Chapter Text
With that seductive sound of blades piercing flesh, Ozymandias crowned the elder brain that had been cowering below Moonrise for centuries. He grinned, feral and savage, the red Netherstone pulsing sweetly on his chest; a gentle counterweight to his own monstrous heartbeat that endlessly sang for death. Loath to take his eyes off his masterpiece, he handed the other two Netherstones to his vile compatriots. His blood sang in his ears, a sanguinous melody that made his skin creep and shudder. His dominant hand ached to write the final stanzas, and he turned to his second-in-command. “Find me,” he paused as he considered his needs. “Find me a pair of young lovers and have them sent to my chambers in the temple. Keep them alive. I want them scared.” He almost missed the flash of hatred in her bone-white eyes, even as her changeling tongue spoke with deference. “As you command, Chosen.”
Ozymandias felt Gortash’s eyes on him and he stifled a grimace. He wasn’t sure what had been going on with him lately, but it needed to stop. He recalled Gortash had invited him back to “their'' place, to celebrate crowning the brain. He composed himself before turning to his cohort. There was something in Gortash’s eyes that made him recoil and back away. “I’m going home to the temple,” was all he said before turning away to leave, gesturing for his second to follow. He ignored the protests and requests for him to wait, suddenly missing the feeling of moving air on his skin.
While they passed through the living quarters of Ketheric’s lackeys, Ozymandias felt it. That slow melting ice drip-drip-dripping down his spine while thousands of spiders ran rampant over his exposed flesh. Adrenaline flooded his body, his senses aflame, bombarding him with sensations. He heard Orin’s subtle attempt to correct a misstep as she prepared to strike, the faint creak as her grip tightened on her dagger, the hiss of her breath as she inhaled sharply. He saw the dagger gleaming sharply out of the corner of his eye as he turned to his left. Instead of piercing his head, her dagger grazed his ear, leaving a wet trail of fire. Roaring, he followed through as he spun, his hand reaching out to grasp her throat and squeeze before she could shift. White eyes and black-lipped mouth gaped in terrified surprise, her advantage lost.
He continued his momentum to slam her to the ground, briefly stunning her. He noted blood pooling from her back, the weapon at the end of her long braid finally betraying its bearer. Before Orin could react and strike back, he slammed a knee to her chest. He felt a snap as she wheezed and he bore down, noting impassively that she began to cough blood. His right hand still squeezing her throat, his left gripped her wrist before slamming it to the ground, knocking the dagger from her grasp. He brought his left knee down to bear, feeling the delicate bones of her hand and wrist shift beneath the inexorable onslaught of his superior weight. He smiled when they snapped.
He stared calmly into her eyes as she struggled and thrashed beneath him. Her left hand grasped and flapped ineffectively at him, failing to dislodge or even shift his weight. He continued to bear down, his right hand maintaining its lethal grip. He noted with some sorrow that he wouldn’t even have the pleasure of watching her eyes roll back into her head as she died. Pity.
He watched the blood drip from her mouth with detached interest, admiring the contrasting bright viciousness of her blood against the deathly pallor of her skin. He noticed with curiosity that even near death, her skin continued with its shifting delicate swirls, and he wondered when those too would cease. Her struggling was weaker now, her breath gurgling and rasping in her throat. As she stilled, he fought against a surge of impatience to release his grip and stand up. While insane, she was still clever enough to try and fake her own death throes. He increased his grip one last time as she proved his patience justified, throwing what remained of her strength into one final effort to break free. He moaned, ecstatic, when he felt the bone in her throat snap beneath his hand, her wretched body finally still.
He waited there, hand an iron band around her throat, knees grinding bones into her tender flesh, until he felt her body begin to cool. As he stood to leave, he paused. Summoning his Butler, he grabbed his own dagger and began to remove Orin’s head, while something tugged at the peripherals of his thoughts.
