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pengychan · 6 months ago

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[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 11

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.

*** I honestly don't know what Raphael was expecting his first audience with Mephistopheles to be like, but the answer is still probably 'Not This'. ***

Despite Avernus being-- well, Avernus, Karlach had recently found it had a few features that made it… not too unbearable, all things considered.

First thing first, it didn’t make the engine in her chest overheat to the point of explosion, which was a plus. Until that tin can had started overheating in the Material Plane, Karlach hadn’t even thought she could count ‘my heart isn’t threatening to literally explode’ as a blessing, but there she was. Secondly, while being pretty much the definition of a hellish landscape and a near-infinite battlefield where demons or devils or both could show up any second, it had a surprising amount of deep, easily defensible cave systems where they could set up camp in relative - very relative - safety after clearing out of their occupants, which were generally either imps or hellsboar. The latter were pretty tasty roasted on a spit, too.

And third, of course, there was the company. She loved-- well. Most of the company.

The devil tagging along - who may not be a devil anymore on a sheer technicality but was still a fucking devil as far as she was concerned, the monster who’d tricked and trapped and tormented all the souls she’d spent the past weeks with and who of course tortured Hope for no damn reason but his own amusement - had been a surprise. And not a pleasant one.

If they really needed him she could bear his presence like she’d been able to bear Mizora’s at their camp half a year earlier… but that didn’t mean she had to like it. When her turn came to stand guard at the entrance and she walked up to him, she had to really struggle to ignore the urge to grab her greataxe and give him… just a little tap on the top of the skull with the blunt edge. But, as her greataxe actually did not have a blunt edge, she didn’t.

Instead she stopped a few feet from him, tilting her head to see what he was even doing. The box she’d thrown to his hea-- given him was open on the ground, the letter he’d been reading earlier folded and placed back inside. Next to it was the Spider’s Lyre, but the strings were gone and Raphael was tinkering with the black lyre that had been in the box. Karlach frowned, and stepped closer.

“The fuck are you doing?”

The only response she got at first was a scoff. Raphael didn’t even look up, still working on the lyre. “I may be consuming the souls of the innocent, or stringing a lyre. I’ll let your intellectual prowess lead you to the answer.”

Ah, the bastard. Good thing she was there to take his place watching out, because the idiot would probably get them all killed. Half an army of Orthons could walk past him while he was focused on the stupid lyre. “You’re supposed to be watching out for dangers.”

“I cast a glyph of warding on the ground just outside. If anything steps on it, it will trigger.”

Karlach rolled her eyes, and went to sit at the entrance as well. “Oh, great. I’m sure fucking glad wings are not commonplace here,” she muttered. “Does it trigger when flown over?”

“Do feel free to launch yourself outside and find out.”

“Don’t tempt me into launching you out.”

“Perish the thought. I’d hate to tempt anyone.” Raphael sneered, like he hadn’t tempted countless into far worse fates, still not looking up. This time, Karlach’s hands really itched to grab her weapon; still, she only glared… and saw something glinting at his neck. She recognized it immediately: the locket with the star-and-spire motif on it, the one with the miniature portrait. She sneered right back.

“Kinda brazen, isn’t it?” she muttered. “Wearing a portrait of your first kill.”

Raphael’s hands stilled for a moment, still holding onto the string he was fastening, and his features twisted… but then they smoothed over again and, with another scoff, he resumed stringing the lyre. Something about his calm demeanor pissed her off even more. Just earlier that day, she’d watched souls - people - she’d learned to know flee deep into the House, cowering as far away as they could from the foyer. They all trembled, some stuttered pleas to be left alone - any peace they had managed to painfully regain ripped away by Raphael’s mere presence.

His sadness, Hope had called the box, but he didn’t seem nearly sad enough, nowhere near as sad as he’d made countless souls over godsdamned millennia. Nowhere as hurt as the souls in the House of Hope had been, as Hope herself had been… as a kid called Enver Flymm must have been, not too long ago, trapped in Raphael’s own slice of Hell.

This bastard fucked him over, and Gortash fucked others over in turn. Fucked me over sure enough, sold me to a damn devil like he was. Maybe none of this would have happened if Raphael never bought him. He’d have never grown up in Avernus, never met Zariel, never sold me to her. I’d still have my own heart and I wouldn’t be here now. But he did and here I am, and this bastard was the start of it all. Gortash is dead but the devil is still here.

Unaware of her thoughts, and probably uncaring either way, Raphael just spoke again. “As you’re so familiar with the fate that befalls any mortal mother of a cambion,” he said, voice even, “you’ll no doubt know I had no awareness of what was happening, and certainly no intention--”

“What does it matter? The plague doesn’t mean to kill anyone, but it’s still the fucking plague.”

It was a cruel remark; heartless, some might say, and very fittingly in her case. This time, she hit a nerve. Raphael winced as though struck, and the string he was securing to the lyre cut deep into his hand, near the base of his fingers. He hissed, and let go of the lyre to grasp the injured hand. Blood dripped on his trousers, on the lyre; Raphael stared at his bleeding hand for a few moments before breathing out, somewhat shakily.

Karlach expected some kind of response - a temper tantrum, maybe, or a show of indifference again - but at first there was none. He wiped blood off the lyre as well as he could with a sleeve, put everything back in the box with one hand before he picked it up, awkwardly, and stood.

“I’ll leave you to be our guard dog for the night. I trust Zariel has trained well enough for that at least,” he finally ground out, and turned away without another word, back inside the cave, a trail of blood in his wake. Fitting, that.

She found herself staring at that blood for a few moments, and sneered… or tried to. She had wanted to get a rise out of him, but now the smile felt forced on her lips. Much like when she’d taken down Gortash, it didn’t taste like triumph. It didn’t taste like anything. She’d hit the mark and made him bleed, and he’d deserved it, yet it gave her no joy whatsoever.

Karlach sighed and turned her gaze to the burning skies outside, wondering if beheading Zariel with her own hands might, at last, do the trick.

***

“You’re wounded.”

“How very observant.”

“If you need healing--”

“Vis medicatrix.”

Ah, of course he could heal himself; Halsin had almost forgotten about it. He watched the cut on Raphael’s hand close up, and held out a clean towel when he began looking around for something to wipe off the blood.

“Here,” he said. He kept his voice low enough not to awaken the others, who were asleep a few paces away from the fire where he sat. He was not quite tired enough to sleep yet, and had been whittling away until Raphael had come to sit by the fire too. When he replied, his voice was almost as quiet.

“... At least it’s passably clean.” He took the towel somewhat stiffly, and used it to wipe his hands before he opened his box and wiped the lyre clean as well. Half the new strings were on, the rest yet to be put in place; it was easy to tell now how the wound had come to be. The lyre cleaned, Raphael turned his attention to the blood on his trousers and sleeve, nose wrinkling in distaste.

“Cold water,” Halsin, who was rather certain the devil did not know the first thing about laundry, spoke.

“... Excuse me?”

“To get those stains out. You’ll want to use cold water and soap, before the blood can clot.”

A pause, a small sound that may even, with some effort, pass off as a chuckle. “And here I thought a druid would be more inclined to use stains as an excuse to do away with clothing entirely.”

“I will not deny I find clothing restrictive, but--”

“I know someone you might just get along with.”

“--You do learn how to take stains out of clothes when looking after a few dozen children.”

“A worse torture than I ever could have engineered, and you do it voluntarily?”

Halsin chuckled. “I spent time untold wishing I had a chance to become a father. I am grateful to be one to so many, now.” A pause. “... I could help, if you’d like. With the blazer. Change into your camp clothes before the blood dries and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Suspiciously helpful.”

“If you’re wondering if it’s an excuse to get you to strip, no. I’d be far more direct, believe me,” Halsin quipped, and this time Raphael’s lips actually curled into a faint smile before he nodded and went to his tent to change.

It wasn’t too bad, really: the blood was still fresh enough that some cold water, soap, and a good rubbing did the trick. After putting the blazer to dry, Halsin was satisfied to see he got all the blood out. He sat back next to Raphael, and resumed whittling. “It’ll be fine to wear come morning. If… we can tell when it’s morning. Does the sky outside always look like this?”

