#archduke mammon

[incoherentmuses]

he's the Archduke of Minauros, the king of greed, the lord of avarice and also an absolute babygirl of a man

this is partly @lawful-evil-novelist's fault, and this Mammon design is based on her awesome archdevil designs which you can read here!

[shellem15]

The Nine Hells of Baator

As a devil fangirl, I finally decided to write a basic overview of the Nine Hells, which has consumed my brain since forever. While most of this is taken straight from forgotten realms lore (shoutout to the wiki!), I've put my own spin on things and emphasized certain details I found interesting. The list of sins associated with each layer (Wrath, Fear, Greed, Lust, Deceit, Gluttony, Sloth, Envy, and Pride) is taken from the Enneagram sins, because I needed 9 of them instead of just 7.

I might decide to go more into depth for each layer/archdevil, but no promises!

Overview:

The Nine Hells of Baator is a plane of pure law and evil, a place where tyranny reigns supreme. Devils, or Baatezu, make their home here, crafted from the souls of the damned and eternally bound to serve their betters. The Hells consist of nine descending layers of sin and punishment, connected by the flowing waters of the river Styx. Each layer is ruled by an Archdevil, a devil of immense power and influence who exerts total control over their domain. While the layers are distinct, they are still interconnected, each serving a purpose to further the Hells' agenda.

Devilish society is centered around power, hierarchy, and order, with those without power seeking to claim it and those with power seeking to keep it. The Blood War, the endless conflict between Devils and Demons, keeps the Hells running; an eternal enmity that keeps the populace from turning against their masters. Everything in the Hells ultimately serves to further the goals of Asmodeus, the Lord and Master of this dark domain.

Avernus:

The first layer of Hell is Avernus, a blasted plane of endless trenches and rivers of blood. It is a war-torn battlefield, the Hells' first line of defense against the ceaseless hordes of demon-kind. This is the layer of Wrath, of eternal bloodshed and unending hatred. The armies of the Hells are stationed here, ready to be thrown to the crushing wheel of the Blood War.

Avernus is ruled over by their fell general, the Archduchess Zariel. A fearsome warrior—a fallen angel—who lives for the kill, for the next great conquest.

Dis:

The second layer of Hell is Dis, a plane of those who watch, and those who are watched. An iron city, one of smoke and steel and hidden eyes. This is the layer of Fear, whose denizens live in terror of those beyond the walls—and of those within, as well. Dis acts as a multi-tool for the Hells: it is a hub of interplanar trade, a great titan of industry that produces the arms and means needed to fuel the Blood War, and, most critically, it contains the greatest surveillance network in the outer planes. Knowledge is as valuable as souls in the streets of Dis.

The overseer of this foul city is the Archduke Dispater, an old devil, paranoid about usurpation despite the tight grip he keeps over his domain. He locks himself away in his iron tower, a panopticon from which he monitors all dealings in his realm.

Minarous:

The third layer of Hell is Minarous, a plane of those who have, and those who have not. It is a thick swampland, home to monstrosities that slither and crawl through the muck and mud. This is the layer of Greed, of crushing poverty, sinking debt, and grabbing hands. The heart of this fetid realm is the Bank of Minarous, the center of all commerce in the Nine Hells. This is only bank allowed to mint soul coins, the official currency of the Hells. The Blood War runs on the souls of the damned, and all souls pass through Minarous' coffers.

The master of the bank is the Archduke Mammon, a miserly, serpentine devil who sits upon a hoard larger than any dragon's. He is a devil loved by none, but money speaks louder than words, and power is oft bought rather than earned.

Phlethegos:

The fourth layer of Hell is Phlethegos, a plane of flame and rock, pleasure and penance, judges and those who whisper in their ears. The great courts of the Hells reside in this volcanic realm, and so too do the pleasure houses and casinos. This is the layer of Lust, of tipped scales and weighted dice, of burning passion underneath cool indifference, of great rewards and dire consequences. Law and order is the backbone of Hellish society, and it is here where "justice" is served.

Reflecting the dual nature of Phlethegos, the rulers of this place are the Archduke Belial and Archduchess Fierna. Belial is the original ruler of the fourth Hell, the great Justiciar who presides over the court system. Fierna is the newcomer, Belial's daughter and rising challenger, the Lady of Lusts and Pleasures. On the surface, it seems that father and daughter are at odds, each vying for power over the other; Much like their realm, however, their interests are more entwined then one might think.

Stygia:

The fifth layer of Hell is Stygia, a plane of lies and exaggerations, of truths distorted in icy reflections. A frozen ocean of dark waters and bright glaciers blinding those who gaze into the ice. This is the layer of Deceit, of endless news cycles and lies sold as truths. A war cannot be fought without support, and the broadcasts of the fifth ensure the thirst for blood among Hell's populace is never sated.

The chief of this artic bureau is the Archduke Levistus, a handsome, silver-tongued devil frozen in a vast glacier. The conniving charlatan was trapped as punishment for his own treachery, and now can only speak though the forked tongues of his servantry.

Malbolge:

The sixth layer of Hell is Malbolge, a twisted plane of cushioned cellblocks, of iron bars and shackles disguised as sweet salvation. It is an endless labyrinth, a prison of luxury and extravagance which traps its inmates like flies in honey. This is the layer of Gluttony, where excess and indulgence bind souls tighter than any chain. Even the Hells have its lawbreakers, its criminals and traitors, and here is where those souls are sentenced, forced to pay penance for their crimes and misdeeds.

The warden of this dreadful prison is the Archduchess Glasya, Princess of the Hells and daughter of Asmodeus. While she oversees the Hells' penal system, she is also the Hells' greatest criminal, bending Baator's laws and rules as far as she can while skirting her way out of consequences.

Maladomini:

The seventh layer of Hell is Maladomini, a once-bustling plane now fallen to rot and ruin. It is a place of the lost and forgotten, of decaying cities, crumbling infrastructure, and long-abandoned ghost towns. This is the layer of Sloth, of malicious negligence and crushing complacency, of rusted factories and strip-mines long since dried up. Bureaucracy is the bane of progress, and here, where all the records in the Hells are kept and stored, bureaucracy reigns supreme.

The chief executive of this putrid domain is the Archduke Baalzebul, the Lord of the Flies. Once a beautiful angel of the Heavens themselves, he is now as grotesque and wretched as the realm he rules.

Cania:

The eighth layer of Hell is Cania, a plane of melting ice and rapid development, of forbidden knowledge and those who wield it. It is a frozen mountain range, one where vast glaciers and snow-capped peaks hide secret laboratories and great libraries, where "progress" is made at the expense of morality and reason. This is the layer of Envy, of the relentless strive to be greater than your peers, of the pain one feels at others' success. The Blood War demands bigger weapons and greater firepower, and Cania is at the forefront of these advancements.

The mastermind behind this frigid realm is the Archduke Mephistopheles, the Hells' greatest wizard and second-most powerful Archdevil. In his resentment of his fellows, the Lord of Hellfire has thrown himself to invention and experimentation, creating new and terrible magics that melt the very foundations of his icy domain.

Nessus:

The ninth and lowest layer of Hell is Nessus, a plane of those who rule and hold themselves above all else—a plane of power itself. It is a wind-swept wasteland scarred by endless chasms and ravines, where grand citadels and fortresses light up the darkest trenches in the Outer Planes; where the greatest deals are struck behind closed doors. This is the layer of Pride, of great hubris and unwavering conviction—the mother of all vices. It is here where laws are made and authority is unchallenged, where power is held as most sacred and holy. All the Hells are beholden to the will of Nessus.

The Lord of this realm, and of all the Hells, is the Archduke Asmodeus. The greatest of all devils, the Lord of Lies and Prince of Evil, the mastermind behind the Hellish Project. He is ancient and powerful, unchallenged in his dominion, and a being of pure, unfettered arrogance. A tyrant who seeks absolute domination over all of reality, and one willing to do whatever it takes to achieve that goal.

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 35

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: E Status: In progress

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

*** Have some exposition, ice magic, and a bunch of archdevils hitting each other with the hellish equivalent of "AS PER MY LAST EMAIL" with the Big Boss on CC. ***

“Something is not right.”

“It’s a change of regime in Avernus. Not the first, if you recall, and it should not concern you any more than previous ones did. Bel has no interest in Dis. There is no reason--”

“No.” 

Dispater, Lord of the Second, was not called the Iron Duke for nothing. His touch was indeed cold as iron; it could turn anything it touched to lifeless metal, and one more touch could corrode it into rust. Had he chosen to use such power now, without warning, Mephistopheles would have found himself an arm short at the very least; but he did not - he had no reason to - and only held onto his wrist, unyielding as the walls of his Iron City. 

“Listen to me, brother. Something is not right.”

That gave Mephistopheles pause. Not so much the frantic concern - the Lord of the Second had long since slipped from righteous caution to utter paranoia - but the moniker he hadn’t heard in a very, very long time.

They were not truly brothers, of course; not the two of them nor Asmodeus, although it never kept Glasya from calling him ‘uncle’ with that peculiar note of something that was always in her voice, never falling into mockery but not too far from it either. The kind of teasing that only Asmodeus’ daughter, archduchess of Malbolge and princess of the Hells, could afford to use with whomever she pleased.

They shared no sire nor mother; none of them had been born. They were  created, alongside countless celestials, to serve the gods’ purpose long before mortals existed. But they’d referred to one another as brothers on the battlefields of the Abyss, and in the early days of their rule over Baator - when it had been the three of them at the forefront, leading those willing to follow away from Mount Celestia. Their homeonce, where they were now tolerated rather than welcomed. It was rare for that word to leave their lips, as of late. 

But when it did, Mephistopheles knew he should pay attention, and so he did. As the other archdevils continued on through the corridors of Malsheem, towards the grand hall for the great occasions - towering Bel about to be anointed archduke once more, Belial and Fierna side by side as always; Mammon and Glasya not so much looking at one another, a dripping wet and half-frozen avatar of Levistus, and of course Baalzebul, a loathsome half-smile on his lips - Mephisto did pause, and linger behind with Dispater to exchange words in private.

“... Very well. What precisely is wrong, then?”

A light scoff, as though the question was insulting. “I never said I can tell you what precisely is wrong,” Dispater informed him. “But I can tell you, something is not right.”

Mephistopheles was not above admitting his temperament could flare up as quickly as hellfire and burn just as hot; however, he considered himself a creature of great-self restraint. The fact he did not bring his staff down on Dispater’s skull right there and then was, he felt, testament to that. 

“I see. Well. I do thank you for the enlightening conversation. If that will be all--”

“Your runaway son was seen in Avernus, was he not?” Dispater cut him off. “He aided Bel in taking the throne from Zariel. He was his steward, once. And surely, Gabriel had help--”

“Raphael.”

An impatient gesture of his hand. Until not too long ago, Dispater would not have allowed himself such a show of nervousness, would not have shown such clear anxiety. Careful, calculating Dispater, ever-vigilant and always collected, keeping all the cards to his chest; that had changed since the Reckoning, when his vigilance had turned to paranoia and the self-control slipped. 

Of all the changes that had come with the Reckoning, that was the one Mephistopheles regretted the most. He and Dispater may argue, they may send spies to claw secrets from one another’s grasp, but the Lord of the Second had always been as reliable an ally as there could be in the Hells, with an analytical mind Mephistopheles had always appreciated. Now, he hardly ever left the Iron Tower unless called upon by Asmodeus himself; even the everyday rule of his layer was left to his nuncio Titivilus, the only being Dispater seemed willing to let in his tower. The Iron Duke, slowly letting himself turn to rust.

“Whatever his name may be,” Dispater was saying. “I know he escaped. And I know he cannot have done it on his own.”

“It seems I have not rooted out the last of your spies in Mephistar.”

“You’re welcome to try and see if you succeed, but frankly no spying is required at this point. The story is the talk of the Hells. As if the fact he was seen in Avernus, aiding the new Lord of the First. Do you truly need me to tell you who I think aided his escape?”

It was a possibility Mephistopheles had considered, truth be told. For some reason, Bel seemed to have always liked his whelp, and his subsequent role in the fallen archduke’s rise back to power was suspicious to say the very least. Bel may look a brute, but his brilliance and strategic prowess were beyond reproach. Still… “I do not doubt he may have had the cunning to aid the whelp’s escape from my grasp,” he conceded. “What I highly doubt he had was the means, however, or even a reason. Raphael served him for a long time, that is true, but half of him - the human one at that? It seems hardly worth risking my enmity.”

“Bel clearly enlisted his help.”

“That does not mean he had a hand in his escape. Do you have any proof of his involvement, or are you simply suspicious of him?” Mephistopheles asked, knowing full well what the answer was. Dispater was worried about any change of regime so close to his own layer, and was eager to convince Mephistopheles to side with him against a perceived threat.

 If he’d known for a fact that Bel was the one who helped Raphael slip out of his grasp - if he had proof - he’d tell him as much. Eagerly. But of course Dispater had no such proof, and only scoffed. “You don’t see Bel as a threat, do you? Of course not. Easy for you to dismiss him, no doubt, with six layers between you.”

