Strong Urges- Part 1 (Patreon)

I got to be a bit ambitious with this one! Just as a note- yes, I know Tav is used for the non-Dark Urge origin character, but I use both names for a bit of meta. Eitherway, the dark and brooding dragonborn is recruited to investigate an increasingly powerful cult obsessed with strength, and soon, it gives rise to a whole new obsession.

Enjoy!

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The albino dragonborn stared from his perch in the tavern's corner. He had said nothing and done nothing besides order more drinks. Anything to dull the voice in his head, and slow down the twitching of his knife hand. He reached for his flagon, drinking deeply until he could feel his head swim. Still, his eyes settled on the bard. Half-elf, pretty face, with a lovely voice. She was no adventurer, not hardened by any trials or tribulations— all it would take is one stroke of his knife across the neck…

"Tav of Baldur's Gate?"

The white-scaled sorcerer flicked his eyes up to the voice. A paladin, judging by the ornate armor and his strong, broad-shouldered build. Another dragonborn, with gold scales. Interesting. His mind already raced about how he would do the deed— a fight against a hardened warrior would be much more appreciated. The paladin outweighed him in sheer brawn, and that armor was well-made. Assume that he was proficient and well-trained with the heavy, dwarven-made mace at his side. Blunt strikes would take him out quickly. All he had to do was skirt him, strike first with shocking grasp or his icy breath; gold ancestry would make his heat metal spell useless…

"Are you alright, there?"

The sorcerer flicked his eyes back up to the other dragonborn. "You've found me a bit far in my drink. What do you want? I don't come here for the company."

The paladin settled down, filling the rest of the free space at the table. He settled his thickly roped arms on the table, leaning forward to speak softly. "You are the one called Tav, yes?"

"Sometimes," the white-scaled spellcaster said guardedly. "I've had a few names."

"I'm Sir Zarofas, of the Order of the Gauntlet. I understand you're in the market for a new job."

Tav arched his brow. "You can't throw a stick in any tavern along the Sword Coast without hitting a jumped-up sellsword or adventurer with something to prove. Why do you need me, in particular?"

"Because the adventurers I've hired before have either run from the job, gotten killed with extreme prejudice, or… joined up with the dangerous cult we've been targeting." The paladin explained. "You have a reputation for violence. My hope is your… appetite for blood will prevent you from falling short."

Tav smiled mirthlessly. He loved sensing fear from his opponents, but the paladin here would give him no such pleasure. Far too righteous and pious to merely fear; no, the paladin would only condescendingly judge him. "What makes this cult such a problem for the vaunted Order of the Gauntlet?"

"Cults of evil gods, that we can easily counter. They attract only the desperate, cowardly, and depraved— they make for undisciplined and overly zealous opponents. This cult isn't like that. It doesn't actually worship a god- or even a prophet. It worships, well, strength."

Tav arched his brow. "I'm sorry?"

"They worship the body and push to make it stronger. They're all obsessed with getting stronger, getting bigger— they make for dangerous opponents, and oddly alluring. We've lost a few promising recruits, and their leadership are corrupted Oath of Glory paladins." Sir Zarofas explained.

"Ah." The white dragonborn smirked, tapping his claw against the paladin's breastplate. "So this is about mopping up competition. Or punishing failed converts."

"They're dangerous. They've hurt people, stolen property, and they're only getting stronger. We believe this is all due to a stash of cursed Belts of Giant's Strength; all you need to do is ingratiate yourself to the cult, get one of their belts, and bring it back to me."

There was a subtle twitch in the white dragonborn's hand, and his smile widened. "And… collateral damage?"

Sir Zarofas gave him a straight look. "I would prefer there be no casualties, at least at this stage. But if you really can't sate your bloodlust, just get us the belt."

"I'll see what I can do, sir knight." Tav said with a florid gesture.

"There is a recruiter for the cult, an elf, that works out of an old arena near Protector's Enclave in Neverwinter. His name is Erildar— you'll know him when you see him." Sir Zarofas explained.

"Will I indeed? Well, if you say so— I should have your belt soon, paladin."

Neverwinter's Protector's Enclave was a district that sat on a hill, overlooking the rest of one of the great cities of the Sword Coast. Tav felt a sibilant whisper worm its way in his ear as he was jostled by the crowd; the next person to bump into him would get eviscerated, he swore it. The streets here would look far better with deep red splashed along the cobblestones…

He snarled, stopping himself, and clenching his fists. No— no, he had to push back against that. It was wearying to listen to all the dark thoughts in his head, and he tried hard to push them down. That's why he chose these missions. To get away, to see new sights, new sensations to dull this brooding voice inside him— to avoid putting down roots. Familiarity breeds contempt, so they say, and he didn't need any more contempt to push him over.

