Chapter Text
Acquiring a patron was the pinnacle of an artist’s career; being able to simply create while not worrying about how they were going to pay for their next meal. Never in her dreams would Tsarra have thought Lord Enver Gortash to be a candidate for being said patron, and to her of all people. But here she is, in his office, sketching the Lord himself while he works. So long as she completed anything he commissioned of her, she was to be considered his personal artist.
She was taking advantage of the opportunities to study his features in a far more casual setting than she would usually have for a subject. Lithe fingers blend in the final brushstrokes of paint across the canvas, wiping the excess onto an apron now a palette of colors across years of her craft. And with perfect timings as the last of the day’s light was barely pouring in through the windows of Wyrm’s Rock Fortress.
That golden light was captured brilliantly across her subject’s handsome face, highlighting his strong nose and catching on the wisps of out of place hair across his brow. She even managed to replicate that dark gaze of his in such a short amount of time, staring directly at the viewer as if to pick them apart piece by piece in order to put them back together again.
She has painted countless portraits of unique faces during her apprenticeship but there was something about Gortash’s features that she found particularly satisfying to capture on canvas or paper. Only time would improve her ability to do so. And she was fortunate in that her subject rarely moved once he was enraptured in his work, though if he did she learned to take advantage of his strides around the office with quick gesture studies in charcoal.
Gortash leans back in his chair with an exhausted sigh, running a hand across his stubbled jaw a few times glaring down at the paperwork in front of him. While he did not have any meetings scheduled that day, Tsarra could see the tension in his posture from overworking himself. His tired eyes flick up to catch hers and she pauses.
“That’s enough for today, I think.”
Tsarra nods and begins cleaning her materials as he continues, “Join me for a drink, won’t you?”
She freezes in place, nearly dropping her jar of water to the ground at the incredulous offer. Was she going to be let go? Did she make a mistake, did he change his mind about liking her painting style? Only the worst situations fly around in her mind as she smiles politely and nods.
“I would be honored to, my lord.”
“Enver.”
Tsarra’s brow pinches. “I’m sorry?”
“When it’s just the two of us like this, you may call me Enver.”
“Oh.” Uncertainty continues to creep in her chest. “Of course…Enver.” She lets out a small breath. “That’s going to take some getting used to.”
By the time her supplies are cleaned and packed away, Gortash has poured two glasses of what she guesses is whiskey and has one placed across from him on his desk while he sips from the other, his metal gauntlets clinking gently against the glass. He gestures for her to sit in the plush armchair and she does so, keeping her hands folded in her lap lest any streaks of oil paint she happened to miss end up smeared across the luscious upholstery.
“You’ve been employed here for, what, nearly half a year now correct?”
“Yes, sir.” Tsarra nods.
“How have you been faring, then?”
Tsarra pauses to take a sip of her drink, the liquid burning her throat and settling in her stomach. Definitely whiskey.
“Am I encouraged to be honest?”
Gortash quirks an eyebrow. “Of course. Nothing will leave this room, I assure you.”
Tsarra exhales and swirls her glass. “In all honesty, my lor- err, Enver,” she quickly corrects herself, “It’s been a joy thus far. I have a warm bed every night and a roof over my head, which is more than most in my profession can say, and the wage is more than comfortable. I’ve really enjoyed my time here. Having such a naturally regal subject helps to make my job easier, of course, and it’s a breath of fresh air to be able to create in between working on your commissioned pieces without worrying about…well, without worrying about affording my next meal.”
“Good. That’s all good to hear.” Gortash keeps eye contact with her over the rim of his glass. “Your contract was only for a year but if you still feel the same way once it’s over, I would be amenable to extending it.”
“Really?” Tsarra perks up in her chair. “I--you--that’s, that’s incredibly generous, thank you very much! I would appreciate that.”
“Excellent. I’ll make a note of that and circle back to it in another couple of months.”
“Thank you very much.”
