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It was over. Enver Gortash lay dead on the floor of his office, body cooling. Karlach had stormed out a while ago, followed by the rest of the party. Now, only Durge remained. He crouched down beside the corpse, lifting one limp hand to examine the Netherstone embedded in Gortash’s gauntlet.
How was he supposed to feel? Happy, that the tyrant had been laid low, that they were one step closer to saving the Sword Coast from the illithid threat?
All he felt was empty. This was someone who’d known him, who’d liked him, and he couldn’t even remember. So much of Durge’s past had died with him, forever lost to the haze of his mangled brain.
Maybe it was better this way, to not know the details of who he had been.
He hoped it was better this way.
He still looked to the corpse for an answer.
All he got in response was friction, as even in death Gortash refused to let go of his Netherstone. He tugged at it again, but it was firmly affixed to his gauntlet, which was in turn, firmly attached to his hand. With proper tools, Durge could probably pry it out cleanly, but he didn’t trust his knife with the responsibility of not chipping the artifact.
It would have to be the messy way instead.
Reverently, Durge took his blade to Gortash’s forearm, just before the elbow, and began to cut. There was no great bloodspill, with no heart beating inside him, and Durge was skilled enough to avoid having to saw through his bone.
The whole affair was almost tragically easy. No resistance, just a clean slice through meat, functionally no more difficult than butchering an animal. It all felt so empty, so pointless.
When the arm eventually came away from the body, Durge lifted it to his face, feeling the sensation of cold fingers against the scales of his cheek. Had he felt this before, had these same fingers caressed him while they were still warm with life? Or had he been too violent, too dangerous to even touch?
What answer would leave him less lonely now?
Sure, his travelling companions were friendly with him, but their relationships were born out of pure necessity. Durge had no doubt they’d go their separate ways once their parasites had been dealt with, never to think of him again. Gortash had cared about him, had missed him in his absence, had welcomed him back with open arms.
He dragged the hand down his neck, letting it linger just above his collar bone. If there was still life in these fingers, they could have wrapped tight around his throat. He wished they would.
Durge had betrayed him. Killed him and destroyed everything they had supposedly worked for together. He’d picked his side, and that had meant helping Karlach get her revenge. He was the only one who got to– no, had to– live with that choice. Everyone else was dead or dying or didn’t make a choice at all.
He’d be carrying this hand for a long, long time, even once he detached the stone.