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The heavy footsteps of the dragonborn echoed on the cobblestones of Baldur’s Gate. Pale moonlight trickled down from above. It was full - it always was when he went out to do his business. The hood over his head kept the moonlight off his scales, keeping the reflection away and his form inconspicuous.
He huffed a grunt of cold air from his nostrils as he turned into the alleyway, expecting the sewer entrance to be empty.
But it was not.
A man in a black trenchcoat leaned against the stucco wall, flipping a coin into the air. With each clink of gold, the dragonborn grew more irritated. It was no time of night for such a sound.
Another victim.
It was rare that someone stood so close to the nest, the lair of Bhaal. But it was rarer still those who came close knew that something so powerful lay below the city. It was thought dormant, gone, defeated, even. But the slumbering beast would not stay quiet for much longer. It was disgraceful.
“Good evening,” the man said, turning to face the Dark Urge. He rolled his eyes. It was ridiculous, the mere thought he would listen to a preything talk. So he didn’t.
“Good evening,” the Dark Urge responded. He drew his dagger and struck forward without a second thought.
His blade glanced off the magical spark of a shield spell, sending the Dragonborn stumbling back a few steps. A magic user. That called for an adjustment -
The man in front of him let out a low whistle, and before the Dark Urge could move, there was a blade at his throat. And then another.
He’d brought backup. The Dragonborn froze, he considered trying to cast something, to push himself beyond his limit, but he’d already used all of his magic dispatching his sacrifices. The well was dry.
“Stand down,” the man grunted, stepping into the moonlight. A noble, by the looks of him, but he was still rough around the edges. Young, handsome, with a quick and easy smile that the Dark Urge wanted to crack off of his face along with his jaw. He had dark hair, and more stubble than acceptable for someone of his perceived stature. His hands were covered in a plethora of golden rings, and he had an absolutely gaudy pair of boots.
The Dark Urge growled. “State your business.”
This was clearly no Flaming Fist setup, nothing had been traced back to him. These blades, his eyes flicked down to the steel at his throat. Not standard make, either.
The man chuckled, and stepped forward to just a breath away. Within choking distance, but it wasn’t like he could move right now without the lackeys slitting his throat.
“My name is Enver Gortash. And I am looking for an assassin by the name of the Dark Urge. That is… yourself.”
He snarled. “How did you find me?”
“I followed your trail of bodies. Had I followed you farther, I could have found your little hideaway. Be glad that I stayed my hand.” He flashed a small, black medallion to the Dragonborn.
“Treacherous Baneite,” he spat, shifting against the steel. The onyx carving was something he knew well to avoid… and distrust. They were old enemies, after all.
“Indeed… I could easily lead you back at knifepoint, and notify the militia of your presence.”
“So why do you stay your hand?” He asked, tail lashing.
“Simple. I have a proposal.”
“A proposal,” the Dragonborn clicked his tongue, letting cold mist fall from his teeth.
“It would be beneficial for you to accept my proposal.” He tucked a letter into the Dragonborn’s belt, smiling smugly.
“And if I do not?” he hissed.
“I will find you, and the rest of your budding Bhaalists.”
He snorted, blowing cold air onto the man’s face. It was ridiculous that a mortal man would have such gall. What would a Baneite need so much help with to come crawling for him? The Dark Urge did not know… but he did have to admit he was a little curious.
“You have only been lucky enough to catch me once.”
“And you need to be lucky enough to avoid my underlings every time.”
That gave him pause. A threat, thinly veiled. But alas, that was how the Dark Urge liked to conduct his business.
His flame-red eyes glanced down at the parchment, finely scented with a rose perfume that tickled his nostrils.
“I will consider it.”
Enver smiled, and tapped the Dark Urge on the shoulder.
Magic locked his limbs into place, caging him in a prison of red light.
“Damn you - ” he growled.
“You think I would just let you go without getting a head start so you may slaughter us? Come on, you’re smarter than that.”
And with that, the blades and Enver Gortash withdrew, leaving the Dark Urge to the moonlight. Perhaps he would consider this proposal.