“It is not his spies I routinely root out of my court. Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you had a hand in my son’s escape yourself. You’d be better positioned to do so than most.”

The look that gained him was deeply offended. “And what reason would I have to do so? Your whelp is dangerous, brother. It was foolish of him to keep any part of him alive. Creating a hammer capable of breaking infernal chains, and handing it out to mortals! He ought to have been put to death there and then, for that foolishness alone!”

Ah, of course. Of the many fears Dispater held, that was probably among the worst - anything capable of breaking the bonds of the prisoners held in Mentiri, the great prison of Dis and indeed of all Baator. “Are your defenses nor formidable? Is the labyrinth not impregnable? What hope would some mortals with a hammer have against your mighty walls of iron?”

Dispater’s expression turned, if possible, even gloomier. “You mock me,” he said. “But you have yet to succeed in your efforts to locate him.”

And not one word from Antilia.

Mephistopheles scowled, chasing away the thought. “It is a mere matter of time--”

“Lord of the Second, Lord of the Eighth,” a gravelly voice caused him to cut off and turn. By the great doors leading to the grand hall of Malsheem, a huge pit fiend - Baalberith, was it not? - bowed. “The Lord Below has called for your presence, so that the meeting may begin.”

Well then. Mephistopheles supposed he had wasted enough time entertaining Dispater’s paranoia; it was time to get that affair over with, so that he may speak to Baalzebul personally, and see through his lies should he be foolish enough to attempt speaking any. Frankly, part of him rather wished he’d be foolish enough to try.

Seeing him trapped in the form of a slug once more would amuse him greatly indeed.

***

“This is all very moving. Truly. But I fear the duty falls on me to inform you we cannot linger much longer.”

Adonides’ voice was what finally caused Raphael to lift his head from Dalah’s shoulder and glance up, a scowl on his face. He was not necessarily wrong, Haarlep had to admit, but that did not really matter: anything Adonides may say was likely to be met with annoyance at the very least. A shame, they thought, that two such handsome devils could not put their differences aside and be happy bedfellows. “I despise you,” Raphael informed him.

The Steward of Cania smiled. “Rest assured, seeing your face does not fill me with joy either. Or any other part of you. I have seen you unclothed far more often than I’d ever have liked, and I’d appreciate it if you could put a remedy to that before we discuss our next move.”

“Don’t listen to him, my little brat. He’s just jealous,” Haarlep sing-sang, and stepped forward, holding down a  hand to Dalah. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, not truly wanting to let go of her son, but in the end she did, and took Haarlep’s hand to stand. Raphael waited for her to be a few steps away before he closed his eyes, breathed in, and stood in a burst of flames. Once they died out he was wearing a familiar attire; he did always favor that doublet. 

“No offense to the frankly perplexing number of blazers you have stashed in that bag of yours, Durge,” he said, adjusting his cuffs. “But they never quite met my taste.”

“Ah.” The dragonborn stared for a moment before recoiling a little, and cleared their throat. Clearly, they had not quite known what to expect from Raphael - all of him, again. Haarlep supposed that the fact he had used their name, rather than likening them to a rodent, was at least an encouraging sign. They chuckled. “None taken. I’ll admit, it’s not my style either.”

“I did like the ruffles. I mean, I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing them, but I liked how stupid they made you look,” Astarion spoke, gaining himself a hum from Raphael. 

“And here I was, about to offer an apology for taking out your arm,” he said. He did not smile, but he did not seem particularly insulted either. A frown creased his brow as he looked around, but he seemed more disoriented than angered. 

“How are you feeling?” Halsin asked, a healing spell probably at the ready. 

Raphael’s frown deepened only a moment. “Much too tall. And much too short.” 

Not surprising, that. Until only minutes earlier, he’d simultaneously been significantly shorter and decidedly taller than he was now; it followed that he now felt both too tall and too short, despite being precisely the same height he’d been for the best part of a couple of millennia. 

He’d probably feel slightly off-kilter for a while, but he was taking his newly regained wholeness remarkably well. Of course, Haarlep still did not know how much of what was gained may have been lost in turn. They rather hoped they’d find out before Raphael left.

“Do you think this will end, once you’re no longer human?” 

They would do their duty regardless of the answer, but it would be… nice to know, at least.

Adonides cleared his throat. “I do hope that is not all. Are you not feeling more powerful, too?”

Raphael looked down at himself. He did not speak for several moments; it was as though he was listening for something none of them could hear. “There is potential. I can tell as much. Whether I can turn it to power I can wield would depend on how long I have to explore it.”

Adonides hummed. “Well, the bad news is that you’ll only have as much time as Haarlep can buy you with their rouse. The good one is that you’ll have guidance to uncover the extent of what you can do with it. But we must go before we’re caught here.”

Raphael entirely ignored the last sentence, and turned to Haarlep, truly looking at them for the first time. Haarlep had always taken pride in the fact they could read Raphael like an open book, and now… now, to their utter relief, they found that they still could. He did not like the idea of leaving them in the vault any more than they had earlier; it was clear in the way he pressed his lips together, in that twitch in his jaw and the wrinkle over the bridge of his nose. 

“I’d really rather you left with us. If Mephistopheles comes down here, he’ll know. ”

“He would, yes.”

“He’d destroy you. And I know him well enough to tell you he would not make it quick.”

“Oh, my lips are sealed by oath no matter how much he may torture me. If that’s the concern.” Haarlep grinned. In turn, Raphael did not smile. Not even a twitch of his lips.

“... It’s not the only concern.”

Well. That was… an answer of sorts, perhaps. Haarlep’s grin did not fade. “He rarely comes here, and what choice do we have?” Haarlep shrugged. “You need time if you’re to have a chance. If he realizes you got in the vault and are whole again, he’ll pull all stops to find and kill you. He’s trying hard enough as is - it’s best to let the sleeping hellhounds lie. And besides,” they added, tilting their head to their right, “your mother is bound to Mephistar by your sire’s will. She cannot leave. Think of it as tasking me to keep an eye out for her, too.”

Raphael had looked as though he wanted to protest more, but that last argument made him falter. He looked over at his mother, and she nodded before picking something up from the ground - the lyre and locket - and walking up to him. “They’re right. If we can’t keep you safe long enough for you to be ready, all this will have been for nothing.” She pushed both objects in his hands. “Rahirek would want you to keep these, I think. He raised you, didn’t he?”

Raphael nodded, putting the locket back at his neck, the lyre at his back. “... He did.”

Dalah let out a long breath, a distant cast to her gaze. “He was a good man. A better man than I deserved.”

“I believe he’d disagree. You died and went to the Hells for his sake.”

A bitter laugh. “Only when my first plan of selling Mephistopheles the souls of my servants for his safety fell through. My poor husband never knew that part, but I was no innocent victim. I’d have put the fort to the torch with everyone in it for his life alone. I was simply no match for Mephisto. I was desperate, cruel, and a fool.  He was only one of those things.” She paused for a moment, and reached up to cup his cheek. He leaned into the touch, and she smiled faintly. “... What should I call you?” she asked, and he opened his eyes to meet hers.

“I have been Raphael too long to go back. But you may call me however you like.”

“It wouldn’t displease you?” she asked, her thumb brushing over his cheekbone. 

His lips twitched in a smile. “No. It is a fine name you picked. It feels good to hear it.”

“Israfel.” There was an embrace, brief but tight; she initiated it and then she broke it, stepping back. It was as though she had to tear herself away. “Adonides is right. You should go. Mephisto may return any moment, and we have yet to ensure nothing here seems amiss,” she added, gesturing to the room around them - the hole in the ice floor, the deep scratches left by claws, more than a few arrows and handaxes sticking from a wall or the ceiling. 

Raphael seemed to hesitate, and Haarlep grinned. “Leave it to us. No one will notice a thing. We’ll have plenty of time to catch up once you return in triumph and all that. Until then, hold onto this for me. I wouldn’t want it ruined.” Raphael felt them press something small against their palm - that small golden ring with the light blue stones. “Do I also get a hu--”

They did get pulled into an embrace, brief and fierce. Raphael spoke in a snarl in their ear. “I’ll be back for both of you. If you get yourself killed before then, I’ll find a way to bring you back.”

“Aww--”

“And kill you again,” he cut them off, his grip clenching on the ring.

“Ah.” Haarlep made a face. “Well then, likewise. If you get yourself killed, I’ll bring you back to kick you in the groin. Very hard.”

There was a scoff, almost a chuckle, and the brief press or Raphael’s face against their neck. “The answer is no, it seems,” he murmured before pulling back, and it was everything Haarlep needed to hear.

For now.

***

The meeting was, all things considered, a simple enough matter. 

Asmodeus sat at the head of the long table, on a chair more decorated than the rest but still rather understated, holding his rod. The Lord of the Ruby Rod, some called him, for neither him nor any of his avatars went anywhere without it. There was no amount of souls Mephistopheles - or any other archdevil, for that matter - wouldn’t have given to get their hands on it, although Mephisto suspected most of his peers did not share the same scholarly interest in it that he did. 

That day, however, none of them had spared it more than a passing glance. All attention was on Lord Bel, and for good reason. A layer changing hands was a rare enough occurrence; that it would return to the same archdevil who’d ruled it before was unprecedented. 

Most archdevils would look at Avernus with interest, several with some distrust. Dispater may or may not confine himself to a single room in the bowels of his Iron Tower, for a time, and Belial seemed to be deeply unamused by the sultry looks Fierna was aiming in Bel’s general direction, although Bel himself seemed not to take notice.

As Asmoseus finished speaking - a brief enough speech, to confirm Bel as the Archduke of Avernus anew - and then it was Bel’s turn, with an even shorter speech from someone whose considerable intellectual prowess was generally better suited for battle plans than it was for pretty speeches. 

Mephistopheles did not truly listen to much of it either way.

At first, he’d been somewhat relieved to see that Asmodeus was alone at the head of the long table. A long time ago, when Bensozia was still alive, she’d sit by his side as the Queen of the Hells. Not quite his equal, none could be, but close. Since her demise, that spot at Asmodeus’ right had remained empty, and it was empty now, with their daughter sitting further down the table as the archduchess of Malbolge.

The Lord of the Ninth and the Lord of the Eighth, both without a consort. But we each have a daughter, and Antilia never gave me any of the grief Glasya gave her sire. Perhaps I should have acknowledged her long ago. 

And he would as soon as she returned, her mission complete. Mephistopheles would entertain no other scenario and so he did not, turning back to where Asmodeus sat alone.  

Mephisto had not truly expected to see Baalphegor sitting there when he’d walked in, but the thought had been on his mind ever since she had left. Surely she did return to Nessus, being Asmodeus’ best diplomat and all, but it seemed he would not have to suffer the indignity of seeing her by the Lord Below’s side. So far, Asmodeus had asked for no explanation as to why he’d broken off their union; it had been somewhat surprising - surely he did wonder? - but also a reprieve. 

It was a shame that she could be at his court no longer; it had been a beneficial union for the longest time, as she was an asset whenever diplomacy was required. She knew how and when to speak, when to keep quiet, and most of all what to say; how to soothe his worst moods when frustration boiled over and he lost control in admittedly unsightly ways. 

Baalphegor had her own goals, her own dalliances and - he was rather certain of that, although he had no proof - offspring of her own, somewhere. Mephistopheles had never intruded in any of it; she was, after all, a succubus. And save from the curious habit of taking on the mothers of his halfbreed offspring as her own personal attendants, she had never given him any grief either.

It truly was a shame that she would not cease trying to look into what else had been stolen from his vaults alongside the Crown of Karsus. The audacity of the accursed mortals who had dared steal from him had cost him more than just a powerful artifact; it had cost him a good asset. A consort whose company had-- never displeased him. 

Mephistopheles scowled at the thought, and the scowl did not abate when his gaze turned to Baalzebul. The Lord of the Seventh was listening to Bel’s speech, a half-smile on his lips as always, ever since he’d quite regrettably regained his old form and left behind that of an oozing slug. He had not looked in Mephistopheles’ direction once, but the Lord of the Eighth would leave him no choice soon enough.

… But not immediately, it seemed, for Belial approached him as soon as the meeting proper was over and they were all allowed to stand, mingle, eat and drink from the trays servants were now bringing in. Mephisto had no intention to appear desperate by interrupting; he would have to wait, but no matter. Baalzebul never passed up the chance to eat and drink in Nessus; there would be chances to speak with him soon, or as they headed back to Cania - a necessity, if he was to continue on to Maladomini. Until then--

Mephisto’s thoughts were interrupted by that grip of iron, again. He turned to see Dispater looking at him from beneath the metal helmet he never seemed to take off. Not even inside his Iron Tower, it seemed, if the few spies of Mephisto who’d been able to slip unnoticed into the heart of Dis had reported. Most of those spies were now prisoners in Mentiri, of course. 

“Something is not right,” he repeated. “Laugh all you wish, but I feel it in my bones.”

“I shall make a note of it. Are you not staying for the refreshments?” 

A grimace, because of course he was not; he never did stay away from Dis and his tower any longer than he had to. Most of all, he never ate or drank anything he did not have his own servants taste first… as though that would make any difference, for an archdevil immune to any and all poison. 