Huffing with frustration, he muscled his way towards the crumbling remains of a small arena that sat in the shadow of Protector's Enclave. There was a small group of people, and sure enough, Sir Zarofas had been absolutely right— the dragonborn spotted Erildar immediately.

He had never seen a specimen like this elf; he had more muscle on him than a minotaur, all of it hard and defined, as if carved from marble. The dragonborn's eyes widened in surprise; he wasn't expecting this, certainly. The elf had an annoyingly smug smile, flexing and curling his arm for a crowd of onlookers. He pumped his arm until his bicep inflated to the size of his head. He pumped up his chest next, bringing both his arms in to his sides and curling them, the engorged muscle jostling his pumped pecs, still holding that grating, toothy smile.

The dragonborn seethed watching him, like a performer at a carnival. Lasciviously flirting and flexing his muscles, breaking hunks of stone in twain as if it were a magic trick— Erildar had that annoyingly perfect blond hair so favored by elves that made his hand twitch; he would start ripping at those golden locks, and…

Tav frowned. He was so caught up in watching Erildar's display, he think he was beginning to enjoy it. There was an artistry to it, after all. The work that it must have taken to mold and sculpt the body— especially that of an elf's— to hold so much brawn, it was staggering. They made such pleasing shapes, too, limbs so robustly thick, the torso so wide and sprawling like a tapestry, legs like monumental columns… something stirred in the dragonborn. A new urge, a new voice, ringing in his ear. The dragonborn wanted to be like this freak of nature, commanding so much strength and awe.

He began pushing himself past the crowd of onlookers and admirers, making sure he was at the front, directly next to the elf. Erildar met his eye. "Well!" He said in a rich voice, eyeing Tav. "You seem very eager. Let me guess— overawed by the sight before you, you're thinking, 'could I ever be so strong, so singularly exceptional?'" Erildar curled his arm again, kissing the peak of his bicep. "Well— perhaps not quite as big as me, but you can be your best self if you join the Jaxians!"

The edge of the dragonborn's mouth twitched. Oh, he wanted to carve that smarmy smile off of this self-pleased slab of meat that claimed to be an elf… but he felt his flash of murderous anger dulled, as Erildar held out his hand. That smug, overly confident smile was a flashpoint of towering egotism, but there was no genuine malice or condescension. He almost seemed… friendly? The dragonborn and elf stood at eye level, but Erildar had a couple hundred pounds on Tav, it seemed, his broad shoulders and wing-like lats stretching out wider than the dragonborn's own brawny build by a significant margin. And again, he felt a tinge of wanting. His eyes also fell on the elf's waist, the ornate, heavy, and metal-plated belt he wore covering the lowest tier of his cobbled abs.

He grabbed Erildar's hand, grunting softly at the elf's iron-like grip. "I've never heard of these Jaxians."

"We're fairly new," Erildar grinned. "But we are training to be the strongest warriors in Faerun. If you want to push yourself to the absolute limit, forge yourself into something greater, we might consider taking you on."

"And do I pass muster for you?" the dragonborn asked, keeping his face straight.

Erildar looked him up and down, then nodded with a grin. "I pride myself on having a good judge of character. You have that hungry look in your eye… I think you could go far."

The scaled sorcerer smirked at the notion of a "hungry look," but nodded. "I think you might be right, friend."

The dragonborn began training alongside Erildar and three recruits immediately. The other three did not last long; two couldn't handle the intense physical activity after only a few days, and the other, well. Accidents happen, and Tav didn't like competition. He was the last one standing, and benefiting from Erildar's singular attention, he began to flourish.

The urges were dulled as he worked hard, lifting heavy weights, running laps, and enduring intensive magical effects. Erildar and another Jaxian, an imposing female half orc named Chala with no small talent for magic, would place him under a variety of spells in his training, making the air heavier, slowing time, putting more and more pressure on the dragonborn's body. It was grueling, at times painful, but the results were worth it.

Many dragonborns stood on the heavier and brawnier side of the mortal races in Faerun, and Tav had been no exception. He stood tall, broad-shouldered and strong— the build of an exceptional killer. But under Erildar, he began to see changes in himself that he could scarcely believe— sinewy muscles were on fire constantly, but dragons thrived in fire, after all. He grew bulkier and more powerful, muscles tensing and starting to bulge. His chest pushed against his well-worn robes, the lack of sleeves from the start leaving his arms room to breathe as they filled out. He was at time mesmerized by the change he had gone through; and the appreciation for that, the powerful muscle swelling, able to touch and feel that power bristling under his fingertips— that was enough to put the dark urges to rest.

