#Hellfire Citadel

[findmeinshattrath]

We know that some of the Fel Orcs in BC were mag'har who were captured and transformed by force in Hellfire Citadel. That tells me that there are probably at least some Fel Orcs who could have joined back up with the Horde after the Fel Horde was defeated, maybe in hopes of figuring out how to undo the transformation.

[bewaretheblueskies]

This is just a tag test so I can establish consistent tags for all of the stories/universes I’ll be talking about here it’s. Going to be a text wall I’m so sorry

Believe it or not there are more stories I haven’t tagged but I highly doubt I’ll be bringing any of them up so. They’ll get a tag if they need them. Stuff I didn’t tag is mostly Doomsville side stories but also The Thing Which Should Not Be which is a whole other can of worms both because it contains two rapidly mutating universes running simultaneously and also because I’m not the only person working on it so. That’s a story for another day

[feniksido]

For some reason my post about the Heist in the Hells has been getting some traction recently so I thought maybe it's time to talk about my actual thoughts on what I would like to see in the hypothetical Heist in the Hells DLC (my personal hell)

I was trying to figure out a whole bunch of stuff about Mephistopheles and the 8th layer of the hells! First, the vaults are in Mephistar, a citadel on top of a Glacier named Nargus, which is piloted by Mephisto all over Cania constantly on the move. Mephisto has his slowly melting throne at the very center of the glacier, and the rest of the city is like a mini-hell with 3 terraced levels where the lowest level is with “lowly least devils” and mid tier for mid devils i guess and then hellfire masters and nobles and the wizards on the third higher levels. It’s heated on the inside of Mephistar! It has baths and scented fires (not sure what they smell like but I assume something other than fire?)

The rest of Cania is just like barren wasteland full of just the weirdest left over arcane energy cus of Mephisto’s experimentation, its cold as fuck and it has constant surveillance against spies, mostly spies sent by Dispater, mr THE Arms Dealer of all the planes, so you know that motherfucker mephistopheles is very used to these types of people showing up and trying to go into the vaults and such

NOW Helsik very specifically used the words “I punched a portal into the Archdevil’s dusty vaults”, so I assume it was directly into the vaults that they fell into. I'm not sure how this is even possible but i'm not one to ask questions that i will never understand the answers to (lying, im seething) 

However, regardless of the fact that I don't know how Helsik the queen that she is did that, she did do it. I imagine the vaults are huge and incredibly elaborate and probably several stories? Layers? Deep. The items and scrolls and information must all be neatly cataloged and kept track of in the most particular way because Mephistopheles is nothing if not obsessively controlling of all his knowledge and information

However the whereabouts of the actual physical objects must be like.. Constantly changing or magically protected so that those with no authorization cannot find their way through the vaults

Mephistopheles’s filing system is… insane but i do think he would keep track. Or make someone else keep track. He’s very busy. He typically hands down experiments he ran out of time to deal with in his busy schedule to his lessers so I wouldn't put it past him to have someone else also take care of the cataloging. The Crown of Karsus is NOT high on his priority list so i understand how this was potentially feasible to Gortash and The Dark Urge

Actually Talking about the heist itself now: 

I imagine that if a whole heist dlc (don't think we’re getting one but a man can dream) did happen it would start with a bit of exposition. Probably explaining a little bit of the Letters between Durge and Gortash. Specifically these ones:

Then we cut to a scene where they’re already at Helsik’s place. They’ve discussed the plans in depth, they’ve been doing test runs for this in the House of Hope and now it’s time for the real deal. 

Helsik “punches” the portal into the Vaults and they jump in. The portal closes behind them, Helsik will not allow herself to be implicated in anything. They take in their surroundings; they have to be quick, although it is heated inside of Mephistar the frigidness of Cania cuts deeper than anything Baldur’s Gate could ever manage. I imagine that they, having never been here before, look for something that can help them navigate/orient themselves in the vaults. Perhaps that whole cataloging system I talked about earlier. You can choose to ignore it and just go straight forwards checking every room making it substantially harder and less efficient which makes Gortash a little pissy at you for not taking his advice and helping him look for that or you can look around for one but the actual system for cataloging is encrypted 

Maybe a mini puzzle game can take place here, like the one with the brain in Moonrise Towers 

The thingy would then lead deeper into vaults where they would fight Gelugons (the main residents of the 8th layer also known as ice devils) and other assorted devils including pit fiends and pain devils. Maybe a couple dire polar bears also who knows who Mephisto but on his security team

At one point i want to come across an ice devil that much like Yurgir in the house of hope in act 3, can be convinced to side with you and become a temporary ally (perhaps it holds resentment towards Hutijin, mephistopheles’ second in command, and just got sick and tired of the monotony and wants to stick it to the man, i just want a devil in my party even for a second) 

If you manage to successfully persuade this devil to join you, Gortash might be impressed and tell you about how tricking a devil is no easy feat, you can ask him to elaborate on that and he might tell you a bit about his time in the house of hope as Raphael’s unwilling guest Who knows

Moving on, I’d like several more puzzles to delve deeper into the vaults, some that lead nowhere some that lead exactly where you need to go, if you did the earlier puzzle Gortash will be able to guide you and say which ones lead nowhere and which ones are the ones you need to do 

Eventually I want a mechanically engineered door to be the next hurdle which Gortash takes upon himself to solve on his own since he’s more well suited towards this kind of thing, during this, rounds and rounds of incoming security swarm around you both, and Durge has to defend Gortash while he works on getting the door open. Much like the quest for Halsin looking for Thaniel in the Shadowfell, you gotta keep the portal open but instead of “keep the portal open” its “keep Gortash alive and not distracted”

When the rounds of enemies are done you get a little cutscene where you see Durge being overwhelmed by the many devils and it cuts to Gortash who has just opened the door and he takes less than a second’s pause before he decides that instead of going through the door and escaping to relative safety on his own, leaving durge to die he helps durge and they are both able to get through the door sealing it behind them, now in relative safety, they both take a second to breathe 

You as durge now can talk to Gortash and have the dialogue options to say Thank you, scold him for dragging you away from the bloody slaughter, or question his decision to come back for you

I THINK IN MY MIND that the response for all these options would basically be the same, because Gortash is a well practiced speaker and knows exactly what to say but his body language would sort of give him away for the way he’s feeling about the option you choose 

Thanking him would lead to a more defensive “pushing away” way of saying “I still require your assistance, we’re not done. Don’t expect it to happen again.” tsundere ass but like imagine that but better written 

Scolding him would get a sorta like “I cant fucking believe this” as if he expected durge to be a little more practical about things and not lose focus in the madness that was that slaughter and rampage, like i said still the same but just “Argh! I still require your assistance! We are NOT done. DO NOT expect it to happen again if you intend to act this way.” He needs you to focus, not lose yourself in blood

Questioning and challenging his decision but not outright saying you disapprove would probably be playing right into the whole “equals who challenge each other” thing that he likes to do so it’d probably make him slow down, talk slower, make him really think about why he did it and do the thing where while talking he can't look at Durge in the eyes so he looks off to the side or down at the floor “I still need your help. We’re nowhere near done. Let’s not expect this to happen again, yes?” Like acknowledging that yes that was in fact weakness that neither of their masters tolerate (because obviously the correct thing a baneite would have done is let the bhaalspawn die so that he alone already so close to the crown could take it for himself) and almost regretful that he didn't have a better excuse

You continue forward and finally come into the room with the Crown of Karsus and the portfolio labeled “Accelerated Grand Design”, there they encounter a boss fight, probably not mephisto himself cus they’d be dead tbh but maybe a simulacrum or something idk here things get a bit dicey for me cus what the fuck! How do they get out? I thought maybe they do the fight and once they grab everything they need or want they maybe have an enhanced cloak of dimension door or maybe a scroll of teleportation or something to get them out of the deep deep VAULTS themselves and into a place where they can “safely” create another circle on this side with the components and specific instructions Helsik gave them 

They’d arrive home back in Baldur’s Gate and celebrate their victory briefly and bada bing bada boom the dlc is over. If i had it my way at the end right there those two idiot geniuses would get so horny from the powerrush and bloodlust they just experienced that they end the dlc with durgetash fucking nasty 

[sky-kiss]

Say You're Mine for the Ages

A/N: This is…essentially spoilers for my longfic lol. But it could change by the time I get there. Also, all those kinks I said were gonna be in this? They ain’t. Naw. I’m in corpo hell this week. There is no sexiness in corpo hell. 18+, named D!urge. All that.

You can also read it here if you prefer.

R/T: Say You're Mine for the Ages (18+ ish)

Silence. 

Silence. 

At the end of all things, in the wash of blood and madness, all was still and silent. Raphael wondered if it wasn’t some trick—perhaps he’d gone deaf. The rustle of fabric as Baalphegor crossed the caldera promised he had not. She cut a striking image against Cania’s monochrome terrain—cinnamon and ash—as she crossed to Mephistopheles’ corpse. 

The poets liked to speak of the emptiness of such victories—vengeance would leave one hollow, they said. Raphael felt anything but—the Fiend howled in his head, some great beast adding its song to the Archduke’s more flowery exultations. Won, he’d won. Mephistopheles dead, the Lord of Murder dead. Bhaal’s essence…

…Bhaal’s essence. It tasted like blood; it felt like raw power. It was standing at the eyes of the storm, feeling the winds tear at you, and laughing. The power of true divinity—his.

Theirs, he corrected, a shiver chasing along his spine. Where was the irritation the thought should have elicited? Where was the fury? The emptiness, the loneliness, the rage, as he clawed ever upwards? 

Silence, Raphael thought, closing his eyes. All was silent.

The Archduke felt his Duchess as she crossed to him—like strings of power or flesh, sowing parts of her to him, shared tissue, shared power. There was a resonance—divinity her sire imbued to her by virtue of birth and the mated essence he’d stolen. 

“Look,” she breathed. Joi lifted her hand to his temple, tracking downwards along his cheek and the trickle of blood. His Duchess stared, searching his face as if seeing him for the first time. Her free hand curled behind his neck. “Look at you.” 

Raphael traced her lower lip. “Name me—you have earned the honor. Be the first.” 

“Raphael,” she murmured, stroking his face. Her eyes burned—green like envy, flecked with gold—his queen, the joining point of so many sins. Her voice was low, her words a hymn. “Archduke of Avernus, Lord of Ambition—a god.” He shivered, kissing her—this thing, this goddess, this other half of his divine essence—drowned in the taste of her and the rush, completed…whole. Her fingers threaded through his hair, inhaling the air he breathed into her lungs. His Joi spoke against his lips. “My god.” 

~~~~~~~~~~

The silence broke. 

There was only noise in the aftermath—Mephistar's citadel and its halls, all full of music and laughter. Lords and Ladies from each of the Infernal Courts rotated around him, offering their praise. False praise, yes—every smile was the edge of a blade pressed to his back—but why should that matter? The devils no longer looked upon him with disdain. They stared with jealousy. 

And Asmodeus offered a new title—the son of Hellfire's birthright.

"Hail, Raphael," the Dark Prince said, voice dark. He held his goblet high, dark hair hanging loose over his shoulders, handsome like roaring thunder. "Archduke of Cania, Prince of the Eighth, Lord of Ambition." Raphael sat up straight, jaw squared. A feast hall of Dukes and Duchesses, all eyes fixated upon him. Asmodeus sat at the head of the table, Lady Baalphegor on his left. And the place of honor? His. The Lord of the Nine's eyes glittered like rubies. "Hail Raphael—Right Hand of Asmodeus."

They cheered for him—hated him, this half-blooded bastard who had moved so far beyond every devil assembled. Raphael bowed his head and held up his goblet. 

His Sire's throne, realm, title—everything belonged to Raphael. Mephistopheles' name would fade to nothing, and there would be only Raphael.

Blood thundered in his ears. The words rose to his tongue, heady and well-practiced. The devil might even have meant them, as magnanimous as he felt. Raphael stood, bowing his head. "Hail Asmodeus, Lord of the Ninth—the Shield of Law, a wall against the Abyss and her chaos. Without him," he flicked his gaze from the Lord to the Lady Baalphegor, beautiful, seeing too much. She tipped her head to him, hiding a smirk in her wine. "The tide would wash over us, one and all."

The corner of Asmodeus' lips ticked up. Ah, clever boy, it said. 

The Lady of Murder shifted beside him, eyes dark, smiling as he took his seat. Joi slipped her hand into his, touch settling on his upper thigh. Heat radiated from her skin, through the robes, licking outwards���she squeezed. 

The conversation turned towards more neutral ground: the Blood War, Raphael's plans for Cania, if he would continue his Sire's experiments—banal. 

Joi's touch strayed upward.

Why should they be denied? 

~~~~~~~~~~

How many centuries had he spent wandering Mephistar’s halls? 

It was a tale for the poets: the cambion child, alone, his Sire’s eyes upon his every move, and pureblooded devils waiting for the slightest misstep. 

He had outlasted and surpassed them, one and all. Cania and Mephistar were his, and he intended to stake his claim well and truly. He would contact the Ice Devils, and he would…

…would…

It’s difficult to think. 

