Archive of Our Own

You'd expect the day another Scion of Bhaal enters the world to be a dark one, stormy perhaps, nature foreshadowing the evil that is crawling out of the river just then.

But my birth—if you can call it that—was overseen by glaring sunshine and the last of the year's birdsong.

Well, I suppose at least the winds were biting cold, befitting of the month in which things went down.

Uktar—aptly named "The Rotting".

Well, I wasn't made to bring rot into the world, I suppose, but what happens to bodies after they've been murdered?

Right! They rot.

So in that sense, it still fits… somewhat.

If there'd been a month dubbed "The Bleeding," I'd probably crawled out of the Winding Waters then.

But since there isn't, here I was now on a sunny Uktar morning, coughing up water, clueless about how I wound up here. I'd been shaking, the cold wind biting against my skin. I hadn't been born with clothes, obviously. But the creature I was back then didn't care.

I had no name, nor did I have need for one.

Still spitting up water, limbs trembling, someone's pointy shoes eventually came into view.

"Mistress," a too-old voice gleefully said. "How delightful to meet you. Now, you must make haste and go to Baldur's Gate."

I looked up, finding the face attached to those shoes. I didn't speak, and how could I? No one had taught me the language the stranger tried to communicate in.

Instead, I growled at him, lunging to tear out his throat and feast on his withered flesh, when a kind of knowing suddenly entered my skull, making me groan in pain.

Go to Baldur's Gate, child.

The words came with a vague sense of direction, and then my mind went blank.

It wasn't until I was halfway through the Fields of the Dead that I came to my senses again. I'd procured clothes from somewhere, and my belly was full, though there was an odd aftertaste of copper in my throat and sticking between my teeth. It mattered little; I had to keep moving. Father's faithful awaited me in Baldur's Gate.

It's a busy marketplace in a city called Elturel. I still don't speak, but I listen, catch words, and make out their meaning. My clothes are dirty, but at least the mud covers up the blood. I still don't quite know how it got there, or why I found someone's fingernail between my teeth the other day.

No matter, my belly has been empty for too long, and the steaming meatbuns two stalls over smell delicious.

My mouth waters as I continue to observe. People approach the man, drop something shiny and noisy in his hand, and receive food in return.

I don't have the shiny, noisy thing, and I doubt I can just take one. But as I've watched, I've seen other children who wear equally worn-out clothes as I do sneak up on another stall and take apples before running as fast as their little legs can carry them, tails swishing behind them.

If I'm fast, I may be able to grab one of those buns.

No time like the present.

I crouch behind another stall, slowly inching forward, and once I'm close enough, I grab a bun and try to run away.

Only, I am stopped by an adult hand wrapping firmly around my much smaller wrist, squeezing painfully.

"Thiefing rat!" the man who owns the stall shouts at me, lifting his second hand to hit me.

I bare my teeth, hissing at him like a stray cat.

"Halt!" a female voice interrupts him, and his head swivels toward the stranger.

It's another adult, a woman, holding the hand of a brown-haired boy with big, hazel eyes. He peeks out behind her skirts, staring at me as though I'm a ghost—well, more like a ghoul.

"This your brat?" the man asks angrily.

"No, but you can't just up and hit children," the woman counters.

"She stole from me! And look at her, she's filthy! I can't take the bun back and resell it now that she's touched it," he growls.

"Let me pay for it," the woman says, a stubborn glint in her eyes.

I ignore them, barely understanding what's going on anyway. I bite into the bun. The filling is warm and juicy, meat with other stuff I don't know the words for yet. It's delicious, and it finally stops my belly from growling like a wolf.

The woman drops some of the shiny stuff into the man's hand, and he finally lets go of me. I have half a mind to bolt, but I'm not done with my bun yet, and now that danger seems to be over, I may as well enjoy it in peace.

"Don't come back," the man firmly says to me. "Next time, I will see to it that you're properly punished."

The woman gives him another glare before turning to me. "What's your name, little one?"

I shrug. "Don't have one," I answer.

"Oh, dear," she frowns. "Well, I'm Morena, and this is my son Gale," she gestures to the boy beside her. "Why don't you come with us? We have relatives nearby, you can get a bath, and fresh clothes."

"Why not?" I shrug again and reach out to her. But before I can touch her, I feel a soft hand on my shoulder accompanied by a tiny jab, as if a bug bit me.

"There you are," another female voice says.

I turn, looking up and finding red eyes staring at me out of an unfamiliar face with dark grey skin, not unlike my own. But instead of my black hair, hers is white, pushed behind pointy ears.