“I am returning to my kingdom. Perhaps you should too. Remain vigilant, brother.”

Mephistopheles stared a moment, and finally nodded. Dispater was paranoid, but odd things had been happening - his son somehow tricking him and reappearing in Avernus to take its ruler out of the picture was indeed a disconcerting event, and vigilance never hurt. In the end, he nodded. “I shall. You as well, Dispater,” he said. He watched his retreating back for a few moments before a rumbling voice spoke, not far from him.

“A little nervous, is he not? Makes him the ideal neighbor, though. Most of the time you forget he is even there.”

Mephistopheles turned, an eyebrow arched. “You may forget of Dispater’s presence at your peril, Lord Bel. He was here to shape Baator with myself and Asmodeus, long before your soul awoke in the Hells as a lemure.”

A laugh, not at all bothered. Bel was smiling down at him through sharp teeth, standing  larger than even Duke Hutijin. “Ah, I jest, of course. I do look forward to working with him - his insight when it comes to securing strongholds against demonic forces is second to none, although most of the time I dealt with his consort.”

“Titivilus is not his consort.”

“No? Could have fooled me.” 

Another glance to see that Baalzebul was still speaking with Belial, and Mephistopheles turned back to Lord Bel. May as well, until the Lord of the Seventh was at liberty to talk. “I have heard a curious tale pertaining to the fall of Zariel. A group of mortals having a hand in it, and among them the human half of an offspring of mine that should have died months ago, down my gullet. Would you happen to know anything about it?”

To his credit, Bel had the good grace not to insult him with a bold-faced lie. “Ah, yes. Raphael was indeed among the mortals who took out Zariel. One among them had beef with her, I believe - a tiefling. Impressive warrior. The former Lord of the First had bought her off and replaced her heart with an infernal engine. An upgrade if you ask me, but mortals tend to take poorly to such things, so she was out for revenge. Raphael assisted her.”

“Word is that those were the same mortals who took him down, in his own House. What reason would Raphael have to help?”

A shrug. “Not a clue, I am afraid. Mortals tend to do odd things, and that part of him is mortal.”

“That part of him was meant to die in Mephistar months ago. How he escaped that fate is something I am still trying to establish. But you could have spared me some annoyance if you’d seized him then and sent him to Cania.”

Bel stared at him a moment and tilted his head, crowned with huge, thick horns. There was a deep scar crossing the bridge of his nose, yet another across the right eyebrow. “Yes, I could have. But I was under no obligation, and the kid-- your son had done me a favor. I saw no reason to seize him.”

Mephistopheles scoffed. “You always did like the fool,” he said, and it was a fact. Bel had made him Steward of Avernus, and it was no great secret that they had remained on good terms after Bel was deposed as Lord of the First. “Although I struggle to see why.”

A chuckle. “Oh, come now. Do not insult my intelligence or yours. You don’t struggle at all to see why I made him Steward of Avernus. I am the one at a loss here, to understand how come you always despised him so.”

A grimace. “He had all the fatal flaws that come with his mortal blood, made worse by his fiendish nature. Foolish and needy, more trouble than he was worth. His meddling cost me thousands of souls, if you must know. And that’s without considering his attempt at getting his hands on an artifact which was stolen from my--”

“An attempt any devil worth their salt would have made, let us be honest. There is no one in this room at present who would not have attempted the same.” Bel met his gaze. “But even before all that you were never, shall we say, overly thrilled about his continued existence. That is what puzzles me. Mortal flaws and all he was capable, clever, and powerful. I’d venture to say he was more like you than any other of your offspring ever--”

“Precisely.” 

The word left Mephistopheles as a hiss, with little thought behind it - partly because he’d spotted Belial moving away from Baalzebul to discuss something with Glasya, and he was in a hurry to end the conversation to start the one he truly had been looking forward to. And so end it did, turning his back to the Lord of the First, walking up to the Lord of the Seventh with long strides and a sneer on his face.

And entirely missing the long, quiet look that Bel gave to his retreating back.

***

Raphael recognized Gelineth the instant he looked around, once Adonides teleported them out of Mephistar in the usual gust of icy wind. The mountain itself was unremarkable, as were its glaciers… but they were not standing on the mountain. Rather, they stood on one of several huge shelves of ice clinging to the side of the mountain like massive fungi; he could feel the hum of magic in that ice, clearly enough that it seemed to reverberate in his chest. 

Raphael held few clear memories of what had been done to him - to the part of him Mephistopheles kept to turn into his puppet - prior to being tasked with guarding the vaults; he mostly remembered pain, something coursing through his body that hurt worse than a bolt of lighting. Clearly, he’d been infused with some manner of power; he had never felt as attuned to arcane magic as he was now. He felt it lie dormant somewhere in his chest, waiting to be used. 

It was a curious sensation after feeling such emptiness for so long, and twofold. 

Wind howled around the mountain, snow and ice hurtling through the air, but not there - not on those shelves, repelled by the same magic which had conjured that place into being. 

“... All right, where are we?” Ravengard spoke, and Raphael glanced over at Adonides. 

“Nebulat,” he spoke. “The retreat of disgruntled ice devils, who have come to Mount Gelineth to sulk after Mephistar became much too warm for their liking and they were replaced by pit fiends at my sire’s court.”

Adonides snorted, turning to look back at him. With the dark blue skin and long black hair, he was more reminiscent of his father’s Cold Lord visage than Raphael had ever been, despite being of his blood; it was a rather stark reminder of the fact he was the only high-ranking devil left in Mephistar who was indeed native to Cania.

“They have been doing far more than sulking, as you’ll soon find out. You’d best be grateful, and learn from them. It will be thanks to them that you may stand a sliver of a chance against the Lord of the Eighth. They’ll help you turn that potential you mentioned into true power.”

“I take it that they have given up on their hope to regain Mephistopheles’ favor, and have resorted to working to end his reign?”

Adonides did not confirm as much, but did not deny either; that was a clear enough answer in itself. “Follow me inside. Tuncheth will want to meet you, and he’ll explain where we stand in more detail than I could. I have to return soon, before my absence is noted.”

Upon the icy shelf, there was indeed only one way to go save from down onto the shelf below: ahead, through a covered courtyard - columns of clear ice holding up a ceiling of blue, glowing ice - and then into the entrance of what may be described, with some optimism, as a small icy palace. A pair of gelugons stood guard at either side of the entrance, spears in hand, but both lowered their weapons and bowed when they recognized Adonides. 

“Duke Adonides. Lord Raphael.” A brief glance at the mortals following them; the guard did not add ‘and whomever you may be’, but it was abundantly clear from the brief clack of the mandibles that was precisely what she was thinking. Gelugons dwelt nearly exclusively in Cania or in Stygia, far from the surface; they encountered mortals far more rarely than devils which populated more superficial layers. They were at least clever enough to see they were with Adonides, and not for them to torment. “Whole and well, I see. Tuncheth awaits you.”

“And we shan’t keep him waiting any longer. Did he pace enough to create a path in the ice?”

The clack of mandibles sounded almost like a laugh. “I suspect he’s getting there. Do come in. You should not be seen outside unless necessary, Lord Raphael.”

I hold no such title, Raphael thought, but did not speak as much aloud. No reason to eschew honorifics when bestowed, after all. He only nodded and followed Adonides inside, through the entrance. He did not need to duck beneath it, but he instinctively did. It gained him a strange look from one of the guards, and a laugh from Karlach. 

“Hah! Feeling tall at the moment?”

“... Quite. I had to duck beneath nearly every doorway in the vaults.”

“You hold all the memories from that half of you, too?” Durge asked. Raphael nodded.

“Some are not too clear. Ascension does not allow for as lucid a mind as I generally like to keep. But yes, I do remember patrolling Mephistopheles’ vaults as vividly as I recall traversing Avernus with you. I must admit, it was not quite as eventful.”

“Right. So, you recall everything about that, too.”

I recall you bedding me if that’s what you’re wondering, Raphael thought, but held his tongue, all too aware of the fact Adonides was well within earshot and would likely not think too highly of the notion.

Raphael had suffered enough snide remarks from him to last him the next few centuries.

“Yes,” was all he said in the end, and left it at that. They would not have had the chance to continue the conversation either way: as they entered a hall with high ceilings - most of the palace, Raphael suspected, was carved inside the mountain itself - their host was impossible to miss. Gelugons’ height almost rivaled that of pit fiends the likes of Lord Bel or Duke Hutijin, but Tuncheth was particularly tall even for his kind, with a formidable carapace and massive, deadly looking spikes across his back. He was, indeed, pacing back and forth, mandibles clacking in obvious worry even as insectoid composite eyes stared blankly ahead.

“... If I didn’t know any better, Tuncheth, I may suspect you didn’t have full confidence the mission would be successful.”

There was a sound of claws skittering on ice, and Tuncheth turned to the door. Emotions were always hard to read on a gelugon, but relief was plain in the way he relaxed the mandible, and exhaled. “The Lord Below be praised, I was starting to fear the worst.”

“We had a slight complication. Mephistopheles was a step ahead of us, and had commanded the ascended fiend to destroy its human half. It was able to defy that order, however,” Adonides spoke, and tilted his head towards Raphael. “Here he stands, whole again. I need to return to Mephistar before the Lord of Hellfire does, to ensure everything looks normal. Surely you can fill you in?”

Raphael knew little of Tuncheth - the ice devils living at the very outskirts of his father’s kingdom did not precisely hold his interest - but he recalled hearing, if vaguely, how easily irritated he was. He certainly sounded irritated now, as he scoffed.

“Have you told him nothing at all of what we hold here?”

Adonides raised an eyebrow. “I have done more than my fair share, I’d say. I leave that honor to you,” he said, and glanced over at Raphael. “... I do wish you good luck. For Cania if nothing else,” he added, and that was it. He turned and left without further ceremony, heading back outside and then, Raphael supposed, to Mephistar. He was still scowling at his retreating back when Tuncheth cleared his throat.

“Welcome to Nebulat, child of Mephisto. And to your companions as well. I heard they have traversed Avernus with you, before aiding you in Mephistar - fearsome warriors, I was told.”

Raphael nodded. “They did. And they are,” he said. No use in denying the obvious… and frankly, the more fearsome their reputation grew, the fewer devils would be inclined to mock him for falling under their blows in the first place. 

Introductions were quick enough; even so, Tuncheth soon grew impatient. It was clear that his true interest lay in Raphael. He nodded his head at each of his companions, and welcomed them to Nebulat, before turning his attention on Raphael once more. “You resisted the compulsion to obey your father. It must have taken great power of will to defy him.”

“It’s more that his mom told him--” Astarion began, only to trail off with a wince when Ravengard pressed a heel down on his foot, hard. Tuncheth either did not hear him, or was rather good at pretending as much. 

“That is auspicious. The task before you requires nothing less than an iron will.”

Ah, yes. The task before him. What an elegant way to put it. It made defeating the second most powerful archdevil in the Hells - second to one who was, in fact, a minor god - sound like something within the realms of possibility.

“I have gathered that you expect me to kill Mephistopheles,” Raphael said, crossing his arms. “What escapes me is how, precisely, you expect me of all who dwell in Baator to achieve it.” 

The gelugon tilted his head. A twitch of the antennae gave away his annoyance before he spoke. “I asked myself the same, in truth. I would not have chosen you. A halfbreed and a creature of fire to boot, like your sire. I did not believe you had a single shred of a chance.”

“I am picking up a past tense. Do I have to assume you changed your mind?”

“Hmph. Whether I’m proven wrong remains to be seen, but you are now more powerful than you ever were, and you can achieve and maintain an ascended state with no need to consume souls. According to Adonides, the amount of arcane power your sired poured into your fiendish half beggars belief. And it is still there, to use against him.”

That was true; both halves of him had grown in strength and power before reuniting. Still… 

“Do you truly think it would be enough for me to best the Lord of the Eighth?”

A snort. “I don’t know. But the Lord Below said it should be you, if you proved yourself capable enough. He must have his reasons. It is not for me, not you, to question him.”

“Say that you had to try and guess. Why me?”

An irritable twitch. “I can only think of one answer. One thing only Mephistopheles and yourself hold, over every other devil of Baator - complete mastery over that wretched hellfire.”

“Other archdevils, and powerful dukes, can use it. Even mortals, if my father bestows--”

“They can use it, yes. They are not its masters. They do not command it the way Mephistopheles does. None developed the immunity to it that Mephistopheles has. None but you. No other - none of the lofty minds trained at the School of Hellfire, none of the countless other bastards your father sired - can boast anything close to mastery over that monstrosity.”

“The obsession with hellfire has become a madness in your father,” Adonides had told Raphael only days earlier. That ice devils were disgruntled by their Lord’s obsession with hellfire was no news; neither was the fact that every day, mountains of ice crumbled and glaciers collapsed. The archmage of the Hells put his experiments above everything, as part of his compulsive search for power through knowledge. 

It had him turn his layer into an immense testing ground rather than a kingdom… and when something went wrong, it went indeed very wrong. There was fear, whispered through the corners of few brave mouths, that sooner or later the entire layer would collapse on Nessus. 