The elf was nothing but supportive through Tav's transformation, slapping him on the back after an intense back exercise that left his lateral muscles tensed and brimming over the sides of his robes. "Hah! You have really stepped up to the challenge, my friend— I think you're ready for something more."

Tav, catching his breath, arched his brow as he looked to the brawny elf. "More?"

Erildar leaned in conspiratorially. "I think you can be trusted with a secret— and become a Jaxian officially."

Emotions stirred in Tav. More. That's what he wanted, and he was about to get it. "Oh? I'm honored."

Erildar gestured to his ornate belt. "Our leader is a goliath named Duril. On his adventures, he found an entire stash of these belts, that augment the wearer with great strength— but only those with the will and constitution to handle such strength are worthy. We only have two left, and I think you have proven yourself worthy."

"I'm sorry… Did you say his name was Duril?" Tav asked distantly. Everything was nearly drowned out. That name resonated in him like a clanging bell.

"Yes… you've heard of him?" Erildar asked.

Tav's eye twitched. Duril. He knew who Duril was, alright. He was competition. He was an enemy. He was born under a skull-faced god with blood-red eyes, spawned by murder. He was family. He was a traitor. He needed to die. "Yes."

The elf grinned, apparently not noticing anything wrong with his protege. "Well! Then you'll know what a gift this will be. You'll come, then? We meet in the ruins of Old Castle Never, tonight."

Tav swallowed the bubbling up of his dark urge. He was gripping an iron bar hard enough his fingers began to dent it, a sign of his invigorated strength, and towering, murderous rage. "Don't worry. I'll be there."

Tav was pacing, restless and anxious energy bubbling up as he flexed his claws, tensed his burgeoning arms, and nearly lunged for some of the furniture in the room he had been renting in Neverwinter. He burst a glass in his hand without flinching— and that's when Sir Zarofas discreetly entered.

"Are you quite alright?" the paladin asked. He balked a bit, keeping his distance— the difference in size between him and the white dragonborn had whittled down significantly. In fact, Tav might be a mite bit larger.

"Never better." Tav growled, forcing down the bloodlust and turning on his heel. He stood shirtless before the paladin, revealing the finely cut and sculpted mass of his torso. "Paladin." He nodded.

Sir Zarofas nodded. "What've you learned?"

"You were right about the belts. I've been offered one— the Jaxian leader, he's a goliath named Duril." He smiled toothily. "I'll be only too happy to dispatch him for you."

The paladin held up a hand. "No, we need him alive. Bring me the belt and Duril, and you'll be richly rewarded by the Order."

"Why do you need Duril? Do you have any idea the things he's done?"

"Which is why we need him alive. He's killed members of our order, but we have questions that need answering," the paladin replied.

The white dragonborn's lip twitched again, but he waved off the urge bubbling up. "Fine. He'll be alive— more or less."

"That doesn't engender confidence." Sir Zarofas replied.

"No? It does for me."

The ruins of Old Castle Never sat outside the new stout walls of Neverwinter, a half-buried collection of skeletal arches and columns, choked with vines. Tav's keen senses alerted him to a group of about a dozen, the smell of a crackling fire, the oil Erildar used to make his muscles shine when he was feeling particularly vain, and a dozen others— the rest of the Jaxians.

The dragonborn made his presence known. He spotted Erildar quickly, alongside the half-orc Chala. The others were what he had come to expect; scantily clad, musclebound juggernauts, all wearing the same belt, with slight variation in design. Some were studded with gemstones, others different metals, indicating a change in potency. The smallest among them was still more powerfully built than himself— a halfling wider than he was tall. Looming over them all, however, like the highest peak of an imposing mountain range, was Duril.

The enormous goliath was a stony-skinned mass of muscle, adorned with dark tattoos and scars. Duril had grown powerful since Tav had seen him last; his arm alone was thick around as the dragonborn's waist, bicep large than his head, his enormous torso like the immense castle bastions that once held up Castle Never. The goliath wore a face-concealing mask, but he caught those glowing amber eyes, recognizing them anywhere.

"Duril." Tav growled, and the Goliaths' eyes turned on him.

Erildar glanced between them. "You knew of Master Duril, Tav?"

The goliath glanced, turning his bull neck. "Tav? This is Tav?" he rumbled

The white dragonborn bared his fangs in a hungry smile. "Apologies, Erildar. Master Duril knows me by a different name— The Dark Urge."

Duril sucked in his breath, leveling a glare at the dragonborn. "We're like family."

Erildar narrowed his eyes. "What? A dragonborn and goliath? How does that happen?"