“Yes.”

“And the natural the cycle of day and night--”

“No such thing.”

Halsin frowned. No surprise, he thought, that Karlach had missed the stars so much. “That sounds dreadful.”

“Some would even venture to say it’s hellish,” Raphael commented. He’d resumed stringing the lyre and, by the looks of it, he was almost done. “You do get used to it, though. Or it drives you insane, I suppose. But I believe our vampiric friend,” he added, tilting his head towards where Astarion lay, head resting on Durge’s shoulder, “has reason to prefer this to daylight, at least in his current state.”

“... He does miss sunlight. I can understand. I spent years as a-- guest in the Underdark.”

“I’m going to assume you were a guest the same way Karlach was a guest in Avernus.”

“More or less. I was not forced to fight, but--” Halsin paused, and cleared his throat. “Well. I’ll never forget the moment I stepped into the sun again. I hope Astarion can feel it again soon.”

“I’d focus on getting out of here alive in the first place.”

“Heh. Fair enough,” Halsin chuckled, and said nothing more. For a time, everything was quiet again except for the crackling of fire and the steady breathing of their sleeping companions, Wyll sleeping with his rapier close at hand and Durge and Astarion sharing a bedroll. Halsin was halfway through whittling yet another duck when he saw Raphael put the lyre aside, clearly having decided to wait until morning, or what passed as morning, to tune it properly.

“You should have some soup. There is just enough left.”

“I am not particularly hungry.”

“Your body needs nourishment,” Halsin pointed out. He took the last ladle’s worth of soup out of the pot, and into a bowl. He pushed it in Raphael’s hands without waiting for a reply. “Do pretend I’m a decent cook. I’ll consider this your thanks for getting blood out of your blazer.”

“... Mph. Worse deals have been made, I suppose,” was the response, and he did drink it down, slowly, staring into the fire as though he could see something in it that Halsin could not. Halsin resumed whittling and they stayed like that for another while, without speaking, each lost in their own thoughts.

Until Halsin looked up from his work to see that Raphael had fallen asleep, back against a boulder, the healed hand holding onto a locket he wore around his neck. In the open box, next to the newly stringed lyre, there was a folded letter with some dark splotches on it, as though something had dripped on the ink.

And it was not, Halsin could tell, blood.

***

Dearest Israfel,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that you’ll forgive me for using the name I’ve always known you by: it is the name your mother chose for you, with her last breath. I feel I’d do her wrong by not using it.

I hope the Hells are the home I know you always wished they would be to you, and that you never have reason to look back in regret. I wish there was advice I could give you, more than what little I could impart to you, but I am no devil and I am under now delusion that I may even begin to understand the workings of the Hells. But I do know you learn fast, and I trust you’ll do what needs doing to thrive.

I also hope that you did not take the few words I spoke when you left for coldness. There was more I wished to tell you, yet words failed me as they often do. There is a reason why you could talk circles around me since you were a boy of ten, after all. I had known the day would come that you’d be taken to your father’s court, and it still caught me unprepared. Until you can visit us, then, this letter will have to suffice.

There is much I hope you can find in yourself to forgive me for. Our time together was always meant to be short; I am but a human in his twilight years, and you are an immortal being barely at the beginning of life. However, I was foolish enough to shorten it further. Ten years you lived under my roof before I so much acknowledged you. It should not have taken me that long - should not have taken your mother’s features in your human form - to truly see you.

I’d have seen Dalah in you much earlier if I had. The penchant for rhymes, a sweet tooth, the way you scrunch your nose when angry. (I know it annoys you, when it’s brought up; you’re doing it right now, I am sure. For this, too, I hope you’ll forgive me.)

I saw her first, and only then did I finally see you. It was my failing, not yours. It was out of grief and guilt, never hatred, but it was a grievous failing nonetheless. In a different world, I would have been proud to call you my son. I am sorry this is no such world.

I hope I could teach you something of use in the few years we did have; for the rest, I hope you know Nan, and everyone else, loved you greatly even when I could not. They still do, and we all hope to see you again soon.

I took the liberty to send you a few things I thought you’d like to have - your mother’s lyre and her favorite book, and a locket with her portrait. Only once you’d gone I realized I never showed you a portrait of her, or even so much talked about her. Again, my grief bound my tongue, but it is no excuse. I did you wrong, and I hope I may yet have the chance to rectify that mistake. When you visit, we will talk about your mother.

Until then, I hope you are safe, and happy.

With deepest affection,

Rahirek.

***

By the time he stepped before the high doors leading to Lord Mephistopheles’ throne room, Raphael was certain of two things: he was not ready, and he was about to throw up.

“Lord Mephistopheles demands your presence,” he’d been told, and that was it. Five words to answer a plea he’d repeated almost daily for… weeks? Months? It was hard to tell, with each day exactly like the last and a perpetual snowstorm hiding the skies outside. The preceptor had taken him there and left , telling him he’d be allowed inside shortly.

“If he can even understand what you’re saying, with that dreadful pronunciation,” he’d muttered on his way out. “Speak clearly, or he may make a meal out of you. He does not suffer fools gladly.”

For his sanity, Raphael had decided to take that warning as an exaggeration, and gathered up the courage to walk closer to the doors behind which his father sat on a throne of ice. All that waiting, all that yearning, and here he was. He should have been elated. Instead, he was terrified.

The towering pit fiend suddenly stepping before the intricately carved doors with a mace in hand and eyes glowing like fire did not help, either. His voice was a gravelly growl, and he had fangs easily as long as Raphael’s forearm. It took him an effort to look away from those formidable teeth and into the fiend’s eyes. They were not a much more reassuring sight; knowing who he was did little to help.

“Who goes there?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

Raphael cleared his throat, hoping fervently that words would come out right, and bowed. “Duke Hutijin,” he spoke carefully, praying whoever or whatever could hear him now that he hadn’t mispronounced his name. “It is a privilege to meet you. My name is Raphael. I have been summoned by Lord Mephistopheles.”

A few moments of silence, but that mace did not come down on him, and Raphael supposed it was something. Another gravelly sound he identified as a chuckle, and he dared look up. Duke Hutijin had lowered the mace, and was leaning over to better look at him.

“Ah, the new one. Let me have a look at you.” A huge hand with a dagger-sharp claw lifted his chin, and the pit fiend laughed when he saw him swallow. “Fear not, I’d never spill my liege’s blood unless he ordered me to himself. And no such order has been given today.” A pause, a tilt of his head. Those flaming eyes stared, but whatever he thought of what he saw, he did not say. “Well then, go meet your father. Do try not to piss yourself, little duke. You’ll find him in a fair enough mood.”

Raphael wanted to protest at the insult, say that he was not that scared, but he could tell that talking back to what was probably the most powerful pit fiend in Cania - and lying to him to boot - would probably not be a clever course of action. So he lowered his eyes, nodded, and went to the doors. A touch on the surface - ice cold, despite the warmth inside the citadel - and slowly, they opened.

The throne room was so vast it may have felt as though he’d stepped outside if not for the domed ceiling above and the columns on both sides - each of intricately carved ice, and ice was the floor, the ceiling. Two pits opened up in the floor on either side of the throne; from one rose a column of roaring fire, and from the other a stream of swirling green wisps that, he’d learned, were mortal souls. They rose up to the ceiling and fell back down into the pit, slowly, endlessly.

And on the throne at the back of the room, beneath a banner bearing the sigil of a three-pronged ranseur piercing a halo of flames, sat Mephistopheles.

He was tall, more than any mortal Raphael had ever met, and of most devils too. Even if he did not tower the way Duke Hutijin did, Raphael knew this was but one of the forms he could take. This form of his was reminiscent of the portraits he’d seen of the Cold Lord, with deep blue skin so dark it almost looked black near the base of his four ram-like horns. The horns curled backward, golden rings around each. His hair was so black and so long it was hard to tell where it ended and where the void-black cape he wore began.

And there were the eyes, pale blue, fixed on him.

