#asmodeus dnd

[shellem15]

This has been commented on many times in this fandom, but I'm using it as a springboard for my own brainrot Raphael really is just like his daddy. There's the obvious stuff—the narcissism, the dramatics, the convoluted plots and just the general messy bitchery—but there's also the stuff under the surface. Both have massive inferiority complexes, both are extremely envious and power-hungry (Mephistopheles in particular for the envy part, but we'll touch on that later), and both act extremely obsessive towards certain tools, goals, and—most relevant to this post—people.

Now Raphael is definitely weird towards Tav/Durge, but it's a bit more ambiguous as to whether he's obsessed with them in particular or just sees them as a means to an end. The situation with Hope, on the other hand, is quite explicit. Raphael is obsessed with her, even naming his home after her, but there's not really anything material he gets out of her. Him imprisoning and torturing her is not a means to an end, he just does it because he's a sadist. He wants her attention, he is entertained by her defiance, he wants to break her—he both loves and loathes her.

And what do you know! Raphael's thing towards Hope is kinda similar to how Mephistopheles acts with his object of obsession—Asmodeus. Now, if you need to know anything about Mephisto's character, it's that he's envious. Envious towards his peers, envious towards his betters, even envious towards his inferiors—he resents that others' have what he does not. Even Martinet, Asmodeus' unflappable constable, thinks so: "Were Mephistopheles to become the King of Hell, it would take him less than an hour to start wondering why he wasn’t also ruler of Mount Celestia." (Guide to Hell, p. 45)

The #1 target of Mephisto's envy is Asmodeus. The man is capital-o Obsessed with him, ya'll.  Asmo is on his mind 24/7, haunting his every thought. He lives rent-free in Mephisto's head.

Mephisto is the silver medal to Asmo's golden 1st place. Eternally living in his shadow, the Starscream to Asmo's Megatron. He is always one step behind him—like, Mephistopheles has been trying to become a god for a while now, and just when he was about to succeed, the spellplague happened and Asmodeus ate the god Azuth like an energy bar, snatching up godhood by sheer luck. And then, of course, Mephisto's godhood plan fell through so now the power divide between them is even greater than it was before.

Bro tries so hard and it just doesn't work. Like, when Mephisto was going through his rebrand phase as the Lord of Hellfire, he changed his appearance to that of the "quintessential devil". But all that ended up doing is making mortals confused about who exactly he is—a lot of mortals straight up think he is Asmodeus. Like, to the point that Asmo just went "you're the manager of my cults now lol", so now the distinction between the two is even more blurry. Also, Mephisto's wife is straight up closer to Asmo than she is to him (see my Baalphegor post), which is just another spit in the face. Bro cannot win. (This ties into another similarity between him and his son; Raphael clearly got the loser gene from him.)

Now, obviously the situation between Raphael and Hope is very different than Mephisto's relationship towards Asmo—Hope is Raphael's captive, while Asmo is Mephisto's boss; Hope's life has been upended and tormented by Raphael, while Mephisto is at most an annoyance towards Asmo (bro has repeatedly told Asmo to his face that he would usurp him and Asmo is just like "whatever, dude")—but the level of obsession is similar. Raphael hates hope but is also desperate for her affection, Mephistopheles loathes and envies Asmodeus but is also his greatest ally. Both are desperate to fu—*ahem* both are psycho-sexually obsessed with them.

So, yeah. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

TLDR: Raphael inherited his psycho-sexually obsessive tendencies from his daddy lol. Also you should really read the lore about Asmodeus and Mephistopheles' relationship because it's actually insane y'all. Like this shit was made for the gays people.

[adinfernumadinfinitum]

Welcome to my silly little fan theory @emmg:

How Raphael is the ‘Mastermind’ behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3…

…or how I give him more importance than I should.

DISCLAIMER:

In this ‘dissertation,’ I present my take on things based on Dungeons and Dragons 5e lore from the Forgotten Realms universe, along with fandom theories and headcanons where they suit me. This is NOT an in-depth analysis of anything, so I won’t be reciting specific quotes, etc.

I repeat, this is just MY take on things. If a similar theory already exists, feel free to reach out, and I’ll gladly tag the material!

Oh, and there are a lot of spoilers about, well, everything, so read at your own risk ⚠️

I thank the lovely @bitethedevil for allowing me to tag their posts, making it easier on me so I don’t have to write everything out! I also want to take this moment to appreciate their work and contributions to this fandom! ☺️

Introduction

Baldur’s Gate 3 is a brilliant, complex, multi-layered game filled with multiple villains, heroic figures, and a plot that weaves players in seamlessly. That’s why we love this game—at least, that’s why I do—the gripping storyline and its faceted characters.

The game is set in the Forgotten Realms with DnD lore and rules, while still adding and maintaining its own unique features and twists.

But what if we entirely take a look at it from DnD lore perspective?

Section 1: Raphael as the core character in Baldur’s Gate 3

Fans of the Emperor might argue with me here, but oh man, have you seen how many pies Raphael has his fingers in?

This narcissistic little shit of a cambion plotted his grand design to take the Crown of Karsus for over 2,000 years, planning everything with terrifying precision and putting in a staggering amount of effort—all to manipulate Tav or Durge into giving him the crown.

To understand just how far back his scheming goes, we have to start with the fall of Netheril. As Raphael himself tells us, this is where it all began, and when his father seized the crown, it became impossible for Raphael to obtain it himself.

Baator—the Nine Layers of Hell—has its own system and rules. The plane is aligned as lawful evil, and by its laws, anyone who breaks them is punished; in other words, theft is a crime (don’t try this at home edition).

Am I going to explain the system and rules of the Nine Hells? Hell no, or I’ll be sitting here until next Halloween. Sorry, maybe in a separate post sometime (or not) 😭

So Raphael had to get creative if he wanted to get his greedy claws on the crown.

You can read about how much Raphael’s involvement is actually found in the game Baldur’s Gate 3 here.

What’s relevant for this ‘dissertation’ are the following points, which all show how he orchestrates the plot:

1. Raphael, Vlaakith, and the Astral Prism —

Raphael even plots to capture Orpheus. Not personally, of course, but with the knowledge that it could benefit him and would even serve its purpose in the future. This is a crucial detail.

However, I don’t believe Raphael would craft or have someone craft an item like the Astral Prism, as well as the bindings of Orpheus (the mask, chains, and binding crystals) and the Orphic Hammer. It’s more likely these objects already existed in the Hells, with Raphael profiting by dealing with them.

Sadly there is no official information on that, I really find that interesting.

As for why the Orphic Hammer is called Orphic Hammer - why is Orpheus called Orpheus? He’s a liberator for his people, having inherited the power of Mother Gith, who freed the Gith from mind flayer enslavement. The character of Orpheus draws heavily from Orpheus in Greek mythology, a symbol of liberation, love, and the attempt to rescue a soul from the bonds of death. The term “Orphic” reflects this sense of breaking free from constraints or seeking transformation (of course, it has other meanings, too, but this one feels like what the developers were aiming for).

