#goatballs | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

troutberryspoon · 1 month

Text

Unhallowed Heart - Chapter 2 'Gifts'

Dark Urge/Enver Gortash

Second chapter - After a fruitless first meeting, Gortash bombards the temple with gifts

Word count - 2483

Full fic here on AO3

___

Two groups of acolytes faced each other in a large, dark side-chamber of the undercity temple. Torch flames flickered on the stone walls. The air was rent by the sounds of laboured breathing. Next to Villi, Brother Owain spat out a mouthful of blood.

The end of the battle was close. Villi was certain that the handful of faithful servants who stood by his side had enough left in them to make this a decisive victory. He narrowed his eyes, fixed his stance, and awaited the signal for the final attack.

FWEEEEP!

Archstrangler McDavis blew a short blast on a whistle made from carved bone. Villi lunged forwards, deftly kicking the ball at his feet right between Sister Emberstar’s legs. Brother Owain sprinted ahead to receive the pass, then tapped the ball forwards, towards a pair of great grinning orc skulls that denoted the other team’s goal.

A loud cry went up as the ball crossed the line. Villi’s team had won, seven goals to two.

Villi went around the chamber and clapped the shoulders of his team, complimenting them on a game well-played. He found Brother Owain on his hands and knees, searching for his missing front tooth in a dusty forgotten corner. It had been knocked out during a particularly spirited tackle.

‘Any luck?’ Villi asked.

‘Unfortunately not, my Lord,’ Owain said, rising quickly. ‘I fear the ancestors have claimed it. Not to worry, I’m sure the infirmary has spares. Perhaps I’ll be able to replace it with a gold crown.’

Villi hummed in what he hoped was an encouraging manner, despite knowing full well that Sceleritas now scoured all the corpses that entered the temple in order to claim every last scrap of gold for their dwindling coffers.

The chatter started to die down as the acolytes filed out. Villi walked over to the ball and rolled it under his boot. With a quick little flick he had it balanced on the top of his foot. He wobbled there for a moment, standing on one leg, countering the ball’s desire to fall back to the floor with small, careful movements. The ball had been fashioned out of a discarded elf’s bladder. Villi had sewn it up himself.

There was an inter-planar ‘pop’, and Sceleritas stood at his side in a haze of sulphur.

The fiend sniffed.

‘I see you’ve been sweating with the acolytes again, mi’lord,’ Sceleritas said.

‘You disapprove.’ Villi didn’t look at his Butler. He was too busy concentrating on keeping the ball balanced.

‘It’s most unbecoming. You shouldn’t make yourself so available to them. They should whisper your name in the corridors, quake at your very presence. Not… play games with you.’

‘You’re just jealous I didn’t ask you to play,’ Villi said. ‘And it’s not a game, it’s Goatball. Wars have been fought over Goatball, you know.’

‘I know,’ Sceleritas said drily. ‘You have mentioned it once or twice.’

Villi finally let the ball roll off his foot. ‘Did you want something?’

‘We have received another gift.’

‘Him again?’

By ‘him’, Villi meant Enver Gortash. Somehow the man had discovered the identities of the small number of Zhentarim traders that were allowed to travel in relative safety to the ancient Bhaalist temple under the city, and he had paid them handsomely to transport several large boxes over the course of the last tenday. He must have deep connections.

Sceleritas called them gifts. Villi dismissed them as mere bribes. Bribes he still ordered to be opened and distributed, all the same. He had to be pragmatic in these trying times. One of the boxes contained finely crafted polished daggers, handles wrapped in butter-soft, black calfskin. Another box held a plethora of poisons and paralytics, their delicate glass bottles packed securely in straw. Yet another was filled with bottles upon bottles of topaz-hued white wine. Villi made Sceleritas swallow an entire cup before he tried it for himself, and then found to his annoyance that it was utterly delicious. He had hoped to hate it.

‘I was thinking…’ Sceleritas said.

‘No,’ Villi said.

‘Master, please consider–’

‘I said no.’

‘He is very wealthy,’ Sceleritas said quickly, wincing as if he expected the Son of Bhaal to kick him across the room like an overinflated bladder.

‘So, you disapprove of me getting too familiar with my own Father’s followers, yet expect me to consort with this– this politician?’ Villi spat out the word like it tasted of the bitterest gall.

