it was not unusual to have your attention drawn from what remained of a person, the further this investigation went. in fact, you had long since pocketed that little notebook of yours, shifting weight from foot to foot as the orders had come down to wait. truthfully, many of the others had taken the excuse to lean over the balcony only a few steps from you, tapping ash out of pipes. gossiping, arguing.
pointing, at the activity only two landings below.
and of course, you cannot help the draw of it. the pipe that slips easily into your fingers, and even easier between your lips, as names are barely whispered with that shrill edge of excitement. this was supposedly an easier task that required no formal security, or so your fellows said. a fight had broken out, and the flaming fist had been ordered to file in to temper it.
except, with the pile of humanoid remains behind you, it was not longer so simple. you had all stumbled upon some dirty secret, with how lord enver gortash now stood at the front of the factory doors. voice carrying so that you could catch every third or fourth word, but to even drag him out of the keep was telling you more than you were entitled to know.
“y’reckon they’re gonna kick us out soon?”
“word is that they sent a runna’ to someone down in the mermaid. lord gortash’s orders.”
well that was interesting. and also explained how long it had been since you had all received the first halt order. what were the chances that the person who had been told to slip into the blushing mermaid was still alive?
a look out the corner of your eye tells you that was remarkably unlikely.
“how long until they send ‘notha?”
as you exhale, part of you wants to say only a handful of minutes, judging by the pacing from lord gortash. was going to carve his very own trench with the careful steps forward and backwards, which you have no doubt would suit lord gortash just fine. after all, you’d been told this wasn’t even really the main manufacturing site — this was all just a front.
typical fucking wednesday shit, if you were being honest. when wasn’t someone using a warehouse as a front? granted, when you close your eyes and see that gory scene, you suppose most wouldn’t expect the warehouse to double as a butcher’s playpen.
or maybe they would.
you weren’t paid enough to really give a shit, just keep watching out for lord gortash’s face to split in two.
“who the fuck is that?”
did their voice echo, or was that person striding up to lord gortash just perceptive? you aren’t the only one immediately trying to shush, to push the pointing finger down, as two specks of light in the shadows stares up at you all.
whatever they were thinking is lost in how lord gortash opens their arms, greeting their mysterious tiefling friend. leading them, through the door under the landing you stood on, without so much as a passing comment to your captain in charge of the investigation.
“derrick, you dickhead!”
arguments, but the pipes are emptied quickly, stuffed away into pockets before the footsteps on those stairs get louder. lord gortash’s voice arrives before he does with his guest, and you are the only one at attention, hands behind your back. staring straight ahead, but curiosity sits at the edges of your peripherals.
this was lord enver gortash, after all. side by side, with the tiefling who did not seem to blink, and whoever might’ve been the poor sod that was sent running to the blushing mermaid. yet they didn’t look like they had an ounce of blood left in them, damn near close to passing out.
oh, right, the sheer violence. not even five paces from where you stood. on some level, you suppose, that you had reasoned since there seemed to be not much left, you were not really seeing any single person. or their remains.
just the red. red paint? is what your mind supplies, and if you thought of it like that, your stomach managed to stay where it should. after all, the smoke manages to fill your nose, and remove the rusted smell that will haunt you.
if you get a spared look, in truth, you were not sure if you were supposed to hold it. something in the gait, the tail, the set of shoulders. a predator, simply following the trail left behind. for lord gortash seems to fill the air with talk to your captain, his eyes never leaving the way that tiefling treads ever so carefully through the carnage.