So the hammer’s name has both symbolic depth and a bit of pun, as it’s intended to free the character Orpheus from his chains.

ANYWAY

2. Raphael, Moonrise Towers, and the Gauntlet of Shar —

The amount of interwoven contracts Raphael has made in the Shadow Cursed Lands is suspicious, and each and every one of them is too , an important point.

Isn’t it just a bit too convenient that Ketheric’s misery plays right into Raphael’s hands? The Shadow-Cursed Lands—Reithwin, once ruled by Ketheric, formerly full of Selunite worshippers but ruined by schemes of the Dark Lady who turned a grieving worshipper of her sister into a Shar follower and leader of an army of Dark Justiciars—is a whole breeding ground for contracts and a stage for Raphael’s play.

Hold on, I’m not implying that I believe Raphael had a hand in Shar’s mischief here, but I do think Raphael handpicked Ketheric, a grieving and obsessed madman (a truly tragic character, honestly), to be an unwitting pawn in his schemes, without directly involving himself. To do this, he contracted with desperate beings like the Architect, Yurgir, and the last Dark Justiciar.

To understand why Raphael would even need Ketheric, we have to look a step further.

3. Raphael and my beloved raccoon boy, Gortash —

Raphael buying Gortash from his parents was a calculated move and the final piece in the Netherbrain plot scheme.

I believe Raphael specifically chose Enver Gortash, a boy with potential, for his plans to get the Crown of Karsus.

Look, Gortash is anything but dumb; in fact, he’s the exact opposite. He learned the ropes in Hell, literally imprisoned in Raphael’s House of Hope. All jokes aside about pot-scrubbing duty and overhearing Raphael and Haarlep getting it on, Gortash is a quick learner.

Raphael just had to watch as Gortash escaped the House of Hope with vital information about the crown. With this, Raphael set up an ambitious, cunning man with the drive to steal the crown.

And this is where Ketheric returns to the picture. Ketheric, the chosen of Myrkul; Gortash, the chosen of Bane; and Durge, the chosen of Bhaal.

As for how Raphael might have gotten his hands on Durge? I’ll leave that as the theory’s plot hole.

I could fill it with headcanons—like Gortash and Durge knowing each other even before Gortash was sold—but that feels a bit far-fetched.

Actually, all of this is a bit far-fetched, but hey, it’s my silly little theory.

But hey again, we’re slowly coming to a conclusion how Raphael is the mastermind behind BG3, do you see my vision?

All Raphael needed was patience. The chosen ones, Gortash and Durge, set the stage by planning the Netherbrain coup and, in stealing the crown, executed Raphael’s plan. All they needed was the third chosen, Ketheric, to carry out the rest of the plot: building the Absolute’s army, etc., the rest we know...

So, what was left? Just someone desperate enough to make a deal with Raphael and actually hand over the Crown of Karsus. And how would he pull that off?

✨The Tadpole Gang✨

Every single one of them fits the bill. Especially if the player chooses Durge.

The next question is: how could he manipulate the group if they were under the Absolute’s influence? Well, that’s where the Emperor comes onto the stage.

Because, hear me out one more time: isn’t it convenient that the Emperor, of all people, finds the Astral Prism? A figure obsessed with freedom and manipulation, ambitious and clever, who would serve perfectly as a kind of protection shield from the Elder Brain’s influence for the gang? And to that even a disposable figure as it is a mind flayer who would not be trusted in the end.

(Naturally, in the game the player is the ultimate executional force, making any kind of higher plan or scheme either perfect or useless)

Nevertheless, this is as far as I will dive into this specific pond.

I just think it adds up nicely.

But Björni, if you have a Section 1, what about a Section 2? you might ask. Well, here it comes…

… how this ‘dissertation’ is actually about Mephistopheles being the ‘Mastermind’ behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3.

Section 2: Raphael as the Scapegoat

DnD’s lore about fiends—and, specifically, cambions—teaches us that they’re doomed to fail from birth. While they may think they’re in control of their schemes, they’re actually playing into the hands of their fiendish parent.

Ever wondered why Mephistopheles would even bother devouring Raphael if we defeat him? Sure, cambion sons are nourishing (yum yum), but given Mephistopheles’ personality, I’d guess he does it to humiliate his son, even in death, for being a failure—a failure to retrieve the crown for his father.

But wait, Mephistopheles already had the crown—why would he bother plotting all of this just to get it back? Isn’t that a bit over-the-top, Björni?

Bear with me: it’s not officially written anywhere, but it’s more or less canon based on what we know of the Archdevils Asmodeus and Mephistopheles.

Asmodeus rules the Hells, while Mephistopheles, as the Archduke of the 8th layer, Cania, is arguably the second most powerful being in Baator. Mephistopheles has never stopped dreaming of overthrowing Asmodeus, even after repeatedly failing miserably. But if he openly tried to use the crown against Asmodeus, it would be a direct affront, and Asmodeus would have shut it down from the start.

Mephistopheles has other children besides Raphael, and Raphael isn’t exactly useless, he’s actually the complete opposite. Strategically, it wouldn’t make sense to discard such a puppet (call him son)—unless Raphael had done something atrocious. And for someone as mighty as Mephistopheles, controlling his little cambion son would be child’s play. So, then why does Raphael hate his father so much, and why is Raphael ‘residing’ in Avernus?

As we know, Avernus is the armpit of Baator, a plane for exiles and outcasts.

I think Mephistopheles intentionally filled his relationship with Raphael with hatred, so Raphael’s ambition to overthrow his father would ignite and one day serve him. When Mephistopheles got the Crown of Karsus, unable to wield it himself, he set the stage for his son’s scheme—by casting Raphael aside, Mephistopheles set him on the path to steal the crown, with Mephistopheles only indirectly involved in overthrowing Asmodeus. Raphael would do the dirty work—taking over the other layers—before ultimately facing his father, who could then just snatch the crown from him. And yes, I do believe Mephistopheles is arrogant enough to think he’d still be more powerful than his son, even with a god-like artifact. He has that bloated of an ego.

BUT (Nr. 36,252), what about Asmodeus? Wouldn’t he step in and crush the plan?

Here’s the thing: Asmodeus generally doesn’t mind if his archdukes fight for control of their layers, as long as it doesn’t threaten his supreme authority or destabilize Hell’s hierarchy. In fact, he encourages a bit of rivalry and ambition among his archdevils, as infighting serves his purposes.

And can you imagine THE Asmodeus being worried about an over-ambitious cambion?

However, this leads to the TRUE instigator and the true subject of this ‘dissertation’…

… how Asmodeus is actually the ‘Mastermind’ behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3.

