin. He’s expecting me.”

“Never, never, never! Slice and maim as you will, slaughter-heart, yours are the only hands I will take from.”

She bares her teeth, glaring at Kallian, to be met only with a stern indifference. “You’d take from every living soul in this tower if I ordered it. Be glad you haven’t annoyed me quite badly enough for that yet. Now, you can keep on tantruming, if you must. But Enver does so hate to be kept waiting. I’d hate to see what he’d do to you if you were too late.”

“Please,” Orin whispers, pretends, just for a moment, that Kallian might possibly back down. “My slaughter-heart, my sibling, my love, I wish only to be yours.”

“Then obey me,” Kallian says simply.

They both know that Orin will never do otherwise.

Kallian the Black is delighted to spend some time with their greasy little pet tonight. They knock once at his bedroom door, for politeness’ sake, before throwing it wide open and skipping inside.

The pet barely glances up from the mechanical arm he’s tinkering with at his desk as Kallian enters--rude, ungrateful little weasel, he should be begging for his better’s attention. “Kind of you to finally join me,” he snaps.

“I’m so sorry,” Kallian tells him, a sunny smile slapped over their face. “I got a little caught up spending time with Orin.” They trot over, craning up to look at him. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure whether to even bother visiting you tonight, I was so enjoying her company. You’re welcome, by the way.”

He rolls his eyes, finally setting down his spanner and pushing the arm to the side. “And yet here you are, my dear. Tearing yourself away from your degeneracy all for me. I’m flattered.”

“You should be! I mean, you’re not even family--”

There’s a new flash of pain as his fingers dig into the wound still stinging against their collarbone. “A gift from Orin, I take it?” he asks casually, gesturing towards it.

They just nod, teeth clenched against any whimpers. The pain would be good if it came from--he’s a pet, they shouldn’t allow him to do this. He’s awfully lucky, honestly, that they like him enough to let him continue.

Gortash--Enver--sneers, his face contorting in a way that might be hideous if they didn’t like him quite so much, his fingers twisting, forcing deeper, and this time Kallian does cry out. “Should I be expecting another interruption from your sister tonight, then? I warn you, if you don’t get that bitch on a tighter leash soon, you’re going to be the one paying for it.”

“Orin won’t--she won’t bother us tonight,” Kallian gasps. “I promise.”

“Good,” he says, sounding entirely too unconvinced. “Just remember, she’ll turn on you too, sooner or later.”

“She will not!” Kallian snaps, pain forgotten as their head spins at their pet’s utter audacity. “Why would you--Honestly, it’s pathetic that you think you can just turn me against her. What reason would Orin even have to betray me?”

Enver barks out a laugh. “What reason? I know it might be hard for you to imagine, my dear, but those of us not born as daddy’s favourite aren’t simply content to grovel at our masters’ feet forever. The more power you have in your grasp, the more others are going to want it. Or do you think she enjoys being yanked around all the time?”

Of course she does. Of course Orin is content at their side--more content than she’d be alone, with nothing but power and favour and everything else that Kallian accepts without question--as is their right. “Orin loves me,” they insist. “You don’t--you’re just jealous because you know I like her better than you!”

“Oh, probably,” Enver agrees. “In any case, I didn’t ask you here to discuss Orin.” His hands are on their hips suddenly, lifting their tiny body with ease and seating them on his desk. “And get rid of that ghastly thing you’re wearing--it makes you look like her.”

Of course it does--Kallian had never even thought to make their own slay-skin until they watched Orin sew hers, as a teenager sick of wearing her mother’s old clothes and whatever dresses Kallian bought for her. She’d wanted to stand out in their dark temple; bold and bright, a statement piece as much to show off her passions as to honour Bhaal--or so she’d said. Kallian had known better, of course, realising how perfectly they could show off the bond the two of them had, if they made their own suits to be a perfect match to Orin’s.

They shake their head free of thoughts of the past and peel back layers of black leather, struggling with their splintered fingers.

“My, she really did get excited tonight, didn’t she?” Enver asks, an eyebrow quirked and a smile playing on his lips, as he watches them struggle.

“And it was amazing,” Kallian snaps.

“Now, now, you know how I feel about you thinking of her when we’re together,” he tuts, shaking his head. “Am I going to need to distract you?”

Quite honestly, Kallian would love to not think about Orin right now, with Enver’s hand snaking out to caress the curve of their hip. “Go on,” they sigh. 

They know they’ve made the wrong decision as his face lights up. “Happily,” he purrs, grabbing for the spanner left discarded on the desk.

“Wait--”

He slams it down onto their uninjured hand, and Kallian screams.

It’s good--the way the world blurs around the edges, the sound of blood rushing to their ears, everything centered on the exquisite pull of the pain and not on the tyrant’s hands all over their body, tearing off the rest of their meat-suit and shoving a finger into their cunt.

“Dry as a bone,” he laughs. “Want me to fix that, or are you that eager for pain tonight?”

More pain sounds nice, they think, blinking up at a cobweb on his ceiling--they’ve fallen back onto the desk, apparently. Pain in their fingers, and chest, and--another finger squeezes painfully inside them and two fingers shouldn’t ache that much but halflings are so small--pain in her cunt, sharp and bloody and in and out and in and out and no no no no no that never happened to them--

“Fix it,” Kallian gasps. “I can’t--fix it!”

“Ask nicely, my dear.”

Kallian grits their teeth, biting back the urge to snarl that they’re going to flay him alive as soon as their fingers are mended. “Please.” They widen those big, brown, innocent eyes of theirs, fluttering their eyelashes. “Please, Enver. Make it better.”

Enver chuckles. “Your wish is my command…”

Their stomach churns--probably hungry, Kallian did miss dinner, after all--as they focus on the pressure of the thumb rubbing at their clit, wringing out sparks of pleasure. They watch blearily, the feeling inside them growing, their pet’s face unfocused in the gap between beautiful plump breasts, dotted in freckles. Pleasure, pain, the ache of thick fingers in their cunt lessening as they grow used to the intrusion. The wet, warm lap of a tongue against their clit--they gasp, flinching, at the stubble rubbing against their thighs. Why don’t they make him shave, how is the feel of his dirty, slobbish face hair pleasurable for anyone? 

“You’re awfully responsive today, my dear,” he murmurs. “Maybe we should break your fingers more often.”

“I might like that, you know,” Kallian decides. “But do wait until I’ve forgotten, it’ll be so much more raw if you do it without any silly warnings, like I’m a child who doesn’t know how to deal with a little bit of pain.”

“How could I possibly say no?” He draws back, and for a moment they think that might be enough, that he’s satisfied with the promise of future pain--stupid of them, of course; his hands go to loose his belt and let his cock spring free, thick and blunt. Almost a disappointment--Orin’s can be longer, for when they really want to hurt. But nevermind that; they’re perfectly happy here watching Enver quickly strip off his clothes. Their handsome inventor, so clever with his fingers, so adept in pain. They’re eager for the cock sliding inside them, his body pressing against theirs as he leans over, bracing himself against the desk.

With so many shattered fingers, there’s little Kallian can do to bring their release any closer except rocking their hips back and forth in time with their movements, eyes squeezed shut. To give themself something more to focus on, they bite at the chest pressed against their face, digging their teeth in as deep as they can.

Enver grunts, hand squeezing at their hip and nails digging in, but it’s not enough for him to raise himself off them. He stays pressed against them, filling their personal space, even as they fasten their teeth into the other side of his chest, ignoring the taste of sweat on their tongue, the coarse hair tickling at their mouth, the bile in their throat.

Enver lets out a shuddering moan, and Kallian suddenly remembers they’re more vocal than this during sex--and they’re certainly not going to give their pet the satisfaction of thinking he’s the one to finally shut them up. “More,” they gasp, breathily, flexing their fingers as best they can to bring another rush of pain. “Oh! Oh yes, love, right there.”

Enver splutters, hips stilling and the weight on their body suddenly lifting off as he stares down at them incredulously. “What did you say?”

“What? Why are you stopping? This is going to take even longer now!”

“You do not love me,” he spits out the word, glaring down at them in something approaching disgust as Kallian blinks up at him in unpleasant surprise.

Of course they love him. Why else would they give themself to the Chosen of their Father’s enemy, insist on keeping him alive when all other pets die within months? Why would they snub their truest love over and over again for him, when she’s begging and pleading and hating herself for their attention, if they don’t even love him? 

“Slip of the tongue?” he asks, words dripping in scorn as he glares down at her. “More mind games, or were you thinking about her again?”

“No!” Kallian promises him. “I’m not--I don’t want to think about Orin now, I swear! I’m sorry, I’ll--I’ll go, I mean, you’ve been in a mood all night anyway--”

The palm of his hand hits their cheek--a slap like that barely even qualifies as pain, but they take the hint to shut their mouth anyway, as the hand moves to loop itself around their neck, squeezing. His free hand fists at his cock, hungry eyes fixed on the curves of their body as he jerks himself off. Kallian’s left with nothing to do but snap their eyes closed again, as if in rapture, and gasp for the few breaths he lets them take.

They flinch when Enver eventually comes, painting their belly sticky white, and it’s over, finally. After all, they have other things to do this evening, their little art project to get back to! They’d be demanding their own orgasm in any other situation, of course, but, well, it’s not like their flesh tower is going to build itself!

“Here.” Enver throws them an oil-stained rag as they gingerly pull themself into a sitting position. “Clean yourself up and get out of here.”

It’s difficult, without the use of most of their fingers, to wipe their belly clean and struggle back into their meat-suit. Enver seems disinclined to help this time, shoving them aside the moment they’re off the desk so he can sit back down and pull out his tools again.

“Well, I suppose I should thank you for tonight,” Kallian ventures--talking had only seemed to make things worse earlier, but it just wouldn’t be them to stay quiet for long, damn the consequences.

“No doubt,” he agrees, the mechanical arm before him twitching slightly as he tinkers with it. “You can do that by leaving me alone.”

Kallian hardly needs more encouragement, forcing their skins into an almost decent position before scurrying to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow!” they tell him, not waiting for an answer before slipping out, and kicking the door shut behind them.

They take a shaky breath in the corridor outside, taking some more time to adjust their meat-suit before returning to--to their art. At the sound of footsteps, they slap a smile over their face, sweet and welcoming to any who might pass by.

They needn’t have bothered--nothing could change Ketheric Thorm’s opinion of them. His lip curls in disgust as he takes them in--bloodied and bruised and stinking of sex--and quickly looks away, hastening his footsteps back towards his room. Good. That’s how he should look at them--disgust rather than pity. He’s made clear to all of them that he finds the flay-skins whorish; inappropriate in his family home. Orin he forgives for them, insisting on thinking she doesn’t know any better, but Kallian he judges all the more harshly, and they’ve always delighted in his judgement.

They delight in it now--Orin would get horror and concern and hands on her body knitting flesh and bone back together, whether or not she gave any agreement to his healing. Kallian the Black he sees truly, and hates and fears as he should any child of Bhaal.

Ketheric reaches his bedroom door, about to leave without any sad attempts to engage them in conversation, or give gentle reassurances a child of Bhaal has no need for. They’re free to return to--to--

“Ketheric?” they murmur.

He turns back to look at them, disgust and irritation across his face turning to shock and then horror as Kallian twists their neck and lets Orin come spilling out.

His questions and exclamations are distant beneath the flood trying to drown her, as tears she hadn’t realised Orin had held inside erupt from her face.

There are hands on her again--gently holding her wrists, steering her into his room, burying wounds under new flesh, covering her up in a faded blanket, rubbing at her back.

She finds herself curled in his lap, face pressed into his chest and newly boned fingers grasping tight at his shirt, his arms holding her close. Memories surface, herself as a child, sobbing into Kallian’s arms in just such a way. Always her sister who’d hold her and comfort her and kiss away her tears, when Grandfather found her girlish tantrums an embarrassment and Mother gave nothing but heated words or cold indifference.

She wonders, curled in Ketheric’s arms, just when Kallian stopped being the remedy to her tears and became their source.

Kallian’s hands refuse to stay steady as she carves stupid, fiddly little balustrades out of flesh. There’s no reason for the tower to be this complicated to copy anyway--Ketheric had designed his home to be far too ostentatious. Clearly compensating for something.

At the third slip of her knife, Kallian tosses aside the railing with a snarl, pulling back from her work to pace her room. She’s made zero progress since Orin’s interruption, too distracted with the ever growing desire to burst into Enver’s room and stick a knife in him for every time he’s dared to touch her sister tonight.

Which really isn’t fair, because it’s supposed to be a punishment for the two of them, and yet Kallian’s the one who can’t focus any longer, too wrapped up in creeping jealousy. It should have been a brilliant plan to get them both back for their behaviour during the abortion incident--after all, what was there to be jealous of when it’s not Orin’s body she’s giving away, and there’s no risk of ever losing Orin’s heart? But, well, the plan to slowly indoctrinate half of Baldur’s Gate into a fake religion via mindflayer tadpoles had felt like a brilliant plan too. In practice, it’s turned out to leave her with hundreds of people who she can’t kill yet.

Kallian’s going to cut Enver into a hundred little pieces once this is all over.

“Scel!” she yells, kicking another discarded scrap of flesh as she whirls round.

It takes far too many seconds for her butler to materialise beside her, bowing and scraping. “How may I be of service, my most terrible Master?”

“Did I make the right decision, sending Orin to sleep with Enver? She looks like me, you see, so she has to pretend to have a good time, which she’s going to hate, and of course, he won’t know until I tell him. And I can leave it for weeks, and refuse to tell him when it happened exactly, and he’ll be such an adorable mess of paranoia trying to figure it out, and wondering if I’m even telling the truth.”

