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Since piecing together his role in the Absolute's plot, Durge has felt more lost than he can ever recall in his stunted memory. The weight of his existence presses down on him like an iron shackle: not only is he Bhaal’s Chosen—a perfect, purebred instrument of murder—but he’s also the architect of the disaster unraveling around them. He’s caught in a suffocating whirlwind of dread and pride, spiraling into the unknown. What does one do with such truths? Who does one turn to when every shadow seems to hold a reminder of their sins?
Durge knows exactly who he would have turned to—before Orin, that treacherous snake, buried a dagger in his skull.
Enver, with his sharp mind, sharper tongue, and that infuriating smile that always promised trouble. The Banite’s absence feels like a void threatening to consume him, even as his presence is everywhere. His face plastered on posters, his name dripping from the lips of the city’s peasants. Hot, supple flesh, seared into Durge’s memory like a brand. Nothing—not even Orin’s childish attempt at fratricide—could erase him.
And now, so close.
The invitation to Enver’s inauguration weighs heavily in his pocket, a tangible reminder of how far they’ve come—and how far they’ve fallen. Once, the Absolute was a token of their shared ambition. Now, it threatens to erase the realms. A grim prospect.
Wyrm’s Rock’s halls loom ahead, and Durge swears he can taste the Banite on the air, feel his presence crawling beneath his skin.
The others are of two minds about the whole thing. Jaheira and Gale insist they should hear him out—a shadow of reason amid the chaos swirling in Durge’s thoughts. Karlach would rather see Enver’s skull smashed under her fist, but she’s reluctantly agreed to keep it cool—for now. She’ll get her moment. Maybe. Possibly. No promises were made, as far as Durge can remember.
The heavy doors of the Ceremonial Hall creak shut behind them, and Durge feels the oppressive air of pomp and circumstance closing in as they walk down the aisle. Enver’s Steel Watch trinkets lumber at his side, metallic footsteps echoing ominously. Durge offers a cursory gesture of assurance.
“Yeah, we’ll keep it civilized,” the Dragonborn growls.
The construct’s emotionless gaze lingers, but it steps aside as the party advances deeper into the hall, a ripple of whispers and pointed glances trailing in their wake.
And then Durge sees him.
Enver Gortash stands at the head of the hall, resplendent in his gaudy Banite coat, its golden embroidery and filigree shimmering faintly in the dim light. Yet, for all the theatrical majesty, the man looks utterly wrecked: dark shadows under his eyes betray sleepless nights, and a sheen of grime clings to his skin as if he hasn’t bathed in a tenday. The sight of him strikes a chord in Durge’s chest—a quick, traitorous skip of the heart.
Enver’s eyes find his.
“Dearest patriars,” Enver calls, raising a hand to silence the murmurs. His voice carries the silken arrogance of a man who holds every gaze in the room. “But a moment, if you’ll indulge me. I must greet a most honored guest.”
The Banite descends the steps with deliberate grace, his gaze locked on Durge like a predator closing in. “Crawling back from his most bloody disgrace—it’s my favorite assassin!”
As they stand face-to-face, close enough for Durge to catch that familiar scent he missed so much, Enver’s eyes sparkle with something unspoken—something words can’t quite convey.
“Gods, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Enver says.
“You’ve gained weight,” Durge deadpans, his blazing red eyes scanning Enver’s frame with a critical tilt of his head.
Enver’s expression flickers briefly, then his lips curve into a smirk as the real message comes through. “Orin told me she made a fool of you,” he retorts lightly, leaning in just enough for the words to stay between them. “But I should’ve known you wouldn’t go down that easy.”
Durge lets out a low huff of amusement. Not much has changed—Enver is still himself, even after all this time apart.
The moment is shattered as he feels Karlach’s heat flare at his side, her fiery impatience palpable.
“Why did you invite us here?” Durge asks, his voice low and clipped as he focuses back on the task at hand. They have a brain to stop, after all.
“I invited you here,” Enver replies, his gaze flicking to the others with a barely concealed edge of annoyance, “to talk business.”
“You know Orin is out for blood—yours and mine are of particular interest to her. But the two of us…” He pauses, scanning Durge’s face with something almost resembling caution. “I fear we’re facing an even greater foe.”
Durge frowns, confusion knitting his brow. “What are you talking about?”
“Perhaps even greater than the Absolute,” Enver adds gravely.
“What could possibly be worse than an Elder Brain?” Jaheira interjects, her tone sharp as a blade.
Enver’s eyes snap to the druid with a scowl, his words pointed as he ignores her interruption. “This unseen force seems to have unthinkable control over us. It dictates what we say, how we act. It doesn’t want you and I to truly reunite how we want to.”