There’s a savagery to his divinity, worse when she’s near. The threads binding them together drew taut, as if she’d yanked them, pinned the strands beneath her heel to keep him close. Raphael tipped his head back to make room for the press of her lips and chuckled. Joi’s teeth scraped across his pulse, sucking a vibrant purple bruise on his throat, more stark against his red skin.

“They want you dead,” she murmured—but with the Lady of Murder, this was far from a warning. She radiated pride and adoration, and her touch spoke to reverence. 

"It is the way of the Hells." He fisted a hand in her braid, tugging hard enough to create space between them and force her to look at him. Joi smiled, and the relative sweetness of her expression belied the underlying hunger coiled between them. He traced her cheek. "Greedy little beast—you want them to try." He nipped at the tip of her nose, avoiding the press of her lips. "Try to kill me." 

"Try being the operative word, my love—I'd never let them get far." 

Raphael clutched her throat, dragging his lips up and across her forehead. "Tell us why."

He knew the answer: to kill for him—to defend what belonged to her. Greedy, he thought again, but not unkindly. Joi's right hand found Raphael's—she brought it to her lips, kissing the back of his knuckles. Such a tangle of limbs, so tightly entwined but still…lacking. 

Age had a way of putting carnal appetites into perspective. The satisfaction of owning or conquering flesh paled in comparison to a kingdom. It could not compare to power. The needs of another would never compare to his own. 

But his Duchess was power, not a foreign entity but an extension of himself, twinned, mated. 

He could want her—it was no different from pleasuring himself. 

Raphael squeezed. "Answer."