“What a creatively vile mind you have, Master--”

“Yes, but it means Orin isn’t just mine, now! So I was thinking, maybe it would have been better if I’d handed her over to some of Enver’s servants to play with? Then I could kill them all afterwards--if Orin didn’t manage to finish off a few herself--and then Enver’s punishment is losing--no, that would never work, would it? He’d just be annoyed I killed them, it wouldn’t hurt him, you know? Not on a personal level.” Kallian sighs, rubbing her face. Maybe she needs more sleep, she’s not been paying enough attention to that while working on her project either. But what’s the point of putting down her art to settle in bed if she’s only going to be woken by a nightmare a few hours later anyway? “I just--What else can I do when they’re not respecting me? It was a good idea, wasn’t it?”

“As I said, Master, creatively, deliciously vile.” Which is some mollification at least, but her butler’s twisting his hands together, hesitant frown on his face. “Although… You know I have been exceedingly tolerant of you having your fun with Bane’s Chosen, and the, ah, risks to your glorious womb, but I must question the wisdom in risking Lady Orin’s, too. I suppose we must hope she had the sense not to grow one for this little adventure.”

“I mean, we’re more than capable of killing any risks,” Kallian points out. Although the idea of anyone else planting a child in Orin is not helping with the jealousy burning up her insides. Thank you for that mental image, Scel. 

“Weeeell, speaking of wombs, and infants, and such--”

“Are you seriously doing this now?” Kallian snaps, rounding on him.

“I assure you, Master,” Scel holds up his hands placatingly, “I want only what is best for you! Wouldn’t you feel better, with something solid, and actionable, and constantly screaming, to bind you to your dreadful sister?”

Kallian’s teeth grind together. “So, your solution to how to punish Orin is to make me grow a parasite inside me for nine entire months? Because it would be me growing it, wouldn’t it? Because I’m not the one Bhaal blessed with the ability to grow a penis, and he clearly doesn’t want me to suffer through an entire pregnancy, does he?”

And what Scel should say is ‘no, of course not, your father would never ask you to carry a child to term and spend years caring for it before it even did anything interesting!’ But he’s still hesitating, mouth opening slowly even as Kallian’s already finished thinking through what is clearly going to be his next sentence.

He’s still made no noise except an anticipatory groan by the time she’s pulled the dagger from her boot and has nothing to say but glk as she drives it into his neck.

Kallian relaxes into the temporary spike of bliss his death brings. It’s been so difficult finding people to kill every day since they reached Moonrise, Scel truly is a blessing. Of course Orin loves to complain that Sceleritas’ deaths don’t count as properly honouring Bhaal, since he always comes back. But if they didn’t please Father, why would he always make them feel so good?

Nevermind the tower, maybe her next art project can be making something out of the little bits of viscera left after Scel’s body disintegrates. Kallian can finally work out how many times she has to kill him to gather up enough new material to make a full size replica of him. That’ll be fun, won’t it? 

She hastily wipes her hands clean before grabbing up the teddy bear sitting on their bed. “It’s all going to be fine, Stabby,” she tells him. “Orin’s going to be so much less whiny when she comes back, and I’ll remind her she’s mine and we’ll have the most amazing sex, so she won’t even have to complain about me not paying attention any more. I’ve had enough of the tower, anyway. And then I’ve still got letting Enver know about the whole thing to look forward to! I can make it a game, do something different every time I sleep with him! I can be distant with him one day, and violent the next, and then I can go on about how much better than him Orin is. You know, just make it really difficult for him to work out when I made him sleep with Orin, get him questioning everything. That’ll keep me occupied, won’t it? Until I get to kill everyone.”

Stabby, of course, doesn’t reply--she should have talked it out with him instead of Scel in the first place.

“Of course I made the right decision,” she tells him. After all, what else could she really have done?

When Isobel was a little girl, Ketheric had set up a swing for her in the grounds around Moonrise. She’d loved seeing how high it could take her, ignored all Ketheric’s warnings to take care, until she’d come flying off it while unsupervised one morning. He’d been alerted by the sound of his dog’s panicked barks, and was already on his way out of the tower when his little girl had run to him in tears, blood dripping from her knees and hands and forehead, with Squire whining at her side. That her first response to pain and danger was to come and find her papa barely damped Ketheric’s terror for her. He’d healed her scars and wiped away the blood, and even afterwards, she’d continued to wail, crawling into his lap to cling to him, until his very presence had chased away the pain.

He feels something similar now, with Orin curled up in his lap.

It’s some time since Ketheric’s thought of himself as someone able to give comfort--Melodia was always so good at it, and seemed to take all the care and comfort in the world with her when she died. Squire’s skills have atrophied just as much as his own. After a few minutes of watching vigilantly, making sure the stranger Ketheric brought into their room posed no threat to her master, the dog padded over to lean awkwardly against his legs. Her body’s as cold as Ketheric’s--long gone is the puppy with shining eyes whose tail was a constant blur whenever Isobel would scratch her ears. They do the best they can, Ketheric awkwardly stroking Orin’s hair, nodding seriously as he coaxes out the truth of her ordeal in frenzied bursts of speech between her sobs. 

“I’ll deal with Gortash,” he promises her. Ketheric doesn’t take pleasure in dealing pain as the other Chosen do, any harm he’s caused is a necessary evil. But if it weren’t for his promise to Myrkul, for Isobel’s safety, he’d tear Gortash limb from limb for what he’s done tonight. “He won’t get away with this, I swear it.”

“No, no, no, no, no!” Orin’s plait swings wildly as she frantically shakes her head, her nails digging deep into his arm where she clings to him. “No telling the lordling! Witless tyranny is nothing to Kallian’s clever tricks, no meat in his skull to tell Orin apart.”

He supposes he should be pleased if she’s finally ready to blame Kallian for her misfortunes. And he intends to hold Kallian accountable for her part in this too, but Gortash is the greater evil here. However despicably Kallian treats her sister, at least Kallian’s still a woman, incapable of rape. As much as Ketheric shudders at the thought of what the two women get up to together, he’s been able to take comfort in the fact that Orin’s surely remained a virgin through it all. That Kallian let Gortash have his way with her is a violation he can never forgive either of them for.

“I will not excuse his crimes simply because he didn’t know the full extent of them. His ignorance does not make up for the harm he caused you.”

“Harm tickles like flies buzzing round bowel-leavings. Orin can pluck off his wings herself should his buzz be too vexing.” Her nails press harder, breaking through layers of dead skin. “But speak a word of Orin’s abasement, let him know he had command of her flesh, and I will slice through your wagging tongue and choke you on it.”

“Do whatever brings you comfort. There’s no injury I won’t recover from,” Ketheric points out. He doubts her words in any case--she’s irrational in her distress, can’t see clearly that he only means to help her.

“Death brings Orin comfort,” she snaps, shifting in his lap. “You cannot provide, grave-meat.” Her lip trembles as she pulls back. “Kallian has need of me.”

Ketheric’s arms tighten around her. “I will not let Kallian abuse you further tonight,” he tells her firmly, ignoring her sulky glare. He will leave the subject of Gortash for now, if it upsets her so much, but he won’t send her away to suffer further. “You know you deserve better than this treatment, Isobel. You would not have come to me at all if you were happy to return to her.” 

“I love Kallian,” Orin tells him flatly.

He’s told her before that what they have is about as far from love as it’s possible to get, to no avail. He purses his lips instead, and speaks of part of his past he’d much rather forget. “I knew a woman once,” he tells her. “Antinua. I thought myself in love with her, even asked her to be my wife. I told myself I was happy with her--perhaps I was, on occasion. I’d never have deluded myself thus if her company was nothing but misery. But no temporary bliss could halt the discontent growing inside me, day by day. Until I met my darling Melodia.” Ketheric finds himself smiling at the memory. “She filled a part of me I didn’t know was empty, and when Isobel was born, I felt the same again. I knew, even that first day with Melodia, that what I’d felt for Antinua was nothing but a pale imitation of true love. I promise, Orin, you’ll feel the same one day. You’re young, you have so much time ahead of you to meet a man who shows you exactly what you’ve been missing with Kallian.”

Orin rolls her eyes hard enough that it’s impossible to miss, despite her lack of pupils, and Ketheric hates Kallian all the more for making her sister believe such a dream is an impossibility. “Bhaal’s Chosen is not some common carcass to leave rotting in the dirt,” she spits. “She has been by my side since my womb egress and--”

“And has never given you a chance to find joy without her.”

“What would you have me be, without my god-kin?” Orin asks. “Should I slice and stab alone, make a bed of corpse-flesh in the alleys while she rules her temple-house, as kin and foes alike hunt me for the slaughter? Or would you fashion me a pretty cage to hang from your death-tower until your Isobel returns to take my place?”

“I’m not suggesting leaving you helpless,” Ketheric tells her. He hesitates, glancing towards Squire as if for support, his faithful hound staring up at him unblinkingly. “I am aware,” he says slowly, “that Bhaal requires a skilled representative for our work here, with understanding of, and dedication to, our masters’ triumph. I see no reason why that representative must be Kallian.”

A few short months ago, he thinks Orin may have put a knife in him for the suggestion. She’s silent now, her eyes widening almost imperceptibly as she watches him. “You cut loose your pretend wife with ease, left no blood of your own to pool in her grave. But Kallian is more kin than wife, and you ask my heart to beat without her blood to fuel it?”

She fears being alone--if anyone can understand that, it’s Ketheric. “I know that to lose your family is no easy feat. I do not suggest this lightly.” He takes her hand, squeezes it. “But should you choose to free yourself, I promise you my support--in this, and all that comes after. I will be your family, if you will be mine. We can heal what we’ve lost together.”

Orin’s silent again, her face unreadable as she looks him over, as Ketheric waits on her answer with bated breath.

His heart sinks as she wipes away the last of her tears and pulls herself from his grip, letting her blanket fall to the ground. 

“Orin--”

“Hush,” she presses a finger to his lips. “Kallian’s fury will burn us all, should she think I left her tyrant spent and ran to sate my tears on you,” she tells him gently. “You’d take a dagger to tear through her spine, but she would make a graveyard of your deathless meat-cage, a dozen knives for every poisoned breath, again, again, again.” She pauses, meeting his eyes. “I will carve no truths with blade nor lips tonight.”

“Think on what I’ve said,” Ketheric urges her. “Take what time you need, but know that whenever you’re ready, I’ll stand beside you.”

Orin flexes her fingers and he hears a crack like bone breaking as they grow misshapen. She gives no answer as she leaves.

Chapter Text

The Chosen’s morning meeting hasn’t yet begun, and already Enver can’t wait for it to be over. The first tadpoles are due for harvesting today. Only a few hours and he can start to find out how people react to having a slimy, wriggling, tooth-filled monster forced into their various orifices--before, of course, they fall under the thrall of the mindflayer that’s already under Enver’s thrall, and forget all their worries in their eagerness to serve. But before he can get to enjoying his experiments, he unfortunately needs Kallian and Ketheric’s agreement to his plans for the tadpole testing.

Technically, they were due to meet ten minutes ago. But given Kallian’s never shown up on time for a meeting since they met, and trying to make small talk with Ketheric is only slightly more bearable than having teeth pulled, Enver sees no point in turning up until at least the five minute mark himself.

He’s timed it perfectly today, it turns out. The sound of feet slapping against stone behind him marks Kallian’s appearance as they rush down the stairs. He gives them a nod, only to be met with an icy glare that forces itself into a smile. Still upset about last night, he supposes. He can’t find it within himself to care to ask.

“Lovely morning, isn’t it, Enver?” they say, a little too cheerfully. “Well, I mean, it’s a horrible morning, what with the Shadow Curse and everything. But I was just talking to Radija, and she says one of the patrols managed to capture some gnolls! Oh, I love gnolls!”

“Savage degenerates who eat their prisoners? Of course you do.”

“They’re just so cute,” Kallian continues on, completely ignoring him. “And I know they’ve got a bad reputation, but they’re actually really loyal to their families. It’s so sweet! Do you think we can convince Ketheric to finish early today? I mean, one of us should go and greet them, welcome them to their new home! It would only be polite.”

Enver ignores them, pushing open the door to the great hall to see Ketheric looking even stonier than usual as he waits for them. Speaking to his co-conspirators is going to be just delightful today, he sees.

“General,” he nods, striding over to his own chair at the table, “I take it everything’s in place to start our tadpoling experiments?”

Ketheric’s glare only deepens. “I will not begin our business before speaking to the two of you about your abominable treatment of Orin.”

Enver groans. “And what treatment would that be, exactly?” Honestly, he’s been fairly successful at avoiding Orin recently. He hasn’t even had time yet to bring up his suggestion that she’d be a perfect specimen to test a tadpole on. “Don’t tell me you’re upset about Kallian spending time with me instead of her sister again. You know what--”

“You raped her!” Ketheric roars, jumping to his feet. “You robbed her of her virtue, and you have the audacity--”

“I-- What in the Hells are you talking about?” The idea would be skin-crawling if it wasn’t quite so ludicrous, even leaving aside the idea that Orin had any kind of virtue whatsoever.

“I think our friend’s age might be catching up with him,” Kallian whispers hurriedly, placing a hand on Enver’s arm. “Maybe we should leave him to calm down for a while. Come on.”

“So you refuse to take account for handing your sister over to him?” Ketheric turns his glare toward them. “How appallingly predictable.”

“I can promise you, General,” Enver spits, “I wouldn’t lower myself to touch Orin if she was the last mortal alive on Toril. I don’t know what kind of sick delusions she’s having but--”

“You think your ignorance an excuse for your actions? Are you really so blind that you cannot tell the difference between your lover, and her sister coming to you in her form?”

Time slows down around him. “...What?”

“Ignore him, Enver!” Kallian pulls at his arm again. “Let’s go and look at gnolls!”

Enver looks down slowly at the hand on his arm, fingers curled easily around his sleeve, chipped nails starting to dig in as they tug insistently. His own hand moves of their own accord, grabbing at Kallian’s, feeling along each finger, frantically reminding himself of their never ending supply of healing potions, that he doesn’t know for sure that they wouldn’t mend as perfectly as though they’d never been broken, straight bones and unbruised nails. This doesn’t mean-- This can’t mean--

“He’s lying,” he chokes out, staring desperately into Kallian’s eyes, as bile pools in his stomach. “Promise me that he’s lying.”