Section 3: Asmodeus doing things, just because

Joke’s on you—it’s been about Asmodeus all along, because even if he’d lose (not that he ever would—he’s just that powerful), he’d claim at the last minute that it was his plan all along. Losing trusted allies? What a bunch of traitors—perfect excuse to clean house. Losing Baator? Finally, he was sick of the job.

All jokes aside, Asmodeus being the cunning bastard he is, would likely pull off everything mentioned above.

To understand why he’d even bother, let’s take a quick (really quick, this is already getting too long) dive into his background and shenanigans in DnD.

Throughout DnD’s development from 1e to 5e, Asmodeus has gone through quite the evolution, eventually becoming a Greater Deity, the Embodiment of Evil, and one of the mightiest beings in existence, rivaled only by Ao.

While 5e keeps things vague to allow player interpretation, Asmodeus has consistently been the most powerful entity in the Hells—a schemer, strategist, and supreme manipulator.

(Here’s the only quote I’ll reference:) “[…] His sinister machinations could take centuries, if not millennia, to come to fruition, and his master plans extended across the entire multiverse. His labyrinthine, insidious intrigues could seem inexplicable to most outside observers, for Asmodeus let even his own servants stew in fear of his next move. With all the planes as his board, the Lord of Lies maneuvered the forces of evil like chess pieces in his grand designs, slowly and subtly manipulating everyone from deities to, when needed, lowly mortals.”

He’s described as being a thousand steps ahead of everyone. And while most of his plans serve greater purposes beyond even godly comprehension, some things he does just because—just for fun.

CONCLUSION

Of course Asmodeus knew Mephistopheles had the crown. Of course he knew Mephistopheles would never use it openly against him. And of course he knew Mephistopheles would keep scheming to use it indirectly, bringing his cambion son Raphael into the game.

Why would Asmodeus let all this happen, and why am I saying he’s the real mastermind?

Like already mentioned, Asmodeus often (indirectly) encourages and manipulates his archdukes to scheme and fight among themselves as a means to reinforce his dominance, foster survival of the fittest, and test loyalty within the infernal hierarchy. However, he maintains strict boundaries, and any conflict that risks his supreme authority, disrupts Hell’s role in the multiverse, or leads to excessive chaos would be swiftly and ruthlessly quashed. In Asmodeus’s mind, such rivalries are a useful tool—as long as they remain safely under his control.

In my view, the Crown of Karsus was never a real threat to him; this whole plot served his entertainment, tested loyalties, or helped him gauge his chess pieces.

And that’s how Asmodeus is the real mastermind behind the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3.

Thanks for reading this mass of nonsense ❤️

Why I even bothered with all this shit? It’s one of the key plot points in my longfic, Ah, You Devil!

[drownedrow]

“Mephistopheles was in something of an irritating situation when it came to worshippers, as despite being second only to Asmodeus, he had one of, if not the, smallest followings out of all the Archdevil’s. Mephistopheles had been so effective in making himself the image of the Lord of Hellfire that he had become generic in the eyes of many mortals, frequently confused with and believed to be the same as Asmodeus. Not only that, but further blurring any sense of identity was his symbol, or rather symbols, since he constantly adopted new icons and forms to represent himself. As someone who adored worship as a god, this mistaken identity was frustrating to no end.”

[bardcambion]

Asmodeus. My tav was his priest before the events of the game.

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 38

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.

*** Guess who thought she could wrap up the Big Fight in one chapter alone. Bonus points if you guess who could not, in fact, wrap up the Big Fight in one chapter alone. (I may or may not have decided whether some attacks hit or not by rolling dice.) The art at the end of this chapter is by @sabbathism! Also, chapter 34 and 35 both have art now, so go back to check it out! ***

It was impossible for any mortal soul who spent time in the Hells not to become tainted by it in some way. When everything around her was drowned in light and every devil who’d been looking on screamed as one - flesh and skin sizzling loud enough to be heard through the cries, through Duke Hutijin’s veritable roar - Dalah, too, thought it would kill her.

It did not burn her, but it was too much, too bright, smothering. It hurt her eyes, made her stumble back against the wall and fall on her knees, covering her face with both hands. She was still reeling when a voice spoke, soft yet unyielding, like velvet-covered iron. 

“You have called upon me. Yet you are not the one I gave my feather to.”

Dalah swallowed and dared pull her hands away, cracking her eyes open. The light had dimmed to something bearable, at least for her. Around them, fiends lay screaming on the ground, or tried to run for cover. Further ahead, Barbas tried to cover himself with his cloak while Hutijin roared in blind fury, an arm still over his eyes. He tried to step forward, lifting his mace, only to be struck by a golden mastodon large enough to take up much of the hallway. 

“I got this!” it cried out, the voice much too shrill for a creature that size. As the pit fiend and many of the guards he commanded were sent tumbling back by the force of the impact, Dalah met the gaze of… well. Not quite a gaze. The celestial above her had a blindfold over her eyes, yet she seemed to be looking right at her.

Dalah swallowed. “It was to help them. I… they have to-- if Mephistopheles found out--”

“Hush. Let me in,” the celestial spoke, except that her lips did not move, and the voice was in her own head. The next moment she felt it - a presence searching in her mind as though shining a light someplace dark, looking through thoughts and memories and images - of the vaults, of all the faces of her son, of the mortals who accompanied him - and of the thought of the fight that had perhaps already begun, all of them against the Lord of the Eighth. 

It was unpleasant, but it only lasted a moment. Then the presence retreated, and the celestial smiled. That alone soothed the discomfort, made her forget her fear. 

“I see and I understand,” that voice spoke straight in her mind once more. “You seek to help them, and thus my sword is yours. Find the incubus, and get as far from here as you can. My friend and I shall keep them away for as long as the summon lasts. Go, mortal.”

There was a cry, something screamed in the guttural snarls of Infernal, and Dalah looked up to see that some of the guards had regrouped, and were now rushing at Zariel and her mastodon, with Duke Hutijin leading the charge. Dalah had just enough time to stand and run through the same door she’d seen Haarlep duck into before they met, and chaos ensued - a vicious battle soon joined by more fiends, many against two. But it was not her battle.

I have to find Haarlep, was all she could think. The hall she was in was mostly empty but for a few fiends who had limped inside to get away from the holy light and were now laying on the floor, some motionless and some still groaning, most of them with blistered skin and eyes white as a cooked fish’s. No trace of anything resembling an ascended fiend, but of course--

A clawed hand landed on her shoulder, causing her to almost cry out. The voice that followed was raspy and unfamiliar - but the words caused the scream to die in her throat, and fear to turn to relief. “Well, looks like we really should make ourselves scarce, don’t you agree?”

