Masterminds

What Flourished

-Flashback-

"What rhymes with cursed.. " you ponder on the scribbled note, a dry parchment scented with the perfume of rotten corpses.

With a soft gust, the paper trembles, revealing your sweet butler. His smile, wide and deranged, addresses you with finesse. His body moves into a bow, giggling as if scheming.

"Ah, milord! Talented in common language as you are in the carnal pleasure of murdering, erudite as always," he claims, overexcited.

"Is something the matter?" you ask as you leave the lovely quill down on the desk. He clears his throat, taking an adorned letter from his hat.

"It appears to be from the arms dealer, again. He heard some citizens degrading our beautiful tools!" he yells, horrified at such blasphemy.

[The neat handwriting, as usual, narrates the shameless display of some torture devices claimed to be of Bhaal's cultists.]

Dear Chosen of Bhaal,

Upon entering the Hall of Wonders, my eyes could not but stare at a section filled with strange machines, exhibited with a surly puppet, enacting a, dramatically, gruesome act. Its condition appears slightly deteriorated as people lay hands on it, carelessly.  The mass seemed particularly amused at the pile of bones, resting next to it.

A closer look at the plaque explains its origins. It expropriates to have been taken from a "petty" bhaalist torturer.

I sought appropriate to take notice of this matter. 

E.G

The letter very tauntingly mentions the unforgiving treatment of some long-lost racks first crafted by one of the brothers - the adored Brother Eler. To think they could ever set their unwashed stares at such precious items... They will certainly meet your malice.

The relationship with Gortash has been going smoothly, his predisposition and mounts of sacrifices gathered thanks to his list of targets have been helpful for he initiates. He likes to message from time to time, indulge in refined wine and discuss politics with fervour. His yearning for power makes him a potential ally in your schemes, his pursuit of law even greater. His mettle in combat is yet to be tested however good of a charmer he is.

*sigh*

"More schmucks are born every day to take the place of their progenitors... Should we punish their unwashed airs?" you declare. The minion bows, relishing in those depraved thoughts. "Additionally, this may prove the perfect chance to test his mettle in battle."

"Naturally, master. You shall teach them our ancestral technique of limb concussion! The banite, I do not think he could surpass your talents, however, my lord." you smile at the image of their pained faces as you poke their flesh with needles.

"Oh, maybe not surpass, but he is no use if he cannot uphold himself. A balance is needed. Let me finish this entry and I'll mobilize. You can scatter, Sceleritas."

Your diary sits blank, only to be filled with the good news of the possible slaughter, and test to see what he is made of. 

Your bitter command to call some of the experienced assassins brings forth the urge. The irresistible craving to gorge in the deaths of those who sullied the family's ancestral racks. Before heading there, you send an urgent missive to Enver Gortash:

Thank you for the news.

As expected of the locals, their education is as shallow as a puddle. We shall retrieve the relics at once.