“You are the one refusing to face up to the truth of your actions,” Ketheric snarls.

“Ketheric doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Kallian says, that sickening smile still frozen on their face, as their utterly unbroken hand squeezes his own. “And Orin would never be stupid enough to think I wouldn’t make her suffer if she went running off to someone else.”

Of course they wouldn’t. If they truly thought Orin had betrayed whatever twisted love the two of them shared, he has no doubt Kallian would react with screaming, violent fury. Not with desperately trying to pull him away from what Ketheric has to tell him.

He stumbles backwards, chair scratching against paving stones as his head starts to spin, the room suddenly feeling far too hot.

Kallian’s smile drops away as they watch him pull back. “Fine,” they snap. “Great work, Ketheric! He really didn’t know, actually, until you went and blabbed. I had a whole thing planned for telling him, and I was going to have weeks of fun with it, and you’ve just gone and ruined it!” Their fists clench. “Oh, I knew Orin didn’t come straight back to me! How long was she really with you, Enver?”

A shudder wracks through his body--that was Orin pressed up against him, her mouth all over his chest, his on her cunt--there’s bile in his throat as his vision blurs--a tickle down his cheek alerts him to the fact that he’s fucking crying, like a pathetic five year old whose parents have sold his favourite toys to pay for rent.

“Do you have no dignity at all, Gortash?” Ketheric snaps in disgust. “Face up to your crime like a man, instead of playing the child.”

He chokes out a spell, hands moving on pure instinct. Letting loose a ball of acid into the table unfortunately does little to lessen the vitriol churning in his stomach, despite the satisfaction he should be taking in seeing his tormentors jerk back, snarling. He barely takes in the decrepit old Myrkulite’s glare and that Bhaalist bitch trying fruitlessly to wipe acid from their melting breastplate, before he turns and runs from the room.

He can’t find it in himself to care that he doesn’t make it to a latrine before his breakfast comes back up--or to use a spell to clean the mess of Ketheric’s staircase. He thanks Bane that no one is around to see him in his humiliated state before finally, he’s back in his own room, falling to his knees as the world continues to spin around him.

He gasps for breath--the tears are blessedly gone now, a minor anomaly swiftly corrected--but his heart still thunders in his chest. He needs a bath. He needs to figure out how to make the three of them pay. He needs to tear his skin straight from his flesh if he’s ever going to be clean again.

“Feeling better now?” comes Kallian’s voice behind him.

He gives a wordless scream, scrambling up to throw himself at them, kicking and punching, yanking at their hair--at least they’re missing a few patches now, acid burns still fresh on their face. It’s hardly a salve, not when their eyes light up at his boot approaching their stomach, a giggle drawn from their lips as he slams their head into the side of his chest of drawers.

“I’m going to kill you,” he snarls. “But first, I’m going to kill your cunt of a sister and make you watch as she screams for mercy.”

“Yes, but you’re not though, are you?” Kallian smiles, wiping a speck of blood from their lip. “Because you and your boss still need my father and me, so you know you can’t get rid of me yet. And obviously, if you did somehow manage to kill Orin, I wouldn’t rest until I’d torn you into pieces, everything else be damned.” They sigh, smiling as if he might actually imagine they’re contrite. “I mean, no offence, but it’s getting a little pathetic. One day you’ll make me pay, just like you’ll make your parents pay, and that devil pay, and anyone else who’s ever been mean to you. Except they’re all fine right now, aren’t they? Going about their happy lives, probably not even thinking about you.”

He’s shaking again, fists clenched and itching with sweat. “There are other ways to make you pay.”

“There are!” Kallian agrees cheerfully. “Honestly, I’m still waiting for you to plug me up into one of your clever little machines, I bet they can do all kinds of nasty things to a person! Ooh, and you still haven’t invited me to try out any of your little experiments in the Iron Throne Headquarters! You were removing limbs last time, weren’t you? I mean, we might need some healing spells, I imagine it’d be quite hard to serve Bhaal without my arms and legs attached, but just think how much fun you could have repeatedly cutting bits off and growing them back again!” They bite their lip, eyes sparkling.

There must be some manner of torment they won’t find twisted enjoyment in. There must be some way of getting to them. “All I need is a Bhaalspawn,” he points out. And that’s only if Bhaal’s as convinced that blood’s superior to skill as Kallian claims he is. “I know you’re daddy’s favourite, but are you really more important than the millions of souls we could be denying to Bhaal’s enemies? You think he’d abandon the plan, just because you weren’t a part of it?”

Kallian snorts. “What, so you think you’d be able to work with Orin? Long term? You had a breakdown just about having sex with her!”

“I was actually thinking of your brother, Sarevok,” he continues, ignoring the way his skin continues to crawl. And gods, the slight flicker of doubt in their eyes is like a drug to him, spurring him on to greater highs. “He must be tiring of his exile by now. I imagine he’ll quite appreciate it when I hand you over to him as a gift. Maybe I’ll make us all happy and cut some of your limbs off first, make it that little bit harder for you to fight back--as long as he doesn’t find amputees too unattractive, of course.”

“Shut up!” Kallian snarls, face white. “You think Bhaal would ever accept Sarevok back? I already beat him, back when I was seventeen--he’s nothing! The cult is mine, Orin is mine, Bhaal’s favour is mine! I’m not scared of-- You’re just jealous your family never loved you!”

They make a jerky movement forward, hand on their knife, before seemingly thinking better of it and turning and running for the door. It slams shut behind them with a satisfying crash.

Enver feels himself smile, a bark of laughter forcing itself from his throat despite the shaking. He falls back to his knees as the laughter continues, wracking through his body as much as his earlier panic did. It doesn’t matter that his skin still crawls, his stomach still churns, not in the face of Kallian’s terror. Not when he won.

Orin visits the Thorm girl again.

Her skin sings with the marks of Kallian’s love, a night spent renewing their oaths to each other until her slaughter-kin was sure she’d wiped any trace of tyrant off Orin’s flesh. She has little need to twist her oath-ring, to disappear from her sibling’s room. Little need to travel out to the pitiful light that tries desperately to hide in shadow-still dark, as if it might defy its very nature. But perhaps the girl can provide a momentary amusement, while Kallian busies herself with her plots.

This time, Orin wears the form of a saccharine halfling woman, creases lining rosy cheeks beneath a mass of greying head-strands--the kind with burrows bustling with kin, who always send Kallian into the sweetest rages. Orin hates them too, delights in their screams and sobs as her sibling shows them that the only family that matters is Bhaal’s. But they cloy more than even sweet-smiling Isobel can, so perhaps the two shall pair like roast lung drizzled in blood-wine. The halfling woman gives her name as Lavinia Greenbottle and gushes of how her beloved Moon Maiden has kept her safe amidst the cursed shadows, sanctimony in every breath. She speaks on, on, on, of home and family and faith, thoughts filled with cloying sweetness a world apart from plots and plans and blood-kin and meat-art and tyrant’s touch staining her skin.

Vigilance tangles like weeds in Isobel’s thoughts this visit, for all that she wears a smiling mask. Again, she questions the date, and again, the words she hears are as false as the face that wears them. Lavinia names a future time, three centuries after the girl was first shrouded in crypt-bed, and doubts swirl in Isobel’s thought-soup.

Lavinia batters at her doubts in stories of home; a village north of Firewine Bridge, a basin of syrup crawling with halflings Orin and Kallian had visited some years back. They’d been more pathetically welcoming than Isobel at even her most sickening, entirely unprepared for the flames Kallian had set upon their homes, wine-soaked rags stuffed under the doors they’d flung so wide open. Oh, the fun they’d had that day, watching the flames lick higher and higher to the sweet song of screams, laughing at those who dared to offer family when all the two had ever needed were each other. How silly of Lavinia, to chatter on of siblings and children and uncles and aunts and cousins, as though any one of those bonds could compare to the heart shared by Orin and her slaughter-kin.

When asked of her own family, Isobel’s answers are as hollow as Lavinia’s, that caution still tickling Orin’s mind. She leaves to make up a room sooner than Orin would like--she pauses to wonder whether to extend her game, to stay longer away from Kallian than she intended. But Isobel is a work of art to chip at slowly, a delicacy she must not consume too hastily lest Orin be left wanting.

And there will one day come a time, she thinks, blowing out the candles in the common room, when she has played this game so often that Isobel limpet-clings to Orin’s side, refusing to leave her guests at all. The thought alone is sweeter even than any of Isobel’s sugar smiles, and Orin finds herself eager to hasten its coming, to consume the girl’s every thought, until she is as scared to leave and find herself alone as she is to stay a captive to Orin’s attention.

This time, she lets out no scream, simply draws her blade to lease a sliver of blood from her hand, just enough to give Isobel reason to wonder at its presence. A moment later, and Lavinia’s gone, Orin returning to where she belongs.

She’s greeted by the sound of sobbing and the sticky mess of a carpet of viscera, staining the floor of Kallian’s room. She steps over a bloodied torso, black hand of the tyrant barely visible beneath crimson prayers to her father, to find her sibling bursting from a tangled maze of sheets, an arm shooting out to pull Orin close.

“Where were you?” Kallian howls, face a mess of tears. “I needed you here and I couldn’t find you and I thought--” She presses kisses to Orin’s face, wiping her wails on Orin’s cheeks and hair, but when a hand grasps at hers, it’s not to press flesh to flesh, but to tug at Orin’s oath-ring. “Give that back. You can get too far away, and I don’t know where you are and--”

Orin’s fist closes against her ring and squeezes at her heart as she shoves Kallian away. Kallian has taken back her gifts before--she’d make a necklace once, from Orin’s baby teeth and head-strands pulled from her comb, fastened it carefully round Orin’s neck. Years on, she’d taken it for her own, claiming Orin had teeth and hair aplenty while Kallian needed to feel her close if ever the two were separated. Orin had allowed that, her sibling’s need for her burning hot enough to melt the icy sorrow of losing her toy. But nothing Kallian could give her is worth more than the promise held in her ring. “You gifted me ring and oath that I might always find my way to you, and now you’d make your love a lie?”

“Because you’re using it to leave me! If you’re always by my side, you don’t need it anyway, do you?” She wipes at her eyes and nose, pathetic sniffling that yanks at Orin’s heart even as it disgusts. “You could be disobeying me, running off to your grandfather when you know you’re not allowed to see him!”

Orin’s fists squeeze tighter. Has she not proven her loyalty, again, again, again? If she chose grandfather over sibling, she would not still be here, wondering at the blasphemy that Kallian demands keep them apart. “You alone I treasure over him, slaughter-kin, why do you doubt your most loyal, most adoring--”

“Well you’re not loyal, are you?” Kallian snaps. “I know you went to Ketheric last night. So. You lied to me, and you got him to tell Enver what really happened, and ruined my whole plan, and I still wanted to come and be with you after all that, and you weren’t there!” Her voice cracks again as she throws herself at Orin, to cling too rather than to punish.

Orin’s arms move to wrap around her sibling as if wood-slaves on Kallian’s strings. It does not shock to find Ketheric told, as much as she begged him not to let the weasel know of her abasement. Yet she is no fool like his pretty spawn, to think control is not worth comfort.

Kallian’s hands tug at Orin’s flay-skin--that, she will gladly allow them to remove, may her ring still sit snug on her finger. “I’m still going to punish you,” Kallian murmurs, pulling away to swipe her hand through the Banite strewn across the floor. Fingers coated in blood, she slides them easily into Orin. “Tell me how you think I should punish you.”

Orin grinds down against the flesh that fills her, as if it might chase away the bile behind her next words. “Your tyrant knows he bade my skin crawl like a maggot-corpse, filled with his rot. Is that not punishment enough?”

A third finger slips inside, as thumb finds her flesh button, a fourth stretching her as wide as paltry halfling fingers can allow. “No, that’s just the consequences of your actions. Try again.”

Orin closes her eyes, floating apart from her sibling’s distractions as she considers. “Flay me, and let us feast on my skin, consume my pain as one. Hold me down with a dozen blades, sliced through sinew into sheets beneath, so I might lie aching to touch you. Hang me from our worship hall, drip-drain me of blood til I grow too weak to scream, and paint me with my own crimson.”

“Perhaps,” Kallian pinches at her flesh-button, setting her nerves aflame. “I get the feeling you might enjoy some of that. But I suppose I can be kind, as long as you’re good for me now.” She holds out a hand. “Give me the ring back.”

The ring rests heavy on Orin’s finger. Her travels, her freedom, her playground in the shadows, her games with the Thorm girl--all of that she might give up. But the oath of Kallian’s love, that she will not lose for any punishment.

“No.”

Kallian’s face twists into a scowl. “Orin--”

“No, slaughter-heart. You promised your love with your ring, is that what you would take from me?”

“Oh don’t be so silly! You hardly need a ring to know I love you!” Kallian’s fingers burrow like worms through flesh-walls, and Orin moans, squirming against her. Warm breath tickles her folds, followed by warm tongue, tasting teasingly. “Who else loves you like I do?” her sibling murmurs.

The question that’s rattled so in Orin’s skull recently. Would there be love for her at all, without the one who’s stood beside her her whole life long?

But perhaps today, eyes still red from wailing, Kallian will put to rest the crawling doubts she’s always feared the answer to. “If you really wish a punishment,” Orin murmurs, “then tell me true. Who did Grandfather mean for sacrificial lamb, that you must ostracise him so? Was it for you or I that he would bring his blades to bear?”

Kallian stills above her, crimson draining from her cheeks, thoughts spiking into fear, and Orin knows her doubts spoke true. She should by rights hate her grandfather the more, if it was Kallian he meant to kill--Bhaal’s Chosen, Bhaal’s flesh, eager to take her rightful place as Bhaal’s High Primate, usurping Sarevok’s weakness. Of course he would wish to cling to power he did not deserve, did not understand, and who could blame him for coveting such a singular death as Kallian’s?