Haarlep had taken the form of a cornugon, and they gestured for her to follow them to the nearest window. The blizzard raged outside, as always, and the incubus turned to tear a cloak off the shoulders of a harvester devil who lay on the floor, groaning, asking in a whine what had happened. They draped it over Dalah, pulled the hood over her head. 

“Better wrap up. It is rather cold outside.”

“Outside?” Dalah turned to look at the blizzard, biting her lower lip. She had never been outside Mephistar ever since her servitude had started; she’d heard a few minutes exposed to the ruthless Canian cold would be enough to freeze her solid. Haarlep hummed.

“Only a short flight, I assure you. But it’s best for us to go a few levels down, away from battle. And the safest route is from outside,” they added. In the hallway the mastodon trumpeted, swords clashed, someone screamed. Haarlep was right, of course - the blizzard was the lesser evil, if the Hells did have such a thing as a lesser evil. 

Haarlep threw the window open, and turned to her. She hesitated only a moment before reaching out, letting Haarlep pick her up. A quick check to make sure the cloak was wrapped tight around her and they leaped out of the window without a word of warning, leaving the chaos of the battle behind and causing Dalah to mute a scream against their shoulder while they plummeted down, down, down, towards the glacier below. 

Neither of them noticed one wounded fiend watching them leave from the far end of the room, features twisting in a scowl.

***

“Well, sounds like leaving the feather with Haarlep was an excellent choice. I am half tempted to go downstairs and have a look at the carnage--”

“You’ll do no such thing, spawn. Keep moving.”

“See, this is why Raphael does not like you. Isn’t it right, Raphael?”

“Among other reasons.”

“I’ll try to bear the sorrow. This way - quick!”

In normal circumstances, the powerful devils who dwelled in the upper floors of Mephistopheles’ palace would have seen through their simple invisibility spell easily enough. But with a celestial wreaking havoc a few floors beneath them and most fiends at court either seeking refuge behind closed doors or rushing to join the battle, they went unnoticed all the way up - through corridors and halls, up stairs and finally, to a hall grander than the rest, one more hallway… and that was where the spell dissolved. 

But it did not matter.  They were close, and the way forward was clear.  

“This is where I wish you luck and take my leave,” Adonides spoke, gaining himself a scoff from Raphael which he returned with a glare. “Asmodeus’ orders. But of course I would not be coming in with you either way. I’d be the first you’d sacrifice as cannon fodder.”

“... Hmph. I won’t insult your intelligence or mine by denying it,” Raphael muttered.

Adonides gave him one last, long look. “I wish you luck. I do. For Cania, if nothing else.”

“I’ll do my best not to die. I’d appreciate it if you could find my incubus, and my mother. Ensure that they survive this, too. I wouldn’t forget it.”

‘And I won’t destroy you if I live to be Lord of Cania’, was what that meant, and Adonides understood perfectly. He nodded. “... I’ll see what I can do, little duke,” he replied, and in a whirl of icy wind he was gone, leaving them alone only a couple of halls away from the doors leading to Mephistopheles’ throne room. Raphael breathed in, and turned. 

Normally, those halls would be patrolled by Duke Hutijin; a fearsome opponent indeed. But he was not there, busy battling the former archduke of Avernus, and nothing was left between them and the Lord of the Eighth. “He must be aware of Zariel’s presence,” he said, and resumed walking. “That may have kept him from noticing us thus far, but it won’t last. Follo--”

“Raphael, wait,” Durge called out, and when Raphael turned they were holding out something priceless indeed - a personal gift from Bel himself. He’d faintly wondered what had become of it near the beginning of that rather unlikely quest, when Haarlep had returned the gloves to him, but other events had quickly pushed the thought out of his mind. Truth be told, he’d forgotten all about it until now, with Durge holding it out to him - the Helldusk Armor.

“I entirely forgot I had it,” Durge was saying, as though they were not talking about an armor crafted by the forgemaster of Avernus himself. “I assume the boots are part of it - I found them in Wyrm's Rock. Did Gortash take them with him  when he fled Avernus?”

“That he did,” Raphael replied. He’d raged when he’d found out part of his armor set was missing. It had been two or three decades earlier, no more, yet it felt like centuries now. He reached out to take the armor, only to pause and frown. “Is it cheese I am smelling?”

Durge had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Yes, that is-- some cheese ended up in the-- well. I will make sure to better separate camp supplies from equipment going forward.”

“Count yourself lucky. It took me days to get the smell of fish out of this one,” Astarion muttered, gesturing at the penumbral armor he was wearing. Between that and the Shadow of Menzoberranzan, it seemed he had come to the conclusion that stealth and quick strikes, followed by an even quicker retreat, would be his best strategy. He was not wrong on that.

Nor was Durge wrong in assuming Raphael would want to wear the Helldusk Armor: he was going to need all the help he could get. For that, he supposed he could endure the smell of cheese. So he nodded, took it. A burst of flames and there he stood, clad in his old armor; it felt good, like slipping his hand into an old glove and finding it still fit him no matter how much he’d gone through. Speaking of which…

The gloves Haarlep had given him were in his bag, and he put them on before glancing up. Astarion had stepped closer and was holding out something else - the armor’s own helmet. 

“Found this in your vault alongside the staff,” he said. “And Mol’s contract. And all the gold.”

Raphael snorted. “Of course you did,” he muttered, and took the helmet. He was rather grateful to find that it did not, at least, smell of cheese. He cast a quick spell of invisibility on it, so that his sire could see his face, and put it on. 

“Oooh, looking scary now,” Karlach muttered, leaning on her silvered halberd. Like she wasn’t a fearsome sight herself, clad in bonespike gear. “Ready to go in, soldier?”

No. I am not ready. I don’t think any of us are. But we have no choice, and so in we go.

Raphael looked down at himself, and nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he said in the end. He cast one more spell on himself; he had to choose between foresight and mind blank, and he chose the former. Casting mind blank first would make him impervious to foresight, and it would be good to anticipate his father’s first moves. It was less time than he’d hoped he’d have to prepare, but it would have to do. 

To his right, Wyll Ravengard laughed. “Good enough. Well then, let us go forth and con--”

“Wait,” Halsin called out, and held up something - an armful of potions, elixirs and oils. For speed, for strength, for resistance, accuracy, and more. Where did all that come from? “We’ve been hoarding all these for the right fight. I suspect this is that fight.”

Ravengard let out a hum. “Oh, you never know. We might be asked to take down Asmodeus next,” he said, and Raphael’s laughter was almost sincere as he reached for the bottles.

***

Mephistopheles knew a celestial had manifested at the heart of his citadel as soon as it happened, and had his eyes on it - or rather, on her - within a scarce minute. It was unmistakable, the divine aura about her; particularly to a being who had given out that very same aura himself, once. Even though that had been such a short part of his long existence he still remembered it and oh, how he loathed the memory.