But until then, the gelugons had mostly blamed the pit fiends who’d replaced them at court, or those like Quagrem who kept researching hellfire on his father’s behalf. They’d been seeking to push them out of favor, regain their ruler’s attention to distract him from that obsession. Raphael briefly wondered whether turning against Mephistopheles in the end had been their decision after centuries of failures, or if they were following the course Asmodeus had set. 

Pieces on a lanceboard, every one of them. And Raphael rather preferred being the player.

“... Hellfire cannot be what you expect me to use against Mephistopheles. As you said yourself, he is immune to it. And Adonides said something on how you may be able to help turn my newfound potential into power. So what am I here to learn, precisely?”

Tuncheth clacked his mandible; it did not look like a smile, but it probably was the closest he could get to. “Wizards under my command found another way to turn the very essence of Baator into raw power. Ice magic, powerful enough to counter hellfire. We hoped it would turn your sire from his reckless experiments with hellfire, but he dismissed it. It seems only right, then, that he should feel its bite.”

“... What kind of magic are you speaking of?” Raphael asked. Tuncheth turned, and tilted his head towards the back of the room. There was something Raphael had never seen before: a wall of clear blue ice, with something flickering within. It looked like just flames from a distance, but of course it was not; Raphael would recognize hellfire at a glance, always. 

And yet, it was entirely encased in ice; the ice did not melt, and did not let through any of that devastating heat. Hellfire was not destroyed - nothing could - but it was contained. Raphael reached out to touch it, and the cold spread through his hand, up his arm, to his very core; he had resistance to cold, but not immunity, and it tore a sharp gasp from him before he pulled away. He held up his hand, flexed his fingers; he could see frostbite was already beginning to develop on his skin. 

Behind him, Tuncheth laughed. “It cares not for resistance, and it can wound even those immune to most glacial cold Cania has to offer,” he said, and walked up to him. “Even your sire won't remain unscathed. And most of all, as you can see, hellfire itself cannot melt it. Your father laughed, when we told him what we were doing - said it was purely theoretical. But as you can plainly see, it is a theory no more. The greatest wizards among us have made it a reality. We call it… the Plume.”

The name was announced with quite a bit of pathos that felt frankly unfitting for such an underwhelming name. That may need further work… but the magic itself was powerful, Raphael could tell, drawing power from the very essence of the layer. He stared at the frostbites a few moments before he cast a healing spell, and watched them disappear. His gaze fell again on the hellfire within the ice. “So this is what Adonides said you’d teach me.”

“Yes. Only then will you stand a chance - as I am certain you’re aware.”

Raphael was not entirely sure he’d stand a chance at all even with that kind of magic at his disposal, but pointing out as much as a moot point. What did it matter? He had to take the fight to Mephistopheles, because his mother and his-- I didn’t tell them, did I, but they know, surely they know -- incubus were in Mephistar, in the vaults to buy him time, and it was only a matter of time before the ruse was uncovered. He had to take the fight to Mephistopheles because there was nowhere on the Planes where he’d be safe as long as his sire lived. 

And of course, he had to take the fight to Mephistopheles because the Lord Below had commanded him to. That too was non-negotiable. 

“... Very well. I suppose I am as ready as I’ll ever be.”

Another clack of the mandibles. “Good. There is much work to do, but you and your companions and your companions will be our esteemed guests until you’re ready. We’ll start teaching you all about the Plume soon, but you may rest for now. No one knows you’re here, except for Duke Adonides and Duchess Baalphegor.”

“And the Lord Below, I presume,” Raphael said, gaining himself a scoff.

“Goes without saying,” Tuncheth replied, and gestured for two guards to escort them away.

As they were taken into the depths of Nebulat, into their quarters, Raphael felt a scaly hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “... So. How are you?”

Raphael scoffed, but did not shake Durge’s hand off. “I am expected to kill my sire. I doubt I shall be able to do so, and failing means my death and that of everybody I��ve grown to hold dear against my better judgment. Most of all, to my shame , I find I do not wish to kill him.”

“Not too good, then.”

“Your insight shall never cease to amaze me,” Raphael muttered, but he found he could force no venom into his voice; at least for now, he chose to blame tiredness for that. He reached up for that hand as they walked, and let it take a hold of his fingers.

Even now, they felt cold.

***

“Lord of the Seventh.”

“Lord of the Eighth.”

There was enough venom in those words to poison every living thing in Toril twice over; but as always, the mutual hatred was hidden behind smiles. Or, before he was returned to his old form, behind the inexpressive face of an oozing slug in Baalzebul’s case. 

Disgusting as the sight had been, Mephistopheles rather hoped his old enemy would be foolish enough to lie to him, if only to see him humiliated yet again. Still, he doubted Baalzebul would be that careless… which meant he'd have the truth. 

“There is a matter I’ve been looking to discuss with you, if you may spare the time.”

“By all means.”

“Some of my envoys in the Material Plane have found something quite interesting at a diabolist’s place of business in Baldur’s Gate. A portal, opening to Maladomini. A short distance away from Malagard, in fact,” Mephistopheles said, choosing to withhold the fact the diabolist in question was a servant of Mammon; frankly, it was plain to see that Mammon himself had nothing to do with the entire sorry matter, weak imbecile that he was. Much like her patron, the diabolist had been driven by greed; nothing more and nothing less.

Mephistopheles had considered demanding Mammon let him interrogate her, but so shortly after her death her soul was likely still in the Shelves of Despond; it would be some time before it was processed and sent to Minauros. By then, the matter would be resolved.

Baalzebul’s eyebrows went up, and those black composite eyes seemed to shimmer for a moment. “Did it now? It is quite concerning. By Asmodeus’ decree, no portal should ever be opened below Avernus. I trust that the diabolist has been dealt with?”

“She has indeed, but not by my hand. She was found dead, most likely at the hand of the one we suspect used to portal to come into your layer. Raphael.”

“Ah, I see. Your missing son. Well, half of him if tales are true.” 

Tales that Antilia told you of, with my permission. You think yourself so clever, and yet you’ve had my best spy at your court for centuries. 

He knew better than letting any such thoughts show. “Precisely. I have reason to believe he is heading to Cania, with the foolish notion of reclaimed that which I took. As my arcane magic ensures no portals may be opened in the eighth layer no matter how skilled the diabolist--”

A chuckle, loathsome as ever. “Taking measures after the theft? Counter-intuitive, is it not?”

Meetings in Nessus had strict rules against attacking a fellow archdevil if not in self-defense; this unfortunately meant that burning that smile off with hellfire was no option. But it did not matter: for all his jabs, Baalzebul was unable to do the one thing he needed to do now - lie.

“That is not relevant, is it?” A smile, sharp. “Cania is closed to any and all portals; it follows that anyone planning to reach it would need to travel through the layer immediately above.”

“I see. And you believe Raphael may be this someone.”

“Is it not?”

“I would not know. It may very well be.”

“Has he not turned to you for help crossing over to Cania?”

Baalzebul shook his head. Mephistopheles expected him to try and get out of the question with vague words, twisting the truth without breaking it. He had been prepared for it… but not for the answer that came, straightforward as it could be. “No,” he said. “I have not met him.”

Mephistopheles stared for a moment - but it was just that moment. He smiled. “Perhaps he has met someone else at your court, or somebody else in Maladomini who may aid him.” 

“As far as I am aware, Raphael has never met anyone at court. Nor was I aware he may have set foot in Maladomini until now. If he did come to my layer to continue on to Cania, or for any other reason, I do not know.” There was no hesitation in Baalzebul’s voice and, most notably, no sign of Asmodeus’ curse taking hold. The loathsome face looking back at him was unchanged, and to Mephisto’s surprise it could only mean one thing - he was not lying.

No, it cannot be. He is lying, he must be. Surely he does not speak true - does he?

Unaware of his thoughts, or perhaps very aware and internally gloating, Baalzebul nodded. “I do thank you for making me aware of the weakness in my layer’s defenses, Lord Mephistopheles. I shall give orders for the portal to be found and closed. As for your fugitive son, I am afraid I have no knowledge which may be useful to you. Will that be all?”

Mephisto glared, but said nothing. Asking anything concerning Antilia would destroy her cover and put her in danger, so he did not. A few words, courteous on the surface, and he walked away - composed as always, even as his mind reeled. 

He’d thought he knew his son well enough to be able to predict his next move, but it seemed he had been wrong yet again. Seeking help from his father’s sworn enemy was the only move that would make sense, and the portal found in Baldur’s Gate did lead to Maladomini. Now, Baalzebul’s words suggested a different scenario. For reasons he could not imagine, Raphael had not turned to Baalzebul for help. Had he perhaps guessed that his sire would think of it, and question the one archdevil who may not lie? The more he thought of it, the more it made sense; perhaps his son had more cunning than he was willing to concede. 

And if Raphael had pressed forward towards Cania on his own, across the treacherous lands of Maladomini without seeking assistance from the Lord of the Seventh in Malagard… then it would explain Antilia’s silence from her post: she simply had no news to relay. 

None of it seemed too absurd, sure enough. Perfectly feasible. And yet…

Mephistopheles turned, and saw Asmodeus looking out of one of the great windows overlooking Malsheem, a cup of wine in his hand. He stepped past Mammon, who was deep into some conversation with Lady Fierna, and walked up to the Lord Below. 

“Brother. A word.”

The cup paused halfway to Asmodeus’ lips. Those same lips curled slowly in a smile, and he spoke without turning. He wore deep red robes that day, as he did most times he had guests; with the four great curving horns on his head, he cut a fearsome figure. 

“Something must be greatly upsetting you, Lord of the Eighth. It has been eons since you called me such.”

“Does it displease you?”

“Never.” A drink from that cup, and he set it down on the tray of a waiting servant before turning. The glowing red eyes met Mephisto’s pale blue ones; he’d chosen to wear the visage of the Cold Lord that day. “What is it, then, that you wish us to discuss?”

“I have reason to suspect that the Lord of the Seventh may be lying with impunity.”

Asmodeus tilted his head. He did not answer him right away, nor did he dismiss his concern; he seemed to be considering the notion. “And what makes you think so?”

“I have asked for answers on matters concerning one of my offspring. He has indeed given answers, but I have reason enough to think they may not necessarily be the truth.”

“No proof, then.”

“My instinct has seldom let me down. You know as much.”

“Seldom is not never,” was the response, but again it was no dismissal, and Mephistopheles glanced back. Baalzebul was leaving the meeting alongside the avatar of Levistus, chatting amiably with the half-frozen, sulking Lord of the Fifth. Soon, the two of them were the only ones left in the hall. 

“Is it truly impossible for him to have found a way to dispel the curse you placed on him?”

Asmodeus hummed. “Few things are impossible, but a great many are unlikely. Should I find that Baalzebul has slipped from my control, his punishment will be severe.” He looked into the ruby atop his rod, and murmured something; the ruby seemed to shimmer. The Lord of the Hells looked back at Mephistopheles. “He has not. The hold remains tight as ever. Baalzebul cannot lie to a fellow devil without severe and rather noticeable consequences.”

That was a relief to know, even with needling doubt still in the back of his mind. Perhaps he’d been concerning himself over nothing, after all. Raphael had known that he’d be expected to turn to Baalzebul, and so he had not. He would die trying to cross, fall into his trap near Nargus, or be torn to pieces by his own fiend half if he ever managed to make it to his vaults. 

He would fall, with or without Antilia’s involvement. Nothing he did would change his fate.

“I see. Thank you, Lord Asmodeus. I shall take my leave now,” he said, and bowed, turning to leave. Still, before he did, he found himself stilling. There was something of a distant cast to Asmodeus’ eyes as he looked out of the window. Mephisto recalled only ever seeing something like it once, after Bensozia’s demise. He paused. “... Is everything well, my king?”

Asmodeus turned, and smiled. That distant case to his gaze, however, remained.

“Yes, brother,” he replied. “Everything will be well.”

***

[Back to Chapter 34]

[On to Chapter 36]

[Back to Start]

[wellthebardsdead]

Lucy: *walking ahead of the group, pausing as she smells sulphur and the stagnant putrid scent of a bog* hellfire incoming- *backs up guarding the group as a burst of green embers erupts from the ground in front of them and a middle aged, thin but well presented man steps forward on brown cloven hooves as they ruffle two relatively small feathered wings on their back*

Karlach: no clue who this one is- Wyll?

Wyll: green fire, they’re from Minauros surely-

Lucy: *going over her memory to recall who it is before her before straightening her posture* Focalor, correct?

Focalor: *bows before her, a rather pleasant scent of parchment and patchouli now overtaking the smell of hellfire, no doubt his efforts to cover the stench of his realm* indeed I am your grace. Begrudgingly I’m here at the behest of my lord, archduke mammon. Hes taken notice that you’ve already begun making use of the infernal mint and he’s greatly impressed by your endeavours on the overworld, so much so he’s sent me to present you with his request for courtship. I would highly advise against it. Bel informs me you’re a magnificent leader already and a keen planner and strategist, certainly an alliance between you and any arch duchess or duke would be a boon for the hells but-… really I cannot in good conscience reccomend you agree to even meeting him…

Lucy: really? I’d heard he was ugly, greedy, and a poor leader but surely he must have some redeeming qualities?