"Apologies," she says, looking up at the man and Morena. "She's my little sister; she keeps running away."

She adds in a whisper that I can't make out, tapping an index finger to her temple.

I zone out, feeling incredibly sleepy all of a sudden. Maybe it's because of the warm food sitting comfortably in my belly.

The last thing I hear is the two women arguing about who gets to take me home.

That woman, a drow named Araj, gives me a name. I am to be called Sabice Oblodra now, and she forces me to call her "Sister". She teaches me how to communicate with words. She insists I speak Drow with her, says it's "our language" and that it's a lot more dignified than Common.

I hate her, I hate everything about this place, and I've tried to murder her numerous times. Sometimes, when I attempt it, I'm not quite myself, Father's voice whispering into my ear to break free and come to his temple, to serve him.

She's experimenting on me, prodding me with needles, trying to figure out if I'm any different from another humanoid. All while she keeps telling me she's going to cure me of my bloodlust, that she'll find a way to extract Bhaal's blood from my veins, that I'll be a normal person, just like her.

What a fucking joke.

Her other lab rats come and go; they're mostly just sorry little wenches, begging for her to stop.

She never does.

I know that, and sometimes I tell them that their pleas are useless; other times, I snap their necks because they annoy me.

Araj doesn't like it when I do that, says I'm ruining her experiments. I don't care. She's just another pile of meat that I'll one day grind into a pulp.

If only I could get out of here.

I know for a fact that now is the only chance I'll ever have to flee. Araj came back from a skirmish with other drow, bruised, bloody, and honestly, half-dead. She's slouched over her notes now after injecting herself with some sort of alchemical remedy, forgetting to fasten the straps on one of my wrists.

It still hurts when I pull the hand through the old leather, leaving a smear of blood behind, but I can't think about that now.

I undo the other strap, then get to work on my ankles.

And then I run.

But as I pass by one of the cages, a low growl stops me dead in my tracks, and I turn.

The displacer beast she injected with some sort of venom the other day to observe how long it'd take her to die. I remember kicking her in a fit of rage, so it surprises me that she'd make what sounds like a soft purr.

Lifting one of her six paws, the answer to that question comes into view: a cub, eyes still closed, clearly newborn. I frown.

"Your cub is weak, poisoned, like you. It'll die."

Again, the big cat makes that sound between a coo and a purr, and I sigh.

"Fine," I mutter and pull the little one out between the bars.

Its mother licks my hand once, then places it back on the ground, her eyes slowly going dull as the cold grip of death reaches for her.

Another frown flits across my face as I look down at the tiny beast cradled in my arms, and I grab a universal antidote on the way out, running as fast as my legs will carry me, as far away as I can.

Outside, it's raining, lightning splitting the skies overhead as I aim for the safety of the treeline. If I manage to hide in there, I can hopefully slow down, make my way to Baldur's Gate like I'd been intended to do sixteen years ago.

But just as I'm crossing the last field, mud squelching underneath my bare feet, an arrow hits my shoulder, and I drop the cub in shock, swirling around and finding her.

"Sabice! You must return!" she screams at me, dragging herself closer to me as the portal behind her snaps shut. "Your dark urges will get you killed! You need someone to cure you of this affliction, and I'm so close, so, so close!"

"Stay away from me!" I scream back, taking a few steps back, getting ready to turn tail and run.

But my legs are starting to feel numb; she must've coated that arrow in a paralytic agent.

I growl, uncorking the antidote I grabbed for the cub and taking about half of it, hoping it'll be enough.

"Sabice," Araj now tries again, softer. "I only wish to help you. Please, I'm your big sister, remember?"

"You're not my sister at all," I hiss back, screeching in anger as she moves closer and closer. Thunder cracks overhead, as though the weather is mirroring my wrath.

She reaches for me, one hand pressed to her injured side. "Get away from me!" I scream again, thrusting my arm out in a shoving motion—

And lightning strikes.

I can feel it enter my body, ignite a crackling energy I've never felt before. Every cell of my body feels like it sparks with electricity, and I briefly wonder if this is how I'll die, if this exhilarating feeling is what everyone feels in their dying moments.

How amazing would that be to deliver this joyride to every single soul on this wretched plane?

But, alas, I do not die; instead, I pass out.

When I come to, I'm alone, save for the cub hidden away in my robes. I'm in what appears to be a barn, resting on a pile of hay.

Through a few cracks in the woods of the barn, the sun is flooding the inside, so hours—if not days—must've passed since I made a run for it.

