Chapter 1: Sarevok

Tonight, one of my siblings must die.

Why, you might ask? A reasonable question.

It's a question whose answer starts during the Time of Troubles, when the gods that many worshipped came down to lowly Aber-Toril. One unfortunate side effect of this was the deities losing their immortality. In other words, they could die.

Many of them did, and their deaths utterly changed reality. Think about it. What kind of world is it without, for example, The Lord of Murder?

The one that I now vie for control of. Bhaal was one of the more cunning gods, though; he had a plan. Foreseeing the possibility of his own death, he sired tens, perhaps hundreds of mortal children, who became infused with errant sparks of his divine power.

These sparks were small, nearly undetectable. Except for others of the same ilk. Perhaps now the answer to my question is becoming clear.

Tonight, I arrive in Baldur's Gate, a beautiful, sprawling mess of a city, to hunt down the first of these sparks. I can almost taste the power I'll be granted by slaying this poor person, the rush of intoxicating energy. Who knows how much stronger I'll become? The thought makes me giddy.

The people left on the near-desolate streets hurry out of my way with heads down and shivers, mistaking me for some kind of demon, in my armor; full plate, black as this moonless night, with spikes adorning my shoulders and head, a crown fit for the future king of not only this mortal realm, but of the gods' as well.

Only one man turns to face me, look me in the eye. He looks rather unassuming, frankly; brown hair and eyes, splint mail armor, a practiced nonchalance. This man wanted to stay hidden from those who would seek to find him.

It's really too bad for him that he couldn't.

Almost as if he knows who I am and my purpose here, he begins to run. Why does he prolong his own death? He should willingly give himself up to me. With a sigh, I simply follow after him, probably surprising him with the speed at which I move. Neither of us is a normal human being.

As the leader of the Iron Throne, a powerful mercantile enterprise here in the city and elsewhere, my agents are never far from where I need them. Quite handy for when I need to trap a man, keep him confined in a cage of my own design. Trained assassins come out of every alley, every grate that leads into the sewers, almost, it appears, out of the very shadows themselves.

The man, my brother, runs even seeing an army form from every corner, from every building he passes. He runs because he has nothing left to do. He can't possibly fight us all and win. The thought pleases me greatly.

Eventually, he's forced into and up a tower. Abandoned, from the looks of it; perhaps once the home of some great master of the arcane, now reduced to the last hole for this pathetic animal to crawl into.

I enter its high, wide double doors shortly after him. I can feel the time drawing closer. My heart thumps in my chest, not from exertion, but from sheer excitement. My time is drawing ever nearer, every second I hunt this fool down brings me closer to godhood. Could a mortal man aspire to greater heights?

He makes it all the way to the door to the roof. Frantically, desperately, he pushes and pulls on the door. What a weakling. Can you not simply break down the obstacles that stand in your way? It seems he needs a display of true strength.

He screams as I dash up the stairs after him, charging him through the door, splintering it upon impact. His body flies through it, slamming into a fence that surrounds the roof. The crunching sounds of the shattering door and his body against metal spur me forward through the doorway, stepping over the pieces of wood on the stone of the roof. Slowly, carefully, tasting the moment like a fine cut of meat.

He staggers to his knees. He searches for a weapon; his sword flew away from him after his flight through the air. I glance at it, lying against a corner of the roof. His eyes seem to try to escape his skull as he looks at me, perhaps finally realizing that there truly would be no escaping my wrath.

He shouts, pleads.

"No, you can't!"

I grin, not visible from my helmet, unfortunately. All he sees are my eyes, shining down on him, bright golden lights. The last lights he will ever see.

I grab him by the neck with one hand, and hold him up at eye level.

"I will be the last!"

Yes. Savor this. Feel the fear radiating off him. Feel his life drain away at your hands. He squirms, he writhes, he gurgles; nothing will save him.

I crush his throat just a bit tighter as I make my proclamation, something more than a promise; this man would face judgement.

"And you will go first!"

I throw his body over the fence. He screams all the way down. I close my eyes and wait for the sickening thud. Upon hearing it, I lean over to see his eyes, still wide as they were, the last spasmodic twitches of a dying man, blood pooling underneath him.

It was done. My sibling was dead.

He will not be the last to fall at the hands of Sarevok Anchev.