“Yes, my most vile Master?” Scleritas crooned as he appeared. Seeing Orin’s body, he attempted to chastise Ozymandias. “Vicious one, you should be indulging yourself in the temple, so that all may observe your most august depravity and afford you the dread worship you are due!” Irritated, Ozymandias finished severing Orin’s head before turning back to Scleritas. “She tried to betray me, Scleritas. She attempted to stab me as we left the elder brain. Little foulblood tried to pierce my skull with her dagger. She didn’t deserve a duel in front of Father,” he said with a contemptuous snarl. He stood over her headless corpse, debating what to do with it.
Blood running hot, he turned to Scleritas. “Give her body to that Reaper that likes to flay her kills. She can have Orin’s skin. Let her flesh go to the other changelings as a warning. And prepare a jar for her head. She can take the place of honor amongst my collection, but I want her headpiece with the rest of my trophies,” he commanded as he handed over her head. Belatedly, he remembered the order that he’d given Orin before they departed. An order she couldn’t fill now. “Have Reapers bring me a pair of lovers and leave them in my chambers. Alive. I want them to be terrified. And whole” he ordered. His right hand ached with a feral need. He closed his eyes in bliss as he remembered the feeling of Orin beneath him, desperately writhing and flailing, the seductive feeling as he ground broken bones into her tender organs, the heady snap each time a bone broke. The memory of the bone in her throat snapping under his hand nearly brought him to release a second time.
Ignoring Scleritas’ obsequious praise, Ozymandias stood for a moment. The tugging at his mind was scratching and clawing now, seething with a desire to be heard, to be seen. There was a wrongness to this tableau, this moment. He was still, statuesque, as he absorbed the quiet sounds of the colony around him, looking for what was out of place, when it struck him.
The quiet.
He’d been through these chambers several times before, when he and Gortash first approached Ketheric with their plan, and their repeated trips back as they plotted and schemed. Every visit, regardless of the hour, there was a steady trickle of Ketheric's underlings coming and going, sleeping, fucking, eating, living and dying. Now, it was more silent than one of Myrkul’s precious mausoleums. Silent, empty, and stinking of collusion. His eyes narrowed as he contemplated what it meant, for him, and for the new alliance.
Ozymandias’ thoughts were on Orin’s death as he entered the temple. He barely registered as one of the Reapers prostrated by his feet, thanking him for the gift of Orin’s skin. He continued on as he thought about his prize waiting for him in his chambers. As he neared the altar, Bhaal’s eyes began to glow. Father was home.
“You have returned my blood to me,” a deep voice, slow and sibilant, rang out. Bowing his head, Ozymandias explained Orin’s attempted betrayal. While only the granddaughter of a Bhaalspawn, she was still one of Bhaal’s violent brood and Ozymandias had denied her a death befitting one of their rarified status. He vowed quietly to himself that he would accept whatever punishment deemed appropriate. He would not fail his Father again.
“Regrettable, that she was so impulsive. She had…promise. You stand before us now, the last of your line, the only bearer of your name. My most wicked child. Step close; I have a gift for you,” Ozymandias complied, head spinning. He had expected punishment, retribution, for failing to honor the blood of fallen Bhaalspawn through trial by combat under the eyes of their dread Father.
“I grant you this form, my Chosen. Use it to tear this world asunder” Ozymandias stood there, confused. Until he felt the shift.
He first felt it under his skin, a hissing, gnawing, screaming hunger. It shifted and clawed, aching to rip, to tear, to consume, to feast. It was more than he could bear, more than he could contain within himself. He threw back his head, unable to even make a sound, and felt himself let go.
Four vicious hands tore out of his chest as his skin began sloughing off, revealing a glistening, chitinous body beneath. He screamed in ecstasy, the release of his self rivaling the most intense orgasm he’d ever felt. He heard his scream shift down to a moan as his mouth split and changed, giving way to cruel mandibles. He groaned as he felt the teeth pierce through the flesh of his new jaws, his horns shifting and warping in a way that brought an equal amount of both pleasure and pain. He screamed again as his very bones melted and warped under his skin, his joints a blaze of beautiful agony.