For a moment, Raphael forgot how to breathe. He’d imagined meeting his father since he could understand what a father was, and why he did not seem to have one. When he was very young, he’d imagined that a stranger would approach him one day at a crossroads - it was always crossroads, in the stories - to reveal himself as his father, tell him he’d come to take him home. Until recently he’d had no notion that his sire may be an Archdevil, and that meeting him would need to wait until he could find the time for an audience.

Now he had that audience, and his tongue was coated with lead. For a few moments he could only stare, heart in his throat, feeling like an utter fool.

He does not suffer fools gladly.

Panic reared its head, and still Raphael stood frozen on the spot. For a few moments Mephistopheles’ features remained still, his face expressionless… then, slowly, his lips curled upwards and he let out a low, rumbling chuckle. Maybe Duke Hutijin was right, and he was in a fair mood after all.

“You asked to see me with such insistence my own Consort requested I grant you an audience, yet you seem to have misplaced your tongue,” he said, his voice a pleasant baritone. “Am I not as you imagined?”

The calm tone was balm to Raphael’s nerves, and he finally managed to regain his speech. He bowed quickly, and deep. “My liege,” he said, and this time Infernal slid off his tongue with practiced ease. “It is an honor to stand in your presence. I deeply apologize if my earlier insistence caused annoyance.”

A hum. It sounded neither pleased, nor displeased. “You did not answer my question.”

Raphael looked up, and swallowed. He could feel the weight of that gaze, even as no true emotion showed on his sire’s face. “I have seen portraits, my lord, of this form and others.”

“Ah, of course you’d have seen those. Were you hoping to be met with the visage that most resembles your own?”

“I wouldn’t presume it’s my place to make such requests, my lord.”

Lord Mephistopheles tilted his head, just slightly, in what may have been an approving nod. “No, it is not,” he agreed, and lifted a hand to beckon him closer. Raphael did step towards the throne on somewhat shaky legs, gaze respectfully low, until his sire’s voice rang out again. “That’s close enough.”

Standing between the column of fire and the column of souls, Raphael dared look up again. Lord Mephistopheles was looking down at him, eyes narrowed. When he spoke again it was still in that calm, even tone. “You’ll have to remind me - where and when was it I sired you?”

“In Tethyr, sir, just over thirteen years ago. My mother’s name--” he began, only to be silenced with a chuckle and another wave of that hand, as though to chase a fly away.

“You can’t possibly expect me to remember the name of every mortal who received my seed,” Mephistopheles said, obviously amused. Like the mortal who’d received his seed hadn’t also borne his son, and died for it. “But where you were born matters not, as now you’re just where you ought to be. I have been told you have a proclivity for music and poetry. Is that so?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Hm. Songs of praise are always welcome here, but I do have a High Cantor and more than enough musicians, so that skill of yours is of no use to me.” A vague gesture of his hand, that unnerving gaze still fixed on him. “So tell me…” a pause, a chuckle. “Ah, but I forgot. What is your name again, boy?”

Something sank in Raphael’s chest, cold as the ice around them.

You named me, he wanted to cry out. You took away the name my mother gave me to impose another, and still you can’t recall it?

Still, he knew better than that. He swallowed the ache, and tried to keep his voice as firm as possible. “You named me Raphael, my lord.”

“Very well, Raphael. What else can you offer to serve me?”

For a moment, Raphael found himself speechless, raking his mind for a response and finding none. What could he offer? He was well-read and learned fast; he had a good memory and, back home, people always said he could have sold ice cubes to Auril herself if he wanted. But with his sire’s gaze on him, he struggled to think of a way he could put those skills to use.

I can use hellfire, he thought, but he hesitated to speak those words too. Antilia’s voice rang in his head, the warning as dire as it had sounded when she’d uttered it.

Until you are certain of your affinity with hellfire, do not speak of it. Don’t ever tell them you used it entirely by accident. Go boasting about it, and you’ll be seen as too much a threat.

It seemed almost absurd to think, that Mephistopheles could consider him a threat… but Raphael had already heard tales, whispers, of how he’d destroyed far lesser devil for little to no reason but-- well, the word they used for it was caution, but the tone made the meaning clear enough - paranoia . Lord Mephistopheles could undo him with a word and, he saw it now, he wouldn’t hesitate to do so.

Maybe Lady Antilia lied, part of him thought. Maybe he would be pleased to know I can wield hellfire. She did tell me I shouldn’t trust her either. But to what end?

“Come boy, speak,” Mephistopheles spoke up, his voice now curt, and colder. “Surely, you would not have insisted on being in my presence without something to offer.”

The underlying threat was unmistakable, and Raphael swallowed before forcing himself to speak again. He could keep his voice from shaking, at least, and spoke in fluent enough Infernal as he lowered his head. “As of now, my liege, all I have to offer is my utter loyalty,” he said. “But I’ve been studying as much as I can, so I can find a way to serve you.”

“Mmh.” A pause, and he rubbed his chin. Again, he sounded neither pleased nor displeased; he was simply considering . “I see. I can extend you some grace, on account of you having but thirteen winters behind you. Still, my patience is not endless.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Many of my blood possess an innate talent for arcane magic. Do you?”

Raphael looked up. “Yes, my liege. I have been able to cast spells since I was--”

He had no time to finish the sentence. Mephistopheles gave a smile that did not reach his eyes, and lifted a hand. “Show me,” was all he said, and he snapped his fingers.

With a drum-shattering shriek, two imps leaped out of the column of fire, fangs bared and yellow eyes glowing with malice. One swung a clawed hand, and Raphael scrambled back just on time for the claws to miss his flesh and only tear clothes. He fell back with a cry, landing hard on the ice, head spinning.

He’s never been in a real fight before and, aside from the encounter with perytons not too long ago, he’d never struck anything but some targets the master-at-arms back home had set up for practice, when it had become clear he wasn’t meant to hold a sword. He’d been getting good at hitting those, but they were just that - targets. Static, and very much not trying to claw his eyes out.

With another shriek, one of the imps threw itself at him. Raphael cried out and instinctively held up his hands, grasping the being’s head to keep him away. Claws still sank into his arms, tearing clothes and skin, and… and…

Flames erupted from his hands and the imp’s head was all but gone, all burning flesh, scorched bone and brain matter as it fell back motionless on the floor. Raphael choked back a cry and tried to stand up, but he slipped on the ice and fell back with a grunt. Above him, there was a furious shriek. The other imp had lifted itself up in the air on tattered wings and dove down on him, fags bared, claws out, stinger dripping venom.

What came next was, again, pure instinct: he rolled to the side and, when the imp landed with a crack on the spot where he’d been until an instant earlier, he threw out a hand.

“Gela!”

In retrospect, it was a mistake: he was too close to his target, and the result was predictable. The ice knife hit the imp square in the chest and exploded in shards, knocking them in opposite directions. Raphael could hear the imp shrieking over his own cry of pain, shards of ice cutting into his arm, his shoulder, his face. He ground his teeth, tried to ignore the smears of blood his hand left on the floor, and lifted himself on one knee before looking up.

The imp was wounded, ice shards through its chest, but still alive. It writhed on the floor, features twisted in a snarl, glaring at him but unable to stand, to fly, to attack. It was defeated. It was helpless. It was weak, and Raphael had never hated anything more. He stood with a snarl, and again he acted without much thought at all. He lifted a hand and so did the imp, in a last futile attempt at a defense. It was an easy mark, now. One Raphael would not miss.

The splash of acid hit true, and the imp screamed. It was a cry of agony, and short-lived; it had been barely clinging to life, and the acid did the rest. The creature fell back, sizzling, and moved no more. The acrid smell of flesh melting away filled Raphael’s nostrils, and he couldn’t tear his gaze from the corpse. His wounds hurt and his heart pounded in his chest; still, he smiled. The things that hurt him were dead, and it felt good. He wished he could bring them back and kill them again and again and again, hear those screams over and over. He wished--

A chuckle snapped Raphael from his thoughts, reminding him where he was, and with whom. He looked up to see his sire was leaning his chin on his hand. “I would say that was adequate enough, for a halfbreed just plucked out of the Material Plane,” he conceded, then, “was it your first kill?”

