was I sweet once? Once, he was a sweet child - a gift left on the doorstep of two tieflings in the lower city of Baldur’s Gate, and loved from the very first moment they saw him. Mischievous and quick, he was the fastest of his friends and soon their leader, never chosen to be “It” again when they played catch. He climbed higher, laughed louder, and carried warmth wherever he went, even if luxuries were scarce. And to tie it all together, there was a loyal dog at his side, his best friend. A truly blessed child...
what have I done? Oh. No. No! Blood... Blood everywhere! Why? WHY? They kissed me good night... loved me. Why? Why? Why? HELP, someone, Please!
princeling. A butler reached out his hand while the boy sat in the blood of his loved ones. Beside him a priest in black, towering and dreadful, knelt low and whispered that he was chosen—that this was his path to godhood, that what had been done was right. Sweet words, cold eyes. A mind already fracturing clung to both: to the servant’s steady hand and to the heavy crown forced upon his head. Then he was taken below, six feet under, into the temple that would rule him, until the day he'd learn to rule them.
how to make a monster. Take everything, autonomy, love, warmth. forge a child into a tool, a weapon. make it feed his own blood to the followers, allow them to swallow their messiah's flesh.
Let young hands choke the friends he once played with. Turn the body into a puppet. make any sweetness a punishing offense. and reluctance to kill... oh if he was not willing to kill the rotten world, the rotten world would touch him endlessly...
monster. Oh, how beautiful. Silence. Finally. They kissed and touched me the last time. Blood, Blood everywhere... how beautiful.
anew. He could only kill the lowest of those that harmed him, but the rivers of blood grew that night, when his heart, finally, entirely shattered. And all he could do was curse the world, every living thing.
He could not escape his head, his blood, his fate… unless… unless everything else died.
Ah… he finally understood his father.
And so, he stepped fully into his role, the crown now worn with pride, his beauty a weapon, not a punishment anymore.
deathstalker. He walked the path toward becoming a Deathstalker, one of Bhaal’s most blessed assassins. The trials he mastered with precision—save for the last, when his final victim survived. For that failure, he was punished: his face thrust into the flames, scarred, though by his father’s design the marks remained only as decoration, something to draw the eye in curiosity rather than turn it away in disgust. A new victim was offered, killed without mercy, and from that moment his aging ceased, his body frozen in time as he embraced the dark powers bestowed upon him. chosen. He serves his father well—spilling blood, offering his body for contracts, or both when required. Yet in the spaces between, he follows his own designs: seeking out another Chosen to claim control at his side, drowning the endless screaming in his head beneath a carousel of lovers’ hands, and grasping at the smallest shred of choice. If that choice is to give himself away without command, then it is still his. His performances in the Red Rooms are the most sought after, and in his guise as butler he is counted among the most skilled and desired.
And oh, there is a new crown in his grasp, that makes even the hells now interested in him...But the world may yet have other plans for him.