 "Because," she breathed. "You are mine—I protect what is mine." 

~~~~~~~~~~

Mine—growled into the flesh of her inner thigh. The devil dragged his teeth across the sensitive flesh, biting hard enough to draw blood. Raphael sat back, admiring the ruin of his Duchess—sweat-slick, skin painted with an amalgamation of blood and her arousal. He dragged his thumb through the worst of it, painting ragged lines of crimson up to the apex of her thigh. She sighed, spreading her legs—beautiful. The Lady of Murder remained so lovely, fangs flecked with blood. 

His blood, hers—did it matter? He thought not. 

“Ah, but look at you,” he purred, voice pitched low, like every bad idea, every promise made in the darkest stretches of the night. Some sick thrill chased along his spine as he watched the muscles in her stomach flesh, her pulse leaping as he sunk his fingers back into her spent body. If he closed his eyes, the world would take some dizzying turn. His Duchess cried out, hooking her right leg around him to draw him close. 

Soon, so soon, but he wanted to revel in this final indignity against his Sire. Mephistopheles’ private chambers were alive with sound—the new Duchess of Cania, voice pitched in praise to Raphael, reaching for him, worshiping him. She came apart around his touch, shuddering, arching, tail thrashing until he twined his with hers. 

How delightful, how delicious to have such a creature so securely bound to his will. 

Joi pushed up on her elbows, shaking, crooking a finger at him. “Come,” she ordered. 

And he smirked, leaning over her, shifting his weight to rest more comfortably in the cradle of her thighs. She sighed, reaching between them to find his length, leading him—he seats himself so easily. As if she’s made for him, molded, and that gratifies his pride more than he’d care to admit. “And who are you to order me?”

They knew the answer too well, their shared divinity twisting and tugging—rapture every moment he sank into her, screaming fury every time he pulled away. Together, one, for the first time since their victory in Gehenna. 

“Your Duchess, your goddess…” she sank her teeth into the flesh of his shoulder, panting, whining, canting her hips to take him deeper. He should cut out her tongue for her impudence. Tear out her eyes for staring at him so sweetly. So many things, all so far off. “Beautiful Raphael—my love.” 

 Hers, greedy beast, the truth of her claim written in the lines scored down his back. Hers, the sentiment underpinning every heresy she breathed in his ear—their churches would grow great. They would push into the Abyss. They would remake it in their image. 

They would shape eternity. 

So let it be done. So decreed Raphael, Lord of the Eighth, God of Ambition, Right Hand of Asmodeus. 

[dragonologist-writings]

Title: Burn Clean Fandom: Pathfinder: Wrath of the Righteous Rating: M Status: One-Shot Main Characters: Queen Galfrey, Knight-Commander Lilith de Marc Ships: One-Sided Galfrey/Lilith Additional Notes: Angst, Manipulation, Devil Mythic Path & Galfrey Corruption, Character Death, Canon-Typical Themes Word Count: 5.2k Summary:

How could you go so far? How could you let this happen? How could you- our queen, our icon, our picture of golden perfection- sell your soul?

read below or here on ao3

How could you?

That is the question you’re left with, when all is said and done. It is the cry you hear from those few paladins who linger in Mendev, as they wail and clutch their useless holy symbols to their chests. It is the accusation Irahai flings at you, when you meet again in Nerosyan and all the lies she’s used to comfort herself can no longer be believed. It is the last wordless plea you see in Laya’s eyes, the one that plays in your mind over and over again, however much you try to forget.

How could you go so far?

How could you let this happen?

How could you- our queen, our icon, our picture of golden perfection- sell your soul?

You hate the question. You’ve always hated how these people think they can know you, how they have granted themselves the right to judge. As if they have answers. As if carrying the weight of the world is something easily done. As if a soul is something pure and whole that can be handed away yet never damaged.

The truth is this: yes, you did sell your soul. But that was hardly the moment your soul was lost to you.

No, that happened long before the contract, long before pen met paper. And it did not happen all at once, in some swooping, dramatic moment worthy of being put to the stage.

No. It happened slowly.

Piece by broken piece.

You feel the beginnings of loss after the Battle of Iz. The expedition was a success…but the success was not yours. It was the Knight-Commander who emerged victorious, after coming to your rescue and besting Deskari and once more securing the Sword of Valor. It was her name the people chanted upon the army’s return.

It is her voice that cuts through your thoughts as you stand on the citadel balcony, looking out over the city.

“You’ve been out here a while,” she says, with a faint note of disapproval- but then, she always sounds like that, unwavering and cold and revealing just enough emotion to let you know she considers you beneath her. It’s one of the many, many traits of Lilith de Marc which has always caused you grief.

Lilith’s eyes are still on you; you can feel her gaze, piercing as ever, even after the transformation of her mythic powers. Perhaps some trace of the Aeon still remains, buried beneath her devilry and hellfire.

“It has been a long few days,” you say, and you wish your own voice were not as weary as it is. “I am reflecting.”

“You’re brooding.”

You close your eyes. Take a deep breath. She is right, you know this. For all your flaws, you do know when you have been wrong. You know when you have been unfair. You know that she has every right to harbor a grudge, a right which you simply do not share.

“…I suppose I am. I apologize, I should not be so…despondent. It is not good for morale.” Another deep breath, but you cannot keep the bitterness from slipping through. “I should be lifting people’s spirits, not worsening the gloom. Heaven knows they’ve lost enough faith after the defeats we have suffered.”

“I believe you mean the defeats you have suffered. The people still have plenty of faith in me…or they did, before you exiled me to the Abyss.”

Your eyes snap open and you whirl on her without thinking. But your indignation catches in your throat when you meet her eyes- sharp and judgmental, just as you expected, but also flecked with gold from some inner fire. The gold is mirrored in her veins, visibly shining through her porcelain skin, lit by the telltale aasimar glow. Her burnt-red hair is long and loose, and she wears simple dark robes.

When she spoke to the people of the city, she’d done so in her Devil form; now, she forgoes those mythic trappings to stand before you in her mortal guise. It is the first time she has made such a gesture, and you do not know what to make of it.

Your surprise has smothered your anger, and without it you cannot deny the truth of her words. “That was a mistake. Yet another mistake. I made the wrong decision. I admit it. What more can I do?”

It is a demand made in frustration, yet Lilith takes it as seriously as she does everything else. Her lips press together as she thinks, and you wonder what she sees when she scrutinizes you so. You quickly decide it is better not to know.

Finally, she sighs and approaches to stand at your side; the scent of smoke thickens the air.

“You could be less eager to expose your own faults,” she says coolly. “A ruler should exude strength. You betray your own doubts far too easily.”

“You yourself called me arrogant not one day ago.”

“And I was correct then, too. Arrogance is not the equivalent of confidence, and in attempting to correct yourself you have become insecure in a manner not befitting a leader of anything. The Crusaders have lost faith in you, Your Majesty. Cease your moaning and reclaim it. Remind them that you are their Queen.”

Conflicting reactions whirl inside you, all fighting to be acknowledged: anger, grief, blame, guilt. In the end, you are simply tired, and you know there is no use in hiding it. “Such things are more easily said than done.”

Lilith steps closer, the gold in her veins flashing brightly. “Allow me to aid you, then.”

You cannot help the disbelieving laugh which falls from your lips. “You? Why?”

She does not flinch in the face of your skepticism. “We are not friends, you and I. But we are, unfortunately, allies. If I could win this war alone, I would…but I cannot. Without a strong hand to guide it, this Crusade will fail.” Her voice hardens; her eyes practically glow. “And I do not allow failure.”

She regards you again, her chin tilted high, and you find yourself wishing you could exude such certainty. You did once, you are certain; but lately such a feeling has been impossible to grasp.

That is why all this happened, isn’t it? Your insecurity, your jealousy. You. The icon who slipped from her pedestal and almost lost everything in the panicked scramble that followed.

So when Lilith leans in and whispers, “Let me help you,” you do not deny her.

She tells you her plan: a hunting party, a trapped demon, a victory. A small win, but one which could easily be maneuvered to buoy the sinking morale of the Crusaders. Not a lie, of course, she says when you protest. A persuasion. An opportunity, one which Mendev desperately needs and which you cannot afford to set aside. And then, at the end of it all, a renewal of the Knight-Commander’s declaration of fealty to Mendev and her Queen.

It is a convenient offer. Too convenient, and you are not a fool. You do not trust Lilith. You never have.

But you realize now that you trust yourself even less.

“Very well,” you say, despite the doubt which sits like lead in your stomach. “We shall put this plan into motion.”

And the first piece of your soul cracks away.

The cracks continue to spread. Every time you push away your questions, every time you wrestle with your conscience, every time you tell yourself this deception must be made: another chip, another chink, another tiny piece lost.

And it is a deception, no matter what Lilith says. As you approach the demon’s lair, you do not feel like a Queen or a Paladin on a noble quest; you feel like an actor on a stage.

But it is too late to turn back now.

You feel your new squire’s eyes on you as you ride, so different from Lilith’s probing gaze. Laya Linkers reminds you of yourself, so many decades ago- young and brave and idealistic.

And alone. Her family has all fallen to demons, and she is now the last of the Linkers line. She has been in your service since Iz, where she proved herself a formidable knight and indomitable spirit.

You wish to do right by her. She deserves the kind of queen Lilith speaks of, one who is strong and certain of her path. So you continue to ignore the whispers of doubt playing in your mind, and you charge with sword drawn into the demon’s cave.

You are not prepared for what you find.

The demon has your Crusaders- your people. Their screams echo off the walls, their blood colors the floor. Disbelief screams inside your head- how did this happen, how many, how long, how- but there is no time for that as the demon attacks.

The battle is a flurry, a slaughter, a mistake. It is Iz all over again, down to the moment when your endurance falters, your weapon slips, and you watch the demon’s killing blow descend.

In Iz, there had been some strange solace in the moment. If you’d died then, at least you would have died a martyr, doing something you believed in. To die here, in this desperate farce…

The last thing you feel is shame.

And then: relief. A blast of fire overtakes your vision, aimed not at you but at your attacker. Cheers rise from your soldiers as suddenly Lilith is standing in front of you, the demon lying dead behind her. Reinforcements have arrived to flank the target, and this is just what the two of you had planned, and yet…

Lilith takes your arm and pulls you to her feet, hellfire burning in her eyes. As always, the smell of smoke hangs around her, clouding your head.

“What happened to you?” she demands.

Your stomach sinks. Your chest aches. You cannot answer. Never did you imagine that the plan you two concocted would end in the bodies that surround you now.

“What did you do?” You ask hoarsely, and Lilith’s grip tightens.

“Are you to blame this on me, then?” She hisses. “I did as we agreed. Tell me- does the fault belong to me, or to the one who attacked before the time was right?”

The heat on your arm increases, Lilith’s fingers warming like embers against your skin. In a low voice, she warns, “Do not repeat the mistakes of Midnight Fane, Your Majesty.”

Laya raises her voice in protest, but you hold up your hand to silence her. You are still reeling; the destruction around you makes it difficult to think straight. How did this go so wrong?

You cannot look Lilith in the eyes. You don’t notice when she releases your arm, but you do hear her voice when she calls out to the soldiers.

At this point, you expect nothing more than her final coup; the revelation that this was all some trap of her design, the final move on her chessboard as she wrests control away from you for good. Yet you find yourself unable to move as you wait for her treachery to reveal itself.

“Sacrifices were made today,” she declares loudly. She turns to you, her intentions unreadable. “Yet…we emerged victorious under the leadership of our Queen.”

And then Lilith kneels. She recites the oath, just as planned, and despite all that has happened gratitude and relief threaten to overwhelm you.

Soldiers behind you grumble. One shouts out, indignant, and relief turns to fury because you know they are right. Lilith led them to victory; you have only ever led them to their deaths. But you are still their Queen, and you cannot let what happened here have been for nothing. You turn to face the seditious knights but the shouts do not cease, not until-

“Enough.”

Lilith barely raises her voice, but the discontent quiets in an instant.

You are shaking. From anger or fear or humiliation- you cannot tell. Lilith moves to your side but you move away, biting out, “At least they listen to one of us. Linkers, collect the bodies of the fallen. We are leaving.”

Something in your chest breaks, just a little bit more.

Amid the new cracks and fractures, resentment creeps in.

You try not to allow it. Resentment is what got you into this mess, back when you used Lilith’s mission in the Abyss as a convenient excuse to eliminate what you knew to be a threat. You lost your footing upon your own shaky ground and that was nobody’s fault but your own. You have admitted as much time and time and time again.

But it is not Lilith at whom your ire now directs itself. You still do not trust her, but she did as she said she would and played her part. When you ask her about it after, she just gives you that inscrutable look of hers and says, as if it were obvious, “I said I would renew my vow of fealty, did I not?”

You still don’t understand, and she sighs, frustrated. “Say what you want of Devils, but we do keep to our promises.”

So, no- odd as it may seem, it is not Lilith whom you feel betrayed by.

It is your own people.

It started as the dissatisfied grumblings of those who’d witnessed the failure of your mission. They call you callous, as if you could have foreseen the lives that would be lost. They call you a tyrant, as if you had forced Lilith to bend her knee. They call you even worse, you are certain of it, even if the darkest whisperings are kept away from reports and the ears of your generals. You can see the truth of it in the looks of disdain and accusation thrown your way when you walk by the barracks.

Even Laya, that young, brave, idealistic girl…even she doubts you. She stays by your side and speaks in your favor, but she is no good at deceit, and there are times when she falters, when she hesitates to carry out your orders, when she looks away too quickly from your gaze. If these rumors have poisoned even her opinion of you, what hope do you have of swaying others?

“You do not need to sway them,” Lilith says when you confide these thoughts to her. “You need to nip this treason in the bud.”

“And how do you suggest I do that?” you snap back, but of course she has a ready answer.

“Arrest them. What else? So long as you leave them free, they will continue to spread their dissent. We have dungeons in Drezen for this very reason, so use them.”

It does not feel how you expected, to hear her say this. To let her give voice to your harsher impulses. To listen to her simple, straightforward solution and note how she shows not the slightest hint of shame or remorse.

You would think yourself capable of dismay. In reality, you find solace in her venom.

Even so… “They are not truly treasonous. It is only words. And how much more a tyrant would I look if I simply arrested whomever I please?”

“They are Crusaders who have sworn themselves to you. By sowing such discord, they have broken their vows. What is treason, if not that?” She shrugs, the motion sending ripples through her burnt-red hair. “Those who keep their faith are rewarded. Those who do not are punished. Is this not your creed?”

She truly is difficult to argue with, and you find it all too easy to loosen the grip on your exhausting nobility and agree. You still do not trust her…but you want to, and that is just as dangerous.

Once you give the orders, you are left with a gnawing guilt…but also an unanticipated satisfaction. You have attempted restraint, and that has clearly never worked. But you are a queen, and perhaps Lilith has a point.

For all of your very long life, you have always prioritized the duty you owe to Mendev. Perhaps it is time to remind the people of what they owe to you.

If you feel yourself suffer another crack, then at least it is not a painful one.

In the midst of it all, you start spending more time with Lilith. You can’t say why, but it’s suddenly easier with her than with others. She’s still playing her own game, but at least you know that about her- with the others, you can never be sure, and the second-guessing is wearing on your damaged soul.

So you keep your distance from those who would trap you with their questions and their criticisms, and you fall deeper into Lilith’s gravity. The two of you discuss diplomacy, strategy, allies; you watch her make deals with the Chelish dignitaries, and even as you despise her you must admit that there is something hypnotic in the way she treats the world as her own private chess game.

Laya is less enthralled.

“Couldn’t we order them to leave?” she asks one day, following another debate between Lilith and the Chelish general. Her dark brows are furrowed in disapproval as she watches the general’s unit march through the citadel. “The reports we’ve seen from these soldiers…the things they’ve done…”