The demons he’d fought at the very beginning of the War had loathed it too, of course; they took a savage joy in each celestial light they were about to snuff out. They had almost snuffed out his own, once, when he’d been too deep into the Abyss as the trumpets sounded, calling for a retreat. He’d been surrounded before he knew it, arrogant young thing that he was, and soon enough he was unarmed, helpless, ready for a last blow that never came. 

There had been light, causing the shrieking chaos or the horde to part, and the beating of wings. He recalled Asmodeus’ hand stretching down towards him and grasping his wrist, he recalled Dispater’s mace crushing every demon who tried to come between them. 

They’d put up a fierce fight, the three of them, as they climbed their way back to the heavens.

Hold fast, brothers, hold fast, the resplendent celestial who’d one day become the King of the Hells had said, almost snarled, savagery twisting his beautiful visage while they fought back entire hordes. I swear on my holy light, I shall never let you die.

Only later had Mephisto learned that, in their mad dash down the chasm and into the Abyss to reach him on time, Asmodeus and Dispater had defied clear orders to retreat and leave stragglers behind. Their first act of defiance, for his sake, and they had borne the punishment for it in silence; Mephisto had borne it with them, insisted on it. 

And it was on that day, perhaps, that something had changed.

The first angels to fall, as they called them on Mount Celestia, but that was one of their many lies. They had not fallen; they had carved their own path, contract in hand and away from their influence, to build their own power. Asmodeus had made his throne; Mephistopheles had made his libraries and laboratories; Dispater had built his iron city, the tower at its heart. More had followed them, joined their ranks; some had indeed fallen due to failings of their own, like Baalzebul did long ago… or Zariel, much more recently.

But she’d risen again, it seemed, and her holy light shone anew - this time much deeper than Avernus, in his own court. Bold of her, he had to give her that. But most of all he had to wonder - what was she doing there?

The scrying eye gave him few answers, if any. Zariel fought viciously, her war mount at her side, against dozens of pit fiends; Duke Hutijin led the charge, crossing his mace with her blade time and time again. Of all of them, he was the one who could put up the fiercest fight - that was no surprise. But what Mephisto truly noticed was something else: Zariel gave her back to the stairs leading higher up the palace, to the spire where he resided and had his throne and grand hall. She was not being held back from reaching the higher levels of his palace: she was keeping everyone else away. A distraction.

And he could think of only one being who might be bold enough to seek a celestial’s assistance in Mephistar of all places; only one being who might even ask for such a favor, having had a hand in turning the archduke of Avernus into a celestial once again. And his ascended half, he could see, was conspicuously missing from the fight raging only a few floors below his grand hall.

Raphael. He is here. Mephistopheles’ lips curled in a smile that held no more warmth than the glacier his citadel was carved into. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the scrying orb he’d been looking at and stood. He closed his eyes, tuned out the hum of the celestial’s presence, and focused on something else - more subdued, but familiar. 

Raphael was many things, few of which he could find in himself to praise. But he was, undeniably, of his blood. And that blood called to him, too, if he listened closely enough. 

Mephistar was more than a citadel, more than a jewel fashioned out of ice; every wall and floor and ceiling was as much an extension of him as the rest of Cania was. His consciousness unfurled, through walls of ice and heated air, listening, seeking… and he did not need to seek far. Raphael was indeed at his door, all of him. How that could be, he did not know. He’d make sure to ask, before he ended him. It’d take him but a moment… if he chose to be merciful, of course. He could draw his death out for much, much longer than that.

Mephistopheles, Lord of No Mercy, smiled as he called out for his son.

***

There was a time when Dalah had not feared heights at all. 

Being raised by the Storm Horns in Cormyr had seen to that since an early age, and things which seemed daunting to most - like crossing a narrow bridge across a gaping crevasse - had never been a problem. 

Not for her and certainly not for her brother, who’d carried her on his shoulders over those bridges long before she could walk. He had been fearless, she recalled, sure-footed as a cat but far more reckless. She recalled him almost dancing across those narrow bridges, or just jumping from one side to the other, curly black hair bouncing as he did. 

The boldness of youth, she recalled her mother saying, laughing. But then a seemingly solid rock had given way beneath Israfel’s foot, and he would never grow any older than he’d been that day. Young, bold, and gone before his time; he’d plummeted down a crevasse so deep it would take three full days to recover his body - a body she had not been allowed to see.

The last image she had of him was that look of utter surprise that barely had the time to turn into terror, an arm stretching out towards her. Dalah had reached out too, for that hand which had brushed away her tears after a bad dream, while he sang to her all the rhymes he knew - but she was too far away. She’d known even then that she was too small to save him, even if she could reach his hand; that she would have just gone over the edge with him. 

Even with that knowledge, she’d dreamed of that grasping hand for a very long time - fingers clawing at nothing before Israfel disappeared down, down into the chasm with hardly a scream. Their mother had not laughed, then, or-- I lost the wrong child -- or even again as far as she could recall. Dalah had never been able to bear heights again. 

Any heights whatsoever - let alone the thousand or so feet between the window they’d jumped out from and the icy ground below. She could not bear to look, and so she did not. She closed her eyes, clung to Haarlep, and just kept her face pressed against their shoulder when finally wings unfurled, and their fall came to a stop. 

They were warm, too; that helped, with the blizzard whipping at them, cutting through any layers of clothing she had on. The descent resumed, but smoother, more controlled; then they landed onto a balcony, and Haarlep put her down before they took on a different form - a tiefling. “Now, Lady Baalphegor did say this would always be open… ah, good. This way.”

They pushed a door open, and slipped back inside the citadel. They were rather low down but still within the upper levels, in the huge pantries below the kitchens that served the court; there were crates of food, and no one else in sight. Dalah took off the cloak, shaking snow and ice off it. “What… what do we do now?”

“My instructions if it ever came to this are to peel potatoes and lay low. I’m not very good at laying low. And you’ll probably have to show how to peel a potato,” Haarlep spoke, but their grin died down when they turned to Dalah. She said nothing, but she did not need to. They were perceptive as always. “... It has to be now, doesn’t it? Now that the game is up.”

“... Yes. Adonides told me to buy him time, and left.” She breathed out, and somehow she felt colder now than she did at any point while in the midst of the blizzard. For a moment she saw it again - her brother’s wide eyes when he realized the ground had given way beneath him, the way his fingers grasped at the air, and then… “Do you think he has a chance?” she choked out, and Haarlep bit their lower lip. They crossed their arms as though they, too, were cold. When they spoke, it was with their gaze fixed on the floor.

“I don’t know that. But I know Raphael. If there is a chance, he’ll seize it. Maybe Mephistopheles won’t see it coming. He thinks him as inoffensive as a mouse next to his might.” They looked up, and finally, they smiled. “This would be a really good moment for my little brat to prove he truly was the fox all along.”