Raphael looked up, still breathing heavily. When he spoke again his voice was rougher, honorifics entirely forgotten. “No. I killed a peryton, once.”

Mephistopheles raised an eyebrow. “A peryton? That is indeed a greater feat than defeating a pair of lowly imps. Perhaps I should have given you more of a challenge.” His lips quirked upwards, barely. “How did you kill it?”

Do not speak of it, Antilia’s voice rang in his head, and he didn’t. Not all of it. “Fire. I burned it.”

“And how did it make you feel?”

Raphael closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recall. He hadn't truly realized he'd killed the creature until the screams died down, until he saw the corpse. Until that moment there had only been his stepfather’s heartbeat against his ear, the protective embrace that seemed to last forever. He swallowed. “Good,” he whispered. “It felt good.”

“And this?” A gesture towards the half-melted, charred corpses on the ground. Raphael looked at it for a few, long moments.

“It feels good,” he replied again, and it was no lie this time either. I wish they screamed more, he thought.

He expected another question, but there was none: just a nod again. It gave Raphael the distinct feeling he had passed a test of some kind; not with flying colors, perhaps, but he'd passed it all the same.

“I see. If you find no other way of serving me, you may serve well in the Blood War.”

The Blood War. Raphael had learned of it, of this endless war spilling rivers of blood, from devils and demons alike, every single day in Avernus. His preceptor had made a point to let him know many halfbreeds would go on to become cannon fodder in it. For all the pleasure Raphael had taken in this kill, the prospect of being sent to the front lines was enough to make him balk. “I-- my lord, I--”

“You’re wounded,” Lord Mephistopheles cut him off, and gestured towards the slow streams of souls, which floated up to the ceiling and then back down in the pit. “You may consume a soul, if you wish.”

Raphael stared at the souls, stepped closer, and held out a hand. They were incorporeal, of course; faintly glowing wisps, all that remained of mortal beings. There was a faint warmth to them as they weaved through his fingers - each of them once a mortal life, swayed or tricked into becoming this, the most sought-after resource in all of the Nine Hells.

“Souls,” Raphael whispered, and finally looked up. “I can-- I will get you souls, my lord. I know mortals, I know how they think. I can learn all I need to learn about contracts. This is how I can serve you.”

A nod. “Ah, yes. Your kind often has a queer attraction towards mortals. It places you well to procure souls, if you’re clever enough.”

They said I could sell ice to Auril herself, Raphael thought. I am clever enough. I can be of use. I can make you proud.

His path forward now clear, Raphael breathed more easily. He turned his attention back on the souls dancing around his palm, focused on one, and willed it to come to him. No one had ever instructed him as to how to consume a soul, but it came as naturally as magic ever did. He breathed in deeply through his mouth and it flooded him, cool and soothing and electrifying at the same time - healing his wounds, feeding his powers, amplifying his senses. When he tore out the last shard of ice from his shoulder, Raphael felt no pain. There was only that sense of euphoria, the clarity that comes with finally seeing a path ahead after wandering blind for so long.

Above him, unseen, the Lord of the Eighth bared his teeth in a smile.

***

“In my world there is order, he said!”

“I specified I was talking about my--”

Raphael’s protest was cut off by Karlach’s cry as she swung her axe, cutting a spinagon in half and sending its blood and guts to spray across the ground and, well, across Astarion. Who, as a response, only yelled louder, just as he drew his bowstring to put another arrow through an imp. “WE BRING THE CHAOS OF OUR WORLD IN HIS, HE SAID!”

“I WAS TALKING ABOUT MY HOUSE!”

“YOU ARE NEVER GETTING TO-- ah, nice shot, love, thank you-- NEVER WHINE ABOUT CHAOS IN THE MATERIAL PLANE AGAIN, DEVIL!”

Raphael snorted, and cast a cloud of daggers that annihilated a pair of nupperibos before they could so much as attempt an attack at Halsin’s unprotected back. The only surviving nupperibo of the trio was promptly blasted back by Wyll, into a pit of boiling tar, and didn’t resurface again.

“This entire layer is a battlefield and I would have stopped all this with the crown, spawn!” Raphael snapped, glaring at Astarion and entirely missing the spinagon trying to dive on him from above.

Durge groaned, and dispatched it with a ray of frost before speaking. “I don’t think this is the moment to air grievances--”

“This is your doing and I’ll air all the grievances I please!”

“Oh please, let me cut him in two.”

“No, Karlach," Durge muttered, and to their relief she went to cut an imp in two instead.

All things considered, they had to run into devils or demons sooner or later; it had been a small miracle that they’d been able to go from the House of Hope to the cave they’d chosen to rest the previous night without meeting anything but a couple of hellsboars. Raphael was right when he described Avernus as one huge battlefield, and running into foes soon after setting out for the day's march was perhaps inevitable.

Luckily, they were all rather weak. Unfortunately, there was a swarm of them.

“We’ve been pretty lucky we didn’t run into these while next to that lake of lava!” Wyll yelled over the screams of a couple of spinagons trapped within the blackness of a Hunger of Hadar spell. “That would have made a dismal battlefield.”

“Oh, how lucky that we’ve met them in the middle of these delightful pits or tar and quicksand instead!” Astarion yelled, and drew his bowstring again. The arrow found its target in the throat of yet another spinagon just as Durge’s frost breath downed a couple of imps. “What were you planning to turn this spot into, Raphael? An archdevil resort?”

Raphael scoffed, downing another imp with an admittedly well-placed ice knife spell. “I’ll have you know that before the Blood War, this layer was the most wondrous thing you’d ever set your eyes on!”

Astarion laughed, almost dancing under an imp’s swing of a scimitar before gutting it with a single, swift strike of a knife. “Gods, are you that old?”

“It is a well known fact for anyone with even a modicum amount of knowledge, and I’d have restored its former glo--”

“FIREBALL!”

Halsin’s warning cut through the sulfur-saturated air, through the shrieks and clangs of the battle. Durge looked up to see that indeed, one of the fireballs that were ever streaking Avernus’ sky had taken a sharp turn downwards and was coming… directly at them.

“Shit-- we got to take cover!”

“I’ve got this - get over here, everyone!” Durge called out, and lifted a hand. “Veni et iuva me!”

The Globe of Invulnerability shimmered into being around them, and Astarion immediately leaped in. Raphael and Halsin were quick to follow, though Halsin took a moment to create a gust of wind to knock back the spinagons trying to follow.

“Oh that’s a handy one!” Karlach laughed, nearly barrelling right through the globe and skidding to a halt just inside it. “Both the globe and the fireball, I mean! There was this one time we were in deep shit, fuckers everywhere, but then this fireball came down and fried them. Remember, Wy-- Wyll?”

With a sense of dawning horror, they all looked back to see that Wyll was some distance away from the globe, one leg stuck in quicksand up to his knee, struggling to pull free while the fireball plummeted down towards the ground.

“Shit! No! Wyll!” Karlach cried out, and tried to run out towards him. Tried to, because they all could tell there was no way she could get to him and back on time, even if she could pluck him out from the quicksand at the first try. If she went, the fireball would strike both. Durge, Halsin and Astarion held onto her as one, and even then they struggled to hold her back.

“Karlach, wait!”

“Karlach, no!” Wyll cried out. “Stay back! Please, keep her back!”

A scream, holding all the anguish in the world. “No, no, no! Let me go! Wyll! WY--”

“MOVE ASIDE!”

Raphael’s voice was a roar, loud enough to drown out Karlach’s own screams. He stepped forward, almost to the edge of the globe, taking the lyre off his back to play a few notes on it, eyes fixed on Wyll. And gods, it worked: the next moment Wyll, with a grunt of effort, was able to free his leg from the quicksand. He stood, and lifted his hands to cast; Durge could recognize the gesture to cast a Dimension Door, and it was the last thing they could see at all before the fireball became too close, its light too bright, and they had to close their eyes.