The cub's breathing is labored, weak, and barely there. So I dig through my pocket to find the bottle of antidote and drip the rest of it into its mouth in small increments. And although I briefly register that my hands are caked in blood, I don't waste another thought on it. It happens pretty often after all, mostly followed by Araj chastising me for destroying yet another of her experiments.

I have no idea where she is, or how far I've made it so far, but I can't stop now, not when danger might still follow me.

Getting up, I carry the little bundle close to my chest and look around.

And that's when I see it—

A bloodbath, just behind the stack of hay I'd been sleeping on. Three cows, dead, ripped open, innards spilled as though someone had been playing in them like a child might play with sand. I swallow thickly, finding more evidence of a fight, a bloodstained pitchfork, a bucket of milk toppled over next to one of the dead bodies, the white, murky liquid mixing with the spilled blood.

"Damn…" I mutter, staring at the carnage. "Could've used that for you, eh?" I speak to my pet, for the little cub is my pet now. I've taken them out of there, and they're mine now.

Absent mindedly stroking the tiny head, satisfied by the subtle purr that vibrates against my skin, I make my way out of the barn.

The outside isn't much different from the inside, except that the bodies out here aren't cows, but people.

Humans, from the shape of their ears. A man, a woman, a teenage girl, and two young boys, probably somewhere around 8 and 3.

Seared by spells, stabbed, ripped open, blood spilled on the muddy ground.

I created a massacre, and that fact brings a strangely satisfied smile to my lips.

I've arranged the bodies in a circle, drawn the symbol of Father in their blood.

I don't know how long I linger there, staring at my masterpiece, taking it all in, and relishing in a job well done, but when my belly starts rumbling for food, I head inside the house to see if there's anything worth salvaging.

I find dried meat, some sausages, and a bit of cold stew, eating what I can and packing the rest into an empty backpack. I feed my pet some milk before leaving the farm behind.

After all, I have places to be.

"Saer," the First Murder nervously interrupts me, just as I was about to continue opening the squirming body beneath me. "I'm very sorry for the interruption, but someone arrived—" he trails off as I turn, glaring at him out of cold blue eyes.

"You would interrupt my prayers for a mere visitor?" I snarl. "You know the protocols: kill them if they're enemies, recruit them if that's what they're here for."

"W-Well," he continues despite my ire, "they are a recruit… sort of, but they claim to be another Bhaalspawn, like you, High Primate."

"Pah," I scoff, turning back to my victim-to-be. "No one is a Bhaalspawn like me."

"Saer… what am I to tell them then?" he asks.

"Bring them here, I'll examine if what they speak is true myself."

"Yes, Saer, thank you, Saer," he grovels and then slinks away.

I focus back on my task, smiling softly at the squirming man. I've already cut out his tongue, so all he can do is moan weakly as I open up another vein on his arm.

"Death by a thousand cuts is one of my favorites, you see?" I mutter softly. "It's a great honor indeed to die this way. Your blood will clot for me like liquid rubies before you breathe your last, a wonderful decoration for a gorgeous corpse."

The man squirms more, a tear escaping from his eye, capturing a drop of blood and painting a path behind his ear.

"What a beautiful bride you are for me," I whisper in reverence.

A few moments later, Deathdealer Gareni walks down the steps with another person in tow. I lift my head, looking them over. She's a drow, but lacking the red eyes of most Lolthsworn, her hair is black but with white strands at the front. Either this one is some odd mutation, or she's dying it.

She holds something cradled to her chest, and her clothes are filthy and ill-fitting. Whoever she is, she seems like she just picked herself up from the streets and decided the Undercity was a good place to call home from now on.

"A new recruit then?" I ask.

"I am Bhaal's scion," the woman says instead of groveling like most people do when they are faced with me. "Bhaal himself bid me to come here."

A sinking feeling overcomes me, the tattoo on my throat burning as though it's new again. Did I work too slowly? Did I make another transgression that drew Father's ire?

No, no, it can't be, I decide. She must be lying.

"What makes you think I'd believe you?" I snarl, standing up from where I'd straddled my current project, the man whimpers as it takes the pressure off a wound I'd cut into the inside of his thigh at the beginning. That pressure kept him from bleeding out too fast, but no more.

Torn between dealing with the newcomer and finishing my offering properly, I whisper a short prayer to Father before slitting the man's throat. My mood is souring further for being denied the pleasure of drawing it out.