Orin’s death would be a lesser blasphemy--he still might be exiled for the sacrifice of the Chosen’s consort--and she has long felt there was more to Kallian’s fear of the two of them alone than simple jealousy--but she means far less to Bhaal than the sibling carved from his very flesh. Perhaps this is the answer she should wish for, but she fears the pain of it as much as she yearns to hear the doting Grandfather of her childhood was no lie, yearns to believe the sweets he fed her born of love, rather to fatten her as a pig for the slaughter.

To ask is to bear her heart to a dozen stabbing blades, but if there’s a hope that it’s Kallian’s blood that Grandfather craved, that he has loved her faithfully all the years her sibling kept them apart, she will gladly tear open her ribs.

“I…” Kallian swallows, her fingers nestled still in Orin’s flesh caverns. “Does it matter which half of our soul he tried to sever?” Once, Orin might have thought not. “He betrayed us both, that’s all you need to know.” Her fingers begin winding again, thumb a desperate friction between Orin’s legs. “And anyway, we don’t need him. Not when we have each other.”

“But--”

Kallian silences her with a tongue between her lips and fingers crooking in her flesh-cavern.

So her doubts may continue. Orin lets herself moan and sigh and whimper under her sibling’s ministrations, fights to lose herself in her love. Yet Kallian’s words feel as lax as the ring that might slip so easily from Orin’s finger. Even as her body’s consumed into Kallian’s own, Ketheric’s are the promises that cloud her mind.

Ketheric makes a second attempt to discuss the morning’s business over their evening meal. He gives orders for their underlings to eat elsewhere--the table is too damaged by acid to accommodate all of the tower’s inhabitants, in any case.

He can’t help but glare to see Kallian enter hand in hand with Orin, before schooling his features back to impassivity, attempting a friendly nod in Orin’s direction. She stares back with an unblinking intensity, as Kallian greets him with a vicious smile, beginning a characteristically asinine ramble about how cosy and companionable the atmosphere is.

Gortash enters hurriedly a few moments later, stopping short as he notices the absence of any others, his eyes sliding hurriedly away from Orin. “Well, isn’t this intimate!” he sneers, picking up his dish. “I must have missed the memo. Don’t let me interrupt, I was planning to eat in my room tonight.”

“We still have today’s affairs to attend to,” Ketheric points out. “Our plans will remain in limbo if you insist on storming off at every opportunity.”

“Oh, so it’s a business lunch! I wasn’t aware we were inviting Orin to those.” He still doesn't have the courtesy to look at her.

Orin’s fork stabs pointedly into her steak as she glares resolutely down at her meal.

“Honestly,” Kallian begins, “we should be inviting Orin to--”

“Orin is an essential part of not only our plans, but Bhaal’s, too.” Ketheric has no wish to force Orin to work with her tormentor, but until he finds a way to rid them of Gortash, there is little choice in the matter. Better she get used to his presence now, than have that pressure forced upon her, should he finally succeed in convincing her to take Kallian’s place. “You are more than welcome to invite one of your own people to our discussions, should you have anyone whose skills we might benefit from--I would ask Balthazar, were he not consumed by his work. Regardless, there are still apologies that must be made before we begin.”

A moment of silence passes before Gortash shrugs, finally seating himself, one leg carelessly thrown over the other. “I was perfectly willing to accept your grovelling in private, General, but go on then.”

“I have nothing to apologise for.”

Gortash sneers, but it’s Kallian who lets out a bark of laughter. “Are you serious? You ruined--” She breaks off, eyes flicking nervously to and from Gortash. “Well, you upset Orin, anyway. Didn’t he, sweetheart?”

Orin’s plate clatters as she stabs into her steak again. “Why would the Thorm listen to Orin’s lip-spitting now, when he would not hear her last night?”

As always, she speaks as directed to by Kallian; Ketheric won’t hold her words against her.

“I am not the one who harmed Orin,” he continues. “I have put up with the two of you, and your sadistic depravity, for long enough. But I will not sit idly by and allow Orin to suffer.”

Kallian’s eyebrows raise. “But you’ll put up with the rest of the sadistic depravity won’t you?”

“I have little choice but to work with you--”

“Oh, you absolutely have a choice!” She smiles sharply, flecks of meat stuck in her teeth. “But you’re happy to let us hurt people you don’t care about--has Enver told you about his little underwater torture chamber?--as long as your daughter stays alive. I mean, this is probably easier for you than back when you were sending out your army to massacre everyone you could find, isn’t it? Did you order your captains to slaughter anyone who tried to surrender, and then shake your head disapprovingly at them later, because they were the ones actually killing people and that means you didn’t do anything wrong?”

She could never understand what he’d been through back then. Kallian may be intimately familiar with death, but genuine love and care are foreign to her. She cannot even imagine the all-consuming grief that drowned out everything else that had ever mattered. “You think your accusations mean anything to me, after all you’ve done? I don’t deny my past, but it is irrelevant. I took no pleasure in my crimes.”

“Is that supposed to make some kind of difference? The people of Reithwin are just as dead as anyone I’ve ever killed. At least when I do it, someone has a good time.”

“Death is a serious matter. I’d expect a Bhaalist, of all people, to understand that.”

“Dead is dead,” Kallian shrugs.

Next to her, Orin frowns, playing with her food--for all her affectations, Ketheric knows she doesn’t share Kallian’s cruelty, that she’s as unimpressed as he with Kallian’s meaningless arguments.

“And I know you’re too much of a coward to recognise that,” Kallian continues. “But in the end, you’re no better than any of us.”

“I will always be better than someone like you,” Ketheric growls. “But my concern is less about those you’ve sacrificed to Bhaal in the past, as it is for the way you treat Orin now.”

“Well if Orin was really that upset, I’m sure she’d, I don’t know, run out into the middle of a curse to hide from me--”

“You should fear more than my leaving, slaughter-kin,” Orin murmurs, as Ketheric seethes in rage. “Push too far and I will come close enough that my blades burrow past bones to pierce every one of your squishy life-meats.”

“I know you will, love, this wasn’t really about you, I was actually making a point about Isobel--”

“We gathered,” snaps Gortash, pushing an empty plate back--he always eats faster than can be deemed polite, guzzling down his food as if his plate may be taken from him at any moment. “Now, if it will help move on from the situation, I’d like to sincerely apologise for ever interacting with any of you. I’m sure it hurts me as much as it hurts you.” Still, he avoids Orin’s gaze, the poor girl flinching as he speaks. “Now was there anything actually important, or can I go and make a start on tadpole testing?”

“Our meeting was supposed to discuss the risks and variables of tadpole testing. You are not to start testing until we are all prepared--any failure risks the creation of a new illithid, running wild in my home.”

“Yes, if by ‘running wild’, you mean locked in a secure pod that won't be opened until I’m fully satisfied the test subject poses no danger.” Gortash scowls at him. “Honestly, I was perfectly happy to go over all my calculations for you, but you, General, insisted on derailing our meetings twice to coddle the feelings of a grown woman who is more than capable of making her own awful decisions.”

“Aww, does it fear even Orin’s name so that it must run and hide, squirm deep down in its sweat and oil and stink-nest?” Orin’s knife saws at her steak until it’s scraping harshly against the plate.

“And you’re perfectly fearless, aren’t you?” Gortash sneers. “When you’ve got Ketheric to hide behind.”

Orin jumps to her feet, knocking back her chair. “None shall stand in my way as I carve your flesh from your bones, lay your carcass out to rot.”

Ketheric glances at Kallian, still slowly chewing on her steak, looking entirely unbothered by Orin’s threats, even as she unsheathes her dagger, advancing slowly on Gortash.

“Orin--” he tries, earning himself a furious glare. “He’s not worth your effort, Orin. He’s… his corpse would be… unworthy for your art.”

Kallian snorts at that, pressing a hand to her mouth, but Orin comes to a stop.

“Well. Apologies if I don’t stay for dessert,” Gortash fishes a roll of parchment from his coat as he glares down at Orin’s feet. “Here. My preliminary report on the tadpoling experiments. Research proposal, hypotheses, risk assessment, the lot. I even have some suggestions for potential test subjects! You have until tomorrow morning to come back to me with complaints, I’m starting the experiments then either way.” He throws the parchment onto the table, before heading for the door. “Next time you plan another of your intimate little meals, you should bring your dog, General. It’s better behaved than Kallian’s.”

Kallian’s hand catches the end of Orins plait as she moves to charge after Gortash with a snarl. “You can read the report, Ketheric,” she says. “I already know I’ll hate all his stupid little ideas so whatever you want to yell at him about, I’m right behind you.”

“My intentions are not to let petty squabbling disrupt our work,” he chides her. “If you cannot commit, perhaps you are not truly worthy of the role Bhaal honours you with.”

“Yes, Bhaal doesn’t care how many people I kill for him, as long as I can play nice with Enver,” Kallian titters. “I’m so glad I have you around to tell me my father’s will.”

Beside her, Orin returns to her seat, eyes once again downcast. Her blade remains gripped tightly in her hand.

Once they’ve finished dining on their feast of summoned meat, no death to give flavour, Kallian leads Orin to the guts of the tower, where cells hold the slathering, snarling gnolls that delight Kallian so.

“They’re just adorable, aren’t they? Oh, I wish I could reach the ears!” Kallian gushes, reaching between the bars to scratch the fur of a chained gnoll. They snatch their hand back with a giggle as it lunges the best it can, teeth bared. “Aww, look at those lovely sharp teeth! Yes, I know, you’re very vicious and dangerous, aren’t you, sweetie?”

Orin follows them to the next cage, where a gnoll with dark streaked fur gives a warning growl at their approach.

“You know, they remind me of us a bit! Gnolls love to fight, and the weaker ones are constantly trying to prove their dominance. But at the end of the day, nothing’s more important to them than blood ties, they’ll put every other disagreement aside for family. Won’t you?” Once again, their hand shoots in and out between the bars. Oh, how sweet would it be, should the gnoll move fast enough to bite it clean off.

“This one’s my favourite,” Kallian decides. “Yes you are! Would you like to come on a little trip with us?”

“Kill you!” the gnoll snarls, tugging at its chains. “Tear your flesh, devour you!”

“He sounds just like you, Orin! Ooh, if you were a gnoll, what would you look like? I’d want to have stripes, like this one.”

“I could be any gnoll of my choosing,” Orin points out. “As might I be anyone. Do you forget my skills so easily?”

“I know, Orin, I’m just having fun,” Kallian sighs. “Anyway, I need your ring.”

Orin clenches her fist right around her treasure. “I have told you, slaughter-heart--”

“I just mean to travel, you can keep it on you for now! I mean, I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss about it--I’ll get it in the end, anyway. I’ll just wait to take it off you when you’re sleeping, or get my people to hold you down and force it off you. But if you really want a bigger punishment, then fine, you hang onto it.”

Orin will not beg, not in front of prisoners. She tastes the truth in Kallian’s words, thrown flippantly though they are, they cut sharper than any knife. But still, there has never been any punishment she would not face to cling to Kallian’s love a little longer.

“Anyway,” Kallian pouts, “I need you to take the three of us down to the mindflayer colony. I’m sure Enver’s got guards on the door, to make sure he gets to be the first one to try out the tadpoles, but he can’t stop us if we just teleport in there! Probably. You can bring the chains too, can’t you? Or will we have to knock our little gnollie out first?”

Another sweet fantasy--how Kallian might scream should Orin give them their gnoll freely, let it rip her slaughter-kin to shreds, make something real in that tomb of pretend flesh. But they both know she would never betray Kallian so; the gnoll struggles still under its chains as Orin twists her ring and moves them lower still, to the bowels beneath Moonrise, to the acrid pool nestled amidst flesh tunnels.

“Good girl!” Kallian chirps. “Now help me get him into this little pod thing--oh good, I can reach to tickle his ears now! Here we are, Gnollie!” With the snarling gnoll fully restrained, they skip over to a series of jars, each holding a slithering worm and a maw full of teeth. “How kind of Enver to bottle some specimens up for us already!”

Orin seats herself cross legged by the gnoll’s cage, watching Kallian play with the jars, prodding and shaking to see how the creatures within writhe and wriggle and hiss. They giggle as they draw one from its bottled prison, holding it out towards their gnoll, and Orin smiles to see that amidst snarling anger, the gnoll’s eyes betray a flicker of fear.

“All I need to do is squeeze this into your eye,” Kallian murmurs, “and you’ll become my obedient slave.” They laugh, flicking at the creature held between finger and thumb as they step closer, their eyes falling on Orin. “Maybe I should put one in you too, sweetheart! You have been acting out a lot recently!”

Orin’s knife is drawn before the words are fully drawn from Kallian’s throat. “Try, and your eyes shall find themselves home to my blades, blood-kin,” she promises.

“I’m joking!” Kallian laughs, reaching up to press their tadpole to their gnoll’s eye. “I mean, it’s not like there’d be any difference anyway!” The gnoll’s eyes grow glassy above the burrowing worm. “You’re already my obedient slave!”

Silence as the gnoll’s snarls finally die--but Orin’s is the heart that skips its beats.

“I choose to obey,” she whispers, in a voice somewhere far away. “You know this, my blood-kin, my heart. It is love that drives me to serve you. Take my mind and you take all meaning from us.”

“So what do you think we should make Gnollie do first? Do you think they’re good at walking around on all fours? I mean, they’re born from hyenas, right? I want to see if I can ride on his back!”

Orin finds herself on her feet, the stalest of air filling her lungs with every breath. “Play with your toys as you wish. I--My blades hunger for blood. I must find myself a hunt.”

“Oh, all right, if you’re going to be in such a mood anyway. Just be in my room for me at bedtime.”