He stood there, his new flesh burning with pain, exquisite lust, endless hunger, reveling in all of it. He ached to feed, to satiate himself, to share this wonderful agony with others. He threw back his monstrous head, screaming in exultation and triumph. He was glorious, he was Death, he was perfection . He next felt himself collapse back into himself, back down to his body, until he stood there once more, panting. He still felt that hunger, that lust for blood, for sex, for pain, for death still seething just below his skin. It felt natural, it felt right. The pleasure he felt as Orin died beneath him paled in comparison to the way the Slayer felt lurking under his skin.
Ozymandias glanced up at the glowing eyes and prostrated himself before bowing his head once more. “Thank you, Father,” he said once he caught his breath. “This is a glorious gift. I will use it to tear this world apart upon your altar. I will ravage this world in your name” As the glow in the eyes faded, Ozymandias stalked towards his chambers, hungry for the prize he heard whimpering and crying from within. The still temple air was a balm to his newly naked skin, his every nerve feeling as though they had been born anew.
He made a note to commend whoever had grabbed this pair; they were perfect. Young, in love, the glint of engagement rings on their slender, unbroken hands. Their faces were wet, shining with tears and the smell of their fear was a potent aphrodisiac. The Slayer under his skin was a raging storm of jaws, claws, and wicked fangs, aching to satiate itself with their bodies and lives. With a loud moan, he threw his head back and let the Slayer loose.
Their screams rang through the temple for five days.
Ozymandias lounged in his bed, his blood still running hot. He’d fully enjoyed the two lovers and it was another three days before he’d tired of their corpses. He glanced at his collection, admiring their eyes, now gazing endlessly at each other until the end of time. On a whim, he went to admire his trophies. He gently stroked their rings, noticing with satisfaction the blood that had dried between the crevices of the gems, before turning his attention to Orin’s headpiece. He ran tender fingers down its length, feeling himself twitch and throb. While his bloodlust had been satisfied, other hungers gnawed at his gut, clamoring to be fed.
He considered going to see Gortash, but almost immediately discarded the idea. Something was off about him lately. The past few weeks, Gortash had been borderline emotional when they fucked, and he’d been unusually insistent that Ozymandias stay with him after crowning the brain. He grimaced as he recalled Gortash’s exact words: “our place”. He had a sneaking suspicion that Gortash was harboring feelings. Feelings that Ozymandias did not share, had no intention of ever sharing, and with a second grimace he admitted to himself he did not want to have that conversation with Gortash in his pent-up state.
He sighed irritably. Avoiding Gortash and any of his Banites ruled out the entire Upper City and a surprising portion of the Lower City as well. As he drew himself a bath, he recalled the name of a seedier tavern in the Lower City, run by a retired pirate: The Blushing Mermaid. It sounded a perfect place to find the right people to satisfy him.
Two hours later, Ozymandias strode through the Lower City, content to slowly meander through the bustle as he made his way to The Blushing Mermaid. Despite his clothes announcing him to be only slightly well-off, his large frame and imposing set of horns made many eager to move out of his path. He heard the tavern before he saw it, drunken refrains tumbling carelessly through the air while their melodies wove around and through each other. It sounded like chaos, as it came into view it looked like chaos, and as he walked in the door it smelled like chaos. He was instantly enamored.
After paying the bartender to start a tab and even more to forget that he had a name, Ozymandias found himself a corner table, tucked away in seductive shadows, and began to drink. The beer wasn’t particularly tasty, but it was strong and after a few pints, he felt himself getting deliciously tipsy. He’d kept an eye out, looking for anyone that looked appealing, but it wasn’t until his fourth-or was it his fifth?-pint that he saw him.
Ozymandias saw his hair first, a patch of solid white, glowing in the sullen candlelight. He was captivated by the way it curled around the elf’s ears. His fingers twitched first with the desire to gently tuck each strand away behind each elegant ear, to tenderly bring order to the studied disarray, to gently brush his fingers down his ear to his neck. After a moment’s stare, he saw his fingers tangled in the hair, pulling a gasping face further and further back in rhythm with ecstatic cries. He met the man’s stare and felt a thrum of pleasure when the elf winked at him before standing up and making his way over. He stared hungrily, admiring the way the man sauntered, imagining what his hips would feel like in his hands. He wanted to grip them as the man rode him, or hold him still while Ozymandias took his pleasure over and over again.