Durge stares at him, the words sinking into his mind like jagged stones.
Enver leans closer, his voice now a whisper. “You feel it too, don’t you? The Developer.”
Durge’s breath hitches. He does know. The shadow of that force had haunted him before, its cold grip steering him in directions he wouldn’t have chosen himself. Stopping words from leaving his mouth.
“The Developer,” Durge growls, his voice low and venomous, a flicker of rage sparking in his blazing eyes. “Larian.”
Enver’s lips curl into a wicked smirk, a spark of shared understanding lighting up his face. “Exactly.”
“Hold on, Banite,” Jaheira interrupts, her tone sharp and skeptical. “If this Larian is so powerful, how come we’ve never heard of it before?”
Enver rolls his eyes, the motion dripping with irritation at her intrusion. His jaw tightens, ready to snap, but Durge speaks first, cutting him off before he can lash out.
“I know about it,” Durge says, his voice heavy with the weight of memories. “I—we—have dealt with this evil before.”
Something in his tone halts Jaheira. She frowns but steps back, shaking her head as if trying to piece together the bigger picture. For now, it seems enough to satisfy her.
“What’s the issue this time?” Durge asks, his narrowed eyes locked on Enver. “You’re not currently busy contemplating the minutia of death cult office politics.”
Enver’s expression softens, the smug edge melting into a smile—one that looks almost genuine. “This is the issue, Durge.”
“What is?” Durge asks, his voice edged with wary confusion.
“This.” Enver gestures between the two of them, his hand slicing through the air as though to illustrate the invisible thread connecting them.
“Oh.” Durge blinks, processing. “I suspect you know how we can sidestep its modus operandi?”
Enver’s grin widens, sly and self-assured. It’s an answer in itself.
“I have a proposal,” He says.
Karlach, who had been seething in silence, huffs audibly, her rage practically vibrating the air. “Are you nearly done so I can kill this asshole?”
Durge turns to her sharply, his tone dropping to a growl. “If you can’t behave, I suggest you remove yourself from the situation.”
“Are you serious?” Karlach snaps, disbelief crackling in her voice.
Jaheira steps in, resting a calming hand on Karlach’s shoulder and guiding her a few steps away. Her measured tone cuts through the heat. “This alliance could be critical to defeating the Absolute,” she says, her words meant to soothe.
Karlach scowls but allows herself to be led back, their voices fading slightly as Jaheira continues to reason with her.
Durge exhales and turns back to Enver, the tension between them settling into something more focused.
“You were going to propose?” Durge asks, arching a scaled brow.
“Yes,” Enver replies with a faint smile, stepping closer and taking the dragonborn’s massive hand into his own. “You and I always knew we could only stand against the world united. Together, we’re unstoppable. As long as we have each other…” His voice dips, carrying something almost tender. “And you once promised you’d always find me, no matter where I go—”
“I’m fairly sure that was a threat,” Durge interrupts, his tone deadpan.
Enver glares at him, a flicker of annoyance flashing across his face, before sighing and pressing on. “Let’s form an alliance, Durge. Validated by law, sworn upon spirit and flesh. Together we will rule Faerûn as kings. No, more than kings—gods. Not even Larian can stop us from doing this. We can still achieve all of our dreams.” His eyes gleam with fervor.
“What do you say?” Enver steps closer, his voice soft yet burning with intensity. “Will you be my ally?”
Durge stares at him, the words hanging in the air between them. For once, Enver’s face is stripped of its usual mask of arrogance. He looks almost… sweet. Hopeful.
Then, the Emperor’s voice pushes into Durge’s mind, unbidden and insistent.
“I detect no deceit,” it says, its tone cold and calculating. “This alliance could serve us well. And if it does not—”
“Shut up, squid,” Durge snaps under his breath, shaking his head as if to banish the voice.
He looks at Enver again, his gaze softening as a rare smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Slowly, he squeezes Enver’s hand, his grip firm and resolute.
“Yes,” he says simply. “I will be your ally.”
Behind him, Gale’s bewildered voice cuts through the moment. “I’m so confused.”
Enver smiles faintly and reaches into his pocket. From within, he pulls out two golden rings. They gleam in the dim light, inlaid with gems resembling the Netherstones, their facets shimmering against intricate filigree. The craftsmanship is exquisite—the kind that speaks of both wealth and obsession.
Jaheira returns, raising an eyebrow at the scene. “What did I miss?”
Gale hums thoughtfully, folding his arms. “Gortash asked him to be allies, and now he’s pulled out rings. Make of that what you will.”
“What’s with the rings? Is this still about defeating the Absolute?” Jaheira asks, her tone sharp with suspicion as she narrows her eyes.