‘Not consort! Never consort.’ Sceleritas raised his hands, twisting them in the air. ‘You should use him. Extort him. Wring out every last copper. Only let him think that he has your ear. Be clever and cunning. Take everything that he has, then take his wretched life.’

Villi growled, frustrated that he could see the merit in what his Butler suggested. They needed coin. Gortash had it in abundance. Gortash wanted his attention. Villi would have to make sure that it cost him dearly.

There was a rustle of parchment. Sceleritas held out a small bundle of paper. ‘These invitations were included in each box. I didn’t want to vex you any further at the time, so I took them all for safe-keeping. But I think now you might be willing to take a look?’

‘Let me see,’ Villi said, taking them from his Butler. The paper stock was thick, luxurious, smooth to the touch. Obviously expensive. Each invitation was written in a flowing, cursive hand, and addressed Villi directly:

The esteemed presence of Villiame Redvalok is humbly requested

At Baxendall House, Upper City

As the clock strikes the hour of Seven o’Clock in the evening, a private dinner meeting shall commence

An intimate gathering for two where discourse shall flow as freely as the wine, and the repast shall be as rich as the conversation

A seat of honour awaits you

Preparations shall be made to ensure an evening of unparalleled elegance and intellectual delight

Yours, in anticipation,

Sir Enver Gortash

Villi turned several of the invitations over to check both sides. ‘They’re all the same, no dates on any of them. Do you think he sits there every night after sending a delivery, on the off chance that I’ll make an appearance?’

It was an amusing image. One Sceleritas quickly dispelled; ‘I doubt it, mi’lord. A man of such means could easily have a fine dinner made and disposed of each night and suffer no hardship.’

‘Yes, yes. He’s very wealthy. You said.’ Villi sighed. ‘Fine, at least I know the wine will be of an acceptable quality. I’d better go wash up.’

‘Before you leave, please tell me that the acolytes at least let you win the game today through fear?’

‘Of course they did,’ Villi replied with a quick grin. ‘They always do.’

___

The hour of their meeting drew close. Villi strode through the Upper City towards Enver Gortash’s estate, looking every inch as if he belonged there amid the pale marble pillars and beautifully manicured gardens of the upscale neighbourhood. Gortash might be expecting to play host to a savage this evening; Villi was going to present to him a gentleman, instead.

Some of the wealthiest people - real blue blood, old money wealth - tended to wear surprisingly shabby clothes. The fabric and construction were of the highest possible quality of course, yet the items themselves were often well-worn and carefully repaired. Villi’s own inherited wardrobe bore the same characteristic faded glamour that marked out the members of some of the oldest families in town.

For tonight’s meeting he had chosen to wear an heirloom cloak over a black velvet doublet with slit sleeves that were laced up at strategic points to show glimpses of deepest burgundy from his shirt underneath. His trousers had been cut in the old Tethyrian fashion, and they clung to the swell of his calves. In his hand he carried an ebony cane topped with a darling little silver skull, its eyes inset with red rubies.

He was greeted at the iron gate of Baxendall House by a pair of well-armoured guards; one human, one teifling. He revealed only that he was an expected guest of the estate’s owner and he was respectfully shown inside. Neither guard made any mention of the dagger on his hip.

The entry hall was grand, spacious, softly lit by the glow from a crystal chandelier. The walls were adorned with gilded frames showcasing oil paintings of imposing castles and numerous portraits of Enver Gortash himself.

In an alcove sat a display case, filled with an assortment of curios and coloured gems. Villi fought to maintain an outward impression of cool disinterest as the goblin-raised impulse to grab all of the shiny things clamoured at the back of his mind. Years of etiquette training and study since taking his rightful place in Bhaal’s temple kept his scarred hands resting on the cane in front of him.

At least Gortash didn’t keep him waiting for long.

‘Ah! You made it. I am delighted to see you here at last,’ Gortash said as he descended the sweeping curve of the stairs. He was dressed less formally than Villi, wearing a black silk shirt laced loosely at the neck. It was new, freshly dyed, darker than a raven’s wing.

‘Few people would be happy to see me in their home. You’re… a rare sort.’ Villi meant it sincerely. Gortash had remained remarkably composed the first time they met even as Villi had sought to gut him like a fish. Villi wondered what his secret could be; a calming potion, an enchantment, a daily meditation practice? Whatever it was, he longed to strip the man of his easy self-confidence and see nothing but naked terror in his eyes.