Focalor: you’ll most likely be sick from the smell of him alone. And you’ll certainly be sick just looking at him. There’s plenty of reasons why all the other arch devils look down upon him and having witnessed the mistreatment of his last consort I would not wish that upon you.

Lucy: hm. Well thank you but I will have to decline his offer then.

Focalor: as expected. I am here on another matter though if I may burden you for a moment more of your time.

Lucy: okay?

Focalor: I am here to warn you, my lady. He is not the only archduke or devil in search of your hand for courtship. I’ve already heard talk from layers above and below my own that proposals will be coming your way. Mammon hoped that by being the first you would agree. However he was wrong in both that hope and the hope that you would not have heard the rumours of how deplorable he is. But even still, his poor qualities pale in comparison to the cruelty and sadism of the others seeking your hand.

Lucy: why warn me though? What do you seek to gain from this?

Focalor: the end to the blood war. Obviously. Bel is positive with you allowing him to lead the charge that victory for the hells is assured. And that will be several less problems off of my back. Then I can focus less on protecting the palace and more on gathering souls. Nearly all the devils are so focused on fighting this blasted conflict that the mint is working at half its capacity. And you won’t be of any use in the arms of any of those brutish fiends.

Lucy: huh… can you- tell me who the ones after me are?

Focalor: of course. I’d heard Lilis was in a state of utter despair that Dispater was considering replacing her with you. From what I understand she’s still inconsolable. Should you decline his advances though he may be wishing to make you his second consort or set his dukes and commanders after you, Bitru has shown extreme interest and I would be very wary of rejecting him outright for your own safety, or perhaps summon Malphas to your side, his presence alone should frighten him off. Machalas Tartach and Zepar too… their tempers are not to be taken lightly But-…

Lucy: but?…

Focalor: Cania has me most concerned… from what I’ve heard, the lord of the 8th is summoning all of his children, legitimate or otherwise… they all have his short temper.

Lucy: *snickers recalling Raphael saying pipsqueak in her mind* I’m not afraid of Mephistopheles or his spawn. But I thank you for your concern and for warning me. What are the names of his known children though? I only know of two of them.

Focalor: Ah yes. Hes always been secretive about his heirs. Except for his youngest, Raphael. A spoiled brat of a prince that one. There’s also his illegitimate daughter Antilia but beyond her efforts as a spy and her father’s blood she’s about as noteworthy and useful as a succubus. In total there is his oldest and true heir, Michaelis. Then there’s Ezekiel- or what’s left of her… she once defied her father’s commands and was tied naked out in the wastes of Cania to freeze for eternity. Then there’s Gabriel- they’re neither male nor female and choose their forms as they wish. I believe they’re the offspring between him and his consort baalphegor… And if there are anymore still living I’m afraid I don’t know of their existence… He’s been known to devour his offspring.

Lucy: charming, which one of them should I be the most concerned about?

Focalor: Michaelis is exactly like his father. I would keep a close eye on him. As for the others… maybe Raphael but… he’s only a half devil. What harm could he really do to you? *chuckles* I hope I was able to provide you with some assistance.

Lucy: yeah, you… you did. *nods* I hope we’ll continue to be allies.

Focalor: as do I. It was a pleasure, your grace. *disappears into a burst of putrid mud and sludge*

Lucy: …Ew.

Astarion: So. Our friend Raphael isn’t as tough and powerful as he really lets on~

Lucy: oh no he’s dangerous… very dangerous… *feels eyes on the back of her head and turns around cautiously but sees nothing* …Let’s keep moving… *walks on, unaware of firey eyes watching from beyond the tree line*

Michaelis: *grins and purrs to himself* so Raphael, trying to get your hands on my new plaything are you?… let’s see who can get her first…

[hopeforkitten]

A few words about soul coins.

There is a book about them in the game, and it says about a she-devil who carries a specific soul coin with her, because it was thanks to that deal that she was promoted from the rank of a lemur.

You can also carry a coin with the soul of a terrible enemy or lover.

And that's the main thing. What about Raphael, who returns and throws a handful of soul coins to Tav, they are quite fresh, flashes of red flame run over them and it seems their last screams can be heard. Tav had just cleaned herself up after the attack on the house of hope. A group of mercenaries coveted not only the treasures of the devil, but also the lives of all his allies.

Tav examines the coins and returns his gaze to Raphael. She notices small drops of blood on his face. The devil briefly examines his doublet and adjusts a stray lock of hair behind his ear. It seems that this gesture completely negates his past rage when he burst into the house right between you and the uninvited guests.

His gaze returns to you, examining you for injuries and not finding them, for a moment his gaze becomes the kindest and gentlest you've ever seen.

"We need to address the issue of security. With the help of a diabolist, any rabble with money can get into our house." He grimaced, you were always touched by this expression, because his anger was not directed at you. "Contact your familiar, check with her the information that I found out. You will take the magazine with the information from Nubaldin. And this is to untie the tongue of Mammon's skeleton key." Raphael pronounced this nickname with special dislike. He was annoyed by the impossibility of influencing her, simply because she was the Archduke's protégé. He snapped his fingers and an embroidered purse full of gold fell on top of the coins.

He was about to leave, and fought the urge to tell you directly about his worries. It was a new feeling for both Tav and Raphael.

"I am flattered that you have so diligently protected my property, but from now on remember that my faithful assistants are more valuable resources than enchanted pieces of iron."

Tav smiled slightly, relaying Raphael's remarks into simpler words about her value. She wondered if there would be a time when he would tell her this directly.

"It will be done, master."

[blackjackkent]

So. Very large building with statues that look like THIS outside of it:

My initial guess was that this was Cazador's mansion, but it turns out it is the antiques shop that hides the portal to the hells!

So I guess we're taking a break from sidequesting and going to get the Hammer! ^_^

Super cute banter between Karlach and Jaheira as we wander up towards the door:

"So, erm, Jaheira. Do you like to... that is, what do you like to do?" "As in... hobbies? Oh. [pause] Well... I like to play music? I suppose?" "I'm just picturing you strumming on a harp so hard the strings snap and trying not to shriek. What do you play?" "Eh. Mostly the same children's rhyme, on a battered whistle of tin. I do not get a lot of time to practice. Oh, spare me the sad eyes, girl. Not every daily deed is worthy of song! Certainly none I can play."

I love them. XD

I'm very torn here, because realistically, Hector does not want to force Karlach into the Hells, even for this temporary raid on the House of Hope, but I as the player want her along at all times for any potential Romance Content.

So we're going to start out by bringing her but if she makes sad puppy eyes too aggressively we will switch her out for Shadowheart.

It's a rather elaborate but nice looking shop.

The lady at the front gives Hector a bright smile as he approaches.

"I welcome thee to the Devil's Fee, where every hellish curio's a rarity! So merry be and shop with glee!

"Oh, no," Karlach mumbles under her breath with a groan. "Definitely something up with this one. Trust me."

Hector always trusts her, so he is giving the shopkeep a very careful lookover as he inquires, "Did you help Lord Gortash retrieve some hellish curios by any chance?"

The shopkeep's expression remains admirably still, but Hector can see her eyes narrow sharply.

"You must be awfully familiar with our esteemed Archduke to know about a thing like that," she says smoothly.

"We were lovers," Hector says, in his driest deadpan. "It was all very steamy."

Behind him he hears Karlach choke on a sudden fit of laughter (which was, of course, his intention).

"My," the shopkeeper says, raising an eyebrow. "What a juicy morsel. I didn't think he liked your type. Anyway..." She shrugs one shoulder carelessly. "You seek answers, Lord Mammon seeks coin. I will happily mediate - make me an offer."

The laughter dies from Karlach's eyes at once. "Mammon," she snaps. "I knew it. I did!"

Hector considers. Any devil Karlach makes that face about (which is all of them, presumably) isn't one that he's entirely interested in making deals with. He's not short on gold if it comes to that, but it couldn't hurt to try a different approach first. [MONK] "Material wealth is a vain illusion," he says gravely. "If you seek meaning and purpose, try compassion - give us a hint."

This time it's Jaheira who snickers softly at his elbow.

The shopkeeper rolls her eyes. "You're telling me wealth is an illusion? What part of 'Mammon worshipper' do you not understand? You want answers, you pay. Just like everyone else. Mammon is nothing if not egalitarian."

Well, it was worth a shot.

"Here's 100 gold," Hector says wearily, slapping ten platinum coins on the countertop.

The woman smiles slyly. "Hmm. The King of Avarice accepts your humble offering," she says, sliding the coins off the counter and into her pocket in a single smooth motion. "You stand before Mammon's Picklock. Latchkeeper of the Nine Hells. My business is not information, nor hellish curious, not really. I break people into the Hells. That's my thing." She shrugs. "I can reveal to you that I opened a portal for Lord Gortash."

Now they're getting somewhere. "Where in the hells did the portal go?" Hector asks.

The shopkeep smiles broadly. "My word, this is embarrassing; perhaps I should have explained our terms better. You asked what I did for Lord Gortash, you paid the fee, and I answered you. Our pact is complete. Would you like to make another transaction?"

Hector feels a muscle in his temple start to twitch. Clenching his jaw, he pulls out another hundred gold and sets them on the counter.

"Oh, yes, I should think that'll do deliciously," she says brightly. "Lord Gortash wanted to steal something from Mephistopheles, so I punched a portal into the Archdevil's dusty vaults. And then I... Gosh, my fickle memory fails. If only something would jog it."

She holds out a hand to him expectantly.

Hector sighs, reaches into his pocket, puts down another hundred gold. Infuriating, this - he's out three hundred gold and hasn't even gotten to the main question they came to ask. Not that the gold matters much to him per se, except insofar as if he runs out, he won't be able to ask more questions.

She snorts. "I mean... I suppose that'll do. Stingy bastard." She pockets the latest round of coin and lounges back on her heels. "Gortash stole the Crown of Karsus. Pissed off Mephistopheles, but rather intrigued another devil by the name Raphael. His house of Hope is furnished with a great deal of treasures, many related to Karsus. But, alas, he lacks the crown itself."

She raises her eyebrows pointedly. "He's rather ambitious. One can only wonder what he has planned for the Crown. The answers to that can probably be found within his house..."

Karlach grins savagely. "Let's poke around the rat's nest. Maybe set it on fire on the way out."

Hector relaxes a little. Finally they're talking to the point - and Karlach is on board with coming along, which is a relief.

"Can you help me break into the House of Hope?" he asks. In spite of his irritation with the woman, his voice is still perfectly steady.

The shopkeep's eyebrows lift. "What a fascinating proposition!" she says brightly. "Ludicrous, of course, but fascinating nevertheless. Very well, if you wish to die in Avernus, that's your business. Mine is charging you for it." She sticks out a hand and gives him a significant glance. "Of course, such a task will require quite the substantial donation to Lord Mammon's coffers."

"Such a task would be tantamount to suicide," the Emperor whispers in Hector's mind. "Do not even entertain it."

The Emperor, of course, doesn't know the reasoning behind Hector's plans here. It doesn't know this is the first step in Hector's betrayal. Better, then, that it think for now that Hector is simply being foolish, reckless, entirely unlike any way the Emperor has seen him act before. Perhaps it thinks Hector has finally snapped, or is desperate to find something to save Karlach, or simply wishes to spite it. Anything, so long as it doesn't realize the truth.

(A/N: This requires TWENTY THOUSAND GOLD? TWENTY THOUSAND? Sheesh. We currently are sitting at around 6k, so this is going to take some doing if Hector can't talk her down. We have two options here, a [ROGUE][PERSUASION] and an [INTIMIDATION]; neither of them are particularly characteristic for Hector but the former works because he has definitely had some practice breaking into things at this point and the latter works because he is Incredibly Irritated with this woman by now. We'll start with the persuasion, though, because it asks for free passage rather than just half price.

...And Hector critted it on the first try. XD)

"I'm a skilled thief," he says, as casually as he can manage. "Give me free passage; I'll bring you back a 'souvenir.'"

She tilts her head thoughtfully. "You put me in a difficult position, mortal. You are almost certain to fail. Almost. And so there is a chance you might succeed." She purses her lips. "Fine. I'd like to be able to carry all of my precious stock without the need of a team of oxen. There are Gauntlets of Hill Giant Strength within the House of Hope. Free passage, and you fetch them for me. Deal?"

(A/N: Well, shit. This would be a good deal except HECTOR WANTS THOSE GAUNTLETS HIMSELF - my guess is that would relieve of us of our dependence on popping hill giant strength potions once a day. So this won't work. I'm going to have him turn down the deal and take a look around and see if we can maybe figure out how to do this without this lady's help.)

[tenthhell]

As a somewhat different but equally important lesson on devils, we're going to talk about their society.