“And if I am not?” Orin pauses, a finger on her oath-ring. “If I run and hide and refuse to obey?”

“Ooh, then I could have Gnollie and his friends hunt you down and drag you back to me! Gnolls are great trackers, you know. Yes, that could be fun! And I can have him take the ring back at the same time!” They tug at Orin’s braid, a silent command to kneel, and she finds herself back on her knees before the thought even enters her skull-meat. Kallian presses a kiss to her lips. Their eyes stare straight through Orin. “Well, see you soon then, love!”

Orin twists her ring, and she’s shrouded by the noise and smells of a Baldur’s Gate alley in growing eventide.

The lordling’s flesh pressed into hers, body filling with his rot, oil seeped into her skin that won’t wash out.

She stalks through darkened allies until she finds herself prey, a drunkard stumbling its way home, too slow for the dagger that pierces its neck.

Needy and desperate, watching Kallian dismiss her again, again, again, for art, for plotting, for tyrant, handing over everything that’s ever been sacred to siblings.

She bathes in the bliss of its death, takes it from the bustle of the city to the still of her lantern-tree and makes art of its corpse.

Fire and ice dancing around her, alone in Hell, nothing more than a trapped rat drowning. Living, dying, languishing, escaping, not by her skill but by her master’s whims.

She tears through meat and bone to find the trophies nestled within, pries out breath-sacks to bring to the light of the crumbling inn, a gift to frighten pretty Isobel.

The knife between her legs, in and out and in and out, pain and punishment for the crime of demanding the love she’d once been promised.

She returns to Moonrise, paces corridors and stairs, walls pressing in close wherever she treads.

A thousand punishments, knives and chains and poisons and strangers’ flesh pervading her body. An endless cycle, Kallian’s hands grasping, pulling her close enough to devour, shoving, throwing her away. Gifts of jewels and toys lavished upon her, and stolen without a thought. Always one step beside, or kneeling to the side, basking in Kallian’s glow, worshipping Kallian, always Kallian, Kallian, Kallian, Kallian, until there’s nothing of Orin left.

She ends in Kallian’s bed, as they knew she would.

They puppet her body as well as ever; they know every inch of her, every place, every movement that makes her moan and writhe. Every whimper drawn from her lips, every shaking climax could only belong to Kallian--as clear now as was the first night they took her, a quivering girl of twelve, eager elation tempered by nerves as she revelled in their attentions. As clear as it ever had been--they’d owned her long before that consummation, in all the long years of her memory, she can find no day in which she hadn’t known she was theirs.

Orin’s belonged to Kallian her whole life. And isn’t she proud of that?

Kallian drifts to sleep quickly after their coupling, contentment in each breath--they’re ever some extreme. Dreaming within seconds, held close in Orin’s arms, or awake the night long, shaking Orin from her rest whenever they wish her attention. She’s learned to fit in around them, to mould herself to ever changing needs through a lifetime of sharing Kallian’s sheets, no need for bed nor room nor space of her own.

Her leg cramps from where she lies, curled inwards. The beds in Moonrise were built for races taller than diminutive halflings--but Kallian hasn’t needed the space. The end of her bed is a clutter of tarnished weapons and unread books and half-finished art, sitting untouched under Kallian’s whims, no more room for Orin to stretch her full length than in the halfling bed at home. She has always fit herself into what space Kallian gives her.

To belong to Kallian has never been a choice.

She throws back the sheets, clothes herself quickly in one of the old, musty dresses Ketheric slipped her from his daughter’s closet, quicker than taking the time to fasten one of her meat-suits to her skin. Kallian doesn’t stir; they may be Bhaal’s Chosen, but Orin too is trained to move silently, to draw no attention as she slips from the room and glides down the darkened passageways of Moonrise, should any but her still wander in the dead of night.

She has skill enough that the lock she seeks her way past is no challenge, letting her easily into another darkened room. She needs only time to think, away from Kallian’s grip. If she’s not noticed, if he doesn’t wake, she can leave as though never here, never think of this again.

It’s the bone-hound who picks up her scent as she climbs, quivering, onto the end of the bed. A bark, not to threaten, but to alert her master to company.

Ketheric stirs, rubbing sleep-dust from his eyes as he pulls himself up, squinting at her in the darkness. “Iso--” He shakes the cobwebs from his skull as Orin tenses, but this time he sees her true. “Orin? What’s wrong?”

“Did you mean your words?” she whispers. “Did you mean true, you will be family to me, bound together, should I be alone?”

“Of course.” He sits straight in his bed now, thoughts and eyes alert as ever, a cold, dead hand reaching to squeeze hers. “Of course, Orin. Whatever you need.”

He could never compare to Kallian, for who ever could? But she thinks she could feel something--thinks she does feel something--that she could call love, warm enough to soothe and support, without the heat to burn.

Orin sucks in a breath; stale, shadowed air bitter on her tongue. “Then Kallian meets their death tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Kallian plays with their dagger impatiently, waiting for Orin to hurry up and finish plaiting talismans into their hair. Usually, they might appreciate how meticulous she’s being about hiding the patches damaged by acid burns but they hardly have time to waste on silly things like that tonight. Not when finally things are happening. Today is the day the Chosen dominate the Elder Brain. It’s going to be so much fun.

They’d been miserable last night, after the tadpole they’d stuck in Gnollie did nothing but leave him staring brainlessly into space, ignoring all of Kallian’s orders until they finally got frustrated enough to kill him. Things hadn’t gone any better for Enver when he’d jammed a tadpole in Vrylda’s eye, to get Kallian back for killing his stupid Banite and being the first to play with the tadpoles. Which was honestly quite disappointing as revenge went, since he hadn’t even bothered to go with a cultist Kallian actually liked. But if it kept him satisfied then fine.

And anyway, none of that matters now, when Kallian has a new adventure this very evening. They honestly hadn’t expected Ketheric to agree to a raid so quickly, but then again, he does seem like he’s getting a little fed up with continuing to house his fellow Chosen. Once they’ve got control of the brain, Kallian’s time will be better spent furthering their work back in Baldur’s Gate, just using their ring to teleport back when they need to. It will be nice to be home; Scel reports that their Bhaalists are doing very well at setting up a new Cult of the Absolute in Baldur’s Gate--they’ve even captured a big hero who rushed in to stop them!--but hearing about it isn’t the same as being there.

Finally, Orin finishes with their hair, and Kallian presses a quick kiss to her lips in thanks. They pull back as her hands go to cup their face, trying to linger. She can have as many kisses as she wants after their mission, but the Elder Brain isn’t going to dominate itself.

The entrance to the mind flayer colony throngs with cultists as Enver hands out the little helmets he’s been making to protect everyone from mind flayer control--and to make it a little harder for them all to get their brains sucked out, Kallian assumes. Kallian bounces on their feet as they give their people instructions. It’s all formalities anyway, if there’s one thing their Bhaalists know how to do, it’s kill. And if they don’t, well, they’re clearly not worthy of serving Kallian anyway.

A cold hand grasps their shoulder, and Kallian shakes it off, scowling up at Balthazar. They might dislike him less than any of the Myrkulites--he’s almost a brother! Or at least has the ribs of one!--but that still doesn’t mean he can go around acting like they’re equals or something. And in front of their people, too!

“I beg your pardon, Chosen,” he bows. “But I believe I’ve acquired a…” his eyes dart around the room, “curiosity that may be of particular interest to you. I’d appreciate your thoughts, if you have a moment to accompany me to the tadpoling center.”

“I mean… I am a little busy right now,” Kallian points out. Which is a shame, because they’d usually love to hear about curiosities Balthazar clearly doesn’t want other people to know about, and whatever he’s involved in is bound to be deliciously gruesome. “Can it wait until after we’ve taken control here?”

Balthazar’s lips purse. “It might. There’s a possibility. Not a strong one, admittedly.”

Kallian groans, chewing at their lip. “Can’t you just tell me what it is? If anyone hears who shouldn’t, we can just throw them at the mind flayers as cannon fodder!”

A couple of nearby Death’s Heads take a hasty step backwards, and Kallian wonders whether to throw them at the mind flayers anyway, for being scared of Bhaal’s embrace. Probably best not, getting rid of too many cultists always leads to problems, and recruitment drives are such a lot of work.

They’re pulled from their thoughts by Orin’s hand squeezing their arm. “Could your underlings not slay in your stead? Even without you to lead them, shall they not cleave a thousand skull-suckers, glistening as they bleed, bring a hundred slithering, twitching deaths that Bane’s worms will never compete with?”

“I suppose,” Kallian agrees, with a sigh. They worry at their lip again. “All right. But I do want to kill some of them myself. This won’t take too long, will it?”

Balthazar smiles. “I can promise you, come with me now, and you’ll find a more extraordinary death than any an illithid could offer to be most forthcoming.”

That’s all Kallian needs to hear. “Right!” they say, clapping their hands together and smiling round at their cultists. “Bhaal knows you can succeed here--you don’t even need me to lead you tonight. Anyone who falls will be welcomed gladly into your Lord’s arms, and the rest of you I’ll be delighted to see again later! I’d wish you luck, but with such a skilled group, that’s hardly necessary. Now go out there, and make my father and I proud!”

Enver catches them as they turn away, grabbing at their arm. “Are you going somewhere?” he growls, face all screwed up in an ugly pout. “Our victory’s at hand, and you have something better to do?”

“Calm yourself, Gortash,” Ketheric says beside him. “Our task is to achieve domination over the Elder Brain. Surely the Chosen of the god of tyranny needs no help exerting his control?”

Kallian slips out as Enver turns to argue with Ketheric instead, Orin and Balthazar close behind them. “He’s so annoying. Don’t you think Enver’s annoying, Balthazar?”

Balthazar simply hums thoughtfully, leading them to the tadpoling center, where he bows again, manipulating the door. “After you.”

They push past, looking around in excitement for his ‘curiosity’. The room doesn’t look any different from when they were last here--a couple of empty mind flayer pods, the little nursery pool with jars of tadpoles spread out on a workbench, Gnollie’s corpse curled in a corner. Kallian turns to scowl at Balthazar as Orin enters behind them. “What am I actually looking at here?”

The door slips closed behind them--the last thing they see is Balthazar throwing down a sprinkling of gold dust as he recites a locking spell.

Kallian stares at the closed door in disbelief. “Did… did he seriously just lock us in here?” What was even the point of that? When has there ever been a lock Kallian hasn’t been able to get past? And that’s before they owned an insanely powerful magical item capable of transporting them wherever they want to go. They shake their head, holding their hand out to Orin. “Ring.”

“You bid me rid myself of your oath-ring,” Orin tells them, holding out a bare hand. “Orin acts as instructed by her master.”

“Right, because I clearly meant for you to throw a powerful artefact away, rather than give it back to me.” Obviously she’s just tried to hide it, and picked the most annoying timing she possibly could, but that can be dealt with later. For now, they fish out their lockpicks, letting out a groan of frustration as they do. “You know Balthazar works for your friend Ketheric, right? He’s obviously behind whatever Balthazar thinks he’s doing, and if he’s happy for you to get caught in the crossfire, he clearly doesn’t like you as much as you like him, does he?”

“I will never care for Ketheric as I care for you, my slaughter-heart,” Orin tells her, a sudden intensity in her voice as she kneels down beside Kallian, eyes wide and pleading. “Never, never, never. You must know this, my heart, my love, the blood in my veins.”

“Of course I know that! That doesn’t mean I’m just going to be happy about all the time you’re spending with him!”

Orin presses a kiss to their neck, a hand snaking round to play with Kallian’s belt. “My time is yours alone now, blood-kin. Your enemies seek to trap you? Why run back to them, when you could show just how little you care for their schemes?” She takes Kallian’s favourite dagger from their scabbard, stroking a finger over the netherstone held securely in its pommel--let Ketheric and Enver try and dominate the brain without it! “Let them crawl back on shattered bones when they realise there is no victory without Bhaal’s Chosen, let them beg for attention before you bless them with a scrap.”

Kallian doesn’t resist as she pulls the helmet from their head, trailing kisses up to their ear. “It would be fun to make a mess all over Enver’s stupid workbench,” they admit. “And Ketheric does hate walking in on us together. All right, then. But I do want to kill something later. Maybe Balthazar.”

“Hush now,” Orin murmurs, pressing them back against the door, her body against theirs. “Be Orin’s.”

Orin’s mouth finds theirs, as Kallian’s hands go to pull the constricting layers of armour from her body--fighting mind flayers requires a bit more protection than Orin’s usual meat suits affords, but right now she’s far too covered up for Kallian’s liking. She breaks their kiss for the time it takes to help them remove her breastplate, and then she’s back, tongue darting into their mouth as their eyes slip shut.

There’s a sudden spike of pain in the side of their head, a trail of blood tickling at their ear, and they gasp in excitement. “Playing rough, sweetheart? I--ah!” A stronger overwhelming flash of pain, their vision blurring as their eyes fly open to see Orin’s gaze fixed intently on the dagger--their dagger!--she’s driving into their head.

“Orin,” they gasp, “Too much! Don’t…”

Their sister’s gaze hardens--is this supposed to be some sort of payback for all the punishments they’ve had to give her? Because if so, she’s really messing it up. Kallian knows how much Orin can take, and takes great pains to make sure that whatever games they play, her life is the one they will never, ever end. But this? She’s really starting to push too far now, stupid girl--she’s a trained assassin, she must know how dangerous this is!

They open their mouth to tell her off, but Orin twists the blade, and only a strangled cry falls from their lips.

The blood’s spilling further now, the side of their head a wet, sticky mess--drops of wetness on their nose and lips, too. Orin’s free hand grips theirs, scraping weakly at the health potion secured to their belt, as another of her tears hits their face.

“I love you,” she whispers, voice wavering. “My sibling, my lover, my everything. My Kallian.”

But she’s still driving the blade further, like she’s being serious, like she’s genuinely trying to--

Is she shaking as she holds them, or is that their judgement warping under the pain, the blade piercing through their skull?

