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"When I was told that the general needed a hand, Ketheric, I didn't think they meant it literally."
Ketheric did not even bother to glare. He already knew the Banite would saunter into his chambers wearing that usual smug expression. He didn't bother acknowledging that self-styled lord's presence, but instead continued tending to the stump on his arm as the other pulled up a chair.
"You want to help, Gortash?" said Ketheric. "Keep that mad dog on their leash so I can be free to handle my own affairs."
That bloody Bhaalist had coated their blades with some sort of concoction that slowed his regeneration. They knew he couldn't be killed, but that didn't mean they couldn't be maimed. Fortunately, her foul poisons could only hinder the most potent necrotic magic for so long.
"I've ordered the warden to restrain them in the dungeons, but the gods only know for how long until our ally mows through them all."
"And why would she do that?"
"Why does a lunatic do anything?" muttered Ketheric.
Gortash tapped his clawed fingers on the table in bemusement.
"To clean up your mess, if I had to hazard a guess. I'm well aware that your rebellious daughter has escaped her tower. Oh, don't give me that scowl. Don't forget that I was on your side on that one, Ketheric — and I am even now if you'll believe it. I hardly agree with our Bhaalist associate that we should dispose of dearest Isobel."
Ketheric loathed having his daughter's name on the Banite's forked tongue, but he endured it for the sake of not prolonging this any more than it needs to.
"But even you must admit that you've been too lax on the girl," said Gortash. "Wayward children are best served by a firm hand, and it's high-time you expose your child to some discipline."
"A rare instance where you and I are in agreement. Isobel shall be disciplined. Severely. I have my plans for her."
Just as Ketheric thought his sword hand had reattached, it fell with a dull thud on the table just as he lifted it up.
Gortash regarded that dismembered hand with no small amount of amusement.
"Now, unless you were that desperate for basic parenting advice," Gortash said wryly, "I assume there was another reason you called for me."
Ketheric closed his eyes to compose himself before tiredly waving his intact hand towards Gortash.
"The murderous bloodhound is preparing to hunt down my daughter as we speak. Command them to stand down."
Gortash leaned back in his chair, his brows knit as he considered Ketheric's words. For one, he was already planning on deescalating the situation, but gods be damned if he was simply going to let this decrepit husk order him like a servant.
"Why not let our Bhaalspawn friend retrieve your daughter?" said Gortash. "Being stalked by a veteran killer rather than fetched by coddling daddy dearest might just scare some sense into that willful scion of yours."
"I may as well trust a wolf to safely bring home a sheep," spat Ketheric. "No, they have made it abundantly clear that they plan to do more than… retrieve. I feel that bloodlust in them whenever they speak of Isobel. The warden cannot hold them. Once they're in that state, they only ever hear two voices — the ones in their head…"
Ketheric lifted his gaze from his healing wrist to finally look at Gortash.
"And yours."
"And so you throw me into the wolf's cage." Gortash scoffed. "Surely you don't believe that all I do is wag my tongue to make her heel?"
"No."
Ketheric rose from his seat. Finally put back together, he curled his fingers into a fist.
"I know you use more than your tongue," he said.
It wasn't hard to find her. Gortash just had to follow the trail of bodies.
He opened the door to the inquisition room and was greeted the repetitive clinking of chains in complete darkness.
"Don't cross the line," the warden warned, her eyes fixed on the floor.
He followed her gaze to a crude white line of chalk. On one side, the dirty stone floor. On the other, nothing but a pool of crimson disappearing into the shadows. But the crunching of bone and ripping of flesh sounded like it was coming from every direction.
The warden herself did not even dare step through the doorway.
After getting a good appraisal of the situation, Gortash held out his hand.
"Keys."
"You seriously aren't thinking about releasing that… thing?"
"That thing is your superior," said Gortash. "Keys."
This time there was no hesitation for her to hand him the entire key ring.
"Leave."
The door closed behind him. Would that Lord Bane gave him allies that were just as easily commanded — that didn't have minds bricked up like fortresses.
But then again, where would be the fun in that?
As soon as Gortash put the toe of his jackboot over the line, he found himself pinned to the ground by a clawed hand around his throat. Cold steel kissed his cheek.