With languid grace, the man poured himself into a seat next to Ozymandias. “Hello, beautiful,” his voice was a warm, rich honey in Ozymandias’ ears. He wanted to hear it whisper sweet nothings, to cry out his name over and over. “Hello beautiful,” he answered. An elegant eyebrow arched ever so slightly over a pair of rich burgundy eyes. He wanted to drown in those eyes. He wanted to see them flutter awake in the morning, ached to see them widen with pleasure over and over again. He could smell his cologne. Rosemary, bergamot and…aged brandy. It was heady, but subtle, and it drove him wild.
“I must admit, not many return my greeting, especially in such an enthusiastic manner,” the pale elf murmured. He replaced Ozymandias’ pint with a goblet of wine. It smelled rich and heavy. Taking a sip, Ozymandias eyed the elf before responding. “That’s a shame. A man as beautiful as you should be told as such, and frequently.” He took another sip. The wine was much stronger than the beer. “You should find yourself a better class of people,” he murmured. He leaned in closer, staring at the pale elf through eyes heavy with lust. Returning his gaze with equally heavy eyes, a half smile twitching enchantingly at his lips, the pale elf grabbed the goblet, his long delicate fingers covering Ozymandias’. Before he had a chance to let go, the elf took a drink, his eyes never leaving his. He groaned ever so slightly as his fingers brushed the pale elf’s lips. He was enjoying being seduced by this elf. Taking Ozymandias’ hand in his, the pale elf smiled, sultry and mysterious.
“I don’t believe I’ve made the pleasure of your acquaintance,” the elf’s voice was low, almost too low to hear over the sound of the tavern. Taking the hint, he Ozymandias leaned in, his mouth brushing the elf’s ear. “Ozymandias. My name is Ozymandias” his deep voice was gravelly with lust. With slow, affectated movements, the pale elf brought Ozymandias’ hand to his lips, kissing it delicately. “Well met, Ozymandias,” the pale elf purred. Staring into his eyes, the pale elf placed his hands on either side of Ozymandias’ face, kissing him deeply. With a hungry moan, Ozymandias pulled the pale elf onto his lap, enjoying the feel of his hips in his hands. They felt even better than he thought they would.
They stayed like that for several minutes, the pale elf’s body pressing against his while he lost himself in the taste of his lips. At some point, the elf had wrapped his arms around his neck while his hands clutched at the elf’s back. He knew the elf could feel his need, his hunger as it pressed upwards and almost into him. “Let’s go somewhere more private,” the elf whispered against his lips. As Ozymandias groaned his consent, the elf suddenly stood, taking him by the hand. Through the steady haze of alcohol, Ozymandias studied the elf’s pale slender hand held in his large red one. He liked the contrast.
Pleasantly drunk and fully aroused, Ozymandias enjoyed being guided by the elf's hand. As they passed a park, he felt the pale elf’s pace slowing, ever so slightly. Seizing the moment, he took the elf in his arms. Losing himself in the taste of his lips again and again, he realized he still didn’t know his name. He wanted to know; needed to know. “Tell me your name,” he murmured, his lips on his ear. “Please,” he added. A distant part of him was surprised at the plea, and that he meant it. With a mysterious laugh that left Ozymandias tingling all over, the elf only answered with a question. “Does it truly matter, lover?”
Ozymandias moaned before picking the elf up and pinning him up against a tree. His face was buried in the elf’s neck as he fought to restrain himself. He was thoroughly drunk, almost entirely mad with lust, and he ached to claim this elf, over and over. “I want to know whose name I’ll be crying out while I’m buried inside you” he groaned. He nearly came when the elf put his mouth to his ear.
“Astarion. My name is Astarion.”