“Orin,” Kallian gasps, trying to keep a focus on the blur of white and red that’s their sister as their vision dims. This can’t be happening, Orin’s loved them her whole life long, and they’ve loved her just as fiercely. This can’t be happening. They’ve given her everything, she’d never-- “Wh--why?”

Through the ringing in their ears, they hear her voice once more, firm and harsh. “Not your Orin.”

Everything goes black.

The blade drives deeper, deeper, deeper into sticky skull-meat as Kallian whimpers and weakens, a mewling mess in Orin’s arms. It’s the last thing she’ll ever be before she’s nothing at all, nothing but flesh and bone and memories. She’ll never pierce Orin’s heart with blades nor words again, never give more to Father than she gives now, never carve a victory from her Elder Brain as Orin has from hers.

(Never lose herself in Orin’s flesh, never dance with her through trails of guts, never guide a comb through her head-strands, nor a meal to her maw, nor a target to her knife. Never hunt nor play nor paint nor laugh together, never hold each other tight through night terrors, Orin’s skull cradled in gentle hands while soft lips kiss the fear-sleep from her head.)

Never understand why, the question spilling with blood from her lips, her skull-meat too dull even before the twist of blade to see the scars she carves into Orin.

Her face is a flood of traitorous feelings, streaming down her cheeks and drip-dropping to mingle with Kallian’s leaking brain-juice.

She’d made Kallian into a mirror and still, still she wouldn’t uncover her eyes, still she was blind to the agonies she inflicted until even an obedient slave could take no more. Even in the purity of death, she doesn’t truly see Orin.

The blade falls from her hand, staining them both in red. In another instant, the healing potion is spilled across the altar that is Kallian, syrup seeping into gullet-hole and skull-meat alike.

“Slowbrained worm,” Orin hisses, voice catching on the feel of leeches clinging to her throat. “You think you deserve the gift of Father’s embrace, when you could not be worthy of Orin’s?”

Orin batters at the floods obstructing her gaze, her vision clearing enough to fix on the slithering tadpoles in their glass prisons. She drags Kallian to the bench, blood and brain-juice like slug-slithers behind them, reaches in to grasp a brain-worm by its tail and holds it over the crater of Kallian’s skull. “It wishes to know what it is to be an obedient slave, powerless under your master’s heel?” A giggle slips from her throat. “It has always had to know more than Orin, hasn’t it?” She lets the worm drop down to exposed skull-meat, smiles as it bites and burrows and Kallian’s husk twitches and spasms beneath it.

And then it’s gone, and Orin’s left alone with that husk. With glassy jellies that gaze up sightlessly, and a sticky mess of the head-strands she’d so artfully arranged, and flesh that seeks to match her own in paleness.

She rests her head on Kallian’s chest, the slow thump-thump of her heart in its cage the only testimony that Bhaal’s Chosen is anything more than flesh--and how could a creature like that be any god’s Chosen?

Orin sucks in a breath that pierces her lungs as she stands, making her way back to where Bhaal’s dagger lies discarded on the ground, blade and stone and blood all shining crimson--it fits better in Orin’s hand than it ever has in Kallian’s.

“Father,” she murmurs, holding her prize aloft. “See how I turn your discarded flesh to an instrument for our work. An ugly, weak thing carved into art for you, as I swear to carve more. I will make this world a canvas to your worship, glorify your name with crimson blood and ashen bone as none have ever done before. My thoughts are clear of her distractions, her ignorance, her failures. I am free now, Father, to honour you as Kallian never has.”

In the tomb of Orin’s love, she’s answered in silence.

Enver looses another crossbow bolt into an illithid’s head, surveying the battlefield. Casualties are low so far, mostly confined to a few of the more fanatical Bhaalists, apparently as eager to meet their god as they are to send anyone else to him. The troops are holding the line easily--but that’s all they’re doing. The great General Thorm fights entirely defensively, refusing to press forward towards the brain, and their entire reason for being here.

Enver glares over at him, as if it might help him work out what Ketheric thinks he’s doing--and wondering if he wants to risk making his way into the centre of the battlefield to ask. As much as it rankles to admit it, there’s not much Enver can do alone. The majority of their troops are the Myrkulytes flocking to Ketheric’s side and the Bhaalists Kallian moved in out of spite. Enver has only five Banites--no, make that four, after Kallian’s little stunt with Dench yesterday--under his command here. Even with the Lord of Tyranny on his side, he doesn’t fancy their chances against a whole hoard of mind flayers.

Particularly once Ketheric decides to call a completely unwarranted retreat.

Enver takes a moment to stare at him in consternation as the troops begin to withdraw, before the cough of the Fist of Bane wavering hesitantly at his side catches his attention.

Fist Polanulus ducks his head in a quick bow. “My Lord? Should we…” He gestures out at the battlefield. Without Kallian here to tell them otherwise, the majority of the Bhaalists are retreating under Ketheric’s orders, one single figure preoccupied with driving a dagger repeatedly into a bloodied, twitching illithid, apparently consumed by his insane bloodlust. A shame Orin left with her sibling.

Enver purses his lips. The Banites have no chance at fighting through alone, but the idea of calling a retreat rankles almost as much as the doubt and weakness in Polanulus’ eyes.

“You have your orders,” Enver snaps, pushing past Polanulus. The boy can decide for himself whether it’s Enver’s or Thorm’s orders he’s expected to be following.

He hears an agonized screech as he makes his way towards Thorm to ask what in the hells the man thinks he’s doing. A quick glance back reveals the obsessive Bhaalist struggling in the grip of another mind flayer, as its teeth sink deep into his head. It’s enough to break any will Polanulus and the rest of Enver’s Banites still have, they begin scrambling after the Myrkulytes. Cowards. He’ll have them all flogged for this.

“What in the hells was that about, Thorm?” Enver snaps, once he’s close enough to be heard finally. “You weren’t even trying to reach the brain. Did the undefeatable general get scared?”

“There’s no use in reaching the brain without all three Netherstones present,” Ketheric tells him impassively, as if he hadn’t been the one to insist on going forward without Kallian.

“Then why begin the assault in the first place? You might be the great military general, but try anything that incompetent again, and I’ll be the one taking control.”

Ketheric ignores him, continuing back to the safety of their fortifications at the entrance to the colony. Balthazar waits for them, tinkering with another of his blasted moon lanterns, no sign of Kallian or Orin to be found.

Enver narrows his eyes. “What exactly is going on here, Ketheric? Did you ever have any intention of reaching the Elder Brain today?”

He merely grunts in response, pushing past to get to Balthazar. “I trust everything proceeded according to plan?”

“Judging by the screaming, I imagine so,” Balthazar nods. “And she’s had more than enough time, however she chose to use it.” He approaches the door to the tadpoling centre, glowing with the sigil of an arcane lock, and mutters the words to bring it down.

Enver can’t say he’s entirely surprised by the sight that greets them. Orin’s face is a mess of tears and blood, Kallian’s dagger at her hip and their crumpled body cradled in her arms. He can’t say he feels much of anything, other than irritation.

“You succeeded then, Orin,” says Ketheric, the warmth that he only uses for her in his voice as he strides forward, fishing something from his pocket. “Here. Your ring back.”

Kallian shifts in Orin’s grasp as she reaches up to snatch it, quickly slipping it back onto her ring finger before her arms tighten round her sibling’s lifeless body again. It’s all the more infuriating, the way she doesn’t even have the strength of conviction to stand proud at her betrayal, the way she wastes her victory crying over her own actions.

“Ketheric,” Enver growls, attempting to keep his voice level. “Please tell me your misplaced sense of affection didn’t ruin our entire plot by getting Bhaal’s Chosen killed.”

“They’re not dead,” Balthazar says, staring closely at the body, and Enver feels his stomach twist--whether in hope or dread, he can’t tell. “The breaths are shallow, but consistent. Whether they’re likely to waken, of course, is an entirely different matter.”

Orin pulls herself to her feet, Kallian still cradled in her arms. “Father rejected her worthless husk,” she tells them. “Rejected by life and death, by all but the tadpole slithering in shattered skull-meat.”

“You mean you planned on killing them, and then didn’t have the stomach to go through with it,” Enver snaps. He shakes his head. “I abhor leaving a job half-finished. Hand over the knife.”

Orin growls, teeth bared as she clutches Kallian tighter to her body. “Its grease-slicked fingers will never touch my blood-kin again! Never, never, never, never--”

“I thought better of you, Lord Gortash, than to seek the death of such an interesting test subject,” Balthazar tuts, eyes still fixed on Kallian’s body. “I believe my people and I may be able to find a way to awaken them. I’m sure we could make fine use of a tadpoled Bhaalspawn.”

Ketheric gives it a moment of thought, before nodding. “The important thing is that Orin is free now.” He gives her a sickeningly fond smile. “If Kallian can be made to follow our orders, I have no objections.”

“Excellent,” Balthazar smiles, heading to the door. “I’ll make the preparations immediately.”

Enver continues to glare down at Kallian’s unconscious form as the necromancer leaves. They seem smaller than ever--younger, too--a mere doll huddled in Orin’s arms, ugly freckles sticking out starkly against the pale of their skin. To think he ever let a creature like that get the better of him.

Which doesn’t mean he’s pleased about trading them for their sister.

“So what’s the plan now, Thorm?” he snaps. “Are we supposed to all give up and go home, or do you truly expect Orin to carry out our masters’ plan?”

Orin draws herself up to her full height--or several inches above her full height, in fact, she’s certainly not naturally as tall as Enver.

“Any failure will be the lordling’s alone,” she spits. “I stand as Bhaal’s Chosen, the lash on his enemies, the favoured of all his progeny. I am the one who makes sacrament of kills, grows art where others leave only flesh, I worship where Kallian merely slaughters.”

“Of course you do,” Enver snaps. He can’t help but be reminded of his younger self, carving out a place for himself with nothing but his intelligence and charisma, building himself a loyal following of would-be Banites with the lie that Bane favoured him already. How simple it had been to trick those who desperately wanted someone stronger than themselves to follow. But the girl before him is far too desperate for the validation of others to pull it off.

Gods, if only his threats to Kallian had been more than empty words, and he actually had some idea how to find Sarevok Anchev. There was a Bhaalist he might be vaguely happy to work with--Enver would be lying if he said he didn’t admire his historic plan to take over Baldur’s Gate at least a little. A shame that Orin was unlikely to give up her grandfather’s location to him.

“The three of us will seek out and dominate the Elder Brain tomorrow,” Ketheric says. “You may think of today as a test run, Gortash, if that soothes you.”

“It doesn’t.” Enver scowls, his teeth grinding together. Unless Bhaal actually intervenes and wakes Kallian from their coma, or sends them a new Chosen, he has little choice but to work with Orin, and try his best to keep her on track for the time being. At least her main contribution to the plan going forward will be to sow chaos and fear in the streets of Baldur’s Gate--in that, if nothing else, he should be able to trust Orin. And there’s a silver lining in the fact that once the Bhaalists are no longer needed, her father’s hardly going to care if Enver decides to dispose of his least favourite child.

“Next time you’re planning something as disruptive as a change in leadership, I expect to be informed in advance,” he snaps. “Why was one of your minions involved in this little coup when I knew nothing about it?”

“Balthazar had no loyalty to Kallian.”

Enver barks out a laugh. “And you think I did?”

“You should have,” Orin whispers, holding Kallian to her chest and stroking their hair as she glares at him, tears welling in her eyes again. “My slaughter-kin denied family and love and god for you, turned their back to chase your tyrant stink. You should have worshipped them for it.”

“Have you ever heard of projection, Orin?”

“What’s done is done now,” Ketheric says, stepping between the two of them as Orin growls, and Enver’s wondering if she’ll bother to put Kallian down before trying to tear him apart with her teeth. “I suggest we get Kallian restrained for now, in case she awakens before Balthazar’s ready.”

It takes a few more pathetic reassurances from Ketheric before Orin’s willing to lower Kallian into the pod that he holds open for her. She still won’t let Enver of Ketheric touch her sibling, of course, hovering anxiously over them as Ketheric tries to coax her away.

“Come now,” he murmurs, gently taking Orin’s arm. “You have your whole future ahead of you. Let her go.”

She shakes her head vehemently, glaring at Enver again. “I will not trust the lordling alone with my kin. Mine are the only blades that may pierce--”

“Oh, I’m more than happy not to have to be around her a moment longer,” Enver snaps. He glares down at Kallian’s unmoving body one more time. It’s over. Finally. He only pauses long enough to spit on them before he leaves.

In hindsight, perhaps Ketheric had expected too much of Orin in urging her to kill her sister. She’s young and vulnerable, and spent her whole life a slave to Kallian’s poison.

It’s of little matter--should Kallian wake again, she’ll be under tadpole control, entirely unable to command anything of Orin. It’s Ketheric who Orin listens to now, and he’s going to make sure to protect her. She’ll never have to suffer her sister’s twisted desires a moment longer.

“Let her go,” he urges Orin again, a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You’ve spent enough tears on her, the time has come for us to celebrate your victory here.”

Orin tenses for a moment, before letting out a breath, scrubbing at the tears streaking her face. “Yes,” she breathes. “What use have I for their ravaged mind-meat now, no more kin than a carcass that rots in its grave. My future is yours, bone-kin.”

She seems shy, almost nervous, as he draws her gently away from the body, an arm around her shoulder. Again, he supposes it’s only to be expected. Orin’s spent her whole life under Kallian’s thumb, freedom must be overwhelming. He’ll be here for her every step of the way, the father figure she’s always been denied, to nurture and encourage and help her find her true self; the happy, loving girl he knows is hidden under years of Kallian’s abuse.

He thinks of Isobel, turning from him with a scowl, tears in her eyes, as he urged her to leave the Selûnite emissary he knew would cause her nothing but pain. His failure still tastes bitter, all these years later, but his triumph with Orin is something of a salve. She’d listened where Isobel had covered her ears, she’d given him a second chance to get things right. She’d let him save her.