Down came the claw, Dalah thought, and I can only pray it’s his own.

She did not speak as much aloud; she just nodded, and sat back on a crate, trying to fight back the growing sense of dread. She tried to recall the vision she’d seen then, Israfel standing above Mephisto’s broken corpse, and she clung to that with all she had.

***

“If anyone wishes to leave, this is the moment.”

Raphael spoke quietly, hands hovering before the double doors of ice that led to his father’s throne room. His voice was tense and the words more than a touch dramatic, with the long pause and all. The most theatrical part of him - which was to say, all of him - was probably patting itself on the back right then. 

Unfortunately for him, few of them quite shared his taste for theatrics. Durge guffawed.

“Bit bloody late for that, don’t you think?”

“We signed a binding contract, remember?”

“And even without it, we’re in too deep to just leave.”

“Stop trying to sound cool and open the door, soldier. I have an axe to grind on your old man.”

“Don’t you mean, an axe to grind with-- ”

“No. I said what I said.”

Raphael breathed in, and the next breath out was almost a chuckle. “Don’t make me regret ever approaching you more than I already do,” he said, and went to push the doors open. 

He never got a chance.

“Come forth, boy. Face your maker, if you dare.”

The voice reverberated through the doors, through the walls, through their very bones. The massive set of doors swung open an instant before Raphael touched them, beckoning them inside a massive throne room. Ice, all of it, a pit of fire and a pit of swirling souls at either side of an empty throne. And, descending the few steps from that throne to the ground, clad in robes of dark blue and silver, was the Lord of the Eighth.

Durge had seen portrayals of several visages of Mephistopheles. In most of them, there were things which were unchanged - the long straight black eyes, the beard at his chin, the four ram-like horns adorning his head. The visage of the Lord of Hellfire, with crimson skin and dead white eyes, bore a striking resemblance to his son’s… but it was not the one he was wearing that day. 

That day, the visage before them was that of the Cold Lord, with dark blue skin that turned almost black at the base of his horns, and cold eyes of the lightest blue. His features too seemed different in that form of his, more gaunt, sharper. It made Durge think of shards of ice indeed.

But beneath it all, the Lord of Hellfire yet burned; what balance there had been between the collected façade and the raging passions inside had broken, and threatened to break up his entire layer. He looked perfectly at ease, entirely in control. And yet, if he was anything as his son had been…

He makes mistakes when he’s angry.

He did not seem angry now; somewhat annoyed, perhaps vaguely amused. He spared them a passing glance, pausing briefly on Durge - the slightest grimace; surely he knew who they were, of their role in the heist that had started it all - before looking at son. 

Raphael met his gaze, and for a moment he was silent, lips pressed together in a thin line before he spoke one word, clipped and cold. “Father.”

“Raphael,” Mephistopheles greeted him, and chuckled. A gesture of his hand, and the great ice doors slammed shut once more behind them, locking them in with him. 

Good, Durge thought. They could sense their companion’s tenseness as though they all shared the same nerves, hear a faint creak as Karlach’s grip on her weapon tightened, the whisper of an arrow being pulled out of its quiver. 

But none of them moved, not yet, as Mephisto spoke again. Out of a grand window, so tall it almost reached the vaulted ceiling, the blizzard raged. “Such a long journey to return here, in my grasp, to die all the same. A waste of time, and yet you have brought me a gift.” Those pale blue eyes shited on Durge. “The one who started it all, one of the thieves who stole from my vaults. The banite’s life is extinguished, his soul beyond my grasp, but I shall have your blood, child of Bhaal. Do not doubt that. Yours, and that of the vampire spawn who denied me seven thousand souls I was owed.” 

The cold gaze turned to Astarion, and Mephistopheles’ lips pulled open to reveal teeth that looked much too sharp, even for a fiend. Thin and pointed, like those of a fish of the deep. “Your old master is being tormented here for failing to uphold the bargain, did you know that? Perhaps I’ll keep you, too, to torture each other. What a touching reunion that would be.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Astarion, a low growl from Karlach and Halsin both, and Durge’s grip on their staff tightened just as Wyll shifted to stand between Astarion the the archdevil. But it was Raphael to speak, his voice a growl. 

“You’ll do no such thing.”

A laugh, cold as a glacier. “Ah, growing bolder, are we? What do you precisely plan on doing?” A raised eyebrow, no trace of concern, no sign he felt in the least threatened.

And why would he? He was the Lord of the Eighth, at the very seat of his power. He did not know of the scheme which had unfolded around him, with none other than Asmodeus pulling the threads from the shadows. But at the end of the day, if Asmodeus was the great puppet master of the Hells, what did that make his archdevils?

“You have reclaimed your other half, somehow. A notable feat, I must admit,” Mephistopheles was saying. “The wise course of action would have been to then flee, and never return. But you were never wise.”

“And I suppose you’ll claim you’d have allowed me to keep living if I did.”

A chuckle, and Mephistopheles stepped closer, hands folded, not even attempting to cast yet. He was taller than Raphael, even like this, but they had been warned that he could change form - they had seen the size of his maw, in the Orb of Infernal Envisioning - and that in Ascension he was terrible to behold. Durge suspected they would soon find out how many terrible things lurked beneath the pleasant façade of the Lord of Cania.

“You were always too rash, for all the patience you so pride yourself in. If you and the thieves you associate with had waited but perhaps a day, you’d have known I had an offer--”

“Lady Antilia, for my fiend half. I am aware.”

That caused Mephistopheles to fall quiet, those pale blue eyes narrowing. A flash of something crossed his features, but was quickly smothered. He took a step towards them, still composed and regal as they come; Durge swallowed, ready to respond to an attack which did not come, not just yet. 

“... Someone from my council was quick to inform you, I see. I shall get to the bottom of that, don’t you doubt it. But you still have time to return her, and walk out of here alive.”

Raphael did not reply right away. He only looked over at his sire, jaw clenched. “You once told me you sired more bastards than you cared to count. That none of us means a thing to you - the mere happenstance of your spraying seed, as I believe you put it once.” 

Mephistopheles’ eyes narrowed further, two slits of pure malevolence. “Choose your next words carefully,  whelp.”

“What makes her different?” he asked. The choice to refer to her in present tense, as though she still lived, did not escape Durge. It made sense, to try and keep Mephisto from learning the truth just yet. Mephistopheles did not, at least, deny his daughter once more. 

Still, he grew wary. “... How did you extort such information?”

“I did not. She gave it willingly.”

“Mph. She did always have a soft spot for you. Either she did not see just how foolish you are, or found your idiocy endearing. Where is she?”

Raphael clenched his jaw, saying nothing as his gaze flickered away. Something flashed over Mephistopheles’ gaze, there one moment and gone the next, so quickly that Durge could not name it. It was as though he’d teetered on the brink of comprehension for an instant, and then wilfully turned away. 