“Are all for the Crusades, and therefore under the Knight-Commander’s purveyance,” you answer. “And besides, fighting the demons is enough of a task. We cannot afford to offend our neighbors, especially such powerful ones.”

Laya frowns, still disapproving, and you suppress a sigh. She is young, you remind yourself. Young and brave and idealistic and foolish.

Her concerns are not shared by the other soldiers and citizens. Of course not; the people may scowl at the Chelish in the streets, but they cheer at the news of every military victory, and when they do it is once again Lilith’s name on their lips.

It bothers you just as much as it ever did, more so now due to the traitors who continue to spread sedition against you. A handful of arrests have been made, but many more investigations are still ongoing, all while word against you spreads and darkens with each passing day. You see now that Lilith was right all along- your only choice is to find the cause of this trouble and yank it out by the roots.

You are conducting a meeting with Lilith in the library one night when this festering resentment slips out, and all too soon you are lost in bemoaning the entire state of events as Lilith listens on over a bottle of wine.

“They call me a tyrant and a despot, yet they love you.” You motion to Lilith, who takes in the gesture without reaction. “As if they don’t know what you are.”

What you wouldn’t give to peer behind that stoic mask and see her thoughts; as it is, you cannot tell if she is offended or intrigued. She simply raises an eyebrow and takes a drink from her glass. The dark red wine matches the color of her lips.

“You have them chanting for Hell,” you continue, and unlike Lilith you make no attempt to hide your own storming emotions. You don’t have the energy left for such an effort, and even if you did the wine has loosened your composure. “Why is it me they hate?”

Lilith takes another sip, then sets her wine aside and leans close. You’ve grown accustomed to the scent of smoke which follows her everywhere, and now you detect the faint undercurrent of incense as well. It reminds you, uselessly, of the days you used to spend in deep prayer. It reminds you that you haven’t stepped foot in a chapel since Iz, and that you don’t feel nearly as much guilt over that as you should.

“Love and hatred…” Lilith murmurs to herself, unaware of the effect she’s had on you. “Is that really what matters to a ruler?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.”

Lilith scoffs and shakes her head. When she speaks, her voice carries something infuriatingly similar to pity. “They don’t love me.”

“Of course not,” you snap. You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. “They fear you. Forgive me, I assumed you were above such cliches.”

“They see my power. They want what I have. People like to be on the winning side. It’s as simple as that.”

You wish you had another retort in your arsenal, but you find yourself struck by the truth of what she has said. As loathe as you are to admit it- and oh, you are loathe- you cannot deny that when you see Lilith sweep out to the armies and command them with utter confidence, utter control, utter loyalty…you do want that.

She hums, as if she can see the gears turning in your head, and adds, “And yes; call it cliche if you must, but most of them do fear me as well. And I am better off for it.”

You wish you could ignore her words, but they stick in your mind for the rest of the night, just as the smell of smoke sticks to your clothes.

This strange equilibrium you’ve found does not last.

Inevitably, the simmering anger amongst the soldiers boils over, and the news of a traitor’s death at the hands of your guards has barely reached you before the mob is at your door.

Some part of you, you think, knew this would happen. That knowledge does nothing to quell your anger as you face the horde gathered outside the citadel- those belligerent, unfaithful, ungrateful soldiers who scream out your misdeeds and demand justice.

Justice! The word inflames you further, because what do they know of justice? You serve the goddess of justice, and this is precisely where her justice has led, and they have the nerve to hate you for it.

“Enough!” You shout, and there is no disguising your anger. You don’t want to disguise it, not anymore. “Fall back! All of you, fall back!”

They do not listen. Fury is etched on their faces, angry and ugly, as they scream back at you.

Killer. Monster. Tyrant.

They point at the bloodied body at their feet, that culmination of every choice you have made during this cursed Crusade. The cracks in your soul spread outward, turning everything brittle and sharp. Lilith is at your side, and you’re not certain how long she’s been here but you were always expecting her, weren’t you? Just like you’re expecting it when she leans close to hiss in your ear.

“How far will you let this go? Execute these traitors or you’ll never know peace again.”

At your other side is Laya, and no longer does she look so brave and idealistic. She just looks young- young and foolish and frightened.

Frightened of…you? Of you, when it is they who have driven things to this point?

And under this last bit of pressure, you break.

“Cease this at once! Disperse now!” Your voice is barely recognizable to yourself. Your hand is on the hilt of your sword. “Or else you shall all be labeled traitors and dealt with as needed!”

The chaos and the shouting increases. You draw your sword. “Laya, be ready to fight.”

“But, Your Majesty-”

“Laya.” Lilith’s voice cuts harshly through the increasing shouts. “Do as you must.”

For the briefest of moments, Laya wavers- and then a storm passes over her face, and she does indeed draw her sword.

And she points it straight as you.

“I will do as I must,” she declares in a hoarse voice. “The only enemy here is you. I was there. I heard you give the orders that led to bloodshed! Down with the traitor queen!”

She is so young. Against a warrior of your years, she does not stand a chance.

You cut her down as easily as you would any demon.

The sight of her blood on the stones of the courtyard shocks the onlookers, and their anger turns to panic. Above the screams, your voice rings out as you call for order and obedience. You are not even fully aware of the words you are saying, but you know that this time, they will listen to you.

You are their queen. You will remind them what this means. No matter the cost.

As this revelation sinks from your mind into your bones, a blinding light envelops the courtyard, and thunder roars.

Iomedae’s angels have arrived.

And oh, they make such a lovely sight, with their heavenly glow and their pretty words, and they ignite the sharpest, cruelest anger you have felt in decades.

Isolation. Contemplation. Redemption. This is what they offer, but you speak their language, and you know what they mean. They have come to take you prisoner- to whisk you away until you return to that golden shining beacon of faith they shaped you into so long ago.

How dare they?

And that is the moment you realize this did not start with Lilith. She has no claim to the first broken piece of your soul, not when you’ve been losing bits and pieces of yourself for years and years and years.

When your armies fell and you bared your heart in prayer, begging for aid, and only silence answered.

When you were handed a potion that would bind you to this life of duty and servitude with heavy, gilded chains.

When your god died, and you kept on living and living and living.

“Now you come?” You choke out. “Now? Where were you when I called? And even now, where is she? Could Iomedae not come down and face me herself?!”

They do not offer an answer. They never have. They only demand obedience, though they have the nerve to call it faith.

You have no faith left to give. When you tell them so, the angel draws his sword, and you know they will take it, just as they always have.

Lilith steps between you and the Angels, and you see that she has shed her mortal guise. She faces the Angels with fire-touched skin and curved horns, smoke billowing around her feet as dark wings stretch out behind her.

“The Queen has stated her intentions, and I will not allow you to take her by force.” She glances over her shoulder, and her blazing eyes sear into your skin. “She is under my protection now.”

Is it validation which blazes through you as your eyes meet? Solidarity? Or is it hatred, resentment, anger at what this woman has brought forth in you?

Is it something else entirely?

You have no time to decide before the Angles descend upon you, and so you decide on anger, and you unleash that anger upon these messengers from your former goddess. Every insult, every frustration, every shame- you let it flow through your sword as her blessing once did, and you feel more powerful than you ever have before.

With Lilith at your side, you are powerful enough to slay Angels.

The two of you stand side by side when the battle is over, and a maelstrom of emotions hits you all at once. Yet mostly you just feel empty- all that holy grace and duty which has sustained you through the years is gone, all those pieces of your soul scattered and shattered and lost.

And yet, you also feel something you haven’t felt in ages: you feel alive. Your heart races, your blood burns, your skin is hot with the rush of victory. You look down at the defeated Angel and you want to sing.

You look at Lilith, in all her blazing, devilish glory, and you want to ask: what have you done to me?

You don’t. Instead, you walk past the remnants of the slain Angels, past the body of the girl who once reminded you so much of yourself. You walk right up to Lilith and without a trace of doubt you say, “I am ready.”

She raises an eyebrow, but you refuse to take the bait. “Do not play coy now. You know of what I speak.”

And then she smiles, damn her. Damn you both, you suppose, for with a simple motion she unfurls a contract from her long sleeves.

“Then I won’t waste time with words. All you need do is sign.”

You’d been expecting it; hoping, really, because in this moment you are a crusader without a goddess and that is a very dangerous position to be in. You still have a war to fight and a nation to rule, and you are certain this will not be the last of Heaven’s efforts to ensnare you. You need the protection, the assurance, of some higher power. You always have, just as you have always given all of yourself to this war.

But where Heaven would take you for granted, where it softened its words and its promises, Hell would mark your sacrifices down for posterity and give you an oath forged in fire and iron.

You sign.

Let my soul belong to you, Lilith, and to Hell, so long as you uphold your side of the bargain.

And maybe you were wrong, again, when you claimed your soul was already as fractured as it could get. Because as the signature dries, you could swear you feel one last piece crack and splinter.

But the feeling is gone soon enough. Just like that, you have become something new.

The scroll vanishes up Lilith’s sleeve, and her eyes shine with undisguised victory. It may be the most emotion you’ve ever seen from her.

“I look forward to working with you,” she says. “I believe this is the beginning of a very fruitful…partnership.”

She lingers over the word, enjoying her own private joke, and you still cannot decide how you really feel about her. Even now, you want to wrap your hands around her throat. Even now, you want to wrap your arms around her waist.

Either way, you suppose, you’re already damned.

“Likewise,” you say, and she smiles again.

Somewhere beneath the distraction of Lilith, your mind is already at work. Everything is different now, and a new power is in your hands. There are many, many plans to be made.

When you turn and climb the steps back up to the citadel, the scent of smoke follows in your wake. Perhaps it always will.

How could you, they will ask you later, and the act of asking itself means they will never understand.

So you do not attempt to explain. You let them ask, and you allow the accusations to bounce harmlessly off that empty place inside your soul. They need no answer; they need only look at the results as you take back control of your kingdom. What almost slipped away from you is now forever yours, and you grip it tightly with your iron fist.

It does not matter how you got here, nor who you did this for.

You’ve done it, and there is no going back.

[fun-sized-owl]

The Devil and the Servant

Part V – Fiendish Blues

Warning: mentions of torture, adult themes

Narcissistic vulnerability is thought to arise from a combination of the antagonistic core with temperamental reactivity—defined by negative emotionality, social avoidance, passivity and marked proneness to rage. Vulnerability is defined—in addition to antagonism—by a shy, vindictive and needy self-regulatory style:

Low and contingent self-esteem, unstable and unclear sense of self, and resentment of others' success

Social withdrawal, resulting from shame, distrust of others' intentions, and concerns over being accepted

Needy, obsessive relational dynamics; long-term relationship transactions defined by an excessive need for admiration, approval and support, and vengefulness when needs are unmet.

The wails of Raphael’s had been heard throughout the halls of the Citadel. Whether they were frustration or pain was unknown, but surely they were suffering, and that was all that would matter to the devils within. The chain devil had done its job, and Baalphegor was certain that they were no act anymore. Nine lashings was enough for any devil, but when one was a mortal? His back would be raw and throbbing, and the chain devil would be pleased with their duty tonight.

Would Mephistopheles have heard the calls? It was hard to tell, but they had echoed throughout the long, icy hallways. Even if the Archdevil had heard them, he would not have flinched, Raphael deserved his punishment, like any prisoner of the Cold Lord’s. This was his time to serve, this was his time to suffer for humiliating his father. No doubt, she would speak to her master when they shared the same bed at night.

“He will need you.” Baalphegor placed her hands onto Haarlep’s. “In this place, a devil has little friends.” In fact, devils rarely made friends. Each and every one of them was opposition, competition for when they could rise the ranks. Haarlep should be seen as that too, to a succubus, but as a consort, she held no love for Mephistopheles. Loyalty, of course, but loyalty and love were two very different things, and whatever the Lord of Cania wished, then he shall have—that included whatever bed partner he wanted.

It wasn’t that she disliked Mephistopheles. She didn’t dislike him at all. In fact, she was father fond of the Archdevil, and even more so of her position in court. But a devil who didn’t recognise their place in the hierarchy was a foolish devil. She had her powers, and she would not ignore what was being done. If anything, a fiend was neutral to the woes and punishments of all around them. It was simply their nature. Nothing more, nothing less.

Today, she was speaking with the incubus for other reasons outside of their shared history. It was no secret that Haarlep had slept their way around the eighth layer of Baator. He had over a thousand bodies in his one, and that included the Lord of Hellfire. Baalphegor was also a diplomat, she did not care for jealousy like others did. She hardly resented the incubus for his acts and services, and although she had not known specifically, she had always assumed that there was some sort of pact between Haarlep and her lord.

It may have been her suggestion to get the boy something that could keep his mind off other things for a while, to allow him to explore his own sexuality amongst their kind, but she had never known the intimate details between Mephistopheles and Haarlep. There was always something, though, and it would be wise to be careful. Now, she understood what it had been…

A contract.

The contract between Haarlep and the Archdevil had meant that Haarlep was sworn to secrecy. He could not tell Raphael that he was to be used as a distraction. He was not to tell him that he would report back to Mephistopheles every little, dirty secret that the cambion had (and she was certain he had many). However, it also appeared that Haarlep had not given the finer details of what was really going on. Just that he’d made a deal that did not work out and got himself killed over it when some mortals raided his home.Baalphegor had a sneaking suspicion that there was something else going on, but she also didn’t really care. Unfortunately, Raphael had taken the news rather personally, which also didn’t surprise her. He’d been a sensitive boy when it came to rejection even as a child. He did not like when he didn’t get what he wanted. Just like his father in that aspect. For when he’d found out that the incubus was not all he seemed to be, he’d taken it to heart. Perhaps that was his mortal side, upset over this apparent ‘betrayal’ of trust. But a contract was a contract, and Raphael knew that those were carved in stone. He had made many of his own, after all.

They were devils, all of them. This was simply a part of their culture, or who they were, and deep down, their nature. All devils were evil, Haarlep and Raphael included. Some just took it further than others, and some, like Haarlep, simply wanted to live a life of laziness and being pampered.

Haarlep waved a hand dramatically. “The last thing my little pet said to me was to begone,” he repeated, the perfect pitch in Raphael’s voice as he still wore his glamour. Whilst Mephistopheles was roaming about the fortress, he would remain in the glamour as ordered. There was no contract between them this time, just a large shadow that loomed over them all whilst Mephistopheles threw his temper tantrum. Something about that bloodline… The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, as they said.

Baalphegor tutted. “Yes, because he is stubborn and does not wish you to see him in such peril. He is a devil. A proud one. Much like his father. And you, my dear, have seen him in every way possible, but not like this.” Years and years of living with power, and now he was stripped of it all. Raphael would not like anyone to see him like that, especially his closest bedfellows. But Haarlep had shared his bed, and they shared every secret with one another, or almost every secret, it would seem. There were some things devils could never say, so long as they were bound by infernal contracts.

Raphael was vulnerable, though, whether or not he wanted to admit it. He had been dragged back to Cania beyond his will, and now he was a prisoner to be tortured. Not just that, but he’d been slain in his very own home, by a group of mortals. The fight likely would have been incredible to watch, and a struggle, but it was still a reminder that even though he had had so much power and so many souls at his command, he was still someone that could be slain. Any devil who was killed was seen as weak, but to be slain in the Hells? To have met the true death until Mephistopheles had brought him back… Raphael would never live this shame down, and it would bury itself so deeply within him that he’d never escape it.