“Quod dico face!” Wyll cried out, then for a time Durge could hear nothing else: the explosion was loud enough to cancel out all other noise. Around them, the world shook, stone shattered, enemies burned. Even within the globe they were thrown to the ground, trying to cover mouths and noses to keep out dust and debris with varying degrees of success.

When the dust finally began to settle and they could blink their eyes open they were still beneath the globe in the middle of a smoldering crater, faces and clothes black with dust but still all in one piece.

And among them, grinning widely, half-drowned in Karlach’s embrace as he made no attempt to pull away, was Wyll.

“Wyll! Are you all right? Are you wounded?”

“I’m good, really! Only thing that’s wounded is my pride.”

With a sigh of relief, Karlach pulled back. “Oh, thank the gods.”

Another laugh. “Afraid I’ve got to thank the devil for this one, don’t I?” He turned to look over at Raphael, who was still coughing while Astarion helped him back on his feet. “That was bardic inspiration, then? Never been on the receiving end of it before. Not bad at all.”

Another cough, and Raphael rasped out, “I told you I have no need to wield a toothpick in battle, did I not?”

Durge had no idea what that was about, but it made Wyll laugh. “Ah, I suppose you really don’t. Your spells do serve you well enough, point very much taken. Thank you for saving my skin.”

“Yeah, that was-- good thinking,” Karlach muttered, crossing her arms and looking awkwardly to the side. Her compliment, half-hearted as it was, seemed to give Raphael pause, but in the end he scoffed and said nothing.

“Well!” Astarion spoke up, clapping his hands once to break the sudden silence. “Here we are! All in one piece, enemies vanquished, ready to celebrate before we get going again. And I think we could all use a shower right about now. Halsin, if you please?”

Rainfall in Avernus had to be a rare thing indeed - a never event, most likely - and Durge enjoyed every second of it. As they glanced to the side they noticed that so did Raphael, eyes shut and face tilted upwards, palms up as though to welcome the rain.

*** [Back to Chapter 10]

[On to Chapter 12]

[Back to Start]

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #the dark urge #raphael bg3 #astarion ancunin #halsin bg3 #wyll ravengard #karlach bg3 #haarlep bg3 #bg3 raphael #bg3 astarion #antilia dnd #mephistopheles dnd #raphael the cambion #hell to pay

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pengychan · 7 months ago

Text

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 8

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

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

*** So, a rogue and a bard walk into an inn... ***

“You know, Durge, I don’t mean to insult Gale - he is the smartest man I know, probably - but coming up with names is probably not his strongest suit. Durge lacks a certain… I don’t know, it lacks a certain…”

“Je ne sais quoi?”

It was rare for Raphael to speak a single word while they made their way towards Baldur’s Gate through the night. As much as Raphael clearly loved the sound of his own voice when he held all the cards, he was much less inclined to speak now that he was markedly at a disadvantage. He usually walked at the back in sullen silence, with Wyll and Durge right in front of him carrying a torch and Astarion and Halsin further ahead, putting their darkvision to use. To be honest, sometimes as they talked among them they almost forgot he was there. His voice made them recoil, and turn back.

“Was that Infernal?” Halsin asked, and got a shrug in reply.

“Something similar.”

“Abyssal, then? The language of demons?” Astarion guessed.

“That does depend on who you ask,” Raphael replied. He didn’t seem inclined to add any further clarification, and the conversation turned to other matters as they walked through much of the night.

However, a few hours later Wyll went back to… well, names. If it were up to him, Durge mused, everyone would have such impressive-sounding names, no name would seem at all impressive anymore.

“I have grown attached to Durge, I’m afraid,” they chuckled. “Odd as it sounds. I think I may just stick with it.”

Wyll made a vague gesture with the hand carrying the torch. “I understand, but you could add something. For a little more flair.”

“I take it you have suggestions?”

“How about… D’urge?”

“... That’s exactly the same?”

“But, with an apostrophe!”

“Why?”

“Ah, a y is indeed a good letter, but not the best for every name. Dyrge doesn’t quite click, does it? Although perhaps--”

“Is this kind of talk how you bested the Netherbrain?” Raphael spoke up. He somehow sounded both weary and genuinely curious. “I for one can feel the contents of my skull shrink with every word you push past your lips.”

“I can take a dagger to your ears if you think that would help,” Astarion suggested without turning, and Raphael had the good sense not to respond. However, Halsin did turn, as did Durge. For Raphael to speak during their nightly marches was rare enough, but what really caught their attention was how weary he sounded - and it probably wasn’t because his brain was truly shrinking.

In the flicker of the torch Durge couldn’t see him as clearly as Halsin surely did, but when he stumbled on a root and barely caught himself before falling, they did notice how it took him a few moments to actually regain his footing.

“... You seem a little tired,” Halsin said, not unkindly. “Perhaps we should have ended that sparring march earlier than we did, after all. Did you not get enough rest before we set off?”

“I am perfectly fine,” Raphael snapped, and staggered again in a way that very much suggested he was not perfectly fine. To be fair he had recently recovered form grievous injuries, they had been walking through the night for nearly a week with heavy backpacks, and he was very much dealing with the limitations of a human body that was, frankly, a few years past its prime.

When Durge instinctively reached out to catch him, he leaned heavily on their arm rather than pulling away like he’d touched-- well, a rat. It made them all pause, and Durge cast Dancing Lights to better illuminate their surroundings. Once they could see clearly, Durge could tell that Halsin’s choice to describe him as ‘a little tired’ had been a kindness in itself: he looked exhausted.

“I think we have covered enough distance to warrant an early stop,” Durge said. After all, they were only hours away from dawn, and the drizzle that had bothered them through most of the night was starting to turn into actual rain. Against their feverishly warm scales, Raphael felt cold even through clothes; that may very well be the reason why he was not pulling away.

“... If we can push ahead just another couple of hours, we should reach a town on this side of the Chionthar,” Wyll spoke, gesturing to the path ahead with the torch and forcing Astarion to duck under it. “It’s called Sunridge. We passed right by it last time, but it has a really nice inn. They make some of the best rabbit in wine-currant sauce I’ve ever tasted. If the day will be as rainy as tonight promises, it would be nice to spend it in a room with actual beds in it.”

“Wyll, that sounds excellent. Not the rabbit, not for me, but a warm room and a real bed would be very much welcome,” Astarion declared, and turned back. “If the old man can bear another short walk, that is. Ah, don’t look at me like that. You are by far the oldest here.”

“Speaking of bear, I could turn into one and carry him,” Halsin offered, gaining himself a laugh from Astarion and a snort from Raphael.

“You really only want an excuse to change form, don’t you?”

“Absolutely not. I can walk,” Raphael snapped, and pulled away from Durge. Before anyone could point out the obvious fact he’d likely collapse within the hour by the looks of it, he pulled out the lyre and played a few notes. The sense of relief was immediate, and Durge looked around to see the others looked perkier, too. Of course, they thought, the Song of Rest. Useful little spell, that.

“Well, that was nice,” Wyll commented, gaining himself a scoff from Raphael. The magic had helped with some of the exhaustion, but clearly not with his mood.

“Glad to be of service,” he muttered, not sounding glad in the slightest. “Let us head to the inn, then. I shall gladly bear the walk as long as you keep quiet.”

They did reach the town and its inn within a couple of hours, as Wyll had said, only to find that the inn had no vacant rooms. The disappointment was somehow mitigated by the fact that, despite the late hour - or early hour, depending on what side of the day one looked at it from - the innkeeper was still able to bring them a hot meal.

“We’re hosting our annual Three-Dragon Ante tournament, from noon through the evening, and we’re full with players who came to sign up from out of town,” she explained, placing hot soup, roast rabbit, candied almonds and mulled wine on the table. “I do have some space available in the attic, if you have nowhere else to go, but I doubt more than two people could squeeze in there. I am very sorry.”

“Ah, I see.” Wyll sighed. “No need to apologize, it was bad timing from our--”

“Actually, the attic sounds good to me,” Astarion cut him off, and smiled at the innkeeper, gesturing to Raphael. From his part, Raphael had finished the soup and bread in a few bites and was staring intently at the candied almonds. Very intently. A little odd, that, really. He must be more tired than they thought, Song of Rest and all. “Our friend here is exhausted, and I expect a few hours of rest on a proper mattress would do him good. If you could accommodate the two of us in the attic, we’d be truly grateful.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that can be arranged. I’ll have mattresses and blankets brought up, give it a quick clean while you finish your meal. What do you think?”