Instead, he sneered. “So be it. Since you insist on being whole, I’ll ensure I destroy all of you this time. I'll give you one more chance to listen to the sound of your own voice, as you so love it.” One more chance to tell him where his sister was, and perhaps he’d make it quick. “Do you have any last words?”

Raphael did not reply right away; he looked up, met his sire’s gaze, and he seemed to steel himself before he spoke. When he did, his voice was quiet, somber. Not mockery, not a challenge; only a message relayed, a promise fulfilled.

“... She wanted me to tell you that she was loyal.”

Durge remembered, quite vividly, how something had shifted in the House of Hope in the few instants before Raphael arrived to catch them in the act. They recalled the sensation of time slowing, the air itself becoming thicker, almost pushing back while they tried to move through it as though the House itself strove to keep them there - an extension of its master.

Now it was the same, yet much different. Now it was as though time stopped entirely; even the wind outside had stopped howling, as though all of existence itself-- every layer is an extension of its ruler -- was holding its breath in the deafening silence that followed.

It was a mere instant. It was eternity. It was the blink of an eye suspended in time, until finally Mephistopheles’ features twisted, almost blurred-- something else beneath the surface, ancient and terrible and hungering -- and at last, the Lord of the Eighth screamed .

At least, what was the only way one could describe it. It was a scream but also something else entirely, something which was not heard as much as it was felt. It reverberated into the walls and the ceiling, through the entire citadel, across all of Cania, wordless, overpowering. 

The ground shook, the winds screamed again; outside the grand window glaciers collapsed and columns of hellfire shot up to the skies as the entire eighth layer of the Hells seemed to seize up in fury, in agony, in utter and complete outrage. 

It was awe-inducing, and terrifying beyond what a mortal mind was meant to withstand. There was a wave of pure dread that could have broken them, left them paralyzed on the spot. But there was something to counter it, a faint hum in their very bones, and the dread passed them by without taking root. 

From this moment on, no matter what horrors you may face - you shall never be frightened, Zariel had said after giving her boon, and she’d spoken true. Durge had thought it would be useful, then; now, they realized it could very well have just saved their lives.

Before them, Mephistopheles had lifted his arms with another cry of fury that made the entire palace groan around them. Something materialized in his hand, a three-pronged ranseur; the air around him seemed to shimmer, and it was the only warning they got. But it was enough. 

Raphael moved fast, bringing up his hands, drawing something up from the ice floor - a fine mist that solidified in the blink of an eye into two walls of ice on either side of him. Asmodeus may have given them some resistance to hellfire, but none of them was eager to test how effective that would be against the brunt of an attack from the master of hellfire himself.

“Go,” Raphael hissed just as Mephistopheles brought his ranseur down with a cry and a streak of scorching hellfire burst forward, right at them. 

“You were supposed to say duck!” Durge heard Wyll protesting as they-- well, ducked behind the walls of ice Raphael had just created. 

It was not just ordinary ice, of course; hellfire would have burned through that in the blink of an eye, and got to them next. But Raphael’s command of the Plume was a thing of beauty, despite how little time he had to master it, and the walls held against even the scorching heat of hellfire. Most of the flames broke against it, while some spilled above, burning brightly above their heads for a few instants. Beside Durge, Astarion nocked an arrow.

“Well, that was an explosive start for sure,” he muttered, and turned to grin at them. “May I get a kiss for luck before the dance starts?”

He could, and did. Durge pressed their forehead against his for a moment more, too, before pulling back. “I’ll see you on the other side, won’t I?” they asked, and Astarion laughed.

“My dear, we’re in the Hells. Let this be testament of the fact there is nowhere you can go where I won’t follow,” he replied, and darted away from behind the wall, seeking a vantage point to strike. 

Durge gripped the staff more tightly, turned to glance at the others - they looked back, Karlach and Wyll and Halsin, the same grim determination on their faces - and at last they stood up to fight, staff raised to call down the first strike of lighting.

***

While his companions dove for cover - or ducked, as Ravengard so insisted - Raphael stood his ground, not far from the very spot where Mephistopheles had tried to destroy him with hellfire for the first time. He’d underestimated him, then; Raphael had to hope he’d underestimated him now too. 

Unlike his ability to control it, immunity to hellfire was something he’d built up. He’d gone from being able to just about survive it to withstand it with limited damage - and then without taking any, first in his ascended form and then in his every other form as well. He’d been determined to never again be left at the brink of death by something that was his to control; he’d sworn to himself that should Mephisto ever try to pour hellfire down his throat again, he’d be able to spit it back in his face and laugh. 

Now he did not, however, feel like laughing. 

Hellfire surrounded him, licked at his flesh and armor, powerless to harm him despite the devastating heat. Amidst the white flames he saw his father, ranseur still raised, features twisted in a snarl as he looked upon him with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. 

I could have been loyal too, once. I’d have served you with all I had for just a second look from you. Did you know that? Did it ever matter?

He met his sire’s gaze and held it; for a few long, endless moments, there were only the two of them staring at one another amidst roaring white flames.

“Perhaps you’d wish to sit on my throne,” he’d said that day so long ago, a hand at his throat. “Is that what you covet, you ungrateful wretch?”

He hadn’t, not then. After that, he’d set his sights higher, and he was brought low. He’d clawed his way back into the Hells, into that room, before that very same throne. Now he’d either sit upon it, or perish before it… and he had absolutely no intention to perish. 

The ground between them turned into a field of hellfire, Mephistopheles snarled, any and all composure gone. The rising heat caused his long hair to flutter like an ominous cape behind him, nearly indistinguishable from the dark flames emanating from his body.

“I will destroy the very memory of you, whelp,” he thundered in Infernal, and Raphael felt himself smile. It did not reach his eyes. 

“Call me archduke,” he snarled, and lifted his arms. There was no verbal component to cast any Plume spells, just as there was no verbal component needed to unleash hellfire. 

All that Mephistopheles could see was steam from melted ice on the ground rising up in a fine mist around the still burning hellfire, and suddenly turning to ice, encasing it. It made the fury turn to surprise for just a moment, the archmage of the Hells unable to tell by what magic had Raphael trapped his flames into ice which would not melt. But it was brief; the next moment he sneered, and knew. 

“The gelugons. This is their doing, is it not? Nebulat will know my wrath once I am done wit--”

The crack of thunder drowned out his sire’s next words, and lightning struck true as Durge always did. Mephistopheles did not scream, but the blow was felt; he ground his teeth as electricity coursed through him, and he seized for a moment before his form came apart in a burst of flames, turning into a cloud of ash and disappearing from sight. 

Casting foresight on himself before stepping in had been a good choice, truly, because Raphael knew precisely what he’d try to do, and he could counter it. He teleported out of reach in a burst of flames - ah, he did miss those boots - just one instant before the cloud of ash appeared where he’d stood, and his sire’s form came back together. 