More on AO3

[wellthebardsdead]

Lucy: *walking through the mindflayer hatchery after setting the trapped prisoners free and killing the mind flayers, Zevlor thankfully not among their numbers thanks to her previous efforts in keeping all the refugees alive* Right then. Let’s see where this, oh so very, very important asset of mine is being kept. *stops in front of a pod and folds her arms looking annoyed* How? HOW? Mizora?

Mizora: *still burning hot with the engine in her chest, banging on the glass of her pod in tears* Your grace I can explain everything please let me out I won’t fail you again please! Please!!!

Lucy: fine, help me get duke ravenguard to safety then. *smashes the pod and pulls her out*

Mizora: thank you! Thank you your grace! I promise you w- *shuts up as the group walks off without her* a-Ah your grace wait for me! *runs after her*

*several minutes later*

Orin: *moves to sit on Ulders back only to hit the ground instead as hellfire embers burn her ass* AAGH! Arghh?! What?! Filthy sneaky rat! Where did he go?!

Gortash: *watched him disappear right before his eyes in an uncomfortably familiar burst of flame, heart dropping for a moment thinking Raphael had come for him, or Mephistopheles* I- I don’t-

Aylin: *suddenly bursts free from her cage as Astarion sneaks by them and lets her lose* YOUR END IS NOW OATH BREAKER! YOUR HEAD WILL BE MINE!

Gortash: damn it! *turns and runs for it making a quick escape as the elderbrain begins to take flight from the colony*

Orin: no no! Fathers plan was going perfectly! How did-

“Poor. Poor. Orin the Red. Orin the inbred. Your grandfathers daughter and your mothers sister. Never Baals favourite, you killed his favourite and he still doesn’t love you. Heheh, haha! HAHAAHAHAHA!!”

Orin: No no no! Grandfather loves me! He worships me! Filthy little pig mouthed liar!! *looking around frantically as Lucy suddenly appears in front of her and kicks her off the platform into the abyss below*

Lucy: *knowing Baal will most likely resurrect her as he did Sarevok, but for now somply watches her disappear into the green fog below before holding up the gem she’d snatched from her as she pushed* one down. For now… *turns to ketheric as Aylin and the group corner him* I’m hesitant to give you a second chance… after the state you made of this land and it’s people, Ketheric. And I doubt Isobel would ever be willing to forgive you for the torment you put Aylin through… but you can side with me. *suddenly assumes her archdevil form, large, imposing, and glowing with an oddly radient moonlight sheen as her good deeds begin outweighing her fiendish gifts, and the gods begin to take notice* Or Be Annihilated…

Aylin: Make your choice Oathbreaker! Neither Shar nor Murkyl will save you from hells justice!

Ketheric: *eyes wide staring up at her, lilac skin turning a firey pink, then red as her four horns sprout a 6th pair and her tongue lulls out from her mouth with a forked point, sensing a power from her far greater than anything murkyl would be willing to lend him* … *drops his blade and surrenders*

Lucy: good. *reverts back to a regular tiefling* Hand over the stone and we’ll tal- minthara are you okay?

Minthara: let us hurry and be done with this place. I wish to ravage you as mine.

Lucy: oh-

Lae’zel: Ch’k! Stand down! She will be mine!

Lucy: O-oh-

*a few minutes later*

Mizora: *appears and proudly presents a bewildered duke ravenguard* here he is! Alive and unharmed! No tadpole no tentacles! All safe and sound my lady!

Lucy: *curtseys to him* Glad to finally meet Wylls father. You can thank him for the rescue. And me for his lack of horns. My only regret is I couldn’t grab that slimy bastard Gortash in time… he’s infected the entirety of the flaming fists with his tadpoles and corruption. The steelwatch are under his control as well. It’ll be best if you remain in my citadel as a guest until we dispatch of them or else he could risk completing his plan.

Ulder: he intended to infect me as well. And have me crown him as grand duke… the gate would have no hope.

Lucy: not true. Hope is small but she’s hard to kill.

Ulder: what?

Lucy: wha- *suddenly grabbed by minthara and lae’zel both before being dragged away* goodbye! Wyll talk to your dad don’t let him leave and do something stupid!!!

[dujour13]

Secret Santa gift for my friend @offsidekineticist. Happy Holidays! 💕☃️💕

I hope you know I had to enlist the aid of both Ophenia and Woljif to piece this story together. Oh, that reminds me—(Siavash digs in his vest pocket and produces one silver bracelet, twelve gold pieces and a Chelish noble house signet ring)—with Woljif’s apologies. No questions asked about the ring.

I hope I got the main story beats right enough for art.

The half-orc druid I eventually tracked down in the Aspodell mountains told me Qweck was involved, but even my utmost attempts at diplomacy couldn’t prevent Qweck from slamming the door in my face, so I’m not sure where she fits into the story. There was also apparently a dinosaur? Or a golem made of dinosaurs? Anyway, here it is, as promised.

(He takes a sip of mulled Andoren wine and gives you a wink as he begins.)

🎶 The Ballad of Bellflower Hellfire 🎶

The Devil went down to Cheliax, she was lookin’ for a soul to steal She was biding her time at the scene of the crime In a gem that was magically sealed When Gil came across that necklace, offering vengeance and serving it hot And the devil grabbed hold of his heart in her claws And said boy lemme tell you what I guess you’ll do ‘bout anything to give them slavers their due And if you vow to serve me now I’ll lend a hand to you Now you’d make a damn fine Bellflower, boy All I ask is a soul or two I’ll bet the slaves you’ll free are worth that fee And it was true for all he knew And so the halfling set about with the fury of Hell in his hands Without a regret started paying his debts Freed his folk from their iron bands (Chorus) Gilly sharpen up your wits and fight that devil hard Cause Hell’s broke loose in Cheliax and the devil deals the cards And if you win you get the peace and freedom that you’re owed But if you lose the devil gets your soul Twas a rainy night in Brastlewark and Thay sat with his book And he heard the sound of rustlin’ around and went to have a look There stood Gil ‘bout to catch a chill And Thay in his distress, said come on down, you look half drowned And bundled Gil up good And thus began the heart-bond ‘tween the halfling and the gnome In the shadow of Thrune their sweet love bloomed, over cocoa snug at home (There’s a break with romantic picking, then a shift to an ominous chord) Til one dark day the news reached Gil that made his heart stop cold The iron glove of Hell came down and crushed all Gilly’s hope The Hellknights came, they were taking names, Mister Theo was their prey Gil shed tears of grief and rage - the Rack had taken Thay And Gil like Hell’s own vengeance on the wings of dragon black Rained down on Rivad fury and fire and laid to waste the Rack The only reclamation that was glorious that day Was Gil who stormed the citadel and rescued poor dear Thay (Chorus) Gilly sharpen up your wits and fight that devil hard Cause Hell’s broke loose in Cheliax and the devil deals the cards And if you win you get the peace and freedom that you’re owed But if you lose the devil gets your soul Thay in gloom of dungeon hoped for nought but Ph’rasma’s grace He held his ground, made not a sound as tears fell down his face The Rack had wrought their cruel work and yet his lips were sealed All he cared to pray for was an end to his ordeal When a signifier’s shattered mask was tossed between the bars And Theo raised his eyes and hope rekindled in his heart A little short for a Hellknight, Theo said through tears of joy Though they were trapped within the citadel the righteous would destroy In a desperate race for freedom the heroes stumbled toward the gates Paladins and Hellknights laid the citadel to waste As knights closed round Gil stood his ground o’er Theo’s tortured form As in his breast the fires of Hell let loose in violent storm (from this crescendo the tempo slows, becomes soulful) When Theo felt the heat of Hell and raised his heavy head And saw that Gil had rescued him but damned himself instead With failing limbs he lifted up and braved the flames of Dis To wrestle Gil from the Devil’s grasp and free him… with True Love’s Kiss (Chorus) Gilly sharpen up your wits and fight that devil hard Cause Hell’s broke loose in Cheliax and the devil deals the cards And if you win you get the peace and freedom that you’re owed But if you lose the devil gets your soul

---

Note: Modeled after “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” by the Charlie Daniels Band

[galderthefuzzy]

The Tainted Felblade

Recovered after an especially vicious battle against a band of Bonechewer orcs near the Hellfire Citadel, this greatsword has caught the eye of Brigade's Artificers and Blacksmiths alike. It seems that a new, undocumented Fel based enchant was combined with a unique crafting process, that combined fel shards, gemstones and fel tainted adamantite produced a fairly volatile weapon that causes vicious wounds and leaves behind taint so strong, it can bring down even the mightiest of opponents if ignored.

The Tainted Felblade is locked away in the Brigade's vault for now, awaiting further examination and experiments.

Oh my, it's been ages since I've designed a weapon. I definitely need to get back to the arcane forge and produce a couple of new weapons and jewelry. I hope you like how it turned out! 

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 9

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: M Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** Well it took only 50k words but here we are, time to go to Hell. It's probably not going to be smooth sailing from here is it. ***

For the first few weeks in the Hells - in Mephistar, he’d been told, the citadel from which his sire ruled Cania - Raphael read and read and read until he felt as though his eyes would fall out of their sockets. And then he’d read some more. 

Back-- home -- in the Material Plane, he’d thought he’d done a good job at learning all he could about the Nine Hells of Baator. Direct sources from witnesses who returned to tell the tale were admittedly rather scarce, for several good reasons that started and ended with ‘it’s the Hells’, but if any books or scrolls on the subject existed, he’d read them.

He’d learned of the nine layers and their differences, the many kinds of fiends that inhabited them, who ruled each layer. He’d learned of the Lord Below Asmodeus, of the Frozen Prince Levistus, the Iron Duke Dispater and the other Archdukes - including, of course, Mephistopheles. Second to Asmodeus alone, Lord of the Eighth, Archmage of the Hells, Lord of Hellfire.

Raphael had known his many monikers, but he had never in his wildest flights of fancy imagined the Cold Lord of Cania, of all devils, may be his sire.

As it soon turned out, there were many things he did not know. His knowledge of the Hells, which had seemed so impressive, was nothing compared to what he had yet to learn. He’d been shown to his rooms, with a window outside which he could see nothing but icy mountains; he’d been given books, and told to learn. Even what Infernal he had managed to learn back-- I want to go home -- in the Material Plane did not suffice. It was a variant used by lesser baatezu, he’d been informed with a scoff, and unsuited for Mephistopheles’ court. Of course, the variation that was required just so happened to be a great deal harder to master.

A preceptor, a tall and thin devil who looked as though a stiff gust of wind may knock him over and whose name sounded very much like the noise a cat would make while retching, came every day to check on his progress, and answer his questions. Of which Raphael had many, but one above all.

“When will my father see me?”

The answer would always come after a few moments of silence, and with a contemptuous look that told him clearly he should know better than to ask. “Lord Mephistopheles will call upon you when the time is right, little duke,” he said, using a moniker that, Raphael had quickly picked up, was meant more as mockery than as a true honorific. He wasn’t truly a duke of anything.

Still, after a few weeks, he’d tried to protest. “But he gave orders to bring me here. Surely he wants to see me?”

“It is not up to you to presume what Lord Mephistopheles wants. He will make his wishes clear when he--”

“But I’m his son!”

This time, there had been no attempt at feigning respect: his preceptor had just laughed, an unpleasant barking sound. “You’re but one of many whelps. The Lord of the Eighth shall see you when he wishes to. His right to collect what’s his doesn’t entitle you to his time. Now,” he’d added, pushing the open book towards him again before standing to leave, “do keep trying to make yourself worthy of his attention. Your pronunciation of Infernal is still woefully lacking.”

When he left, however, Raphael made no attempt to pick up the book. He huffed and pushed the door of the room open, to wander outside and distract himself from his own building frustration. Despite the howling wind and ice outside as far as the eye could see, the inside of Mephistar was heated, and the luxury all around made Fort Starspire look like a fisherman’s hut by comparison. The carpets, the tapestry, the statues - it was almost dizzying. 

And then there were the portraits. 

There were so many on nearly every wall, and many of them had the same subject - his father, Mephistopheles - but not two of them looked exactly the same because, he’d been informed, his sire could change his visage on a whim and that whim took him often enough. 

Still, there were two portrayals he saw the most. One showed a devil with huge ram-like black horns, the same crimson skin as his own, long black hair, and a pointed beard on his chin. He wore an unnerving smile as he seemed to stare back at him from the painting with dead, white eyes. Most times he was shown holding out a hand, palm up, white-hot flames dancing upon it. The Lord of Hellfire, the plaques beneath such paintings read. 

The other visage of Mephistopheles he saw portrayed the most was the one with blue skin, deep blue horns that looked more like jagged peaks, and pale blue eyes with blood red pupils. The long black hair was the same, but he lacked the beard. In these portraits, he sat upon a throne of ice. The Cold Lord, as the plaques declared.

Both portrayals were terrible and fascinating to behold, and Raphael often struggled to tear his gaze away. Especially from the former, where he’d often find himself looking for familiar features, carefully going over every small resemblance… but not that day. That day, he’d wandered among mostly empty corridors, ignoring both the mortals souls who fretted about - debtors, he’d been told, no need to address them unless you need their services - as well as the curious gazes of devils talking amongst themselves in that strangely melodious version of Infernal he so struggled with. He pretended not to notice the sneers from those who clearly knew who he was, too, even as he felt embarrassment and frustration turn to anger. 

It was all wrong. This was supposed to be his home. He was supposed to belong here, in a way he never did in the Material Plane, and yet it didn’t feel like it at all. 

Why take me here if he won’t see me? 

“It's time to join your kind,” Chamberlain Barbas has said, but Raphael had never felt more out of place, he who'd been out of place from his first breath.

At least they wanted me, in the end, he thought. Something burned in his eyes, and Raphael was quick to shut down that line of thought, because he’d open a window and throw himself off the glacier before he let anyone see him cry. 

Just as he began to think he should head back before he got lost and made a fool of himself, he suddenly heard it - a music he’d never heard before, played by some kind of instrument he’d never heard before in his life. It was a rich sound, now bright and now dark, the music trying to soar like a bird only to be shot down the next moment and flutter onto the ground, the sound now solemn and almost mourning - and then taking flight again, defiant and imperious. 

The closer he grew to the source the more he could feel the power of it, until he could think of nothing but finding out what it was that could make such a sound. Finally, he found the richly decorated double doors of the room the music was coming from, and pushed them open without thinking, just as the music faded.

The room inside was not small by any means, but much of it seemed to be occupied by the largest… something Raphael had ever seen. It looked something like a harpsichord, but much bigger and with pipes that took most of the wall. On the floor and on every surface of the room there were scattered music sheets, and on a seat in front of the instrument, hands still on the keys as the music began to die down, sat the player. Raphael opened his mouth to call out, but the door behind him closed loudly before he could, causing her to wince and turn.

Raphael did not know enough about his own kind to know exactly what they would consider beautiful, but he found she certainly was, with high cheekbones and delicate features, her hair all silver. Her skin was red as his own, her eyes pale green irises on black sclera, and her horns a paler red than the rest of her. She looked young, but… well, most devils did.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Raphael said, or at least he tried to, with very little success. Infernal was still clumsy on his tongue, the cadence all wrong, and he didn’t remember what Infernal for ‘interrupting’ even was. All that came out of his mouth was a cacophony of grating noises. He trailed off, biting his tongue, rather thankful he was no longer in his human form. Flushing did not show on crimson skin, at least. 

There was a startled pause, then a chuckle. The devil cocked her head to better look at him, moving the long braid of silvery hair from one shoulder to the other. Finally, she smiled in a way that didn’t seem to hold any of the scorn he’d seen up to that point. 

“Ah, but I have heard about you,” she said in his own language, with only the slightest hint of an accent, and Raphael breathed a little more easily. “The little duke from Tethyr. Don’t you have the most lovely set of horns,” she added, causing Raphael to blink. His horns were not something anybody had ever thought to compliment before; in the Material plane, the fewer people saw them, the better. He was again very, very glad his skin could not visibly flush.