Her hair draped over both of them like a veil of bloodstained spidersilk. And though he couldn't make out her expression in this magical darkness, he knew her well enough to know how far to reach.
He lifted that hand, with its intricate gold filigreed rings, and reached for her.
Her breath was hot against his fingers — as if she was threatening to bite them off. He could feel the slight tremble of her dagger against his skin drawing a rivulet of crimson down to his lips. Yet despite all that, she could glean not a hint of fear in those dark Banite eyes.
"There you are," he whispered hoarsely.
Those drow red eyes flashed with clarity at the sound of his voice. Chains rattling and eerie scratching upon the walls, he felt her grip upon his throat loosen.
But that brief instance of hesitation was all it took. He grabbed her blade and pulled her away from her cloak of darkness. With a turn, he pinned her by her chained wrists — him atop her, finally face to face in the light.
He held still for a moment, watching her long strands of her bone-white hair make ripples in the pool of crimson upon the prison floor. It almost seemed as if it was her own.
"Magnificent," murmured Gortash.
In response, she spat at him.
"I've had filthier fluids on my face. Now, stay still…"
Gortash already had a small gas mask prepared. Taking it out of his Bag of Holding, he put it against her face and released the poison. Dark, purplish fumes swirled inside the contraption.
They both needed to stay still or else the essence of ether will escape the mask and run up his own lungs. But her squirming under him made things… hard.
With her hands restrained, she tried to kick herself up only for her knee to press against the bulge at his crotch.
Gortash winced but kept the mask firmly against her face.
"Breathe," he ordered.
Already he could see her pupils dilate, her eyes growing more unfocused. Anyone else would have been knocked cold, but that was the potency she needed to silence the murderous thoughts in her brain.
She moaned through the mask, languidly circling her knee between his legs. He wasn't sure if she was doing it on purpose to destabilize him or if she was moving on instinct. Even in the cold underground, Gortash felt the sweat drip down his chin and onto her stretched, exposed neck.
Gortash cursed under his breath.
Finally, her body went limp enough that he could secure the mask. He buckled it onto her head, close enough to hear her whisperings underneath.
"Ether… Enver…"
Gortash wasn't sure if her muffled voice said his name or the drug's. He pulled away to let the ether do its work but soon realized that was a mistake.
Clink. Clink.
The chains rattled as she continued to writhe. But with her lower body no longer pinned by his weight, she raised her hips and threw back her head — almost as if offering herself up to him.
With a wicked smirk, he pulled up a chair to get comfortable as he watched her struggle. He found his hand going down to that traitorous cock. It sprang to attention as soon as it was freed from his trousers, the head twitching in her direction.
It was clear what it wanted, but Gortash knew it was dangerous to touch. She could very well rip his tongue or cock off as soon as it entered any of her orifices. But surely, it couldn't hurt to watch.
He recalled how she spat in his face as he spat in his own hand and gave his shaft one languid stroke. He remembered how her hand tightened around his throat as he squeezed his cock. He matched his rhythm to the rattling of her chains, all while his eyes were fixed upon those twisting hips.
But then, she lifted her head. Even in her drug-addled haze, she could recognized what the Banite was doing. She did not look away. She stared at that scepter in his hand as if daring for him to continue.
It was only then did Gortash truly lose control. A jet of cum spurted onto his hand and the floor at her feet. He was panting long after every drop had left him.
When he turned back to look at her, she was motionless on the bloody floor. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, but the clinking of chains had stopped.
Rising to his feet, Gortash wiped and readjusted his attire before he realized —
The key ring the warden gave him was gone.
Clink. Clink.
There she was — standing before him free of her chains and holding up the keys he had lost.
And had he not heard it himself, he wouldn't have believed her reaction.
Rarely did she ever now, but now she chuckled as she looked down upon him on that chair. Through the mask and breathfuls of ether, she met his gaze and laughed.
She took off the mask, her eyes no longer clouded with that Bhaalist bloodlust, and said only two words.
"Good job."
By Bane, this woman will kill me.
Odd how that realization was cemented not by any amount of pain she could ever inflict but by the humiliation of simple praise.