“when did you find this?”
a voice that rolls with a hint of an accent you just can’t place, gruff, underused. long fingers and longer nails, that seem to have no issue with separating viscera, as if looking for something specific.
but when your captain looks at you, realisation hits. they were talking to you. “u-uh, we were called here earlier this morning, and were told that when the shift change occurred, this was found. my lor-my lady…?” your voice peters off, as you find yourself trapped by gaze alone.
almost hollow, visibly dark. barest hint of an iris in those eyes, and yet you. you are lost. swimming, to find where there is a flicker in there. part of you can feel that the way viscera is handled is not unlike your mind, gentle, pinched. folded and unfolded. but it is soft, encouraging, that when it ends, you had yet to notice that time had continued to march, leaving you behind to watch the tiefling move a hand through the air.
disappearing into the rafters, as lord gortash is staring at you now. that comforting smile oft greeting you all at the keep now feels cold. disarming in all the wrong ways, yet there is a clap against your back, derrick’s hand meeting you to pull you from the thought. perhaps. you were tired, after all. it had been quite a long day, since first arriving at this scene.
as your captain talks, you can hear a suggestion of going to the tavern. night off, paperwork tomorrow. grisly scene, and all that. and they’re right, when you will your head to look back down at the remains. it was a grisly scene, and the headache you must’ve always had was definitely because of the hard day — you deserve the drink.
did you agree? everyone else chimes in, a careful line of flaming fist moving around the remains, and down the stairs. heavy boots, all in time. even your captain, pulling the poor runner with them. a part of you moves, but it is not your feet.
nor your hands, torso, head. it is your eyes, following how lord gortash calls up to the rafters.
“amma, i sent the rest away.”
and when the tiefling — amma, amma, you had heard that name before — lands, the headache grows. splitting and twisting and pulling at your eyes, wanting to shove them out. heavy tongue and a locked jaw that won’t let you breathe. you were calm. you were afraid.
you couldn’t stop staring into those evil eyes.
“i think we’ve attracted some unfortunate following from waterdeep.”
a grimace is what you would have normally attributed to the twist of lips on the tiefling’s face. on amma’s, amma’s, amma! thinking the name feels like a nail is driving into your ear. bite your tongue, wanting to feel something, but did the muscle even make it between? is that blood from your mouth, or elsewhere? sweat and shit, all that fills your nose.
it was coming from you. oh gods, oh fuck, you want to plead. to fight. sound in your throat as hands work at your armour, pulling it free in parts, lazily dropping it to the floor.
“amma,” lord gortash says, as if such a name did not have your brain feel like it was going to leak through your nostrils, “will you be joining the soiree at lady jannath’s later this week?”
hair and horns and sweat and freckles. deceptive, along the bridge of her nose. so close that you would argue for a scent of iron and brimstone, were it not for the tinge of mulberries. why would you think that? you could not say, both in a literal and theoretical sense, as your shirt was removed.
as the tip of a knife pressed against your shoulder blade. “would i need to be masked?”
lord gortash finally walks towards where you were held, but you knew he would not be your saviour. careful hands that trace the tattoo, committing the symbol to memory. “it may be best, until at least the last hour. granted, i would only need your assistance for a few hours, if you would be so willing.”
your skin. they were cutting into your skin. picking and peeling and slicing you away, letting your bleed and scream in the back of your throat. there is nothing to you, blind feeling and fucking magic holding you upright, as you surely do pass out. come back.
and you are nothing to them, as she speaks. that gravelly voice like it had popped up from the depths of the hells. nails and hammers and piercing your ears, unravelling you almost as much as when the knife finds your sides, your arms. your neck.
you’re dying. “enver, with what would you need assistance?”
“i believe that i promised you such an occasion.” you’re dying, and,
lord gortash, and the butcher. your killer. knife in your throat as you weep and piss and shit and cannot move to let this all happen. blood does not flow but you are sure it does, because where else would it need to be, now, after all this time? lord gortash and the butcher kiss, deeply, biting and sucking and you are dying.
dying, as they are all but fucking in front of you, in front of the remains of the poor fucker you had killed only a day earlier. to draw these fuckers out but oh, gods, you were unprepared. stuck here now; dying here, now.
cursing them to damnation. yourself, for taking the stupid offer from xanathar. for not protecting your mind and knowing the last thing you will see is lord fucking enver gortash, and the bitch whore butcher amma! fucking amma!
pull the knife from your throat, and the darkness of those eyes seizes you. just like the way the knife had found its way into all of you, but now that magic has ended, and your body fails. it bleeds and shits and pisses and weeps, and you want to cuss the both of them out,
but especially that thrice-cursed liar and cheat amity,
as you die.
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