‘My dear Villiame, I am one-of-a-kind,’ Gortash said, without a shred of modesty. ‘As are you, naturally. Together we could– ah, I’m getting ahead of myself. Please, follow me.’

Villi handed his cloak and his cane to a waiting servant, then did as Gortash bid, following him through the west wing of the house, past yet more paintings, sculptures, and luxurious furniture set on deep carpets.

A vulgar display of wealth. Villi kept his hands behind his back as he walked. He found some small degree of amusement in maintaining a more relaxed pace than Gortash’s quick, purposeful stride, which meant his host had to keep pausing and waiting for him to catch up.

‘Apologies for my haste in getting to dinner. I got lost in my work today and quite forgot to eat,’ Gortash said after he looked over his shoulder for the third time to find Villi trailing several feet behind him. ‘We’re here now, this room on the right.’

The dining room was compact, intimate. The kind of room where personal meals were taken. There was enough space for a round wooden table that would comfortably seat four, and a small sideboard decorated with vases of glowing white lilies. The table had been laid for two, set with fine ceramics, crystal glassware, and shining silver cutlery.

‘I thought we could speak more freely without being interrupted by the staff, but that means we’ll have to serve ourselves,’ Gortash said, opening a door of the sideboard to reveal a row of bottles. ‘I hope that’s acceptable. Can I pour you a glass of wine? I took delivery of several crates of an excellent red from Calisham yesterday.’

Villi chose one of the chairs and took a seat, then pushed the glass chalice from his place setting towards Gortash to accept the offer of wine. He had already decided that he wasn’t going to give the man the satisfaction of showing any kind of reluctance to eat or drink anything he was offered. If Gortash wanted to poison him, so be it.

But Gortash made a show of trust anyway. He filled Villi’s glass then took a sip from it himself before handing it back.

Villi eyed the moist patch left on the rim from the other man’s mouth. If he drank from that same spot, tasted his saliva, it would be the closest Villi had ever come - and may ever come - to a kiss. He surreptitiously turned the glass and drank from the opposite side.

‘What do you think?’ Gortash asked, sitting down in the other chair.

‘Smooth. Tastes like sour cherries. It’s good,’ Villi said, downplaying his enjoyment a little. It was excellent. He wanted ten crates.

‘So, what made you change your mind?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘About discussing our partnership.’

‘Who’s to say I have changed my mind? Maybe I was at a loose end this evening and thought that I’d pay you a visit, drink your wine, eat your bread, and then split open your chest and have your heart for dessert,’ Villi said, leaning back. ‘No archers watching you tonight, I take it?’

Gortash smiled, and Villi hated him for it. The man was far too comfortable in his presence. ‘No, not tonight. I am entirely at your mercy. But I rather hope to be worth more to you alive than dead.’

‘My father is the God of Murder; death is my currency. It’s my reason for being. What else could you offer?’

Ding. The muted chime came from inside one of the walls. Gortash bowed his head politely, and rose to open a concealed hatch. Their first course had arrived, delivered via dumb waiter.

‘Gold. Information. Power. That’s what I can offer. And with those three things, you will be unstoppable,’ Gortash said.

‘You assume I’m lacking in those regards?’ Villi scoffed.

‘Villiame, please. Let us talk plainly. I have eyes and ears throughout this city. I know you are.’

‘How dare you–’

Gortash put a dish in front of him. ‘I hope you like pigeon.’

‘First you insult me, then you serve me flying rat?’

‘Give it a try, it’s delicious,’ Gortash said with a wink.

Villi seethed.

And yet he made no move to attack the other man. He sat there and watched as Gortash retook his seat and sliced into the moist, pink flesh on his plate.

The first time Villi picked up a sword to train with a real warrior he had been left bloody and bruised. Despite the unholy destiny that was woven into his blood, despite already having three kills under his belt by the age of fourteen, when faced with a master he was left slashing at thin air. Now, many years later in Enver Gortash’s elegant dining room, he felt that same way again. Outclassed. Outmanoeuvred.

He had managed to beat the old warrior by taking a step back, swallowing his pride, and paying attention to what she had to teach him. Then he took her head.

Gritting his teeth, he picked up his fork and speared the pigeon breast, lifting it in one piece. ‘Very well. Let us speak plainly,’ he said, before taking a bite.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfic #durgetash #durge #bg3 durge #gortash #bg3 gortash #durge: Villi

9 notes · View notes