"I crawled out of the river beneath Boarsky Bridge, and a little shriveled-up imp told me to go to Baldur's Gate," the woman says, holding her head high, a defiant gleam in her eyes.

I narrow my eyes at her, then dismiss Gareni with a wave of my hand.

"Sceleritas!" I then yell, and my useless butler comes skuttling about as he always does.

"Does she speak true?" I ask him once he grovels by my feet, my tail coiling around his throat and lifting him.

"Yes, master, she does, master," he wheezes out between gasping for air. "Your father is getting impatient, master; he's sent her to remind you that there will be another to take your place if you fail, master."

I growl, I've half a mind to rip off both their heads. But who knows what Father might do if I harm this new Bhaalspawn of his before she's had a chance to grow into her role? A duel would probably be fine, but highly unfair with how green she seems to be.

"Fine," I growl. "Report back to Gareni, she is to show you the ropes. You'll start at the very bottom," I tell her.

She nods, then turns, but before she can walk away, I call out again. "What's your name?"

Turning her head to look at me over her shoulder, she halts, opening her mouth, then closing it again and shaking her head. "I don't have one."

"Well, pick one; people need to know what to call you."

"I will," she nods and then walks away.

The days that follow bleed into one another. I study, I learn, I murder, I pray. I hone my magic through training with the High Primate himself. He, too, commands the storm, but his control over it is far more advanced than mine.

No surprises there, really. I've only just been gifted the magic by that thunderstorm I escaped through. He's a stern teacher, but we get along way better than during that first altercation.

The little displacer cub grows and flourishes as well, following me around like a shadow, demanding my attention in the form of pets and food.

She will be a great partner for what's to come.

During one of my many, many assassinations, I find a book in Elvish on the victim, a language that twists my tongue in all kinds of ways, but one I find beautiful all the same. Or perhaps its complicated pronunciations are what make it beautiful to me. Sometimes I lie awake at night, reading the words and imagining how they'd be spoken.

There aren't many elves at the temple, so I have no one to ask, no frame of reference beyond the Drow Araj taught me—which I am trying very hard to forget.

But the day of my official initiation inches closer and closer, and I'll finally be declared a proper member of Father's church.

I do feel as though I belong here, death runs in my blood after all, and no one bats an eye when the ecstasy of murder takes me to unknown places. Some are jealous, yes, mainly Orin, who sees her position as The Dark Urge's right hand in jeopardy now that I am here. But if she ever tries anything, I will teach her to show some respect to a Bhaalspawn as pure as we are.

She can't hold a candle to the High Primate and me.

The day is here, today, I will officially enter Father's church and take up the title of Deathdealer. I don't plan to stop there, of course, aiming to become a Primistress or even more, depending on how long brother will manage to keep Father's ire at bay.

I do not wish to see him fail, for he is the only true sibling I have, and what harm would it do for us to work together, to bleed the world and at the very end of it split each other open on Father's altar?

Surely he would appreciate that, no?

But I digress, I steel myself, looking at the other initiates and the poor sods that have been brought here to serve as the blood price we pay to become Bhaal's unholy assassins.

Some of the others look slightly uncertain. Scared little sheep who will not make it far and should be thankful they don't find themselves at the sharp end of my blade.

When my eyes land on Orin, she sneers at me. I ignore her, searching for my brother's eyes instead.

He's cradling Shadow in his hand, his entire palm big enough to fit the little cub despite how fast she's growing these days. Blue meets blue, and a hint of pride is in his gaze. We might've been put on this earth to rival each other, but still, he took the time to teach me the way of worship, caution me not to repeat his mistakes.

I appreciate that. It earned him my loyalty.

And together, we shall bleed the world.

"Father!" I proclaim proudly. Leading the prayer is a great honor, but who else in this new batch of initiates to do it than me? Another Dark Urge of Bhaal, another pure Bhaalspawn like the High Primate.

"On this day, I dedicate myself to you, I dedicate my blade to you, I dedicate my kills to you," I start and turn the blade against myself, carving ritualistic lines into my face. All for Him, all in honor of Bhaal. "Every drop of blood I spill is yours. My soul, mind, and body are yours. I swear loyalty to Bhaal at all times. In every death I deal, I shall be reborn."

"State your name," the First Murder, leading the ritual, asks of us all.

My time has come. My most important murder, though metaphorical it may be. But it means I am home here, with my people.

I briefly lose myself in memory of the elven woman I murdered, the Elvish dictionary she carried, the gift she made me way beyond her beautiful death.

"State your name!" the First Murder shouts again.

And finally, I answer—

"Elegys!"