“You’re quite welcome, Miss Tsarra.” He takes another, deeper sip and lounges back in his chair, business seemingly concluded.
“Oh,” Tsarra shakes her head with a sheepish chuckle, “I appreciate the politeness but just Tsarra is fine, no ‘Miss’ necessary.”
“Just Tsarra, then.”
Something about the way her name so effortlessly and velvety falls from his smirk has her stomach aflutter, and she quickly blames the whiskey instead.
“Tell me about your aspirations, Tsarra. You’re a painter, yes, but to what end?”
“Well, I suppose I haven’t really given that much thought now. This,” she gives a vague gesture between the two of them, “Is what every artist aspires to achieve. A patron well off enough to afford to keep them employed with multiple projects. I didn’t ever expect to be so fortunate right out of my apprenticeship.”
Tsarra quietly takes another sip to steel her nerves, having always felt smaller under Gortash’s intense gaze.
“Though I’m not so naive as to think something this grand will last me the rest of my days. I think I’d like to make a name for myself, to the point where I outgrow the need for a patron and can pick and choose commissions as I please. Maybe outgrow this city, even travel to Waterdeep or Neverwinter.”
Gortash nods, appearing to be pleased by this answer.
“Ambitious. I like that. You’re not willing to let this city confine you. I’m happy to be able to nurture that future you’re seeking. And someday surely I’ll be bragging of how your prowess graced me first.”
That damned smooth smile of his captures her attention and the color of her cheeks begins to darken.
“I certainly hope so.”
—
“Sergeant. If you are here, I presume Wyrm’s Rock is secure, and preparations for my inauguration are complete?”
Tsarra glances up from the canvas, not pausing in her brushstrokes to capture the soon-to-be Archduke’s likeness as an armored woman enters and bows to him. She had gotten a good amount of the portrait done before the sun started to set and she wanted to make sure she didn’t lose out on the light. She tunes out the conversation as she usually does whenever they’re interrupted by his work. It’s none of her concern and nothing she could help with anyway. Much more important business to attend to in front of her.
To her dismay, the conversation leads to Gortash stepping out of pose to continue addressing the sergeant and Tserra frowns. Ah well, at least she can put down some of the finer details on what she has thus far.
Suddenly the sergeant snaps.
“Duties, duties, duties.Patrolling and saluting and following and bowing and scraping and ‘yes, sir, no sir, rip and cut your throat sir!”
Tsarra jumps back with a yelp as she finds herself staring at the pointy end of a large dagger stabbed through the canvas, the visage of the sergeant morphing into a beautiful, terrifying woman, crimson swirling across her pale skin. Her heart thunders in her chest and her brush clatters to the floor.
“Your plan is falling apart, lordling. Give me a reason not to cut you to ribbons.” The woman’s hand slides up Gortash’s shoulder and Tserra feels her stomach drop. Was this an assassination attempt? No, there’s recognition in his eyes. And disdain.
“Control yourself, Orin.” He warns, shrugging off her touch. “We need to focus on reuniting the stones, or the brain will break free. These quakes are just the start. Neither of us expected the Prism-bearers to kill Ketheric. They’ll be traveling to the city. Let’s make sure we give them a Baldurian welcome.” A wicked grin crosses his handsome face, one she hasn’t seen before. A shiver of fear creeps down her neck, yet at the same time the smile is so…fitting on him.
There is no mistake that Gortash is a tyrant, nor did he try keeping the guise of being anything else after the first few months of her employment. While she wasn’t allowed in his office while he was conducting a meeting, often he forgot she was in the room during sessions and would mutter under his breath. Curse her half-elven hearing, Tsarra learned enough about him over the months to sate her curiosities.
“I itch to peel you, to split your skin, to see your skull shine in the light, little tyrant. Lucky for you, I harvested a whole family of living-flesh in Rivington at Highsun. They will sate my blade-thirst for tonight.”