“I’m proud of you,” Ketheric tells Orin, stopping to smile at her with all the affection his unbeating heart still holds. “I know this was difficult for you, but you made the right decision. I swear to you, I’ll keep you safe from now on. Kallian will never touch you again, I--”

Orin surges forward, and her lips crash into his.

A jolt of pure shock runs through Ketheric’s body, a moment of numbness before he fully registers the feel of Orin’s mouth on his, her tongue forcing its way into--

Revulsion takes over. He shoves her away, stumbling back, a shaking hand scrubbing his lips dry. “Wh--what--”

He’s greeted with a hurt glare as Orin picks herself up from the table he’d shoved her into. Ketheric feels a twinge of guilt--that must have hurt her. But how else could he have been expected to react?

“You said,” Orin’s voice wavers, but she gulps in air and her face twists in a mask of anger. “You promised we’d be family.”

Ketheric takes another step back, a horrified shudder running through his body. “Yes. Family. Why would I mean for--for you to do that?”

“You promised family!” Orin shrieks, tears filling her eyes again. “Liar, liar, liar! It whispered poison to turn Orin on her real love, and then left her alone--” She makes a noise, half sob and half scream, as she shakes her head wildly. “No no no no no, I can be what he needs, not alone, no no no.”

“Pull yourself together,” Ketheric snaps. “I never--”

Orin staggers forward again, neck twisting, and it’s Isobel who grabs his collar, jerking him towards her with a strength he never knew she possessed. His daughter’s body presses into his, teeth biting at his lip as a hand struggles with his belt. Her nails dig into his shoulder, not so easy to shake off when she’s expecting his resistance. Not when it’s Isobel his heart warns against hurting, even as his mind screams that the monster forcing itself on him could never be his daughter.

Her hand finds its way into his breeches, scrambling fingers sending a jolt like lightning through his body. It’s fear that grips his heart, seeping through layers of revulsion. Ketheric presses his own hands to her shoulders, draws upon whatever strength he has left, and channels it all into a smite that sends her staggering backwards.

The look on Isobel’s face--hurt, confusion, despair--sears his mind. It takes everything in him to remind himself that it’s a trap, that he’s in danger, that that thing is not his daughter, and is merely using Isobel’s face to compromise him. That it doesn’t deserve a moment of his pity.

Ketheric gathers himself up, and runs.

Chapter Text

He lied.

Orin had let the Thorm infect her, let him drip-drop poison down her gullet til it drowned out blood ties. She’d moulded herself into what he asked. She’d offered herself to endure creaking bones and dusty breath and prickling chin hair, all for the promise of his love.

But he’d lied. He’d left. He left and now Orin’s alone, alone, alone.

She lets out a howl of anger as she twists her neck, throwing off the useless form of beautiful, blessed, perfect Isobel. If he wishes to take from Orin, to pluck out her heart and crush it underfoot, to leave her as nothing, then let him. Orin will repay in kind.

Isobel’s form has always sung sweeter to Orin than ever her father’s has, flesh smooth and sensuous and begging for her to destroy, silky head-strands Orin can’t wait to yank from her skull.

Orin bares her teeth, wiping the salted floods from her face again. She’ll make the girl hers before she drives home the knife. Not her moon-wife’s, not his, nothing but Orin’s. Her knife will mould Isobel’s flesh to fit hers, make her scream like none have before. And when Orin has wrung every moment of pleasure she can from the girl, after the final ecstasy that leaves her a carcass of mangled flesh, she’ll throw it at his feet and watch him shatter as easily as his daughter did.

She stands tall as she twists her oathless-ring--no more costumes, no more games. Isobel will know Orin the Red, Unholy Assassin, favoured child of Bhaal. Isobel will realise why she was right to fear.

Wrongness chokes at Orin as she arrives at the crumbling inn. The silence of Isobel’s hidden refuge is stolen by a hundred fast breaths and clumsy footfalls, too much life pulsing amidst the deathly shadows, torches and candles driving them out. A nearby shout has Orin throwing herself back into the shadows--their claws and whispers no less a danger than the figure casting about for her, torchlight glinting off the silver harp that clasps her cloak.

So Isobel has protectors. Precious, perfect Isobel has a little band of heroes to fight off the monsters lurking in the dark, while Orin has nothing, nothing, nothing. A shriek forces itself unbidden from her throat--she twists the ring again before the harper’s lantern can route her out.

She aches to kill them all, carve a bloody path through lovely Isobel’s meat shields, fashion their sinews into brand new harps for none but the shadows to play. But it’s a poor hunter who can’t stop the sobs spilling from her gullet, who can’t steady her shaking blades. (A poorer hunter still, who sets the snare for her mate and strings up their meat for a banquet, only to starve alone for every night after it.)

(Alone alone alone alone alone.)

Isobel’s beyond her reach now, smothered by meat shields, Orin’s visits forgotten in the face of harpers who flock and fawn, too pure, too perfect, to suffer alone a moment longer. Isobel had her moon-wife stripped away, rejects the love of her father, and always always always always is offered more.

Which of Kallian’s underlings will look on Orin with the worship they gave to the purest of Bhaalspawn, when she tells how she’s taken their leader’s place? Who will follow willingly she who they’ve seen debased and despoiled again, again, again?

Kallian’s knife stabs deep into the carpet of pretender meat that cushions Orin’s knees. No pleasure, no thrill, fake flesh that leaves her hollow even as she drives, twists the knife deeper, deeper, deeper.

Isobel’s buried away. He left Orin to rot. (Liar liar liar liar liar.) Kallian’s gone, gone, gone. Father gives no answer to her cries.

(Alone alone alone alone alone alone alone alone alone alone alone.)

Perhaps Grandfather might welcome her, should she slip back into his arms. He’d wanted her, once, she’s sure, before she’d pledged herself fully to Kallian. Perhaps she can give herself to him, and perhaps he can give the family and comfort she’s had ripped away.

Perhaps she would be as great a fool as Kallian, to return to her exiled grandfather with news of his tormentor’s defeat, and expect him to greet her with a kiss, rather than blade.

“Grandfather loves me,” Orin tells the pretender flesh, twisting the knife, digging down deep as she can go as the netherstone glistens in its hilt, so filled with power, but so, so empty with none to witness it. Perhaps smothering her blade in nothingness might ease the slice of the thousand other knives that drive in and out her heart, the burn of the coals scorching her stomach, the sting of acid searing her throat.

Orin will not fall like Kallian did, gaggling and gurgling in the dirt. “Grandfather loves me.” She can believe it, for as long as she leaves Grandfather to his dusty catacombs, for as long as she never has to learn truly what he means for her.

The dagger-hilt presses against flesh, knife wormed as far as it will go, nothing left to steal her attention but the sobs, the empty grave where Father’s blessing should be (where is he where is he where is he?), the disbelief writ into Kallian’s face, the Thorm’s angry glare as he left Orin alone alone alone alone alone alone alone alone alone alone alonealonealonealonealonealoneALONE--

The situation can still be made to work for Enver. He drums his fingers on the acid-scorched remains of Ketheric’s grand table, considering. It’s not disadvantageous that Kallian’s been neutralised. She was becoming more unstable, more dangerous by the day, a constant risk to their alliance. True, Orin is no less a loose cannon than Kallian was, but for the moment, she’s vulnerable, still reeling in grief. If he can nip her uncontrollability in the bud now, make sure he’s safe--in charge of the situation, that is--this can still turn out to be a beneficial arrangement.

He tenses, a hand flying to his crossbow, as the door’s flung open. But it’s Ketheric who charges inside, anger and fear battling across his face.

“Gortash,” he snaps, schooling his face into some measure of neutrality. “Good. Orin has revealed herself to be untrustworthy. We must find a way to deal with her.”

Enver’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. Really? He’s really doing this? “And she kept her untrustworthiness such a great secret beforehand! Correct me if I’m wrong, General, but didn’t you engineer a plot to install Orin as the Chosen of Bhaal back, oh, an hour ago?”

Ketheric glowers at him. “Orin… misled me. I believed without Kallian’s influence…” He shakes his head. “Her perversions run far deeper than I had ever accounted for.”

Enver snorts. “I’m guessing even a coma won’t stop her fondling her sibling? I’m shocked.”

Somehow, Ketheric’s glare grows even deeper. “It is her behaviour towards me that’s the problem,” he snaps, a shudder running through him. “I will not--cannot--work with that creature.”

“What, did she make a pass at you?”

Ketheric’s glare drops to the side, avoiding Enver’s gaze, as a tinge of colour forms on his dead cheeks.

“She did, didn’t she?” He wouldn’t be able to hold back the bark of laughter forcing its way from his throat even if he wanted to. “Oh, and after all that effort you put in to treat her as your own daughter! For shame!”

“This is no laughing matter,” Ketheric snaps, as Enver continues to snicker--honestly, after the day he’s had, he deserves this. “She--she had her hands on me. Orin is dangerous.”

“Is she?” Enver sneers, his mirth turning suddenly bitter as he stands to face Ketheric. “What exactly are you scared of her doing?” His finger nails dig into the palms of his hands. “She’s a woman, Ketheric. It’s not like she’s able to rape you, is she?”

“Take this seriously!” Ketheric snarls. “This situation benefits neither of us. I hoped you would act like an adult and assist me in finding a solution, rather than laying unnecessary blame.”

Enver remembers the first time they met, when he’d seen authority in that glare, an experienced leader with the power to back his words. When he’d wanted Ketheric to confide in him, to face their problems together. Now, he sees a pathetic old man, yelling at the world to conform to his expectations, offering him the faintest hint of respect months too late. “I believe I warned you, once, not to come crying to me when the rabid dog you insist on petting bites you. You’re lucky I won’t see my plan fail due to your incompetence.” He purses his lips. “Do you know how to contact Sarevok Anchev?”

Ketheric’s face hardens. “No. And despite everything, I hope you know I would not willingly work with such a monster even if I did.”

“Unless your plan is to slaughter your way through Bhaal’s children in the hope of impressing him enough that he decides to adopt you and bestow the strength to wield an extra netherstone, you’re going to have to pick a Bhaalspawn,” Enver snaps. “Personally, I’d have preferred you at least waited until after the Elder Brain was secure to execute your little powerplay, but of course I wasn’t consulted.”

“It was Orin who chose the timing of her attack,” Ketheric insists. “I have less control over her than you might hope.”

“Clearly.” Enver sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Fortunately for you, the Chosen of Bane has some advantages in that regard. I can bring Orin to heel and keep you safe from her.” He gives a sharp smile. “If you’re willing to apologise and admit I was right.”

Ketheric sneers. “Are you truly so self-important that you’d abandon our scheme on the cusp of victory, all to win a petty squabble?”

Enver’s eyes narrow as he stares the man down, wondering how difficult it might truly be to exert his influence over all three netherstones at once. He’s long since realised he’s the only member of this alliance who has any interest in the Absolute scheme as an end in itself. The Bhaalists have little ambition beyond murder and screwing one another, and Ketheric… “I think the question you should be asking, General, is whether you’re proud enough to defy Myrkul’s will, fully knowing you owe him your daughter’s life.” He gives another smile. “It’s just six little words, Ketheric. ‘I’m sorry, Gortash, you were right.’ And then I’ll go and fix this for you and your precious little Isobel.”

It must have been decades since he’s seen a glare with quite so much malice, so much loathing. Maybe not since his father had found him tinkering with the new mechanical sole nailer that cost enough that Enver and his siblings had been sharing one meal between three for most of the last tenday. You’d have thought that meant Enver was entitled to see how it worked, but Dravo Flymm had obviously disagreed.

“I’m sorry, Gortash,” the pathetic old man spits out, eyes gleaming with hatred. “You were right.”

It’s all Enver’s ever needed to hear.

--alonealonealonealonealonealonealone--

The flesh-carpet is a crater-field under the knife, criss-crossed scars sculpting a portrait of Orin’s soul, her only paint the floods that still leak from her face.

--alonealonealonealonealonealonealone--

“Still acting like a child I see? If you will insist on throwing your toys from the pram…”

Orin whirls, yanking the knife from the ground to throw at the ugly form of the tyrant.

He blinks from existence before it can pierce his flesh, the blade falling uselessly to the ground as he reappears a pace away, shaking his head. “A remarkable display of… something, I’m sure.” He reaches to take the knife before she can scramble towards it herself. “But perhaps it’s time you stopped to think about what it is you’re actually trying to achieve.”

Orin bares her teeth as she scrambles from her knees into a crouch, her hand going to the shortsword that still rests at her hip--they can take and take and take from Orin but she will not lose her claws. “What I want is your death, lordling” she snarls. “The tyrant first, then his underlings, then all the rest, until all is drowned in crimson--”

He sighs, vanishing again. “Yes, you could certainly try killing me,” she hears his voice from behind her. “But you might want to consider whether my death is really in your best interests. Given I’m currently the only person who’s willing to help you.”

His very words seek to throttle her. “You think I wish your help, maggot?”

“No. But I think you’ve scared away one of your allies and put the other in a coma, and no subordinate worth having is going to follow a girl who’s throwing a tantrum because she’s starting to think that maybe she made a mistake.” He appears before her, boots crushing the pockmarked landscape she’s carved out of her sorrows, one hand gripping Kallian’s knife--Orin’s knife, now--by the netherstone, the other hand extended towards her. “So. You can stay here and cry about what a mess you’ve made of everything, or you can work with me to build the Cult of the Absolute, and make a success out of this whole business.”

Orin glares up at him. Filthy tyrant maggot. She climbs to her feet herself, ignoring the outstretched hand. She’d bite it off, were it not cradled by the bitter metal of his gauntlet. “You think the Thorm will work with Orin? He who dug a grave of lies and tossed her in when his purpose was done?”