In terms of alignment, lawful evil is absolutely the standard. Chaotic behaviour in the Hells is never tolerated and is seen as abhorrent beyond all reason -- which does mean you are actively painting a target on your back. ( Though Tiamat seems to be an exception to this??? I may make hcs on why eventually beyond the fact that she actually guards the portal from Avernus into Dis. ) Beyond the fact that it flies in the face of what they as a society value, it's generally never wise to remind a devil of a demon. Neutral is tolerated inasmuch as you play by the v specific rules painted out for everyone, bc frankly Asmodeus himself must abide by these rules too and therefore so shall everyone tf else. Evil is the gold standard by which you will survive, bc devils don't get PTSD from fucked up shit but any other alignment absolutely will. Again, neutral can be tolerated, but good will be quickly snuffed out. No, you cannot play pretend; they can smell it on you like goddamn bloodhounds.

The layers of the Hells are as follows: Avernus, ruled by Zariel ; Dis, ruled by Dispater ; Minauros, ruled by Mammon ; Phlegethos, ruled jointly by father / daughter duo Belial and Fierna ; Stygia, ruled by Levistus ; Malbolge, ruled by Glasya ; Maladomini, ruled by Beelzebub ; Cania, ruled by Mephistopheles ; Nessus, ruled by Asmodeus, who is also the king of the Hells.

Tiamat used to rule Avernus, but she apparently either didn't give a shit about or fucking sucked at the Blood War, and was therefore forcibly removed and put in her current position of guarding between layers. Which is still important, particularly in the case of Avernus and Dis.

There are four tiers of devil. Lemures are their own, lowest of the low rank. Lesser includes, imp, spined devil, bearded devil, barbed devil, chain devil, and bone devil. Greater includes horned devil, erinyes, ice devil, and pit fiend. Archdevil covers any unique devil, and are usually a duke or duchess, or the archdukes/duchesses. There are absolutely other types of devil beyond these, but I'm not clear where they all sit in this format, and there's also a lot of them anyway.

The Pact Primeval is an agreement signed by lawful deities that dictates the system of punishing damned souls. There are three copies, one in the Hells, one in Mount Celestia, and one in Mechanus, and are all heavily guarded, and exude power from their parchment. This is something Asmodeus has long since figured out how to exploit for each and every loophole, and has been put on trial for this at least once and was acquitted of wrongdoing. Which is to say, if you die and end up in the Hells, no good or neutral deity can or will do anything for you.

There are four dialects of the Infernal language. The first is Least Infernal, which is very basic and used for commands or insults. It's very harsh sounding. The second is Lesser Infernal, and is what almost all humanoids learn; if you know this dialect, you can understand the higher forms, but you're not fluent in them. This version is less gravelly than Least, but certainly not musical, and is equal to any mortal tongue in complexity. The third is Greater Infernal, and it is the tongue of the greater devils. It is, to quote, "full of obscure patterns that seemed to meander misleadingly before snapping to an unexpected point. Speaking it properly required careful planning and the ability to respond intelligently to phrases based only on the most subtle of cues. It was said that two greater Baatezu ( another word for devils ) could hold entire conversations in this form of Infernal using only the beginnings of their sentences." The fourth is called High Infernal, also called Mabrahoring, and is an archaic form of the language spoken by archdevils, and thus considered the court language of the Hells. To quote, "This form of the language was so utterly corrupt and evil that its malevolence could drag listeners into hateful despair just through hearing its patterns." Only unique devils can learn this dialect, but comprehend languages can decode it.

As you may notice, each dialect of Infernal is tied to a caste; one may not speak a dialect above their station, and doing so will be punished for insubordination. Mortals are always kept in the Lesser Infernal caste. ( No, you will not impress any devil by having learned how to speak Greater or Mabrahoring Infernal. You're going to offend and anger them, and possibly have your bloodline cursed at best. )

Every devil but the highest ranks dreams of being promoted, as it means more personal power, and less being stomped on ( sometimes literally ) by the devils above you. Only the ranks of archdevils and pit fiends can promote devils below themselves, and may typically do so as a reward for particularly pleasing service. Once promoted, devils go through a painful ceremony that lasts up to a day, and retain memories of their devil history. Each time a devil is promoted, it must purge itself of chaotic behaviour and thoughts, making the highest ranking devils, ice devils, and pit fiends pretty rigid in their lawfulness. ( Devils who are born to high ranks are still expected to purge themselves as a coming of age ceremony. ) The faster you are promoted, the more painful it is.

There is actually a ministry of promotion, whose sole job is to record and scrutinize promotions, as there are actually strict requirements to be met. Superiors who don't follow those guidelines are punished by being put on the frontlines of the Blood War. The guidelines are along the lines of: none may rise til another falls. Incompetents don't rise in power. Speedy promotions are discouraged. Good isn't rewarded, evil is. Exemplary service means no mistakes.

One should actually note that backstabbers are more often promoted, and there is a LOT of intrigue surrounding promotion. Sometimes, specific devils' reports are doctored to keep them from being promoted.

If you suck particularly hard, you're going to be demoted. Typically, sucking refers to failure or disobedience.

It's pretty standard for devils to be ambitious, despise defeat and humiliation, extremely, EXTREMELY John Wick levels of vindictive.

The court of the Hells does see plenty of mortals, as it is where pact-related matters are tried ( have plenty of concrete evidence BEFORE you go to court, as court is unforgiving and deadly ), but is also where punishments for lawbreaking is decided.

Every devil but the absolute lowest ranks have true names. To know the true name of a devil is to have power over it; one can summon it and bind it into your service with their true name, though this usually requires a ritual, and possibly a sacrifice and or a devil talisman, which are amulets with a devil's true name written on it and bathed in the blood of someone the creator loved at the time of crafting. The effects vary by rank: regular devils serve for nine days, greater devils for nine hours, and archdevils for one specific service. Naturally, devils are very protective of their true names, and almost never share them willingly.

Asmodeus knows the true name of each and every devil who has and will ever exist.

Money actually legitimately Does Not Matter to devils; it serves no purpose beyond Mammon's own greed. Devils deal only in souls ( often in the form of soul coins ), gems, soul larvae, magic, knowledge, and favors.

[lawful-evil-novelist]

Archdevil Designs

Note: So I really really like the Nine Hells and all the lore but also really really wanted to do my own take on the Lords of the Nine and their consorts/chief advisors in more humanoid forms (all the women get one so everyone does).  I wrote these like they’re being introduced to a party of adventurers, mostly as a fun exercise.  These are largely based on how I kind of visualized their designs and certainly they’re based on personal viewpoints.  I have them under a cut because the post is a little long.

Zariel-Archduchess of Avernus

Zariel towers over the other devils, broad-shouldered and armor-clad.  Her skin has become ashen pale, marked with three black lines, two like tracks of tears streaming from her fire-gold eyes.  She is no less beautiful, no less graceful in motion and regal in bearing.  She still walks as if gliding, her smoldering, black-feathered wings still folded neatly behind her back.  Chains clink with her gait, the tattered shreds of her once beautiful gown still try to flow as if floating, sending little embers in her path.  Her halo, that once majestic circlet, now burns with hellfire, hot enough to melt lesser metals that come too close.  Her face is an impassive mask, but passion burns in her eyes.

Bel-Zariel’s Chief Advisor

The fiends stand at attention before a wolf-lean, dark-haired devil.  His brassy skin is soot-stained and horns are dull and marked with hundreds of deep cuts, the left sports a jagged edge in place of a pointed tip.  His black, barbed tail lashes like a cat’s, leaving small striations in the granite as he paces the line.  Boiled leather and tattered livery covers corded muscle barely noticeable through deep tears in his black gambeson.  Archer’s bracers shield his arms, folded behind his back where he grips a coiled horsewhip.  His brow is knit deeply, and his lips pull into a deep scowl.  As if a warning, three demon skulls are strung along his left hip, each pierced through the temple by one perfect shot, left deliberately on display.

Dispater-Archduke of Dis

Seated at the desk is a thin, graceful devil.  His elegant, angular features are set over dark gray skin, framed by the framing wisps of white-blonde hair that have been gently tugged loose from his high ponytail.  Gold-rimmed spectacles settle over his golden eyes, the glass within tinted ever-slightly to a pale lilac.  His two horns thin spears curving out from his temples, their tips fading into translucent white as they reach their sharpened points.  His gaze snaps up as the door opens, one gnawed nail tapping against the desk as he studies the newcomers.  He settles his book down and marks the page before closing it, rising and brushing out the folds of his black robes.  A flexible leather vest covers his torso, fitted as if part of the robes’ bodice, and the fine black wool is stitched with blackwork runes barely visible until he passes into the light of a candle.

Titivilius-Dispater’s Chief Advisor

As if on cue, the door opens to a new, pale devil steps out of the citadel.  He is immaculate, his lithe form clad in unblemished black livery and armored in precisely made leather of a milky white, studded in brass.  His head and eyebrows are shaved, and the small horns jutting from his forehead are filed and polished.  His white-leather boots clack against the stone as he approaches, dark eyes judgemental and discerning.  As he draws nearer, his face turns, evermore, into an unimpressed glower.

Mammon-Archduke of Minauros

Seated at the center of the gilded splendor, caught in the golden light of the stained glass skylight, rests a comfortable devil on a throne of emerald green cushions, running his manicured hands across the golden scales of a great dragon.  From the waist up, he is a radiant young man, with skin of a warm dark golden hue, a long ebony braid, and eyes of a captivating green–the pupils slitted like that of a venomous snake.  Verdant scales frame his face and figure, glittering with gold in the light.  Emerald-studded jewelry of fine golden chains adorn his lithe body, and two cuffs link together his curled black horns.  At his waist, his body shifts to the long curling body of a bright green and black snake.

Bael-Mammon’s Chief of Security

The devil ends the conversation by slamming the butt of his glaive into the marble, cracking the stone.  He is a great, tall fiend, broad and burly.  He lacks the lean and corded muscle of Bel and Zariel, but there is tangible power behind his form.  His dark bronze skin is framed with dark green scales, and his ruddy hair is pulled into a tight bun, controlled with careful braids.  The finery of his green livery and bronze-plated armor has faded with time, a pale green patina has begun to mark the edges of his breastplate despite meticulous polishing, and the once carefully embroidered threads of his gambeson have been mended again and again.  His ox-like horns have blunted with neglect, and his stern face is weathered.  His great ox-faced helm is more fearsome, but he is no less imposing.

Fierna-Archduchess of Phlegethos

Amid the throng of dancers, one stands out, for she seems aflame, literally.  Bolstered by her short orange hair’s glow and the vibrant red scales that frame her face and boyish figure, the devil is a captivating sight.  Great dragonlike horns pierce the mane of her hair, and a long, red scaled tail keeps out of the way by coiling around one leg.  Her dance is almost elevated by the flow of a sheer maroon skirt, gilded with gold to match the leotard it’s attached to, and bangles clink at her wrists and ankles.  As she grows still, the tight control of lean muscle along her broad-shouldered build is more apparent, and what seemed an aura dies into flickering embers as she flicks her great red wings out wide.  She was, indeed, on fire.

Belial-Chief Justice of the Hells, Fierna’s Father

Seated at the judge’s high bench, bent over some paper or another, sits a tepid-looking devil that glances up after a moment, brushing aside the strands of auburn hair that fell loose from his hastily tied bun.  His dark eyes narrow, then draw back down to the paperwork in front of him.  He seems to finish one final line before setting his pen down and standing and stretching out his great wings.  Belial is a dull mirror of his daughter, even though their long, oval faces are very similarly pleasant and their skin is the same light coppery color and is marked with the same red scales–though his are ruddier.  His clothes are finely made and bear lovely gilding, but the dark robes are barely red, and his only jewelry is a pair of simple ruby studs in each ear.

Levistus-Archduke of Stygia

The doors burst open with an icy chill, emanating from the devil beyond them.  He is wolf-lean, beautiful, and tall, pale as snow and icy-eyed.  He approaches the great throne with a marked purpose, forcing even the Geryon to tense with one glowering look.  Up close, he seems more hunter than devil, but no less commanding.  His silver hair is pulled back from his face and set in a warrior’s knot, baring the roots of his black horns.  Dark kohl marks around his eyes, smudged out into thick blue-black lines.  Over his dark leathers and woad-blue wools settles a cloak of sky blue, lined and collared with thick white fur.  A spined white and black tail rises from the folds of his cloak and cracks against the floor with a thundering boom.  It is his last warning.

Geryon-Deposed Archduke of Stygia, Levistus’ Rival

The devil knocks aside a frost giant without so much as a flinch, his handsome face marred by his horrid snarl.    His broad-shoulders are corded with lean muscle, making him surprisingly agile despite his size.  A shock of black hair is pulled back into a wolf-tail, keeping it out of his steel-gray eyes and bearing his great black horns with pride.  Dark leathers are strapped over his red wool tunic, the sleeves rolled to bear his brawny arms, unbothered by the cold.  A red cloak with a black fur collar is tossed into the snow, with more reverence given to the hollowed out minotaur horn settled atop it.  As the last giants scatter about the icy plane, the devil relaxes, and rolls down his sleeves, yet his spined black tail still lashes back and forth in irritation.