“Thank you,” was all he could muster, feeling rather stupid. Someday not too far in the future he’d be able to let words slide off his tongue like silk on skin, no matter in what language, and the right words at that - but not just yet. Still, he had enough presence of mind to remember he should bow his head and introduce himself. “My name is Isr-- Raphael,” he said, bowing his head. If she noticed the slip, she said nothing of it. “Very much at your service.”

Another chuckle, oddly musical itself, and she turned fully on the seat, hands folded on her lap. She had long, elegant fingers. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Raphael. I am Lady Antilia, High Cantor of Mephistar. Although,” she added with a sigh, turning to glance at the instrument she’d been coaxing notes from. “I may not hold the position for long, if inspiration keeps escaping me.”

“I-- heard the music. I think it was beautiful.”

“Thank you, little duke.” For the first time, the moniker was not spoken like a mockery. “But I fear it is not quite enough. Writing hymns falls to me, and your lord father is a difficult master to please. You certainly have gathered that by now.”

I might have if he bothered to see me, Raphael thought, but he knew better than to voice his thoughts. Instead, he turned his attention to the instrument she had been playing when he let himself in. “What kind of instrument is this?”

“It is an organ. Are you not familiar with it?”

“I have never seen one. I can play the lyre and the lute - the harpsichord, too,” he added. He’d started to get a hang of the violin as well, but he had yet to learn how to get a decent sound out of it, so he didn’t mention that.

Lady Antilia chuckled. “Ah, another musician at long last. Well then, come sit with me,” she said, moving to the side and patting the seat. “May as well learn how to play another instrument, no? If you know how to play the harpsichord, then you’ll be able to play the organ as well in no time.”

He wasn’t supposed to accept: he wasn’t supposed to have left his rooms without finishing the day’s lesson, he knew. Still, he didn’t so much look back at the door: he nodded, thanked Lady Antilia profusely, and went to sit by her. For several hours he listened, mesmerized, as she coaxed music out of the instrument that seemed to fill the room, reverberating in his chest, the high notes and the daker, lower ones. He watched too, the movement of feet on pedals, and fingers running across the keys so effortlessly. Such a delicate touch, and such powerful music. 

He did not learn anymore Infernal that day, but he did learn to play the organ.

***

The irony of the two of them sharing a tent - the devil who used to be a man, and the man who once was a devil - was not at all lost on Wyll. 

It was a little crowded, although probably not as crowded as the other tent they had left, where he suspected Astarion may have ditched the bedroll entirely to lay down on Durge and Halsin. Still, it wasn’t too bad. Raphael was determined to ignore him - seeing his horns seemed to particularly displease him - and that was fine by Wyll, who was happy to settle on his side of the tent and ignore him right back.

Until the devil who was no longer a devil began tossing and turning and muttering in his sleep, of course. Most of the words he uttered were grating noises that he recognized as Infernal, even if he could not catch the words, much less their meaning. It was when the mumbling turned to a low, keening noise that Wyll entirely gave up on the idea of catching some sleep and sat up. 

“Raphael?”

No response, only a choking noise. Wyll frowned and reached over to grip his shoulder and shake him awake. He’d barely touched him when he muttered the first, clear sentence since whatever dream he was trapped in had begun. Or at least as clear as a sentence can be when choked in one’s sleep into the pillow.

“I want to go home.”

Wyll knew that giving him the House of Hope back was entirely out of the question; Karlach was going to have enough issues with their unexpected new companion without adding in the mere idea of putting Hope back in his grasp, which none of them was going to allow in the first place. And he certainly could not understand how anyone could miss the Hells - any layer of the Hells. But desperately wanting to go home… well, that was something he knew more about than he’d have liked.

And he’d dreamed of home too, of course, especially during that first year on his own. He’d missed the familiar sights, his friends, the father who’d so loved him and yet had turned away when he’d seen the mark of the Hells on him. In his dreams he could speak the truth of what happened, he could explain. In his dreams, Ulder Ravengard embraced him, thanked him for saving the city, and welcomed him back as his son. 

But then the dream always, always changed. The smell of sulfur replaced the familiar scents of the city, his father’s embrace turned into an unyielding grip, and Mizora laughed against his ear. Leathery wings enveloped him, blotting out all light, and he’d wake up with a scream in his chest and a lump in his throat. And sometimes, depending on how far he’d allowed himself to sink into the illusion that all was well again, with tears on his face.

Another muffled noise from the man who was a devil no longer snapped Wyll from his recollections. He sighed, waved goodbye to any chance to go back to sleep, and grasped Raphael’s shoulder.

“All right, you had enough sleep. Wake up.”

“Wha--?”

It took Raphael a few moments to regain the bearings of his surroundings. Wyll sat back and waited as he did, pretending not to notice the quick gesture with which he wiped his face on a sleeve, and grinned as soon as he turned to scowl at him. 

“What, pray tell, was that supposed to be about?” Raphael snapped, only to blink when Wyll held out a rapier for him to take. He raised an eyebrow. “If this is an invitation to skewer you with it, I shall be happy to oblige after you have held your half of the bargain and--”

“Get up. We’re having a sparring match.”

“... Surely you jest.”

“It always takes my mind off things.”

“I am beginning to question whether you have a mind to take off anything.”

“We’ll be heading into the city come morning, and then it’s straight to Avernus,” Wyll reminded him. They had arrived in Rivington in the middle of the night, and had agreed to get a few hours’ rest before heading to Devil’s Fee as soon as the sun rose and the shop opened; Astarion would wear a cape and hood for the remainder of the way, and they’d keep to the shade for good measure.

Wyll wished he could spare the time to visit his father, or see for himself how the rebuilding was going, but it would have to wait. Now the thing he was most eager to do was get back to the House of Hope and see Karlach again; he only hoped she hadn’t keeled over and died of sheer boredom in the time it had taken him to gather their available allies and come back.

Unaware of his thoughts, Raphael scoffed. “All the more reason to let me rest,” he bit, as though he was having any good rest at all. Wyll shrugged. 

“Surely, you want to be ready to fight your way through it with us, no? One more chance to practice is not something you should let pass by. Go on, take the rapier.”

“I can fight well enough without the aid of toothpicks . I’m a spellcaster. I have no need--”

“Well, this kind of toothpick is always useful. Even when you’ve run out of energy for spells, it still works to skewer the opponent. You should take at least a dagger. Even Durge carries a shortsword, and they’re the finest sorcerer I’ve ever met.”

“You haven’t met many sorcerers, I see.”

Wyll raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that downplaying the power of the one who bested you reflects well on you?”

“They hardly bested me alone,” Raphael snapped, but he did snatch the rapier and got out of the tent with a huff. “... Very well. If you insist on sparring, we shall.”

Wyll sighed, and followed him outside. There was probably little more than an hour left until dawn, so at least he got some rest. He could tell from Raphael’s grip on the rapier alone that the sparring would do little to help him fight - he was really much better off relying on spells - but it was a way to pass the time, he supposed. 

Plus, watching him fumble with a rapier while trying to look like he knew what he was doing was a lot more entertaining than listening to him crying out in his sleep.

***

Dalah knew that the-- thing was there before she even turned from the already perfectly clean artifact she was dusting. There was the noise of course, the crackling of flames and scraping of claws on ice, the oddly mechanical clicking and chirring noises it made as it stalked the hallways of Mephistopheles’ vault. 

Except that now it-- he was not not stalking the vault’s rooms. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him standing by the doorway, staring at her with entirely too many eyes set deeply in the fused misshapen skulls. He followed no one in particular, as far as she could tell - he was there to guard, and guard he did - but whenever he came across her, he did come to a stop. Even if she hadn’t called that name again-- Israfel -- he still paused to look at her, as he was doing now.

He made no noise other than the fierce crackling of the flames that shrouded him, the occasional clicking and skittering of claws on the ice floor as he shifted, as though craning his neck to see what she was going - cleaning, what else? - without getting too close.

Dalah paused for a moment, looked around to make sure they were alone, and turned slowly. He was still a vision of horror, but knowing she could stop him by just speaking his name had made the terror fade. “You can’t talk at all, can you?”

The creature looked back, with those fixed and thoughtless eyes, and-- wait. Was it her, or - had that been a shake of its heads? Dalah stilled, staring, before she wet her lips with a nervous tongue and tried to address him again. “Can you understand me at all? Can you… do something, if you understand?”

A long pause, long enough to make her feel foolish, then the creature seemed to nod, chittering and clicking without so much moving his gaping maws. He crouched and a flaming, clawed hand raked across ice, leaving deep marks on the icy floor; the ice magically began to freeze again within moments, erasing them, but the message was clear. It was too slow a gesture, too deliberate, to be an accident. Do something, and he did. 

He understood. How much he understood was debatable - it may be very little - but despite Barbas’ boasts of having turned the devilish half of Raphael’s soul into a mindless, perfect machine made to think of nothing but maiming trespassers and thieves, it was obvious that something else was still there. Something intelligent. Something that could respond . 

Her work entirely forgotten, Dalah dared step closer. “... I’m sorry if hearing that name hurt,” she heard herself saying. “Was it… did Rahirek call you that? Did he keep you?”

A chirring noise, and the creature seemed to nod before he lowered a claw to the icy floor once again. This time, he used only one claw to crudely carve something in it. A line, then more intersecting lines at the very top, like… like…

The spire. The star. Her husband’s family crest - she had almost forgotten what she looked like, after so many centuries. But she recalled it now, on his armor the day he’d left and on the brooch he’d gifted her on their wedding day, when they were but two strangers thrown together by his widowhood and her father’s political calculations. Starspire, after the mountains that towered above Rahirek’s ancestral home.

She had loved those mountains since the moment she’d laid her eyes on them: they reminded her of the Storm Horn Mountains back home, in the land that would one day become Cormyr. As soon as she’d arrived, before she’d learned to love her new husband in that quiet, desperate way that would be her undoing, they had made her feel at home again.

“We always pretended they’re named after our family, but it’s the other way around,” he told her with a chuckle on their wedding night. He did not touch her, then. He never would touch her, not that way, until months later when she reached out for him first, and found him willing.

Dalah’s eyes burned, and she wiped them quickly as the drawing faded. “... I should have known he would. He was a good man,” she murmured, and looked up again. The creature-- Israfel -- kept staring at her, heads tilted. She drew in a shaky breath. “... Do you know who I am?”

A chittering sound, and a shake of those heads, flames dancing as it moved.

She managed a weak smile. “No, you wouldn’t. We only met once, so to speak. But you were tiny, then. I saw you from afar when they took you here, though, a few times. You were taller than me already, I think. I am not sure, I didn’t want to look at you. We never--”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Dalah recoiled and stepped back to see a devil - one of the cambions who kept an eye on the debtors cleaning the vault, as if any of them would dare steal, as if an ascended fiend wasn’t enough of an incentive to do their work quietly and quickly - stepping closer, a scowl on his face. He paid no mind to Israfel, and why would he? Barbas had been clear, he had been conditioned to obey the guards. He would not intervene if not by his order. “I was just--” 

The guard scoffed, walking up to her, and raised a flail as if to strike her. “You’ll go back to work now, if you know what’s--”

He never got to finish the sentence. A shrieking mountain of fire, claws and sharp thorns of black bone was on him the next moment; the devil had no time to force out a scream, or even to fully turn. There was no fight, and all was over the second it began, flesh torn apart by claws, throat ripped out by tusks. Steaming dead flesh and guts littered the ground, all that remained of a devil, but that was not there for long either. Fiends had no need to eat, but they had appetites all the same - and this one was no exception. 

Within what felt like less than a minute, nothing remained of the guard but a pool of blood watered down by melted ice, and flail burnt to a crisp. Only then did Israfel turn to look at her, bloody jaws clacking and wings fluttering a moment, hesitating as his flames dulled. 

She could see why: he’d broken protocol and there would be punishment, surely, when they found out what he had done. 

If they find out. 

“... Get that blood off your face-- faces. I’ll hide this,” Dalah heard herself saying, walking up to the bloody pool and causing Israfel to step back, claws clicking on the ice. Mopping up the bloody water was painfully cold on her hands, but once that was done and the ice reformed, no trace of blood remained. The flail broke apart into ash the moment it was touched, and once she scooped that up… well, no one could tell anything had happened there.

Low level guards did defect, sometimes. Not unheard of. As long as nothing was missing in the vault, they would look for him outside Mephistar, and not too hard. Dalah breathed out, and turned. Israfel was still staring at her, head tilted as though waiting for something. When she met his eyes, he made more clacking, echoing sounds.

“Won’t tell if you don’t,” Dalah said, and found herself smiling faintly as she looked down at the pulverized remains of the guard had lifted against her. She had spent a long time knowing she ought to fear every devil, no matter how low-ranking, for any of them could end her on a whim. One powerful enough strike and what remained of her would be lost, bursting into blood and guts to let out some sort of hellish creature. 

To see one who’d so much threatened to harm her annihilated in instants had felt… good. Even if somewhere, in the back of her mind, she wondered whose son that cambion had been, what mortal had died to give him life. Some, she knew, did so willingly. 

“... Thank you. Now go, before someone notices you’re no longer patrolling.”

Israfel hesitated, but there were steps and he did not wait to see if it was another guard or a debtor. One last look and it left the room, through icy corridors, ever patrolling - his presence alone enough to strike terror into every soul bound to endlessly cleaning the vault and its contents.

Almost every soul.

Only later would Dalah pause and realize that, when he turned to her with his victim’s blood still dropping from his jaws, she had not for a single instant felt fear.

***

“Give me a good reason why I should open any portal for you.”

“What do you mean by that?” Astarion’s voice was full of indignation. “We’re going to pay you, is that not reason enough?”

Standing behind the counter, Helsik scoffed. “You were also supposed to pay me last time, if you recall, with the Gauntlets of Hill Giant Strength you took from the House of Hope.”

“Were they now?” Raphael asked, arms crossed. Of course, he didn’t look like himself now: revealing his continued survival to a warlock of Mammon liable to immediately relay the information to anyone who may care for the right amount of coin would be, to put it mildly, sheer idiocy. A simple disguise spell had turned him into an unremarkable enough half-elf, and thank the gods Helsik seemed none the wiser. “I may have heard of those gauntlets. Extremely rare indeed. And what, pray tell,” he added, shooting a pointed look in Durge’s general direction, “has happened to those?”

Fervently hoping Raphael would shut his damn mouth before he gave the rouse away, Durge shifted a little. To be entirely honest, keeping them had been Astarion’s idea, but… well, they hadn’t protested too much, either. “It’s, you see, we figured we may put them to good use, they fit Karlach really well--”

“So they broke our deal,” Helsik spoke, her own arms crossed, and looked back at Totally Not Raphael, who was still glaring at Durge. She seemed glad to have found someone who sounded as outraged as she did. “They went ‘I just killed a devil, do you really want to argue’ at me, and just kept the payment for my services. Can you believe it?”

“I can, actually. They rather make a habit of it, I see,” he replied, his voice flat in a way that clearly suggested he had carnage on his mind, and was really quite cross that he could not enact it. He seemed about to add something else, but Astarion suddenly threw his arm around his shoulders with a laugh, cutting him off. 

He also stomped on his foot, discreetly but hard, causing him to yelp. 

“Yes, yes, it was very naughty of us, and we’re sincerely sorry.”

Helsik narrowed her eyes. “Does that mean you’re giving me the gauntlets?”

“Oh dear, we’d love to! But, they’re currently with our friend in Avernus,” he added, gesturing rather meaningfully towards the floor. “See, if you open us a portal, we can retrieve them…”

“Try again.”

“Hey now--”

“It’s an upfront payment. Forty thousand.”