The woman yanks her dagger out of the canvas and her murderous gaze lands on Tsarra, as if finally realizing she exists. A disturbing renewal of delight alights in her eyes.
“I didn’t know you kept a pet, little lordling.” Tsarra’s breath catches in her chest, a rabbit frozen before a…well, she would say wolf, but Orin seems far more dangerous than a simple beast as that. Maybe this Orin would take pity and make her death quick.
“Orin.”
Orin doesn’t seem to care about the verbal warning, circling the trembling painter, dragging the tip of the dagger across the plump skin of Tsarra’s cheek. Bright red droplets splatter onto the apron. Orin’s tongue laps at the blood streaked across her dagger.
“Exquisite. Oh, to paint the walls with your blood, what a masterpiece I could make of you. Would you like that as a coronation gift, little lordling?” Orin sneers at him. Tsarra holds her breath, the sickly sweet stench of rot and decay heavy in the air where Orin hovers just close enough to her ear that she can feel her heated breath across her neck.
“Enough,” Gortash growls, “Take your leave, now, Orin, I grow impatient.”
Orin’s cackle resonates through the room. “As you wish, my lord. But tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, my blades will thirst again. Perhaps your lovely pet will sate them next time.”
She flashes a deranged grin before shifting back into the disguise of the sergeant, bowing dramatically and taking her leave.
Tsarra lets out a shaky breath, choking back a sob. It’s been many years since she last felt such fear grip her so tight. When Orin’s footsteps disappear down the hall, Gortash turns to Tsarra sharply.
“I apologize for my colleague, she is…unique.”
She struggles to smile politely, though it turns to a wince as her cheek burns from stretching so.
“I-it’s fine, my lord,” her voice is barely above a whisper, “I understand.”
Another handful of steadying breaths and she’s able to focus on a mending spell to fix the hole left in the canvas, the fibers melding back together and the paint no longer ruined. Gortash raises a curious eyebrow and strides over to her.
“I didn’t know you wield magic.” He notes.
“It never came up before.” Tsarra murmurs. Gortash huffs in amusement.
“I see.”
He reaches out with a gauntleted hand and Tsarra flinches instinctually, causing him to pause. There is a brief moment of exchanging glances before Gortash continues, gently wiping the blood from her cheek. He glances over at the in progress painting and she anticipates a remark on the likeness but instead he turns back to her with a quizzical expression.
“Just how versed in magic are you?” He continues to dab at the cut on her cheek and Tsarra hopes it can camouflage the ruddiness of her cheeks from blushing at the tender contact.
“Fairly. Before I was a painter, I was a bard. Not a very well known one, obviously,” she forces a chuckle while she busies her hands mixing paint back onto the brush, “But I adventured around the Sword Coast for a time.”
“I see. What changed your path then?”
Tsarra quiets for a moment, weighing in her mind how much of the truth to divulge. He was certainly handling the interaction with Orin better than she herself was. Or perhaps he was distracting her to calm her down.
“I was young, impressionable, and quite frankly stupid. Adventuring was exhausting. Physically and mentally. It had its moments, don’t get me wrong, but it never quite felt like what I was meant to do. Not everyone is cut out to be a hero. Eventually I learned that lesson the hard way and decided to go back to my hobbies, the one that brought me the most joy, and make the best of the life I have left.”
A silence spans between them as she blends in a section of the painting she had been working on before they were interrupted. Gortash’s hand reaches out to take hers, steadying its shaking.
“We’re done for the day.”
Tsarra blinks at him. “Are you sure?”
For a noble, he has such rough hewn hands, worn down by true work. Yet they feel so comforting in that moment, truly grounding her back to reality and out of her head. He releases her hand and watches it begin to shake again, the brush quivering, and meets her gaze. “Go home and rest up, my dear.” His tone leaves no room for argument and Tsarra nods with a gulp, nearly forgetting how to breathe after hearing that term of endearment.
“As you wish.”