Durge ignores her entirely, his gaze fixed on the jewelry in Enver’s hand.
“Gods,” Enver snaps, his tone impatient. “It’s just a piece of metal. It’s symbolic.” Then, turning his attention back to Durge, his lips curve into a softer smile. “Do you like them?”
Durge nods, his burning eyes locked on Enver’s.
“Good.” Enver’s voice drops, quieter now, tinged with satisfaction as though the approval means more than he’d care to admit. He turns away, his commanding presence drawing all eyes to him.
“Dearest Ravengard,” he calls, his voice ringing out with practiced authority, “will you do the honors of securing this alliance?”
The Duke steps forward, his heavy footsteps echoing in the hall, the blade of his ceremonial sword gleaming in his grip. Enver takes both of Durge’s hands in his own, turning to face him fully. His touch is steady, warm, and resolute, his thumbs brushing lightly over the dragonborn’s scaled knuckles.
“Durge,” Enver begins, his voice rich and solemn, “from this day forward, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, we will be allies. I will do no harm to you, nor you to me—”
“Unless by request,” Durge interrupts, his lips twitching in a fleeting smirk.
“Of course,” Enver replies smoothly, his own grin flickering before he continues. “Together, we will rise over Toril like a roaring sun, burning down any and all who dare stand in our way. Let our union today be a testament to our bond. Let it show that nothing can keep us apart—not Orin, nor Bhaal, and certainly not Larian.”
Durge blinks away a tear, the moment’s weight pressing against his chest like an unrelenting tide.
Ravengard steps closer, lowering his ceremonial blade over their joined hands. His voice booms with the commanding authority of a man whose mind is not entirely his own, the faint pulse of the Absolute’s influence adding an eerie resonance.
“Dost thou, Lord Enver Gortash, take The Dark Urge to be thy lawful ally? To love and to cherish, from this day forward, until death do thee part?”
“I do,” Enver says, his faint smile softening into something almost tender.
“And dost thou, The Dark Urge, take Lord Enver Gortash to be thy lawful ally? To love and to cherish, from this day forward, until death do thee part?”
“I do,” Durge replies, his voice low yet unwavering. There is a conviction in it—a quiet, burning certainty—that sends a ripple of unease through the hall. Jaheira and Gale exchange uncertain glances, their expressions a mix of suspicion and reluctant resignation.
Ravengard shifts his focus to Enver, his tone adopting a grave formality. “Enver Gortash, swearest thou, by Balduran’s blade, to defend the citizens of Baldur’s Gate from enemies within and without?”
“I swear,” Enver answers firmly, his gaze unflinching.
“Swearest thou true faith and fealty to the same, by word, deed, and decree, so that none may suffer?”
“I swear,” he repeats.
“Gathered guests,” Ravengard declares, his voice reverberating through the hall, “grant ye consent?”
The gathered onlookers stir, their murmurs rippling through the room like an uneasy tide. The confusion and tension are palpable, but the reluctant nods of agreement give way to a tentative silence.
“The Council appoints you Lawful Allies, and you, Enver Gortash, Archduke of Baldur’s Gate.”
Durge and Enver exchange rings, the glinting bands catching the warm glow of the flickering torches. As the jewelry slides onto their fingers, their gazes lock, the moment charged with a gravity that feels oddly significant.
The Ceremonial Hall falls into a hushed stillness as Ravengard steps back, his duty complete, his tadpole slipping back into its slumber. The two allies stand at the center of the room, bathed in the flickering light, their figures casting long shadows against the walls. The air between them hums with unspoken promises and veiled intentions, the future of Baldur’s Gate teetering on the edge of their union.
Gale and Jaheira approach, their expressions an unsettling blend of intrigue and disbelief.
“By Mystra’s mantle, what just happened?” Gale blurts, his brows furrowed in a mix of concern and sheer bewilderment.
“I got appointed the title of Archduke,” Enver says, his chest puffed out with unmistakable pride as his gaze lingers fondly on his ring.
“I got that part,” the wizard replies dryly, waving a hand in exasperation. “It was the vows that threw me off.”
Durge quirks an eyebrow at Gale, as if to silently ask what in the Nine Hells could possibly be the issue now.
“Oh, by the way,” Enver cuts in smoothly, his voice dripping with calculated nonchalance, “there’s a faceless in your camp. One of Orin’s little games.” His tone sharpens slightly, his gaze flicking briefly toward Jaheira and Gale before settling back on Durge. “I suggest a thorough investigation—and that you remove this thing quickly. Otherwise, this alliance will be exceedingly short-lived.”