“FORTY--”

“Twenty thousand for the portal I opened last time, and twenty thousand for this one.”

“We need you to open two portals this ti--”

“That will be sixty thousand, then. Upfront.”

Astarion let out a noise of pure distress. “You can’t be serious!” he protested, only for Helsik to raise an eyebrow. 

“Do I look like I’m joking to you?” she asked. She did not, in fact, look like she was joking. 

Astarion scoffed, obviously scandalized at the notion the diabolist would demand upfront payment for her services to someone who scammed her once before, and turned to the others. Before he could voice what would probably be his suggestion - ‘let me drain her a bit and see if it mellows her’, Durge suspected - Raphael stepped forward. 

“I do understand why you’d mistrust these miscreants, as they already took advantage of your services without paying their due,” he said, gesturing towards them. “However, I hope you can extend me some grace, as I have done no such thing. I have a proposal.”

“I will hear you out, nothing more. And you are…?”

“Israfel will suffice. I’d rather not disclose my business in the Hells, as I’m sure you understand. It will not matter either way. Once I’m there, the two of us will never have laid eyes on each other, as you will have had no part in getting me there.”

Helsik nodded curtly, arms still crossed. “Good to see you know the rules,” she said, “but I have yet to hear your proposal.”

Raphael nodded. “Of course. The gold we have at our disposal to pay is, in total, thirty thousand gold. It is enough to cover the debt for the services you provided last time but, I understand, not enough to open a second portal now. Let alone a third.”

“Sound math. Still waiting for the proposal.”

Clearly disappointed by the refusal to play along, Raphel sighed. “As direct as your patron, I see. Very well. While these-- people owe you a great deal for your services, I believe you’re overlooking something that comes quite close to canceling out that debt.”

Helsik’s eyebrows went up almost to her hairline. “Oh,” she droned. “Am I now?”

“Indeed. You did not ask to be indebted, yet indebted your are.”

A scoff. “And what, exactly, do I owe them?”

A smile, and Raphael leaned against the counter, turning to gesture at the collection of artifacts all around them. “Why, isn’t that obvious? The continued existence of this fine establishment of yours, of course. The reason for their previous visit to Avernus was the retrieval of an artifact which, as it happens, was vital to their goal of taking down the Netherbrain. Had they not succeeded in the endeavor-- well. Baldur’s Gate would be no more, along with much of the Sword Coast, and your establishment with it. Of course, you could have set up shop someplace else if you managed to escape - but how many of these treasures around us would have been lost? I am certain you have a very good idea of what the answer would be. The answer, and the cost.”

For a few moments, Helsik said nothing. She ran her gaze across the shop, obviously running the numbers in her mind, then turned that gaze on Durge. A frown, but not quite the glare they had given them before. In the end, slowly, she nodded and turned back to Raphael. 

“... Very well. Duly noted. Your proposal?”

Raphael smiled. “My proposal is, we hand over all of the thirty thousand gold in our possession for you to open a portal to Avernus, and as payment for services rendered previously,” he said. “I do understand this means a significant discount on your usual rates, but it would be thirty thousand gold more than you’d get otherwise. And, I believe, it does account for the role they unwittingly played in keeping the Devil’s Fee in business.”

“Hmm.” Helsik seemed to think it over, and glanced past Raphael. Astarion smiled, and held up two bulging sacks of gold; she stared at them a few moments before nodding and turning back to Raphael. “You said you need two portals opened. I will not do it for thirty thousand gold.”

“But, for thirty thousand gold and the gauntlets you’re owed?” Raphael countered, smiling. “If we don’t survive our little vacation in the First, you’ll be thirty thousand gold richer. If we do survive, we will come back and hand you over the Gauntlets of Hill Giant Strength currently in the possession of our dear friend trapped in Avernus.”

There was a sound much like a barely restrained laugh from Wyll, and Durge almost chuckled himself. Karlach would not be pleased to hear Raphael, of all beings, had referred to her as a ‘dear friend’. She wouldn’t be happy to see him at all, most likely, and much less to learn she’d have to bear his presence until they either died or completed their mission. She’d have many good reasons to be displeased, of course… but needs must when the devil drives. 

Quite literally, in that instance.

Unaware of their thoughts, Helsik was nodding. “I see. If you come back, and hand me the gauntlets you promised, only then will I open the second portal for you. It makes sense.”

Raphael’s borrowed face opened in a smile. “I knew you’d see reason.”

“And where would this second portal need to lead?”

“Cania. Mephistar, to be precise.”

“Ugh, again?” A sigh, a shake of the head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. Since the gentleman over there and the late Lord Gortash raided the vault, Lord Mephistopheles has upped the magical defenses. I have been trying to find a way around them for months, but so far I’ve had no success. I cannot open a portal anywhere in Cania as of now.”

For a moment, the features of Raphael’s borrowed face twisted in aggravation; it was almost funny, really, how even in this disguise he scrunched up his nose. Then, as quickly as anger had come, it faded. “... Well then, we shall content ourselves with the closest you can get us to it. The second portal will be to Maladomini.”

Helsik raised an eyebrow. Hard to tell whether she was impressed by the boldness, or unimpressed by the madness on display. “Lord Mephistopheles and Lord Baalzebul are hardly allies. You really think you can sneak from the Seventh to the Eight and keep your life?”

“My friend,” Raphael said, smiling, “I cannot possibly overstate how little I have left to lose.”

Another pause and, finally, a shrug. “Hmm. None of it is my business as long as I’m getting paid, so-- very well. Avernus first and, if you live and give me the gauntlets, Maladomini it is. I’ll go fetch the necessary items. You wait here - but first, the gold.”

“Half the gold now,” Raphael countered. “And half once you hand over the items we need.”

“Distrustful, aren’t you?”

“You shan’t take it personally, I hope. You may consider it practice for the Hells.”

“With the company you keep, you have reason to be distrustful in any plane.”

“I am well aware, believe me.”

The first half of her payment taken, Helsik disappeared in the basement. As soon as she was gone, Wyll let out a low whistle. “All right,” he conceded, “that was really good.”

Raphael scoffed, walking away from the counter and right past him. “It was a child’s play. But I had no doubt it would impress you.”

“... Still mad because I knocked the rapier from your hand thrice this morning, huh?”

“Don’t be absurd. As I believe I made plain, I don’t need to carry a toothpick in bat--” Raphael began, only to trail off suddenly, freezing mid-step. He was staring at something on a table, and it took Durge only a moment to see exactly what it was.

The Orb of Infernal Envisioning. Last they had gazed into it, Durge had seen Raphael himself, covered in blood, dangling above Mephistopheles’ maw. Now, however, they saw something else. It was still Raphael in the Orb, or at least his ascended form, wreathed in flames, standing amidst walls of ice. It towered above a human woman who stared up at it, making no move to run. On the contrary, she was reaching up, as though to touch the creature.

“What is it?” Astarion spoke up somewhere on their left. “I can’t see anything in it. Halsin?”

“Not a thing.”

“I see Mizora,” Wyll said, stepping closer. “She’s holding some kind of contract, and… bowing? There is someone else there, but it’s just a shadow. I can’t see their face… are you seeing this too?” he asked, only for Raphael to ignore him and Durge to shake their head.

The Orb shows you what is fitting for you to see, Helsik had said once. It seemed they were not all seeing the same thing, after all - even those among them who could see something in it. Durge frowned, and looked back at Raphael. “... I see your Ascended form, and a woman. Inside Mephistar’s vault, I believe. A debtor, perhaps. Is that what you see?”

Wordless for once, eyes fixed on the orb, Raphael nodded. The two of them, it seemed, were indeed seeing the same thing. “I… have seen that mortal before. It’s the debtor who helped me escape,” he murmured. Slowly, he lifted a hand towards the orb, as if to touch it… and then there was the sound of a trapdoor to the basement being pushed open. Raphael pulled his hand back as though burned, and they all turned to see Helsik was back, a bag in hand. 

“Here’s all that is needed, and you know your way upstairs. Remember, you have never been here. Now hand over the rest of the gold, and scram.”

Gold changed hands, despite Astarion’s slightly pained expression, and Durge took the bag. “Before we go, we could use some supplies,” they said, and held up their bag of holding. Collecting just about anything they came across in their travels did pay off; by the time they were done trading, they were… reasonably well-equipped to survive Avernus. Hopefully. They closed the bag, and nodded towards the stairs. “All right,” they said. “Time to go to Hell.”

“Not a moment too soon,” Raphael muttered, and headed upstairs first without another word, a stiffness in his back that wasn’t there before.

*** If you're wondering who Antilia is:

*** [Back to Chapter 8]

[Back to Start]

[nixalegos]

(COMING IN LATE) WiW: What is your favorite canon Warlock character in the universe of WoW? If not a Warlock, then Void/Fel related figure. Tell us what you like about them.

Picking a favorite canonical warlock is alot like picking a favorite popsicle stick. A little too wooden no matter what spin you place on it. Blizzard just, doesn't write warlock characters to be interacted with, only reacted against. I will say however, I wasn't against the story of Ph'el Oman, the initiate we crossed paths with during the Darkmoon Faire Demonic Fiasco.

WoW has been leaning into the concept of 'All sources of magic are a refracted spectrum, and the great cosmic plan has 'always been' the merging and unification of them all into a greater whole' since like the cosmology chart in chronicles, so the whole kerfuffle about Lightforged warlocks was a moot point to me long before the datamining. Nobody blinks at a Void Elf warlock, despite Void and Fel ALSO canonically two separate cosmic powers that have been shown in the past to be unstable and violently react when mixed, see Xhul'horac of Hellfire Citadel raid. But they love to cite the Maiden of Vigilance encounter from Tomb of Sargeras as proof Light and Fel can't mix. Except, the Maiden is a TITAN construct, and thus a product of Order (arcane) magics. It's harder to explain how the hells titan works channel or replicate Light energies and damage then how FEL gets into anything. Fel getting into anything is literally the thing its BEST at. It's cosmically corruptive entropy and erosion. If the universe is a song, then the notes of discord Fel contributes are not SOUR or ruinous, they are the breaks and changes in pitch that make MUSIC as opposed to the 'stability' of a single long note held for eternity droning into mere noise. But spinning back to Oman, I personally appreciate the example that not all the Lightforged are mindless samethink clones of one another. Being 'embraced' by a cosmic energy doesn't discount personal trauma or desire for personal growth and change. We've long since said that the Light is not good. It'll be nice if there is future examples that Discord isn't all bad either.

thanks @safrona-shadowsun!

[bishie-in-azeroth]

I read your tags and is the party line real? I've seen it referenced, but does he say that for real?

Yes! It's was one of his "irritated" lines from his Warlords of Draenor incarnation. I don't know if it still works but you used to be able to have him say it by spam clicking the NPC version of him that shows up in the Hellfire Citadel raid. Warlords in general was the Khadgar expansion and it's an actual crime this whole questline centred around him being his most lovely and irresponsible self was removed when they got rid of the legendary ring quests.

[enarei]

the levelling experience in retail WOW is so mind numbingly dull. like I understand that they have a complex problem in their hands and leaving it unchanged wouldn't work. I understand the game has literally two decades worth of content, and just forcing new players to go through all of it as close as it was on release would not only be extremely technically challenging to balance, but also an insurmountable task to anyone with a job. but their solution to it shows such an utter disregard for the very core of what makes MMORPGs fun, and all the work they put into previous expansions.

it's actually sad to me to go Outland and see that everything scales to my level. that the bonechewer orcs on the cliffs to Hellfire Ramparts are the same level as the ones that patrol the road proper. that the handcrafted experience of surmounting each tier of orc progressively through questing, until you are powerful enough to climb the Hellfire Ramparts and take on a dungeon with a group of friends, and so on for each new area of TBC, all that has been sacrificed in the name of "current content". all of it has been homogenized such that it doesn't matter which area you do first, which class of enemies you choose to pick fights with, what quests you prioritize with each new level, it's all rendered equally (un)challenging so that players can speed through all of it to get to current expansion without a care in the world. there's zero incentive to care about the world besides the promise that once you're close to the end of your levelling journey, it'll get really good.

people might say that's always been the case since expansions became a thing, once new gear comes out, the old world is irrelevant. and I don't have a reason to disagree, except that I'm still presented with meaningful choices when levelling in classic WOW. the level 65 quest rewards might not be remotely relevant to {current max level content} Ice Crown Citadel in that game, but just being in the overworld itself is fun because the journey feels authentic instead of merely being there as "legacy" content to fulfill the requirement of some levelling experience in an RPG.

it's quite ironic that in an attempt to 'free' the player of the burden of being forced to level through every expansion linearly, so they can Have Their Own Adventure, they completely ruined the sense of autonomy that encourages you to actually do that. you wanna do a really hard quest 6 levels higher than you so you can skip the boring gathering ones appropriate to your level? or maybe you'd rather go to this other place that is full of beasts that you can skin and ore you can mine, so you can train your professions at the same time. have a friend close by? try to do this insanely stupid escort quest and get suckered into world pvp for half an hour when the Alliance shows up to ruin your day. like you get this very organic interaction between game and social systems by virtue of level ranges providing irregular bumps to perceived difficulty and thus how seriously you need to engage with your class's mechanics, how efficiency you need to use your cooldowns to survive an encounter — you get to pick the difficulty, and it turns out it's incredibly fun to challenge yourself.

In retail that barely ever happens, because every single enemy you'll fight in the overworld will be scaled to the same level as you, its health and damage output will never allow them to be exceptionally trivial or meaningfully challenging, which means you barely have to change your tactics.

I know the carrot is real. I know the class design has considerably more depth and the gameplay has the potential to be much more fun just by virtue of dungeons actually having interesting mechanics when they never did in classic. But it baffles me how much of a slog they expect you to push through to get to it as a new player. I find it very hard to believe I'd have gotten into WOW if this was my first experience with it and I didn't have friends telling me how awesome Dragonflight is.

[sky-kiss]

Raphael/Haarlep: Gift

A/N: Yeah, there's no real ending to this. I just wanted to write early days Raph/Haarlep trying to figure each other out a little. Also. The image is a lie, lol, cause this is a pre-glam Haarlep.

R/H: GIFT

He still recalls his sire’s words of introduction: 

Don’t you like your gift, boy?

Gift, said with a smile, hiding the underlying disdain and the most truthful sneer. Mephistopheles watches him closely, chin resting in his right palm, looking the very picture of benevolence to any onlooker. 

Gift, but it’s not a pet, tool, or toy standing across from him—no, his sire was never one for such half-measures. Raphael stares the incubus down, face impassive. They are beautiful, truth be told. Hair the color of burnished copper hangs nearly to the small of their back, skin sun-kissed, features lovely beyond the telling—they are every pleasant summer evening, every whispered dream by the seaside. The incubus is warmth and longing, humid hunger, made flesh. 

Raphael notices none of this—it’s only their eyes he cares about. They are the same hellfire gold as his own, lit with the same fury. For a moment, just the one, he thinks they might understand one another. 

The feeling passes. 

Mephistopheles speaks in a cold tone just above a whisper, only a few degrees above frostbite: “Will you not thank me, son of Hellfire?” 

“My thanks,” he says, and he hates that the response is immediate, that he is still too powerless to risk slighting the Archduke. Raphael flicks his attention to the viper he’s been gifted, “Does my prize have a name, Father?” 

The devil laughs. “Ah, but I hope you of all people shall appreciate this…I took the liberty of renaming it something more to your tastes: Haarlep.” 

Raphael’s head snaps up, lips curling back in a sneer. He opens his mouth to protest…

…and the incubus steps forward, winding their arms around his neck. The unnatural heat of their skin is a welcome balm compared to Mephistar’s unnatural chill. They lean close, near enough for their breath to gust across his lips. “You are a pretty thing, aren’t you? Yes. Oh, and you pout so sweetly.” They shut his mouth with a kiss. 

Raphael hears their voice in his head, a far cry from the empty-headed lilt they’ve spoken with: Don’t give him the satisfaction, little brat—be silent.