Glasya-Archduchess of Malbolge, Princess of the Hells

The she-devil leaps from her throne before the doors are even open, bouncing down to her newest victims with a spring in her toe-first step.  She is slender, bronze-skinned and copper-haired with captivating amber eyes and a dazzling smile.  Despite the austerity of her surroundings she dresses in finery, her backless black gown cinched with a girdle of silver filigree and her jewelry complementary.  Her curling horns resemble a ram’s, with little traces of her ringlets catching their tapered points.  She wears a ring shaped like a golden ouroboros on a silver chain around her neck, hanging in the center of her gown’s deep neckline.  She folds her manicured hands neatly, that dazzling, charming smile growing morbid and scheming.

Moloch-Deposed Archduke of Malbolge

This devil was once respectable, that much is clear on his regal face.  Now, his crown of horns pokes through greasy black hair, tied back in a futile attempt to hide the grime.  His once well-kept livery is tattered and torn, his studded leathers dulled and marked with repairs, and his mail missing links.  His dull red skin is weathered and scarred, one of the most brutal cutting up through the center of his lips.  His golden eyes burn with anger, made more intimidating for his tall, brawny build.  Were he not a devil, he would very well fit the picture of a deposed king.

Baalzebul-Archduke of Maladomini

At the end of the great, marble hall sits a winged throne.  Upon it, settled comfortably with his legs crossed, sits a fallen angel more beautiful than any being in the Hells.  His slender figure is suited well by sheer flowing silks of iridescent blacks and greens that are cut in a tasteful display of shimmering sable skin.  His eyes glitter with shifting colors, and his long red hair is pinned back loosely to compliment his silks.  Jewelry glitters a million colors in the light like stained glass, belying how much it all looks like gilded shackles and chains.  His great wings shimmer like the rest of him, their white feathers edged in black and green, while his sparkling halo bears a weathering patina along its coppery edge.

Baftis-Baalzebul’s Favorite Consort

It has never occurred to you that a devil could look dangerous and delicate at the same time.  This devil has managed it.  A willowy, elegant creature with warm golden skin tucks herself into the curtains of her secluded monopteros, trying to avoid anyone’s gaze.  Her dark hair is pinned away from her face, and pale silks adorn her in a way that looks beautiful, especially as the shifting light changes their soft colors.  Her horns are small, poking out of her forehead, shifting seamlessly from her skin tone to a pretty lavender tone.  At her back flutter two blue and purple butterfly wings, tucked back but still radiantly visible.

Lilith-Baalzebul’s Other Consort, Formerly Moloch’s Consort

The devil that enters the audience chamber is no usher of any sort.  Rather, she appears a comely, slender consort.  Her tanned skin is flawless and her long black hair falls like silk threads.  She has a beautiful but severe face, her arched eyebrows making her cool gray eyes ever-more piercing.  Her dark blue gown is cut to accentuate her figure and matched with tasteful gold jewelry.  Even her horns, carefully maintained and polished, accentuate her beauty.  Despite this, her arrival comes with irritation, her tail lashing at her feet like a cat’s.  She attempts and impassive face, but her lips twitch as they fight a bitter scowl.

Neabaz-Baalzebul’s “Voice” and Chief Advisor

The waifish devil that Lilith approaches flits up a little off the ground to look over her.  His wings, as papery and delicate as a dragonfly’s, shimmer in the stained glass of the hallway.  His coppery skin and pleasant face are marked by little shimmering, delicate scales of vibrant blues and greens.  His green eyes shimmer and shift as they move about, seemingly ignoring Lilith.  He is dressed in tyrian purple silks that shimmer with teals and blues in the light.  The ends of his white hair, pulled back loosely, match this coloration, and the jewels that stud his silver jewelry shift colors in the light.  Unlike Lilith, however, his silks are cinched by a leather girdle, boned, studded, and reinforced as if prepared for a fight.

Mephistopheles-Archduke of Cania

He stands at the railing of the library's grand staircase, tall and imposing despite his narrow frame.  Sleeveless black robes bear gray-skinned arms embellished with bands of pale gold, and long white hair hangs over one shoulder in a loose ponytail.  His amber eyes bear a fiery cast that matches a discerning scowl, crinkling a handsome, elegant face.  His wings, great and membranous like a bat's, fold in carefully, and two great black horns rise from his head.  The edges of a tattoo, shimmering in gold, is visible through two cutouts in the bodice of his robes.  They almost look like pieces of a magic circle.

Hutijin-Mephistopheles’ Chief of Security

At the head of the column, a great devil hoists a massive adamantine mace up onto one burly shoulder.  His thin lips curl up into a snarl, bearing razor-sharp teeth.  His face is stern, head shaved so hair doesn't tangle in his crown of bone white horns.  His dull red skin is weathered from wind and frigid cold, deep-set eyes glaring scarlet daggers into anyone they fall on.  Nevertheless his dark blue livery and black mail are well-kept, and the black cloak bundled about his shoulders is held in place by an elaborate sapphire-studded silver fibula.

Asmodeus-Archduke of Nessus, Lord of the Nine Hells

The Ninth Lord settles back on his throne, one lazy hand caressing the great square head of a hellhound.  He and his daughter share the same angular features and curling black ram's horns. His dark hair is short enough that his horns hide most of it, matched by a meticulously trimmed black goatee.  His black and red finery hugs his torso and flares out into a long train matched with slim-fitting breeches and tall boots.  The finery is fitted with black leather and adamantine jewelry, studded and stitched with rubies and black diamonds.  A fine black cane of exquisite craftsmanship spins between the fingers of his other hand, its triangular can topper a vibrant scarlet ruby etched with indecipherable magical symbols.  Just visible poking over the edge of the low V of his collar is a golden tattoo, resembling the edge of a magic circle.

Bensozia-Asmodeus’ Consort, Lady of the Nine Hells, Deceased

Though she is clearly dead, the she-devil seems merely asleep, lain within her glass coffin.  Her copper curls are combed out and her warm bronze skin is unblemished, even by the blow that killed her.  Her full red lips are curled into a warm smile, even as she rests.  Her black gown is matched with a red-lined mantle, and her jeweled arms are folded carefully over an ancient, leather-bound tome, a soul coin set into its center.  One ring stands out amid the rest that adorn her manicured fingers, bearing adamantine serpents coiling around a triangular ruby.

[thespacelizard]

Just a Crystal, Nothing More

@fluffbruary day 17 - some slightly angsty, reminisce-y Glasya/Mammon today. up on AO3 here.

In which Glasya comes across an old trinket.

Why is it, if Malbolge is a part of her, that she can never find the thing she wants when she wants it? Oh, certainly she could make a new dress, but that’s besides the point—recreated angel-feather drop-sleeves are not the same as the genuine article. She’s hardly going to make the impression she wants in imitation celestial sacrifice couture, now, is she?

With a huff, Glasya hauls another iron chest down from its shelf. The walk-in closet, deep in Ossiea, stretches back an unnecessary series of miles, and she’s already wasted most of her morning scouring them. Archdevils don’t tire the way lesser beings do, but metaphysically she’s sweaty and exhausted and about ready to overthrow a small mortal nation for the stress relief.

The suffering she endures is honestly too much.

“If it’s not in here, I’m sending a hunting party to Mount Celestia,” she mutters under her breath. “Daddy dearest can just cope.”

Glasya is, of course, precisely the kind of person to start an interplanar incident for the sake of her own vanity. Or such is the image she likes to cultivate, anyway.

The chest thuds to the floor and Glasya thuds next to it, legs akimbo, highly unglamorous, but there’s no-one around to mock, so she’s safe to indulge. She scratches one elegant copper claw over the lock and it falls open with a faint sigh. Within are piles of fabric, which is a promising start—she plunges her hands in and tosses out item after item in search of that unique softness that only comes with angel feathers.

This would, she knows, be easier if her palace weren’t wholly warded from locating spells. Truly, the sacrifices one makes for a pittance of security in the Hells are never-ending.

Then, just as she’s ready to give up and go crusading into the Seven Heavens; “A-ha!”

She lifts a waterfall of shimmering grey fabric into the light; long skirt, sheer bodice, and those perfect, perfect sleeves that will trail like broken wings from her perfect, perfect arms. Shining patterns of vivisected angels weave across the material in pale thread, their agony almost audible. She presses the dress triumphantly to her chest. See Baalzebul say no to her in this, there’s no way he’ll—

A glint at the bottom of the chest catches her eye. Glasya lowers the dress, cocking her head. Setting it carefully aside, she grasps the glint and lifts out a small, clear crystal. A golden sheen dances over its glittering facets as she turns it in her hands. It sends a whisper through her fingers that lights up her veins with the desire for more, and she has a brief yet powerful urge to own everything.

Even before she looks into the heart of the crystal, she knows what she’s going to see.

Herself, pressed against the side of another Archduke with beautiful, dark gold skin, and a scattering of verdant scales along his shoulders and sides. Her hand is resting on the centre of his lean, muscular chest, slightly curled—his own partly covers hers, his other arm around her shoulder. The image is cut off at the waist, but she remembers clearly that she had knelt on the snake-coils of his lower half; had to climb up on them to get high enough to fit them both into the enchanted image.

In the crystal, Mammon is looking at her, endlessly, like he loves her. In the crystal, Glasya is looking at him, endlessly, like she—

She tosses the crystal back into the chest and slams the lid shut. She snatches up her dress and, with a neat little kick, sends the chest spinning down the long and improbably endless miles of her closet. She has what she came for.

She stalks back to her rooms and finds that the dress no longer fits. In a fit of pique, rather than altering herself, she tears off the sleeves and goes to her meeting with Baalzebul wrapped in shedding angel feathers.

She gets what she wants. She always does.

Except for the times she doesn’t.

[cagemasterfantasy]

Dnd Cosmology: Nine Hells

Alignment: Lawful Evil

Planar Portal Color: Ruby

The Nine Hells has 9 layers. The first 8 are ruled by archdevils who answer to Asmodeus the archduke of Nessus the ninth layer. Collectively the rulers of the hells are called the Lords of the Nine. To reach Nessus one must descend through all 8 layers above it in order. The most expeditious means of doing so is the River Styx which plunges ever deeper as it flows from one layer to the next. Only the most courageous adventurers can withstand the torment and horror of that journey.

The Layers of the Nine Hells:

Avernus: By Asmodeus's orders no planar portals connect directly to the lower layers of the Nine Hells. The first layer Avernus is the arrival point for visitors a rocky wasteland with rivers of blood and clouds of biting flies. Fiery comets occasionally fall from the darkened sky and carve out fuming impact craters. Empty battlefields are littered with weapons and bones showing where the legions of the Nine Hells prevailed against invading enemies.

The Archdevil Zariel rules Avernus having supplanted her rival Bel who fell out of Asmodeus's favor and was forced to serve as Zariel's adviser. Tiamat the Queen of Evil Dragons is a prisoner on this layer ruling her own domain but confined to the Nine Hells by Asmodeus in accordance with some ancient contract (the terms of which are known only to Tiamat and the Lords of the Nine).

Zariel appears as an angel whose skin and wings are scorched. Her eyes burn with a furious white light that can cause creatures looking upon her to burst into flame. Her seat of power is a flying basalt citadel that rakes the battlefields of Avernus.

Dis: Dis the second layer of the Nine Hells is a labyrinth of canyons wedged between sheer mountains rich with iron ore. Iron roads spun and wend through the canyons watched over by the garrisons of iron fortresses perched atop jagged pinnacles.

The second layer takes its name from its current lord Dispater. A manipulator and deceiver the archduke is devilishly handsome bearing only small horns a tail and a cloven left hoof to distinguish him a human. His crimson throne stands in the heart of the Iron City of Dis a hideous metropolis. Planar travelers come here to conspire with Devils and to close deals with Night Hags Rakshasas Incubi Succubi and other Fiends. Contracts signed on his layer contain special provisions that allow Dispater to collect a cut of the deal.

Dispater is one of Asmodeus's most loyal and resourceful vassals and few beings in the multiverse can outwit him. He is more obsessed than most Devils with striking deals with mortals in exchange for their souls and his emissaries work tirelessly to foster evil schemes on the Material Plane.

Minauros: The third layer of the Nine Hells is a stench ridden bog. Acidic rain spills from the layer's brown skies thick layers of scum cover its putrid surface and yawning pits lie in wait beneath the murk to engulf careless wanderers.

Cyclopean cities of ornately carved stone rise up from the bog including the great city of Minauros for which the layer is named. The slimy walls of the city rise hundreds of feet protecting the flooded halls that are the lair of Mammon the archduke of Minauros. Mammon resembles a massive serpent with the upper torso and head of a hairless horned humanoid. Mammon's greed is legendary and he is one of the few archdevils who will trade favors for gold instead of souls. His lair is piled high with treasure left behind by those who tried and failed to best him in a deal.

Plegethos: Phlegethos the fourth layer is a fiery landscape whose seas of molten magma brew hurricanes of hot wind choking smoke and volcanic ash. Within the fire filled caldera of Phlegethos's largest volcano rises Abriymoch a fortress city made of obsidian and dark glass. With rivers of molten lava pouring down its outer walls the city resembles the sculpted centerpiece of a gigantic Hellish fountain.

