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“What’s your name?”
She first faced this question from a tall, dark-robed figure. The girl had no answer, so they called her something common. “Jarnathan”, the name of some relative or friend or passing acquaintance of this stranger, haphazardly slapped on the little tiefling.
The girl didn’t mind the name. Before, she was just “you”, “girl”, or “that one”. She didn’t care particularly much about having a name, but it was nice to know when someone referred to you.
One of the boys asked if he could call her Jarn; she didn’t protest.
For some time, she was Jarnathan to the adults and Jarn to the kids.
“Oh, Jarnathan!” they’d exclaim, when she made shadows dance at her fingertips.
“Jarn! What’s going on?” he’d scream, when she shoved the blue-skinned boy down a ravine.
“Jarnathan! How-” they’d choke, as her warped claws gored pale, soft, cultist flesh.
—
“What are you called, little girl?”
This time, the question came from within, not without.
She stood upon a mountain of corpses, shredded by her own teeth and claws. Her magic was unstable, and her technique amateurish, but even a child of pure murder was still death incarnate.
“They,” she gestured to the corpses, “called me Jarnathan.”
“Then I shall as well.”
The voice offered her a deal, a good deal. Pure, concentrated power in exchange for-
Well, let’s not dwell on that for now.
From that day on, little Jarnathan became a warlock.
—
Not even a full minute after receiving her new powers, the girl’s father appeared to whisk her away.
He was no man. A god pleased by his young scion’s slaughter. Though slightly less pleased that another had sought to claim her soul. No matter, he said, for the soul of his blood would not be stolen so easily.
The girl, being no more than six years old, did not understand.
It was a parent’s duty to bestow a name upon their child.
“I already have a name,” she said, trotting behind a flesh-carved cadaver, brought to life to serve as her guide.
A peasant’s name, given by livestock. Unworthy of any child of mine.
Her father gave her another name, one that’s more of a title than a name.
It sounded harsher than Jarnathan, more dangerous. The girl hesitated upon receiving this new gift. Against all odds, she had grown fond of the old one.
Still, a name was a name, and she accepted the long-overdue offering from her father.
On that same day, she became the Dark Urge.
—
She grew to like the title, over time.
She learned to wear the name like a second skin, and it fit oh so wonderfully well.
The Bhaalist Temple under Baldur’s Gate eagerly accepted their new child-leader. She was the blood of their god. She was divine. She was murder made flesh.
The Dark Urge took her throne with the grace of a newly-crowned emperor.
—
“Might I be so bold as to inquire your name, dear Chosen of Bhaal?”
“Call me dear again, and you’ll learn the taste of your own tongue.”
“My apologies. I meant no offense, only that for the purpose of our alliance-”
“Enough. Save your pretty words, my sweet tyrant. You know my name already. The only one you need.”
“I suppose it is quite fitting. Forgive my assumption, I had guessed that the Dark Urge was a title that you bore.”
“Well, you thought wrong. It is the name given by my lord Father when I was claimed.”
“And none other before?”
“Watch yourself, little tyrant. Or I may grow curious myself.”
“Haha, of course, of course.”
—
“Enver Flymm. That was the name I answered to, in the past.”
“Oh? What is this? Have I softened you up so easily?”
“It’s a gift. A show of trust, if you will.”
“If you think that is enough to reveal my earliest name, I’m afraid you are sorely mistaken.”
“Oh, banish the thought. What is a gift if not given without ulterior motives nor strings attached?”
“Haha, and I suppose my knife-hand was made for the arrangement of flowers and hotcakes? Amusing, but thank you. Relation to the cobblers in the lower city?”
“My family, though far from close. A chapter of my life I’d sooner forget. That, dearest, I believe we have in common.”
“Hm, yes indeed. Well, nevertheless, I thank you for such a gracious gift.”
—
“...What says Bane on the nature of… us?”
“He’s been quiet.”
“I see.”
“I suppose that’s not the case with Bhaal?”
“He is… displeased, but only just so. Not enough to interfere.”
“That is unfortunate.”
“Father does not like that I’ve decided to trust you.”
“I suppose even the Lord of Murder can feel the occasional fatherly protectiveness.”
“Hah! Hm…”
“Something else bothering you?”
“Hm? Yes. A little childish rebellion, one might say.”
“Should I be worried?”
“No… It’s Jarnthan. My name. From before.”
“Oh!”
“Pedestrian isn’t it? Given by a stranger I slaughtered long ago. No real weight behind it. I don’t think there’s anyone alive who knows me by that name anymore.”
“Well then, I shall wear the honor of your trust with utmost pride.”
“You better, Enver dear. ”
—
“It’s you!”
A male tiefling, tall and muscle-bound, ripping open the chassis that contained her exhausted form.
“It’s… it’s really you!”
Who is this? Who am I? Where was she?
“Do you remember me? I’m Lanta, from way back!”
“I… aaugh…” pain, heavy and pulsing, pounded through her skull.
Lanta (who was he? He seemed to know her. Was he lying? Could she trust him?) was helpful, his gentle hands carefully guiding her out of the strange, alien pod.
“I don’t remember anything…” she murmured, “you. You say you know me. Who am I?”
The man was surprised. Shock, and just a hint of disappointment crossed his expression. He seemed honest. Naively so, a useful trait to be used later.
“You are Jarnathan. Jarn, I used to call you. We grew up together.”
She tasted the name on her lips. Its shape felt odd, but not quite enough to be a lie.
“I see. So I am Jarnathan. Alright, tell me everything.”
And so, decades later, the Dark Urge became Jarnathan once more.