He pauses, letting the words sink in, before leaning in closer to Durge, his lips curling into a smirk laden with innuendo. “Perhaps even too short to be properly consummated.”
Durge’s blazing red eyes widen momentarily, a flicker of panic darting across his face like a sudden gust of flame. Beside him, Gale and Jaheira grimace in unison, their expressions twisted into matching grimaces of discomfort.
“We’d better go,” Durge says briskly, his tone clipped as he half-turns to make his exit.
Enver stops him with a deliberate motion, his hand reaching out and capturing Durge’s. The gesture is undeniably intimate.
“Find me in my office above,” Enver says, his voice low, rich with something that feels like a shared secret. “When you have your sister’s stone.” He holds Durge’s gaze, his smirk deepening into a look of pure mischief. “And come alone.”
Durge nods, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his lips. He pulls his hand free, though the weight of Enver’s touch lingers as he strides away with his companions in tow.
As they descend the stairs, the dragonborn’s focus is drawn to the ring now adorning his clawed finger. He slips it off briefly, turning it over in his hand, marveling at its intricate design. The craftsmanship is impeccable. A smile spreads across his face as the magnitude of the day’s events begins to settle in.
Jaheira shakes her head beside him, her voice tinged with disbelief. “I’ve made many alliances in my day,” she says, “but none involved ‘love and cherishing one another.’” She pauses, her gaze briefly softening. “Except with Khalid, of course. I hope you know what you’re doing, bhaalspawn.”
Durge barely registers her words, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts, too caught up in the feel of the ring and the unexpected trajectory of his reunion with Enver.
The Emperor’s voice slithers into his mind like a cold and unwelcome snake. “What were you thinking?!”
“What?” Durge snaps aloud, the irritation in his voice clear.
Jaheira glances at him curiously, but he waves her off. The illithid’s voice is infinitely harder to ignore than any companion’s prattle.
“You told me Gortash would be a worthwhile ally,” Durge smirks, a flicker of amusement glinting in his burning eyes.
The Emperor’s tone rises, incredulous and furious. “YOU MARRIED HIM!”
Durge chuckles, his sharp teeth flashing in the dim light as he turns the ring over between his fingers, admiring the craftsmanship once more.
“Hmm,” he muses, his grin widening. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Can I see that ring?” Gale asks, his tone laced with curiosity.
“You wish,” Durge snaps, shooting the wizard a glare that could sear flesh. “We all know what happens when you get your hands on things like this.”
Jaheira, unbothered by the exchange, holds out her hand expectantly. “Can I see it?”
Durge hesitates for a moment, then grudgingly hands the ring to her. He continues to glare at Gale, as if daring the wizard to so much as exhale in the direction of his prized possession.
Jaheira turns the ring over carefully, her sharp eyes scanning its intricate details. The faint engraving inside catches her attention, and she tilts it toward the light. Her expression hardens as she reads aloud, disbelief coloring her voice.
“Durgetash 1492 – forever.”
She sighs heavily, handing the ring back to Durge, whose proud smile is impossible to suppress as he slips it back onto his clawed finger with almost theatrical precision.
As they reach the bottom of the stairs, Karlach is waiting for them, her fiery presence impossible to ignore. She stands with arms crossed, her tail flicking in agitation.
“How did it go?” she asks, her voice sharp with impatience. “Can I go kill him now?”
The three companions exchange glances, their silence heavy with unspoken meaning.
“What?” Karlach demands, her tone rising as her skin crackles faintly with heat. “What happened?”
“I’m fairly sure they got married,” Gale says finally, his voice tinged with equal parts confusion and exasperation.
Karlach’s eyes widen as she stares at Durge, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water before she manages to sputter, “What?!”
Durge shrugs nonchalantly, his smile only widening. “It’s a strategic alliance.”
“A strategic alliance?” Karlach repeats, her tone a mix of disbelief and outrage. She gestures wildly toward the stairs. “That’s not an alliance! That’s—you just—you’re wearing a wedding ring!”
“And it’s a very fine one,” Durge replies smoothly, turning his hand to admire the gleaming band, its gems catching the light.
Karlach groans, dragging a hand down her face. “You’re telling me you walked in there to negotiate, and instead you married Gortash?!”
Durge crosses his arms, his smirk firmly in place. “Call it what you will, but I’ve secured his cooperation. That’s what matters.”
“Sure,” Karlach snaps, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “And I’m sure this ‘cooperation’ doesn’t include him stabbing us in the back the second it suits him.”
“He’s not going to stab me,” Durge replies, his voice calm and assured.
Karlach throws her hands in the air. “Oh, yeah? And how do you know that?”
Durge’s smirk deepens as he gestures toward his ring. “Because he promised. Forever.”