Abriymoch is the seat of power for the 2 archdevils who rule Phlegethos in tandem: Belial and Fierna Belial's Daughter. Both are handsome devils who resemble Tieflings with red skin and small horns. Belial exudes civility even as his words carry an undercurrent of threat. His daughter is said have the wickedest heart in the Nine Hells. The alliance of Belial and Fierna is unbreakable for both are aware that their mutual survival hinges on it.

Stygia: The fifth layer of the Nine Hells is a freezing realm of ice within which cold flames burn. A frozen sea surrounds the layer and its gloomy sky crackles with lightning.

Archduke Levistus once betrayed Asmodeus and is now encased deep in the ice of Stygia as punishment. He rules this layer all the smae communicating telepathically with his followers and servants both in the Nine Hells and on the Material Plane.

Stygia is also home to its previous ruler the serpentine archdevil Geryon who was dismissed by Asmodeus to allow the imprisoned Levistus to regain his rule. Geryon's fall from grace has spurred much debate within the infernal courts. No one is certain whether Asmodeus had some secret cause to dismiss the archdevil or whether he is testing Geryon's allegiance for some greater purpose.

Malbolge: Malbolge the sixth layer has outlasted many rulers among them Malagard the Hag Countess and the archdevil Moloch. Malagard fell out of favor and was struck down by Asmodeus in a fit of pique while her predecessor Moloch still lingers somewhere on the sixth layer as an Imp plotting regain Asmodeus's favor. Malbolge is a seemingly endless slope like the sides of an impossibly huge mountain. Parts of the layer break off from time to time creating deadly booming avalanches. The inhabitants of Malbolge live in crumbling fortresses and great caves carved into the mountainside.

Malbolge's current ruler is Asmodeus's daughter Glasya. Her cruelty and love of wicked schemes rival those of her father. The citadel that serves as her domicile on the slopes of Malbolge called Osseia is supported by cracked pillars and buttresses that are sturdy yet seem on the verge of collapse. Beneath the palace is a labyrinth lined with cells and torture chambers where Glasya confines and torments those who displease her.

Maladomini: The seventh layer Maladomini is ruin covered wasteland. Dead cities form a desolate urban landscape and between them are empty quarries crumbling roads slag heaps the hollow shells of empty fortresses and swarms of hungry flies.

The Archduke of Maladomini is Baalzebul the Lord of Flies. He is a tall powerful devil with compound eyes of a fly. The Archduke has long conspired to usurp Asmodeus yet has failed at every turn. Asmodeus laid a curse on him that causes any deal made with him to lead to calamity. Asmodeus occasionally shows Baalzebul favor for reasons no other Archduke can fathom though some suspect that Asmodeus still respects the worthiness of this adversary.

Cania: Cania the Eighth layer of the Nine Hells is a frozen hellscape whose ice storms can tear flesh from bone. Cities embedded in the ice provide shelter for guests and prisoners of Cania's ruler the brilliant and conniving archdevil Mephistopheles.

Mephistopheles dwells in the ice citadel of Mephistar where he plots to seize the throne of the Nine Hells and conquer all the planes. He is Asmodeus's greatest enemy and ally and the archduke of Nessus appears to trust Mephistopheles's counsel. Mephistopheles knows he can't depose Asmodeus until his adversary makes a fatal miscalculation and so both wait to discover what circumstances might turn them against each other. Mephistopheles is also a godfather of sorts to Glasya further complicating the relationship between Mephistopheles and Asmodeus.

Mephistopheles is a tall striking devil with impressive horns and a cool demeanor. He trades in souls as do other archdevils but he rarely gives his time to any creatures not worthy of his personal attention. It is said that only Asmodeus has ever deceived or thwarted him.

Nessus: The lowest layer of the Nine Hells Nessus is a realm of dark pits whose walls are set with bleak fortresses. There Pit Fiend generals loyal to Asmodeus garrison their diabolical legions and plot the conquest of the multiverse. At the center of the layer stands a vast rift of unknown depth out of which rises the great citadel spire of Malsheem home to Asmodeus and his infernal court.

Malsheem resembles a gigantic hollowed out stalagmite. The citadel is also a prison for souls that Asmodeus has locked away for safekeeping. Convincing him to release even one of those souls comes at a steep price and it is rumored that Asmodeus has claimed whole kingdoms in the past in exchange for such favors.

Asmodeus most often appears as a handsome bearded man with 4 large horns piercing red eyes and flowing robes. He can also assume other forms and sometimes carries a ruby tipped scepter. Asmodeus is the most cunning and well mannered of Archdevils. On the surface he seems warm pleasant and lighthearted doling out wisdom and small acts of kindness like a caring father. The ultimate evil he represents can be seen only when it so or if he forgets himself and flies into a rage.

@doodl3

[sinfulredemptions]

(Sinday Open? Sinday Open.)

High above the glittering streets of the Black Downing Borough, Mammon hummed lowly to himself as he lounged on one of the lush couches in the Emperor’s suite. He had to admit, he did love that name~ and the decor and sheer size of the place suited it well. He hummed as his tail flicked, his coat and hat removed, even his dress shoes were off to the side. His tie was off and the sleeves of his collar unbuttoned, his sleeves undone and much more comfortable now as he let his eyes roam over the figure before him, a smile curling over his lips, his eyes soft. “Now don’t -you- look gorgeous babe...c’mere...let Daddy have a look atcha huh? I wanna see what I bought for ya up close b’fore I enjoy taking it off.” A little pat of his hand to his lap, his other hand giving a slight come hither gesture. Money green eyes were low, eager to see and touch and explore every inch of the frame before him, his tail giving a flick at the tip to mirror his emotions.

[incoherentmuses]

i took his shirt off. because of Reasons.

(this Mammon design is based on @lawful-evil-novelist's awesome archdevil designs which you can read here!)

[twistanturnu]

tfw your dad says he'll summon Archduke Mammon to personally destroy the soul of the kid that's bullying you at school 🤩🥳😇😈👋🙏

[bullet-farmer]

And the porny saga continueth. :)

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens), Beelzebub & Dagon (Good Omens), Beelzebub & Dagon & Hastur & Ligur Characters: Beelzebub (Good Omens), Gabriel (Good Omens), Hastur (Good Omens), Ligur (Good Omens), Dagon (Good Omens), Archduke Berith (OC), Archduke Mammon (OC), Duke Moloch (OC), Duke Cthylla (OC) Additional Tags: BDSM, Restraints, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Body Horror, Spanking, Enthusiastic Consent, Jealousy, quote unquote tamer than the two previous fics, but still very explicit, Light Angst, mostly Gabriel fretting about their relationship, Hastur and Ligur being stupidly in love, the hell squad Series: Part 3 of Bound Angel Summary:

Gabriel has some doubts about his new relationship with the prince of hell. Well, make that a lot of doubts. Is he in her realm as the result of a mutiny in heaven? Has he merely given in to a temptation?

Or, worse: has she grown tired of him?

Meanwhile, Beelzebub deals with two unwanted visitors to head office: the very angry archduke of Wrath and the very slimy archduke of Greed.

(This fic takes place immediately after the events of “Hey Pretty” and won’t make sense if read out of order.)

[captain-starskull]

Pretty sure he just met Mammon, the archduke of greed, gluttony and austerity, or lord Arioch the knight of swords, from Michael Moorcock.

I’m sorry but out of context this is really fucking funny

[hopeforkitten]

I spent a crazy evening thinking about Raphael and brought one small and one bigger idea to you

Raphael who loves, so I guess it's a fluff

I want Raphael to cry into his pillow because he has fallen in love with Tav, who is already serving one of the archdevils. So that he would scurry through the forests and halls watching him from afar, accidentally found himself at every event where they would be.

and so that in a few more thousand years, when he has the crown and he marches through hell victoriously, Raphael will take his soul out of the deepest pit and appoint a perplexed poor man to delight his gaze

Or ooh

Raphael, who conquers avernus and can already butt heads with other archdukes, orders some Tav and his contract to be stolen from another hell..... (I want him to grow up in hell, at the court of Mammon, because he was taken away as the most valuable fruit, and later he became a warlock)(well, because stealing a sorcerer from the personification of greed is FUN)

so that this surprisingly calm creature is thrown in front of his throne.

Tav looks around, everything in the throne room is too big for her, but it's familiar feeling

"Khem, it is an honor for me to appear before the new Archduke Averno, but.... What can I do for you?"

Raphael does not deign to pay attention to her, as well as a dozen guards stationed in the hall. He reads her contract carefully, the girl understands this and confusion is visible in her eyes.

"Introduce yourself"

The girl was enlivened by Raphael's words and she straightened up to answer

"My name is Tav, I am the warlock of Mammon"

"What kind of work do you do?" Raphael spoke without emotion, without looking up from the contract in his hands

"I can kill someone, negotiate, be an ambassador, whatever the master wants"

The girl tries to keep up with dignity, but the atmosphere of uncertainty presses on her. She digs her hands harder into the strap of the bag that hangs on it.

"What's in your bag?"

seemed like exactly the wrong question to ask her. The girl was lost, but between mortals it would have been a common question.

"Um, potions scrolls and documentation"

"What kind of documentation?"

"As a punishment, I am engaged in economic documentation of the yard"

"And do you consider this a punishment?"

Raphael finally squinted his gaze towards the guest

"For small flaws, mostly from the master's bad mood, but no, it was not a burden to me dealing with paperwork"

"How fortunate, and do you know much about the internal affairs of Mammon's court?"

The obvious reason for staying here cautiously reached the girl.

"I know a lot, but the contract forbids me..."

Tav did not have time to finish and the sound of parchment tearing was heard in the hall. Raphael calmly tore the contract into two parts, Tav watched in some fright as the paper sank to the floor and turned into ashes

"Oh, it doesn't forbid it now."

Now the fright was much clearer in her, she hunched over a little and hid her eyes on the floor. the girl swallowed nervously. Is she going to be interrogated and killed now? It's probably like true

"Now we can discuss more"

and ooooh, they really can discuss a lot.

firstly, Raphael can instruct her to deal with the documentation of the yard, change the load, make it bigger and smaller, everything will always be perfect. Tav never complained, and yet when he made the load absurdly heavy, she once fell asleep on him during a planned walk. they didn't talk about this moment and he didn't overdo it anymore.

and secondly.

their conversations, first she will be interrogated, then Raphael will schedule regular meetings with them, allegedly because of the politician. In fact, the bored Archduke will take his nightingale everywhere and lead her to talk about everything: books, magic, food, the history of hell.

Tav really knows everything he expects. And the Archduke likes to listen to her voice. He had been looking at her from afar for too long, and now his nightingale was next to him, belonged to him.

The devil knows that now, no matter what awaits him, even the war with the other eight hells, in his kingdom, in his golden cage, there is a little bird that is always waiting, always looking at him fearfully and ready to discuss the book they talked about last time. No matter how frightening the archdevil was, his crown-like horns, cloak, and shoulder pads made him deceptively large. It doesn't matter, he's too well ingrained in the little thing's trust.

These regular meetings of the archdevil and the little man, in the throne room, on the terrace, in the library, it seems they used all the places available in the flying fortress.

Tav doesn't understand the purpose of these meetings, but is there any reason for discontent?

The Archduke is extremely kind to her. He's even... Is he handsome? It's probably not strange because the girl grew up in hell. His face is so big, cherry-colored, noble cheekbones, signs of advanced age, his hooked nose.

She likes the way his eyes sparkle in the dark corners of the citadel, of which there are plenty, the two brightest eclipses for her. The devil's gaze is harsh for everyone, but looking at her, he softens. His lace collar? Perhaps this is too delicate a detail for the archdevil's clothes.

He usually talks to the servants insinuatingly, often just doesn't listen and tells them to get out with his hand. His hands... In his new rank, Raphael abused jewelry more. For sure, his smallest ring will be dangling on her thumb. The devils' hands are made to tear apart, but these only rest on the armrests, gesticulate moderately into the sunset and even put their arm around her shoulder as they pass through the crowd of fiends. As if they would really dare to hurt her, as if they didn't make way enough when their master appeared.

If the duke is angry, it always spreads quickly around the court. In this case, he comes to meetings and is silent. Tav needs to take the initiative herself, at some stage of her story he will join the conversation as if nothing had happened. The Archduke's great privilege is his voice, as if he is much bigger and speaks directly into the back of your head, the sound embraces your head from all sides.

It's scary when he takes the initiative, and it's like he's digging it up, moving from questions about the book to her personal ones.

"What do you like? And how do you feel? What would you like?" Questions that demolish the load-bearing walls in the protection of the Tav and she has to sort out the rubble and rebuild them. Anything you say will be used against you, she has long understood this rule, but now it has stopped working and it was confusing.

She plays along with him, but the girl herself is tormented by questions, what is this performance for? The devil obviously knows all this better than she does. First, she would try to ask his closest servants such a question, and then he himself.... but what he will answer, think for yourself

(For sure, Raphael has a specially prepared servant for this, who at this moment should call him on urgent business. So that he could tell her

"Think about it at your leisure, little bird", kiss her on the forehead (for the first time!) and leave, leaving the girl blushing and wondering alone. and then also cancel several meetings with her so that she would suffer in thought)