The Urge || Baldur's Gate 3 Fanfic||

Before

Before my older blood kin Orin infected me, I reveled in my popularity within the cult of Bhaal. I was worshipped, and not without reason. I am the true progeny of the god of murder, not merely his offspring but his creation, wrought from his lifeless flesh with the sole purpose of serving him. Orin's envy was palpable; she desired to be our father's favored, yet it was evident that I was the superior. My servants prepared me for today's journey to Moonrise Towers, where I will join Enver Gortash, the Chosen of Bane and a leading figure of the Cult of the Absolute.

Gazing into the mirror, my attendants meticulously dressed me in stunning red robes, ensuring every detail was flawless. The fabric cascaded over my pale hands, soon to command wild magic. My hair, long and lustrous, and white as snow was woven into braids, accented with red ribbons. The mirror reflected my face, marked by the "From the Deep" tattoo, a rite of passage as I embraced the mantle of cult leadership. Its black lines swirled up my jaw and chin, a stark contrast to my fair skin, which was dappled with patches of even lighter tones due to vitiligo. My eyes, a deep brown so dark they were nearly black, were softly highlighted by the gloss of black lipstick and a sweep of subtle eyeshadow.

Accompanied by my loyal servants and blood kin, Orin, we make our way to Gortash who awaits us in a horse-drawn carriage. As I step into the carriage, I hold onto my robes, taking a seat across from the imposing tyrant. Surprisingly, Gortash's usually harsh and stern face softens when he sees me. "Ah, my favorite little assassin," he says with a hint of happiness, leaning over and placing two kisses on my cheeks as a greeting. Gortash, with his short, dark hair styled in an artful mess, displays rounded facial features that show signs of age, adorned with creases and scars. His extravagant attire reflects his wealth, with a wide open collar showcasing gilded dragons, intricately designed gold gauntlets, and eye-catching bright red, pointy steel-tipped boots.
"Nice to see you too, my lord" i give a playful bow as Orin comes in ruining your our fun. Orin has pale blue-grey skin with swirling, smoke-like plumes of red undulating across it. Her eyes are dull grey, contoured by dark eyeliner, giving her an intimidating look. Her straw-colored, braided hair falls to the backs of her knees in a fastening reminiscent of a flail. Her armour is bright blood-red, rigid and rough like chitin. She adorns her head with an ornate silver tiara with the centerpiece shaped in the form of a person supplicant, a single crimson gem giving her appearance some color.
"no greeting for me Lordling?" she says upset smirking holding back her urge to kill. The made the males face go back to harsh rolling his eyes "and you brought Orin" he says "just a sisterly outing, right Orin?" i did a soft smile to her. She begged me to come little did i know at the time she was planing on attacking me with my own jagged knife that i named "The Blade of the Frist Blood" that held my Netherstone.

As we finally arrived in the shadow curse lands, after hours of traveling and even defeating Gortash in a game of chess, we stepped out of the carriage. The moon lanterns attached to its sides provided protection from the curse that surrounded us. And there, standing before us, was General Ketheric Thorm. He's an Elf with straight, grey hair that falls just past his shoulders, neatly tucked behind his pointed ears. With a stern expression on his face, his countenance reflects both his intense glare and the wisdom of his age. Ketheric sports a thick, full beard that connects to his hair, adding to his commanding presence. Wearing a simple circlet adorned with the skull of Myrkul, he dons an extravagant yet meticulously crafted suit of armor, a clear symbol of his status as the Chosen of the Lord of Bones. And right there, resting on his chest, is his Netherstone, protected by an ornate gold cage.

"Finally, you're here! We've got a lot to talk about," the general commanded, leading the way to his chambers. As we gathered around the crackling fireplace, I discreetly signaled Orin to explore Moonrise, knowing this discussion was meant for the chosen of the Dead Three. The plot unfolded before us. General Thorm planned to raise an army using the tadpoles and stage a deceptive invasion of Baldur's Gate. Meanwhile, I would unleash chaos through a series of targeted killings in the city. The ensuing mayhem would provide Gortash with the perfect opportunity to seize control and claim the title of Archduke. With Baldur's Gate under our control, our lords would have the gateway to conquer not just the city, but the entire world.

Gortash excused himself under the pretense of retrieving another bottle of wine, his way of seeking retribution for the last chess match I'd bested him in. Moments later, he returned, his smirk laced with flirtation. "Edith," he murmured, his hand caressing my cheek with an unexpected tenderness. I could feel the heat rising to my face, a reminder to steady my emotions, lest my darker instincts take over.

"Follow me," he urged, a playful chuckle escaping him. I trailed behind him naively, oblivious to the impending betrayal. We navigated to the depths of the oubliette, home to the mind flayer's nest. As I raised my gaze to Gortash, his smirk broadened ominously before his form crumbled into ash, revealing Orin the Red—my kin, my betrayer.

Without warning, she assaulted me with a ferocity that knew no sisterly love, her blows and stabs a maelstrom of pain. My cries for aid were lost, swallowed by the stone walls of our dank prison. She snatched my knife and netherstone, and with a bloodied hand, she severed my long white locks, her laughter a macabre soundtrack to my suffering.

Barely alive, choking on blood, I watched helplessly as she brandished the mind flayer's tadpole before my eyes. Her smirk was the last thing I saw before darkness took me.
"Whether it's the searing pain or the jarring head trauma, I find myself on the brink of consciousness, bidding farewell to a life of opulence. Once draped in finery, now I lay in squalor, the regal memories of my past life fading into the dirt that cradles me. Yet, amidst this haze of forgetfulness, one sinister craving persists—the relentless, gnawing compulsion to unleash the darkness within, to succumb to the primal urge to kill..."