The rivers of blood flowed like molten life and death, crimson and dark, painting the world in its sick beauty. Daggers became art, slicing flesh into twisted masterpieces of rust and guts. The scent of it all—iron, decay, power—intoxicated the air as bodies unraveled, turning inside out in glorious destruction. Could you bathe in this thickness, this molten red? Bhaal would be proud, the father of murder would smile upon you, Dark Urge. And Gortash… oh, Gortash would be proud of his perfect assassin.

You are the leash wrapped in thorns, bound to pain that is eternal, pain that arouses as it tears at your flesh. The night is thick and promising as you slip into Wyrm’s Rock Fortress, sliding through the shadows into his study, the presence of your murderous god heavy in the air. You kill for him, push forward for him. And for Gortash. Always for Gortash.

The room is silent but for the soft drip of blood from your hands, staining the pristine floor. Gortash looks up from his desk, late into the night as promised. His eyes take you in—the mess you’ve made, the blood and rust slicking your form. But there is no fear in his gaze. His beautiful, ruthless machine, his assassin. Oh, how his fingers itch to wrap around your throat, to strangle and release, to push you far only to pull you close again.

Despite his irritation at the mess, you are a sight—bathed in moonlight, glowing in the city's pale reflection. Hollow and needy. One glance is all it takes, and you are already nuzzling into his hand like a starving creature. You bite if you want, but he only wraps his hand around your neck, pulling you closer, your bloody head resting on his knee as you look up at him. Gortash stares down at you, his winged insect, his funeral pyre.

"You’ve outdone yourself, haven’t you?" His voice is low "....But what a mess you've made of my floor."