The baneling snorts. “You two really weren’t as on the same page about everything as you thought, were you? I’ve reminded Thorm of his duties. He’ll keep things professional, if you can. That means keeping your hands--and your knives, for that matter--to yourself.”

“Never will the gift of my flesh be offered to one undeserving again,” Orin spits. She will take only who she wants from now on, her body will belong only to her, not Kallian, not Thorm, only Orin. “But my knives?” Bitter laughter worms its way between her words. “My knives should hold no fear to one who cannot bleed true.”

The baneling’s lip wriggles. “Fair enough. But I’m going to need a little more assurance of my own safety, given what happened to your last ally.” He holds out his hand again. “Give me your word you’ll restrain yourself from harming me, and I’ll back you to Thorm.”

Orin stares down at his hand, pink worms wriggling amidst metal bones, the glint of his netherstone nestled within. Oh, but she hates him with every inch of her being, every nerve screaming out for his death. Tapeworm of Bane suckling for its lord’s power, forcing its way into Kallian’s heart, taking and taking and taking until it’s Orin who’s left empty. How quickly its smirk would falter should she grab the knife it holds loose in its lesser hand, twist it up into its belly, make new craters in its flesh as it bleeds out through its screams. Stab, stab, stab, until there’s nothing left. Until she’s alone again.

“Did it--” the words catch in her throat, she swallows them down and tries again, reaching out to pierce his mind, should his words tell her lies. “Did it believe true, that Kallian didn’t love you? After all she gave you?”

The tyrant’s thoughts are a screaming door, locked tight against the memory of Kallian on their back, whispering their love as their bodies twined together. They feel a lot like Orin’s own.

“There was never any love between us,” he says stiffly. His thoughts taste true--but he never knew Kallian as Orin did. He never understood how much they gave him. “For what it’s worth, I’d never have become involved in the first place if I knew quite how…” his mind warns him against the worst of his insults, “how intermeshed the two of you were.” He swallows, glancing away as Orin remains silent. “This is to be the last discussion on the incident.”

“Orin has no more need to hear of its playtimes with her sibling, ever again,” she promises. She looks back at his hand, still outstretched, still undeserving. Silence stretches between them. Orin dreams of it breaking. Of Thorm rushing in, grovelling in apologies at her feet. Of Kallian calling out as they wake from their slumber. Of Father’s voice in her head, promising a new design, free of Bane and Myrkul and all their underlings, a starring role for Orin alone as she carves his word across the slaughter coast. None of them come to her.

She reaches out to grasp Gortash’s hand.

“Thank you for accepting this alliance, Orin.” His eyes narrow, mouth twisting into a smirk. “You will not attempt to kill, or otherwise harm me, now or at any future point.” The words drip with oil--they ever have, but this is different, oil that reaches out to her, to smother, to choke. His hand squeezes hers tight as she tries to pull back, metalled gauntlet digging into her flesh. “Don’t bother trying to resist the geas--I’m not going to work with you without it.”

Kallian would want her to fight harder against it, to plunge in blade and teeth even as his spell takes hold. But Orin’s bones feel weary without the spurs that helped them grow, the love that gave her nourishment all her life. She has half the strength she’s ever known to fight against the oil seeping fully in, pervading flesh and thought alike.

She meets the tyrant’s gaze steadily as he finally releases her. “It finds Orin so great a terror that it must hide and trick and cheat its way around her? Throttle my blades as you wish, tyrant. You will not throttle your fear.”

He shrugs, finally handing her back Kallian’s--Orin’s--blade, netherstone cradled by the blood of Bhaal himself. “Just trying to ensure the Chosen Three can work together this time.” He flashes another smile, dripping with oil. “Congratulations on the promotion, by the way.”

Ketheric stands before his daughter’s empty bed and wishes, desperately, that she’d return to him.

Months have passed now, since he last stood staring down at her body. Months since the others had arrived at Moonrise. Months since everything had gone wrong. He’d never imagined he could come to miss the days he spent with his daughter’s lifeless body, waiting, hoping for her to live again. She may have been dead, but at least she’d been spending her death with him.

Perhaps if he hadn’t told her Aylin was dead. Perhaps if he’d locked the doors. Perhaps if he’d found a way to let her know that all of it, all of it, had been for her… Regrets have never served Ketheric well.

He breathes deep of the stale air, the room as empty of life as it has ever been, layers of dust over every memory of Isobel’s life--the chest where she kept her most treasured childhood toys, the bookshelves of devotions to Selûne and the fairytales he’d once read as she drifted to sleep, the desk where Melodia had taught her to write. His eyes fall on the wardrobe, the dust on the doorknobs sparser than the rest of the room, wiped off the day he’d pulled it open to hand his daughter’s dresses over to that… that monster.

He quivers in anger at the thought. Perhaps it’s his fault, perhaps he should have listened when she’d insisted she preferred to dress like a whore, that she enjoyed her disgusting games with her sister. Perhaps he shouldn’t have felt the compassion he thought he’d long since blocked out, when he watched her sob in pain and fear--

Ketheric shakes his head. Orin had seen him irrational in his grief, and decided to use him for her own sick purposes. She is not Isobel, insisting the Selûnite woman cared for her, even as he watched his daughter grow tireder, sadder, angrier, whenever he spoke of her entanglement. She could never be Isobel.

All he can do now is take back everything of Isobel’s she’s ever touched, and hope that he can forget it was sullied in the first place. He’ll take steps, from now on, to keep Isobel’s room better secure and guarded so none but he can enter and desecrate his memories further. He’ll protect what little he has left of her with every ounce of his strength. As he always has.

He moves to the window to gaze down at the town of Reithwin, wondering if Isobel’s out there somewhere, hiding among the wreckage, lost and alone. She’d loved looking out on the bustling townsfolk when she was younger, guessing at their business and making up stories. After Melodia, and later Isobel, had been taken from him, Ketheric had begun to hate watching the town more and more. What right had the townsfolk to get on gladly with their lives when Ketheric’s family would never move again, when he had to force himself to keep on going? How dare they hurry around attending to the simple, daily concerns of a life where any of that still mattered?

Reithwin’s been still for years now.

It will all have been for nothing, he reminds himself wearily, if he expels the Banites and Bhaalists now, if he turns his back on Myrkul as if he were any other distant, uncaring god. He could cast Orin out for her disrespect to Isobel, but it will do nothing to bring his daughter back into his arms. Every step he’s taken since her death has led him here--Reithwin’s destruction, Aylin’s imprisonment, the Crown of Karsus and the Cult of the Absolute--none of it will have meant anything if he gives up now. Even if he hates every moment he has to work with Gortash and Orin, even if millions more must die by his hand, even if Isobel will never grant her forgiveness, it makes little difference to a man whose soul was damned long ago.

Whatever his regrets, he’s too far down this path to turn around now.

Perhaps he always has been.

Kallian is beautiful in the soft lavender dress Orin wraps her in, every lace neatly tied, her hair brushed and braided, cheeks painted warm against the cold of her skin. The gore of her butler paints a shrine around her. He’d fussed and fretted until Orin had granted him death enough that he hadn’t returned, leaving her alone to attend to their sleeping mast--his sleeping master, now nought but a doll in Orin’s hands.

Orin’s always loved dolls--blank simulacrums of real people, but how prettily they imitate the truth. How sweet of them to sit at her side, or wherever she places them, ever faithful, ever true. She’d thought as a little girl that the love her dolls’ had for her was real. She’d cried and screamed, face and throat and heart scorched red, when Kallian had told her the doll Grandfather bought for her only pretended to care for her, bit and scratched at Kallian’s comforts until she gave up and told Orin she’d lied. It’s a long while since Orin cried loud enough for Kallian to hear her.

She smoothes out a wrinkle in Kallian’s skirt, reties a lace at her wrist. Lingers, admires her work, as Kallian had done for Orin when she was a child, fingers too clumsy to clothe herself.

Silver ornaments glitter in her doll’s lovely hair, every strand brushed with care, no hint of the damage the tyrant’s acid had caused it visible. Orin’s own hair hangs limp in a single unwashed plait today, with no one to arrange it for her. It’s of little matter, so long as her doll is perfect.

Perhaps the plait to the left of her scalp is inadequate, a little more hair stuffed into one strand than another. Perhaps if she tries again, removing the silver ornaments adorning her doll to pull apart all those plaits. Perhaps if she brushes and those silky strands through again, again, again, until Kallian is perfect--

“Still fawning over the body I see,” the tyrant’s oily voice sneers from the door. “Gods, did you sleep in here, too? Come on. You can play with your toy after the mission. I’d very much like to get this done sometime this century.”

Today is the day the Chosen dominate the Elder Brain. Orin has a duty to attend to.

“It mocks me for fawning, when it was never worthy of her touch,” Orin murmurs, squeezing Kallian’s hand, limp and cold with nothing to give back. She hesitates to leave her; she knows Balthazar hovers like a vulture waiting for his prey to fall, no more a friend to Orin than his master proved to be.

She wonders at snatching Kallian up, letting her ring take them both home, away from judging stares and cutting blades. There, she can hang Kallian in a shrine opposite Mother’s, the prettiest sculpture Orin could ever fashion. Or tuck her into bed, a doll to cling to every night in the cold of the undercity, as ever Orin has. But Balthazar might be able to bring Kallian back, real and true a Kallian whose hand will wrap itself around hers, who’ll love her, listen to her, who’ll finally, finally see her. Together again, with Orin in control, Orin the object of worship, Orin the Chosen. The chance alone is worth handing her love to the corpse-wizard.

Gortash’s tongue wags on behind her. “If you’re so insistent on playing the part of Bhaal’s Chosen, may I suggest you start acting like it? Before I have to get my people to drag you out of here.”

“If you truly wish to witness my Lord’s worship, you’ll see your cattle will die before they even touch me,” Orin promises. She gives one last caress to those lovely head-strands, presses one last kiss to lips that no longer part for her.

“Rest well, my love,” Orin whispers against cold lips. She stands, letting Kallian’s hand fall from her grasp. She lets Kallian go.

Gortash strides ahead to where their underlings throng, eager for the attack. The crowd parts to let the Chosen through. Oh, this reverence was wasted on Kallian, always so certain of her praise. Orin feasts on it, head held high as she strides to where Thorm stands waiting for them.

He will not look at her.

Orin bays her Bhaalists to kill for her--they need no other instructions than to do as they were made for--and sets off quickly into the twisted flesh-tunnels ahead, blades hungering to make the flayers the flayed.

She hacks the tentacles off a skull-sucker as they grab at her face, razors glinting in the maw beneath. Silver life-spray stains her hands as she drives the blade deeper, deeper, deeper into that rubbery flesh, and finally, finally, Father smiles on her. Orin shudders as His Ecstasy finds her, fills her, the incomparable thrill of the kill, driving her on to more, more, more. She makes a dance of her journey among the swathes of skull-suckers and their pets. Dodge, slash, kill, pray. Hack, stab, duck, parry, stab, kill, pray. Duck, slash, kill, pray. Dodge. Slash. Kill. Slash. Pray. Stab. Kill. Stab. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.

She’s the first to reach their prize, the foolish old men still hobbling onwards as Orin stands alone, painted in silver, her father’s Ecstasy still spilling from her bowels and His presence the warmest embrace. Gazing up, she sees only fragile mind-meat, all protection carved away. And oh, Orin knows better than anyone, how easy it is to fracture an unguarded mind.

“Remember, we’re controlling the brain, not killing it,” the tyrant huffs and puffs as he hurries to catch up, no loving Father to revitalise his step.

“Then let us be done with this.” Thorm’s guts crawl back into his stomach as he steps forward, wearing the same stony mask he shows all but his closest--the stony mask he wears as his true self.

The mind-meat roars its displeasure as they approach, battering at their own minds. The brain-guard the tyrant handed her sits snug on Orin’s head, but it’s Father who is her protector. Finally He whispers His love and guidance, loud enough to block out any attack as Orin raises His blood-blade high, wrapped around the master-rock that will bring the brain to heel.

She slashes at their enemy with mind, rather than blade, unwavering even as its shrieks of fury ring right through her, and Orin smiles. It knows. This creature throbbing with power, with authority, it knows that Orin the Red will be the one to defeat it. It knows that Orin the Red is something to fear.

For a moment, she loves it for that.

And then it’s over, all that power finally cowing under Bhaal’s, under Orin’s, might. A pathetic creature unable to resist its subjugation, crushed under the weight of the very crown that adorns it. Orin shudders in disgust just to look at it.

“We’re victorious,” Gortash says, a note of surprise in his voice.

“Our task is complete,” Thorm snaps. “Do not mistake that for a victory. We still have much work to do.”

The tyrant’s smile drips with grease. “And I’m sure this will be a positively thrilling alliance.”

Thorm turns on his heel and heads back without a word more, without a glance at Orin. Father’s love wraps tighter around her.

Orin’s happy.

She is.

“Don’t get yourself killed down here,” Gortash snaps at her, before setting off after Thorm. “I don’t think I could stand the irony of losing another of Bhaal’s Chosen quite so soon.”

Bhaal’s Chosen. It suits her. She thinks Father agrees.

(Kallian would be delighted by their victory, though failure would have never crossed their mind. She’d tut at the Thorm’s indifference, insisting on a celebration. She’d chatter on and on about the fight, about the mind-meat, giggling over how silly Enver’s little spectral hand looked, dragging the crown out on top of the big, stupid brain.)

Orin shakes her head, frowning, as her heart strings strain. Father’s is the only voice she wants to hear in her head now, the only voice that makes her happy.

(She is she is she is she is she is.)

Orin is the Chosen of Bhaal, His voice and His blade. She’s claimed victory over her every foe, earned her Father’s love as none have managed before. She’s proven herself stronger than all of them, no need of Grandfather, no need of Thorm, no need of Kallian. She’s free of the chains that held her back, belonging only to Bhaal now, and oh, but Orin was made to worship Him.

She has everything she’s ever wanted.

(She does.)