“I think you’re a lifesaver, my friend.” Another bright smile and the innkeeper was off, leaving Astarion to turn to Durge. “You don’t mind, do you, love? Someone has to keep an eye on him, may as well be me. Staying out of the rain for a while might make my hair more manageable, too,” he added with a sigh, running a hand through impossibly well-coffered hair.

Later on, Durge would feel more than a little foolish for not immediately guessing Astarion was planning something: with the shared goal of getting to the Hells, there hadn’t really been any need to keep that close an eye on Raphael in the first place. But they were tired from the walk, and a little distracted by the fact Raphael was proceeding to absolutely demolish the entire dish of candied almonds by himself. They simply assumed Astarion wanted to sleep in a real bed for once, and couldn’t fault him for it.

“Of course, it sounds good. We’ll camp nearby and be back at sundown,” they said. Astarion smiled, and turned to Halsin.

“I know you’re probably looking for an excuse to wander around on four legs again, but would you stay in the tent with them today? Their sleep hasn’t been great lately.”

“That’s not nece--” Durge began, only for Halsin to cut them off.

“Of course, you need not even ask,” he said, with an eagerness that made Durge suspect they may not be getting a lot of sleep, and that settled it. The innkeeper announced the attic was ready just as they finished their meal, and they took their leave just as the sun rose.

Durge did not notice - none of them did - that their backpacks were only slightly lighter, their gold pouches gone.

***

When Israfel first arrived in Cania, all he had to hold onto was a bag of almond sweets.

There were other things he’d wanted to take with him, all his books and his lyre and his clothes, but everything had moved so fast. Duke Barbas - tall as he was wide, with a mane of black hair slicked with oil and flowing red robes - had refused a forced invitation to stay for a meal while Israfel gathered his belongings. Barbas had declined with a politeness that did little to conceal his disdain.

“As much as I’d love to accept, Lord Sunspear,” he’d said, very purposely misremembering the name, “I am in quite a hurry to return to Cania, as I have other duties to tend to and my liege lord is not a patient master. The boy’s belongings can be collected at a later time.”

Israfel had felt Lord Starspire’s hold on his shoulder tighten, pulling him closer to his side, but there was nothing he could do to keep him there and they both knew it. “His lordship can allow us a few minutes, I hope,” Lord Starspire had spoken, gaze low despite the furious tremor in his limbs, “for Israfel to--”

“Raphael,” Duke Barbas had cut him off, and dropped his gaze on Israfel. He’d smiled with no warmth. “Lord Mephistopheles is keen to choose the names of every spawn he welcomes home. Your name is Raphael.”

Israfel may have protested at being renamed like a dog changing master, if not for his surprise. He’d blinked, taken aback. “Mephistopheles? The archdevil?”

Barbas’ jet black eyebrows had gone up almost to his hairline. He glanced over at Lord Starspire, whose grip on Israfel's shoulder had turned heavy as stone. He looked surprised and oddly delighted. “You mean to tell me you never told the boy who sired?”

The man had swallowed, and looked down at Israfel, whose mind still reeled at the notion that his sire wasn’t just a devil, but the Lord of the Eighth. He had read stories about Lord Mephistopheles, his might and his fury, the power second only to that of Asmodeus himself. And he’d been reading about his father, all along? Israfel had stared at Lord Starspire, eyes wide, and the man’s own eyes seemed to veil with tears.

“Forgive me, boy. I’d planned to tell you, but I’d grown to hope this day would never--”

“Well!” Duke Barbas exclaimed, clapping his hands once and causing both to recoil. “Now that that has been cleared up, I think it would be proper for Raphael to discard that disguise. He won’t be needing it anymore,” he added, gesturing vaguely at him.

Israfel had wanted to tell him it was no disguise, that this body was real and his own just as much as the one with horns and wings, but the devil before him had raised an impatient eyebrow and he’d suddenly felt very, very small. He’d breathed out and willed his form to change back, from human to fiend. It gained him that smile devoid of warmth again, and the weight of his stepfather’s hand on his shoulder was gone.

A satisfied click of his tongue, and Barbas had nodded. “Much better. Your Lord father summons you, little duke. You may say your goodbyes, but be quick.”

The goodbyes had been quick indeed and most of it had been a blur, too fast for his usually nimble mind to catch up. He’d remember Nan holding him tight, whispering something-- You’re loved here, promise your Nan you’ll remember that, come back see us -- and he’d remember a few people crying, and the cook pushing something in his hand, a small bag of his favorite almond sweets.

Last had been Lord Starspire, who’d crouched and pulled him close in an embrace that Israfel-- not anymore, he had a new name now, didn’t he-- was too overwhelmed to return. He couldn’t make himself say anything, his tongue heavy as lead. “Be careful,” was all Lord Starspire managed to whisper in his ear, then he’d pulled back and stood.

As the boy nodded and stepped back as well, Duke Barbas had cleared his throat. “Come, boy. It’s time to join your kind,” he’d called, holding out a hand.

Raphael had taken it, and that-- love-- was that.

***

Astarion was not, usually, a details kind of guy.

He saw little point in planning and plotting when, more often than not, some absolutely insane shit would inevitably happen and make all the aforementioned planning and plotting entirely useless. He’d rather just keep his knives sharp and close at hand, and his eyes peeled.

This time, however, the situation did require some strategic planning and so plan he did. Quite brilliantly, if he said so himself, paragon of humbleness that he was. A perfect plan that would see them leave a couple dozen thousand pieces of gold richer, allowing them to get Helsik to open that portal to Avernus for them… and have enough left over to buy the best supplies available to give them a better chance at surviving the Hells than a literal snowball. It would all work out perfectly.

If the devil did indeed know how to play Three-Dragon Ante, of course. If not, Astarion hoped he was a very quick learner, or they would be utterly screwed. The others just might be a little cross to learn all their collective gold was gone.

Ah well. The die was cast, and it was time to find out how it landed.

“Hey, old man, wake up,” Astarion called out, shaking Raphael by the shoulder. He made a noise, trying to shake his hand off, to no avail. “Come now, you’re fine. I’ve let you sleep almost six hours.”

“What do you want, spawn?” Raphael muttered, voice thick with sleep. He sat up, blinking, but of course he could see next to nothing in the dark. Not anymore. “What time is it?”

“It’s time you get up and play your part to win us some gold, that’s what.”

“Wha--”

“Because we do need gold. Badly. You can play Three-Dragon Ante, yes?”

Raphael grunted, running a hand over his face. “I can play any game you mortals ever dreamed up and several you never did, obviously. But what--”

“And are you any good?”

“I am not going to deign that with an answer.”

“I’ll take it as a yes. Great. Come downstairs, the tournament is about to start.”

Raphael’s hand stilled midway through brushing back his hair. Astarion could see him frown while putting two and two together. “... The tournament the innkeeper kept going on about - you signed me up?”

“I did, so you can win that nice prize of ten thousand gold pieces. And I bet all of our money on you, so if we’re to pay our way into Hells, you know what to do.”

“And you didn’t think of asking me--”

Astarion laughed. “Don’t be absurd, of course I did! But you would have said no. Plus the others would have said no, and we really don’t need all that nonsense. It’s a nice simple plan, really. You go downstairs, sit your ass on a chair, and don’t get up until you’ve won every single game and claimed the prize. That should be easy for you. Unless, of course, you think you may lose to mortals.”

“If that’s an attempt at goading me into doing your bidding, it’s amateurishly transparent and--”

“By the way, if anyone asks, your name is Wulbren Bongle.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused, darling. Up now, they won’t wait for you. And stop frowning, I’m sure beating scores of people at something will make you feel good.”

Raphael scoffed. “Would stepping on insects make you feel good?” he muttered, and Astarion smiled in the dark.

“Yes, actually.”