~~~~~~

“Is there where you’ve fled?”

“Reside,” Raphael corrects. “The House of Hope,” the cambion holds his arms out wide, gesturing to the banquet hall. It is not half as grand as his Father’s citadel on Mephistar but…suitable. He has carved out a place for himself—it will not sate his ambition for long, but for now, he allows himself to feel satiated. 

The incubus hums, dragging their fingers across the table. 

“You are not impressed?” 

Haarlep laughs, and there is a high and reedy quality to it that he does not like. “Asking me to lie to you already. And not even to the bedroom yet. Tsk, tsk, princeling—we are careening towards disappointment.” 

“You will address me with respect, slave.” 

“But of course, Master.” They croon, eyes blazing with naked defiance. Their wings flick, pinning behind them as the temperature in the banquet halls rises in response to Raphael’s temper. Haarlep bows their head in concession. By way of thanks, they say, “It is warmer than Mephistar.” 

“Too delicate for the cold?” 

They offer an olive branch. “This Home is…comfortable, princeling.”

~~~~~~

Raphael does not let the wretch share his bed. 

If it concerns them, they do not say. Haarlep roams the House, antagonizing the staff. They are never out of sight and just outside of arm's reach. Some evenings, he'll feel their fingers brush across his mind, testing the surface of his thoughts but never pushing. Whatever else the creature is, they are not stupid. 

They want his attention. 

Raphael sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and setting the contract aside. "Ask." 

He feels Haarlep's grin, even if he doesn't see it. The wretch lingers near the corner of his vision, rolling a coin across their knuckles, weaving it through their fingers. "Isn't it more fun like this?" 

"No. If you have a question, ask. Be direct." 

"Oh, but it's tedious. No play, no games…" 

"...no whimsy," Raphael finishes, leaning back in his seat. He knows the creature well enough to anticipate their next movement—they're up from their perch in one liquid movement, sliding into his lap the next. He catches their wrist before they can undo the top fastenings on his doublet. "Ah, ah, wandering hands to yourself, pet." 

Haarlep's lips curl up in a smirk, a note of respect creeping across their features. "You haven't asked why I'm here." 

"Why waste the breath? You are my Sire's spy." 

"Such accusations." 

"Do you deny it?" 

They scoff. "Of course not! No, no, I lie only when it suits me, dear. And I much prefer you know this truth." 

Raphael winds an arm around them, nails digging into their hip hard enough to draw blood. Haarlep doesn't wince. "You're here because he fears me." 

And Haarlep laughs, high and bright, and doesn't stop laughing when Raphael dumps them out of his lap. "Naughty and delusional, are we? No, half-blood, nothing so grand as that—the Cold Lord would distract you. And," they grin at him, cold, wicked, "Forget you." 

"I will not allow that."

Haarlep's eyes light with something like respect, "Good boy. Hold onto that drive. Perhaps one day you'll make something of yourself."

Raphael offers an olive branch—he extends a hand to the incubus. 

Haarlep takes it. 

[divine-explorations]

Who are We?

We are divine explorations. We are a Minecraft experience in the works made to bring fans of the mythological adventure, fun, and new friends.

Our Goal?

While providing a new RPG server experience, we are seeking to integrate elements of Minecraft JavaScript modding to enhance the experience, cherry picking a few mods and creating one of our own.

We are here to assure that you can tame most of our beloved beasties, while following under a deity of your choosing.

Vikralem, King of the Void

Vikralem is the yielder of death and destruction. His domain is filled with hellfire, dark, and evil. His (Im)mortal enemy is Krysalis, and any of her followers who dare enter his blazing territory are met with the vicious abominations created by his hand.

Krysalis, Bringer of Light

One may be intimidated by her appearance. Krysalis's home is a floating citadel in the sky, where she and many light-based creatures dwell. She does not dislike Vikralem, but, as his intent is near always malicious, she will not allow his followers into her domain.

[infernally-fond]

I keep getting these tragic/beautiful edits of fuckin' Dark Souls on tiktok, and one of them left me with an itch to sketch out a post-BG3 moment in Cania for Pallas. It's poncy and reads like I've been listening to FromSoftware character dialogue on loop because I have.

Raph is only mentioned, so I'm a little hesitant to tag this with him. So, fair warning, his presence is minimal.

——-

Deep below the citadel, on off hours, one could see the condemned souls unwinding from the miserable toil of mining deeper still into the frozen depths. 

Their overseers, a set of fearsome pit fiends with whips of hellfire, had returned to the surface the precise moment their shifts ended. Whatever hunger stirred in them for the wails at the end of a cracked whip did not outcompete the drudgery of supervising such work. And so, the souls too rested. 

Mephistopheles' paranoia did not yet extend to the souls of laborers. Unaware of it though they were, the laborers spent every night with an unparalleled freedom to coexist in each other’s company. 

Pallas visited the Mepistarian mines with some regularity, long since familiar with the mineshaft that lead down into the excavation. She was cloaked in old furs that shimmered behind a gauze-thin aura of hellfire to endure the cold. Hellfire burned a cold white, casting inhospitable starkness into the ice. Without it, there would be no light at all. 

The laborers had no use for fire - no need for warmth, no need for light. 

Pallas gingerly lowered to sit some thirty paces from the bulk of their resting forms, pulling her knees to her chest and watching them with a gentle curiosity.

Mortal souls were fascinating things - perhaps more similar to the recently subdued illithid hivemind than living mortals. They shimmered in cool colors, something like tarnished copper. The newer souls held their shapes better, more consistently. They squabbled amongst each other, occasionally finding the energy to physically fight when free of the fiends’ supervision.

Something seemed to happen over time to change the souls condemned to the sub-city mines. Whatever manner of cruelty resided in the souls lured to the Cold Lord’s promises, sunless centuries immersed in the presence of each other would buffet them into something almost lovely. A strange descriptor, but…

Those with the longest tenure drew softer figures, edges implied and often shifting - a reimagining of self. They would hold form enough to work when the overseers lashed at them with hellfire, but when resting they softened once more, eager to drop a mask of burdensome solidity.

Pallas had seen a litter of pups outside Baldur's Gate, warm and round-bellied, curled up between each other that reminded her of the scene ahead. 

The fraying souls mingled in affectionate twirls together. Not quite a pile - it was more elegant, more artful than that. Like a lazy dance, perhaps. Like watching wind slowly direct a smattering of leaves into a loose coil, always just on the edge of dispersing. 

They spoke to each other in voices unconcerned with identity. Vaguely feminine or masculine, vaguely old or young, some swinging between affectation mid-word. 

Shifting voices murmured gently to each other, twined into one thing, issuing benedictions of "be safe" to each other, to itself - this one thing they made. It was foreign to bear witness to such softness in this or any plane. 

Impressions of hands stroked impressions of temples; a pair of arms curled over what seemed, for a moment, the soft curves of shoulders.

Watching with a waning focus, Pallas wondered if the truer nature of mortality was before her, if some profound distinction would be easily parsed from the visual by someone wise. Halsin might have commented on the connectedness that underlies everything. Gale might have speculated on the specifics of the merging. ("How many arms do you count? I've spotted at least s- oh, seven now.")

Maybe her companions’ echoes of presence had left impressions like a microcosm of the merging before her well within her own mind. An imagined insistence for safety, received and given in an even cadence. 

"Do stay safe."

The voice, impossible to categorize on any spectrum of mortal description spoke just beside her shoulder. Startling as the proximity should have been, she felt the words as if they were gentle touches down the crown of her head. 

Pallas parroted the words clumsily, strangely certain this was what was appropriate. 

The spirit, softened at the edges, almost transitory across moments, affected some quality that implied an emotional warmth. It suffused the rigid boundary of self asserted by her living soul. It settled at her side, unmoving, at ease.

The murmuring dance of souls before her synchronized in a song with such precision as to suggest the presence of a conductor. The singing was always lovely. It's what drew her down here time and again.

No one voice was particularly ethereal - it wasn’t a bard’s talent on display. It was connectedness. Each of the component souls sung in a series of dearly remembered voices simultaneously. To hear it was to bear witness to choruses of families - blood and chosen - across time. 

The Canian fiends didn’t sing like this. They sang, of course- but their hymns were demonstrations of technical mastery of the performer, written to exalt the domineering qualities of the subject. The High Cantor’s voice was clear and clarifying as ice cold water, impossible to replicate, objectively beautiful. But, even so, hymns for the Cold Lord’s pleasure were sterile accolades.

Impossibly different (better - an inner voice whispered) were the twining chorus of treasured voices lacing together into something that would wring tears from any mortal to hear it. 

A curl of satisfaction tightened in her chest. Pallas privately enjoyed finding pride in the distinction between herself and the fiends around her. Maybe the cambions, vicious as their treatment had primed them to be, mourned the wrong loss. 

“We’re unlike them,” Pallas whispered resolutely, chasing the bitter joy of her conclusion as she proudly overlooked the twining selves performance. “They’re repressed shells. They live devoid of beauty outside of pointless, showy intricacy. They don’t even sing properly.”

The form before her smiled without a face to do so. It knocked gently against her shoulder with an impression of a humanoid form, unbothered by the thin veil of hellfire. When they touched she felt its fondness expressed in something akin to temperature.  

“Everything that sings, sings properly,” the soul chided, smoothing over each spike of irritability expressed in the flicker of hellfire with more of that fond warmth.

Pallas accepted the correction silently, never moving her eyes from the ongoing dance. The true danger of this place was combating the compulsion to fall asleep to the gentle chorus. Skilled as she was, Pallas couldn’t maintain the hellfire through sleep. 

Perhaps to fight off the sleep or dismiss another burgeoning wave of formless yearning, Pallas pondered the High Cantor’s songs once more. Perhaps they weren’t all militant ballads. And then, there was Raphael, of course. He -

She shook her head as if to physically dislodge the thought. Still, a fragment of memory flashed- his distinctive, idle humming just under his breath as he shifted papers in his exorbitant lodgings in Wyrmm’s Crossing. Casual, improvised. (Unfit.)

Pallas wondered how such a thing could be branded into her hindbrain, as immediately recognizable as the pull of hellfire. And then hadn't she seen him bent over a journal, consumed with intensity, quill flicking so quickly as to render the penmanship unsalvageable?

That didn't make sense. It dashed across the distinction Raphael himself would assert-

“Be safe, friend.”

The formless soul beside her lengthened in shape, as if to mimic rising to a stand. She leaned into the parting wash of fond warmth before it parted from her to join with the others, a new chorus of voices added to the song. Among the additions, it weaved in the recalled fragment of that absent hum, forever integrating some distant shadow of Raphael with the formless inertia of whatever this tangle of mortal souls had become.