"A long story." The dragonborn hissed. "Well, Duril— you've done very well for yourself, I will admit. Here I am— here to join your merry band. I've worked hard," he said, thumping his deep chest and tensing his arms. Even if he was only a portion of Duril's size, he already had five plans on how to end him. "Will you deny me?"

Duril growled. "I will give you the test— same as the others. Step forward."

The Dark Urge stepped forward, waiting for Duril to make the first move. Duril whispered something he didn't catch to Chala, and the half-orc brought out two belts.

"These belts are the last two to hand out— one is the least potent but safe, the other, the curse ebbing through it is nigh-impossible to overcome. A smart man would be able to tell the right one— a true Jaxian would be able to beat any curse, however." Duril explained.

Ah, so that was how it was going to be. The dragonborn could see it; either he would be insurmountably weaker than Duril, and thus easily to dispose of, or, the curse would be so heinous it would kill him off. His eyes flicked up to Duril. "I must choose one of these belts? Any I prefer?"

"Correct." Duril nodded.

The dragonborn thought hard. Duril wasn't the cleverest of their family; he had set the parameters, and there seemed to be an easy loophole. He also knew that Duril always kept the best toys for himself. "Very well." He raised his finger, pointing directly at the goliath. "I choose yours."

The other Jaxians were watching carefully, many of them backing up instinctively; even Erildar could sense a fight was coming. Duril laughed mirthlessly. "Wrong choice. You'll have to come and get it, Dark Urge."

"I intend to." The white-scaled fiend struck first, alighting his fist in flame and hitting Duril directly in his left knee— he knew he was weak there, from personal experience. The goliath grunted and lunged for the dragonborn; he knew beyond a brief rush of pain, that strike would do little— but he wasn't looking to damage Duril, not yet.

Sidestepping the avalanche of stone-like muscle, the dragonborn slung an arrow of sickly green acid at Duril, leaving a scorch mark where the toxic acid singed his skin. Again, it wasn't enough to wound him— but it did throw him off balance. Tav leapt on the goliath's back, his arms holding on to as much of the goliath's sprawling lats as he could, trying to pry the belt loose. He held on as Duril thrashed about, trying to reach him— he was slammed against the wall with as much force as the goliath could muster. Thankfully, Tav's training under Erildar kept his endurance up. Finally, his claws found purchase, and pried the belt loose.

"No!" Duril roared as he felt the belt slip off. He lunged for Tav, but the dragonborn was still too dextrous, casting Misty Step to leap back far away from the brute. He latched the belt around him, and then gasped. The effects were instantaneous; the dragonborn lurched forward as he felt a flood of power overwhelm his body. Burgeoning muscles tightened and tensed, the fibrous tendons of muscle rippling under his scales.

"No, no, no! Give that back!" Duril roared. The goliath shuddered, shrinking and diminishing by the second as he rushed after Dark Urge. Even without the belt, he was still a towering juggernaut— he latched on to the belt, and ordinarily, it wouldn't be a problem for him to rip it free— but this was no longer an ordinary situation.

"Make me, little man," Tav growled, his hand clamping on Duril's head. He pushed him back with ease, a tricep the size of an anvil pumping and pushing back with the force of a battering ram. His pecs surged like a shield wall pushing into battle. His back muscles flared out like a vast, snowy plain, his robes falling to tatters. The rush of power was ecstatic to him; he felt his legs unfurl, thighs thick as wine casks as he widened his stance, every part of him stirring to life. "Ah! Yes, this… this is what I've been waiting for," he rumbled low.

"I understand now, Duril, I really do." The dragonborn pushed Duril back, tripping the goliath on his back. "The Jaxians push for the better— bigger and stronger, more powerful. Chasing this rush— it's intoxicating." He growled, curling his arm as his bicep inflated to a pleasingly huge marble boulder. He smiled, planting a foot atop Duril, the goliath scrambling but failing to escape the dragonborn's reach.

He could end Duril, right here, right now… but then, he looked up to the rest of the Jaxians. None of them had interfered in the fight— and not because of cowardice. They were watching with intent, waiting to see what would happen next…

The dragonborn laughed. He had them. Pumping his mammoth arms for them all to see, he let out an adrenaline-fuelled war cry. "Jaxians! You may have started your journey for ever-increasing strength and power with these belts Duril found for you— but look at him now. Without these belts, you would still back where you were before. But I have a solution— if you want to keep growing, there are other means, and if you stick with me, follow my lead— we'll find them together. Who's with me?"

The Dark Urge basked in the roaring cheer that followed as he flexed and posed for his new followers— the voice in his head was quiet, satisfied at last— but he was just getting started.