“... Of course it would,” Raphael muttered, but he did start feeling around for his boots, and Astarion considered the argument won.

***

“So, you found him well.”

“I’d say well is somewhat of an overstatement. He’s doing acceptably, for someone who was only recently turned into a mere mortal. Certainly an improvement from the state he was in when I took him to the Material Plane, though I regret to inform you his skill in bed has not likewise improved.”

“... That was not among my most pressing queries. Or anywhere among my queries.”

“Ah, I suppose that is not something that’s usually shared with one’s mother, hmm? Apologies.”

“You don’t look very sorry.”

“Don’t take it personally, dear. I’m never sorry for anything.”

Dalah held back a sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I am no one’s mother,” she muttered. In the back of her mind, she remembered being terrified as months passed and her belly swelled. She’d heard enough stories to know what fate befell any mortal mother of a half-fiend, but ending the pregnancy would gain her an archdevil’s ire, and her husband’s certain death on the battlefield. In the end, it had been for Rahirek. It had always been for him.

She remembered locking herself in her rooms when flowing robes could no longer hide her state, and she remembered spending nights awake praying to any gods she knew of. She remembered what she promised, too.

Let me live, and I’ll learn to love the child.

But she had not lived, and that promise no longer mattered.

“... I was but the means to bring a spawn of Mephistopheles into the world,” she muttered in the end, her voice bitter as bile. Haarlep tilted their head.

“Well, you were rather successful. Half-fiends seldom live all that long. The least impressive ones are meat for the Blood War, and the more impressive ones tend to bite off more than they can chew sooner or later, and pay the price. Raphael lasted more than most. I am pretty sure he is Mephistopheles’ oldest living son, really.”

“It seems to me he did bite off more than he could chew.”

A shrug. “Eventually, yes. But it was always going to happen. That’s how cambions are.”

“That’s how all devils are.”

“Cambions most of all. Nearly all of them think they have something to prove, the silly things.” A shrug, and they grabbed an orange from a silver tray next to the bed. “And how’s the other half of him faring?”

“It’s hard to tell. It-- he seems restless. But he hasn’t attacked anyone without provocation. He has some form of control over himself, at least.”

“And the little trick with the name still works?”

“Yes. He stills whenever I speak it. He almost let me-- I think he may have let me touch him.”

“Good thing you didn’t, or you’d have to make do without hands. Still, interesting. It wasn’t a fluke, then.” Haarlep smiled, seemingly delighted, and finished peeling the orange to eat a slice. “That may be very useful.”

“Useful for what? What is it she’s planning?”

“My lips are sealed. You know that.” A pause, and they shrugged before eating another slice. “As in for talking, not for--”

Dalah held back a groan. “Yes, I know what you mean,” she muttered, already regretting trying to get an answer out of the incubus. They were far from the worst company to keep in Mephistar - not that it was a high bar to step over - but the longer any conversation went, the more she found herself thinking that being torn from the inside out while birthing a devil was perhaps not the most excruciating thing she had ever gone through after all.

“It’s not personal of course. She clearly trusts you to a degree - why else task you to give him the ring?”

Because it’s on me, Dalah thought. He’s my doing as much as Mephistopheles’.

Still, she chose to ignore the question. “Have you spoken with her at all since last time?” she asked instead. Duke Baalphegor could change her appearance just as easily as Haarlep could change theirs; it made sense that any communication would take place between the two of them, who knew in what disguises. It was the most sensible way to go about it, and Duke Baalphegor was nothing if not sensible. She had to be, to keep her loyalty to both Asmodeus and Mephistopheles for so many centuries. Until recently, that was.

In an official capacity at least, no one really knew the reason why Mephistopheles’ long-time consort had left Mephistar quite so suddenly. However, for the many qualities even his victims could begrudgingly recognize Mephistopheles possessed, subtlety was not among them. His bursts of temper were not all that rare, but few recalled seeing one quite as terrible as the one that had followed the disappearance of the Crown of Karsus from his vault.

… That may be partly due to the fact that most close witnesses to his tantrums rarely lived to tell the tale, truth be told, but that day his fury had been felt throughout the citadel, and probably through the entire glacier it was perched upon. And while there were many accusations one may move against the devils who formed the upper crust of Mephistar’s hierarchy, no one could accuse them of being stupid. They had immediately noticed that Duke Baalphegor had seemingly disappeared immediately afterwards, and put two and two together. More or less.

Among them, some whispered that Mephistopheles had destroyed her because he thought she’d played a role in the theft of the Crown; others said he had taken her prisoner. Others yet, more shrewd, knew that even in anger Mephistopheles would not risk Asmodeus’ ire quite so brazenly, killing such a close ally of his.

“Think of it, our Lord of Hellfire has always coveted Asmodeus’ throne--”

“Nearly every archdevil does, Quagrem, except perhaps Zariel with her obsession for battle. Or do I need to remind you what became of Levistus?”

“Ah, but none was ever brave enough to say as much in Asmodeus’ face. Why then would he sit on that crown and its power for so long, without using it for his highest goal?”

“It was the work of a mere mortal, who tried and failed to be something more. Perhaps it was not powerful enough to take on the Lord Below, even on his brow.”

“Or perhaps, Duke Baalphegor convinced him not to use it. Perhaps she even used your same arguments. Everyone with sense knows that Baalphegor’s diplomacy was all that’s kept the Lord of Nessus from removing Mephistopheles--”

“Do you truly think Duke Baalphegor had a hand in taking the Crown?”

“Oh, don’t be absurd, Nexroth. She certainly did not sneak in the vault like a common thief, and may not even know who did, but think of it - she convinces him not to use a powerful artifact against Asmodei, he listens to her as he always does… and when the Crown goes missing, he’s lost the chance to ever use it. To her great credit, Baalphegor balanced her role as Mephistopheles’ consort and close ally of Asmodeus for millennia, but even she couldn’t keep it going forever.”

“And you believe the Crown incident is what upset that balance?”

“Can you think of anything else that might have?”

A pause, a hum. “... Perhaps there is truth to your words. But if that is so, the Lord of the Eighth is in a more precarious position than ever before. As you said, without Baalphegor here, Asmodeus’ tolerance may run thin.”

“Indeed it might,” was the reply, and that had been the end of the conversation, because neither was foolish enough to push it further, to even voice thoughts of a possible demise of Mephistopheles. Neither of them had paid the slightest attention to Dalah, and why should they? She was one of hundreds of thousands debtors doing menial tasks in the citadel, the vast majority of them uttering to themselves whatever gibberish crossed their broken minds. No one’s sanity lasted long, with few exceptions.

Namely, Baalphegor’s personal attendants, all of them mortals who had been tricked or terrified into bearing children for her consort. As far as masters went, she was not unkind as long as instructions were followed… and she had extended some sort of protection over them, for none of them had lost their mind as other debtors eventually did. Not out of charity, clearly - it paid to have eyes and ears everywhere, those of debtors no one paid attention to - but Dalah cared little for her reasons as long as it kept her mind intact.

Except that now, suddenly, she could think of nothing but her reasons.

Saving Raphael, or at least part of him, had been a clear move against Mephistopheles - but to what end she couldn't begin to imagine. What game was she playing? Was it even just her game, or was it Asmodeus’? What role was Raphael supposed to play? What role could he play now that he was split into two beings, one enslaved and one a mere mortal?

Is he to be yet another lanceboard piece to sacrifice? Did I only delay his demise?

Not knowing ate at her, but one thing was clear: she may be on shaky ground but, very suddenly, even Mephistopheles’ position in the Hells didn’t seem all that secure anymore.

***

As it turned out, stepping on insects was making Raphael feel a great deal better indeed.

That was not something he planned on admitting to the spawn, of course. Not that he could have even if he wanted to, as players were not allowed to speak to anybody other than their opponents and the judges.

That, and Astarion was currently busy: it seemed that betting all the gold he had on him was not enough, and he had started his own little gambling ring. He was collecting small bets for each round from spectators whose chosen winner had clearly already lost, but who still had gold left to lose.

And lose it they would, unless they did the clever thing and bet on him.

Raphael smiled and leaned back on his chair, looking at the other five players in his group as they put down their cards. The only truly decent player, a half-orc with a sound strategic mind, had the highest strength flight by far; a quick calculation told her that Raphael could not possibly have a stronger one. Raphael allowed her a handful of seconds to celebrate her victory before putting down his own cards. The weakest flights by far, and yet…

“Unfortunately, my friend, I must claim this round.”

“What! Your flight is nowhere near--” she began, only to trail off when she properly paused to look at the cards.

Raphael smiled. “I have the Druid. The lowest strength flight wins,” he said, and smiled again - admittedly, only a touch smug - before leaning back to let the judge look over all flights and declare his victory, letting him pass the turn to the next game.

The announcement was not particularly well-received by the half-orc, who made her displeasure known by grabbing the judge and flinging him against a table where another game had just concluded. An impressive throw, considering that the judge was roughly the size of a particularly burly gnoll.

A brief bout of chaos unfolded, several of the judges banding together to throw out the sore loser. Raphael ducked under a thrown stool, took a moment to drink a mouthful of wine, and looked over to his left. Astarion was distributing wins and pocketing his fees, but he paused a moment to look back and grin.

Raphael didn’t quite smile back, but the corners of his mouth curled up just a fraction, and he raised the goblet in a silent toast. Another sip of wine, and he looked around again.

Several hours and many games in, the pool of players had significantly been narrowed down. They were now down to twelve tables and, in the last rounds, only one player would advance from each; two more games, then, and that entire travesty would be over with. Until then, he supposed he had no choice but to keep winning.

Not the worst task in the world, he had to admit. Compared to the dismal experiences he’d had in the past half a year, this was almost… acceptable.

As some semblance of order returned and the winners from their respective games were seated in groups of six, Raphael briefly considered losing on purpose right at the grand finale. Watching the spawn trying to explain to the rest of their companions where most of their gold went would be amusing, he had to admit… but they did need that gold to open up a portal to the Hells, so losing it would be too great an inconvenience to be worth it.

Perhaps the vampling’s little plan hadn’t been all that foolish after all. That, too, was something Raphael would definitely not admit aloud.

He turned his attention back to the game instead, and went ahead to stomp on a few more insects on his way to his first victory in a long time. A laughably small victory, in the greater scale of things, but a victory nonetheless.

May it be the first of many, he thought, and emptied his fourth goblet of wine just as finished his winning hand.

***

“I still maintain you should have told us what you were planning--”

“Thirty thousand gold.”

“That’s not the point I’m trying to--”

“Sorry, love. I can’t hear your point over the jingling of thirty thousand gold.” Half drunk on the bottle of blood he was drinking from, Astarion sat more comfortably on the tree branch he was perched on along with Wyll. He turned to Raphael, who was precariously sitting on another branch, and grinned, lifting the bottle. “Sharee!”

“... What?”

“Isn’t it Infernal for ‘cheers’?”

“It means turnip.”

“Ah. Well-- cheers for the Three-Dragon Ante champion of Sunridge, who just made us rich. We’ll very much enjoy carrying this money to Baldur’s Gate, where we’ll promptly spend it all to go, literally, to Hell.”

As Astarion set to work to empty the bottle, Durge shifted a little on the fork in the tree trunk they were sitting on, with Halsin in his cat shape sitting across their shoulders. They glanced over at Raphael. “... Congratulations are in order, I suppose.”

A shrug. “It was a childishly simple endeavor. Bragging would be poor form on my part.”

“He said, bragging,” Wyll muttered, but he seemed amused and even Raphael’s scoff sounded almost like a barely held-back chuckle. Durge suspected he’d had more than a couple of goblets of wine during the game, but said nothing of it and let their gaze wander back to the ground below, where they had set up two tents and started a fire, as visible as a beacon into the night.

If anyone had set out after them with the intent of robbing them of the winnings - more a certainty than a probability, to be quite honest - they couldn’t miss it. What they would hopefully miss was the fact that the several barrels near the tents contained smokepowder.

“... Well. How much longer are we supposed to wait?” Raphael asked, and Durge shrugged, holding back a yawn. Sharing a tent with Halsin was rarely conducive to a sound, long rest.

“I’d give it another hour at most,” they said, and they were not too far off: in the end, it took only about forty minutes before Halsin, still perched on Durge’s shoulder, hissed. They looked down to see shadows creeping at the edges of the small camp, a group of at least ten people. One dragonborn, from what Durge could tell, and a couple of dwarves, along with what was probably an half-orc and others who may have been human or elves - hard to tell.

In the flickering light of the campfire, they watched them split in two groups, each surrounding a tent; weapons were brought up, swords and axes, and they fell on each tent, the silence of night broken by cries and hollers as they proceeded to hack at the tents and… well, at the people they assumed to be inside.

“Not precisely professionals, these ones,” Wyll murmured. “Who wants to do the honors?”

“Oh,” Astarion whispered back, the grin almost audible in his voice. “I bet the devil wants to have a go. Don’t you, Raphael?”

“I’m surprised, spawn. I thought you’d be eager to end them yourself.”

“I’m just generous like that,” Astarion replied, his voice making clear he was also a little tipsy. Wyll reached to grab him by the shoulder, just to make sure he wouldn’t fall off the tree while he gestured widely at the scene below them. “Go on, old man. This shot’s all yours.”

“It will be my pleasure,” was the response, just as someone below spoke up.

“Wait a minute, there is no one he--”

“Ignis!”

The firebolt shot through the air, a streak of bright light in the dark. For a moment it illuminated the faces of the bandits below - one of them saw them, a dragonborn with blood-red scales, but it was too late to do anything - and then the barrels of smokepowder blew up in a deafening explosion that covered any screams, and left their would-be killers no hope for survival. Bit of a shame to lose two tents like that but, Durge figured, better those than their skins.

The shockwave of the explosion was powerful enough to make Astarion entirely lose his balance, but Wyll caught his leg on time and he just dangled for a few moments upside down, laughing at the carnage below. He glanced up with a grin, the flames beneath turning his hair into a bright halo.

“Admit it, devil,” he said, holding up the hand that wasn’t clutching the now empty bottle. “You had fun today.”

Raphael scoffed, of course; he seemed to spend half his time doing that lately, so it wasn’t surprising. What did surprise Durge was the fact he actually leaned over to grab Astarion’s hand and help him back up on the tree while Halsin dismissed his wildshape and cast an ice storm at the fire below, to keep it from spreading to the forest. That particular task covered, Durge’s attention stayed on Astarion and Raphael.

“I suppose that your antics do provide a sort of childish entertainment,” Raphael was muttering. “For those who care for it.”

“Sounds to me like you care for it.”

“Sounds to me like you’re drunk.”

“Sounds to me like you both had enough to drink,” Wyll laughed, only to recoil when both turned on him as one.

“Look who’s talking!”

“That’s a bold stand from someone who guzzles wine like water at all times of the day.”

“Hey, that’s not--”

“Amazed the Blade still recalls what end of the blade he’s supposed to hold, really.”

“Granted, your passable taste in wine makes it marginally more tolerable--”

“I only sample a little wine every once in a--”

“Oh, that’s sampling now? If I sampled necks the way you sample wine, I’d be leaving a trail of dead bodies in my wake.”

“I-- well--” Wyll groaned, clearly realizing he’d bitten off more than he cared to chew at the moment. “Oh gods, I did not sign up for this. Can you two go back to hating each other’s guts?”

“We still absolutely do,” Raphael pointed out, and Astarion grinned.

“The feeling is mutual,” he declared, and patted Raphael's shoulder hard enough to make him fall off the branch with a cry. Later he’d deny doing it on purpose, but as Durge nearly fell themself to cast Feather Fall and spare Raphael a very painful landing on icy ground, Astarion looked at them with a lopsided smile.

“You know, love,” he said, “I still think he likes us.”

***

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#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #the dark urge #raphael bg3 #astarion ancunin #halsin bg3 #wyll ravengard #haarlep bg3 #hell to pay #bg3 raphael #bg3 astarion

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