The thrust of his ranseur met only the ground where Raphael had been; Mephistopheles bared his teeth in a snarl, and turned to seek him out, as though having entirely forgotten his companions were even there. His eyes found Raphael, and seemed to burn. 

“You cannot escape me, whelp! Do you truly--”

“Shut up and fight!”

Karlach’s throwing axe whistled through the air, but did not meet its target; with a scoff and a single, fluid movement, he struck it in mid-air with the ranseur before it could touch him. He did not, whoever, see the arrow that Astarion let loose next. 

It hit him behind a shoulder, but what tore a grunt from him wasn’t the arrow itself: it was the guiding bolt that had come with it, courtesy of a bow that had something markedly celestial about it. That was exactly what Raphael had hoped would happen. Mephistopheles could heal himself quite easily by devouring souls, much like Raphael himself, but he lost that ability at least for a time if he took that kind of damage. It was a weak spot Raphael had made sure to rid himself of - any and all radiant attacks against him would in turn stun his enemies.

But it seemed that the archmage of the Hells had taken no such precaution. And that was how it always went, was it not? When one’s power seemed overwhelming and eternal, that was when they’d grow careless; hubris may look like well-earned confidence in the powerful, but hubris it remained. That was how the child-who-would-become-a-god doomed his empire, how the Cold Lord brought his kingdom to the brink, how the fox could fall to mice

“It's what we're meant to endure, this hunger for more,” Mephistopheles had told him once. “All your siblings were and are the same, all those yet to be born will be the same. And all of you will meet your end for it, one way or another. Overextending yourselves. Overreaching.”

He had been right about Raphael - about most of his offspring - but he’d also been blind enough to believe himself exempted from the warning. The apples had not fallen far from the tree, and nothing thrived in its shade. No new seed would take; the apples would rot and nourish the very roots of the tree which had borne them.But those roots, too, were diseased . 

There was a cry, and Ravengard cast a cone of cold; he did not have the command if the Plume Raphael did - none of them could - but it was fiendish ice nonetheless, and it did cause injury as well as another grunt of pain. That, at last, caused the Lord of the Eighth to turn his attention on the mortals, too. He sneered, and lifted a hand as Halsin tried to attack. 

The counterspell snuffed out whatever spell Halsin had tried to cast, and caused the druid to stagger backwards, slipping on the ice. The Lord of the Eighth laughed, low in his throat. Even so his fury was a palpable thing, so thick one could almost choke on it if they stood too close. Lord Mephistopheles turned to seek out his son with that terrible gaze of his; he found him, and smiled. Somehow, it seemed the most horrible sight the Hells had to offer. 

Raphael knew precisely what he was about to do. He’d have known even without the aid of the foresight spell: he’d expected that move - but it had expected it later, rather than so soon. 

Mind blank, I must cast--

It took him a blink of an eye for that thought to form, and it was already too late.

Mephistopheles was not the archmage of the Hells for nothing; a single gesture, and the spell was cast. “You have brought insects to my palace, whelp. Do something about it, won’t you?” he ordered. Raphael felt the enchantment take hold, an unyielding grip on his mind, the fog beginning to fill his vision. He fought its hold and he almost broke out of it - but only almost. 

The geas spell took hold, the fog fell, and Raphael knew no more.

***

Duke Hutijin had absolutely no idea what in all the layers of Baator had just happened.

He knew a few things, he supposed. He had seen plainly the human soul block their path - mortals, how he hated them - and lift up the shimmering feather before calling Zariel’s name. 

Once that accursed holy light had abated enough for him to look, teeth ground and ignoring the burns and blisters on his skin, it had been easy enough to put two and two together: the mortal, whoever it was, had the audacity to summon a celestial there, at the heart of the Eighth. And not just any celestial - the one who’d until recently been Lord of the First. 

Hutijin had known little of Zariel, either as fiend or celestial; his business rarely took him to the First. His priority, always, was protecting the Lord of the Eighth. Always and especially now, with an attack within the palace.

I shouldn’t be here. What use is a shield when so far from its lord? Why did I let him send me to guard the vaults? And where in the Hells has that creature gone now?

So many questions, so few answers - and no time to try and find any. The fight raged on, turning the grand hallway into a battlefield, with Hutijin leading the charge - his mace clashing against the longsword, the force of each blow making the opponents grind their teeth as they tried to push one another back without success, raw strength evenly matched.

No other among the guards or the other pit fiends he commanded could hope to match the solar’s sheer power; most they could do was try to give him support before being beaten back with a flare of holy light, a slash of that glowing sword. One such slash grazed at his arm, but it gave him the opening he needed to swing his mace and finally, he truly struck. Zariel let out a pained groan, ichor falling on the floor and freezing in place. 

“Zariel!” the mastodon cried out, loathsome creature that it was, and to his chagrin she answered with no sign of pain in her voice. 

“It’s nothing to be concerned about. Hold them back. Leave this one to me.”

And damn it, the golden creature did hold them back: a single blast of that trumpet kept throwing off their feet, sometimes knocking them several paces back before they could strike. Guards fell, but more rushed to take their place. The battle was starting to look as though it would stretch for a while - perhaps until the time for the summon was up - and it did not escape Hutijin that the Lord of the Eighth was not there. 

Surely he’d know a celestial was there by now; surely he’d have intervened by now, if not to fight to summon more forces. Unless--

The swing of Hutijin’s mace met only air when, suddenly, the palace shook, knocking him back a few paces. All of Mephistar, all of Nargus, all of Cania seemed to groan, to seize, to scream alongside its ruler. It made even the loathsome celestial creatures pause, in a moment of unreal stillness and silence. For a moment, even breathing was a struggle. 

Something was wrong, and he had to get to Lord Mephistopheles now. Had it been Zariel alone, himself and the pit fiends he commanded may have been enough to at least hold her back so that they could reach the stairs leading up to the palace’s spire. But she was very much not alone, with the damned mastodon laying waste on his forces, while it took all of Hutijin’s strength to counter Zariel’s strikes.

Enough. I have a duty. The guards can deal with her and get butchered for all they matter.

The stairs were right there, behind the celestial, and Hutijin did not bother to counter her next blow: he only dodged it and, in a moment of intense focus, teleported - past her, at the foot of the stairs. He had only enough time to laugh, and attempt one step.

The triumph was short-lived. The accursed celestial too could teleport, and she did. Another burst of loathsome holy light caused him to snarl and step back, closing his eyes; an upward slash of her sword and he was falling back, hitting the floor with a hoarse cry. 

He was wounded, losing blood from a gash across his chest. But he still held his mace, and he could still fight. “Out of my way,” he snarled, standing. 

The celestial looked at him, or so it seemed, despite the blindfold on her eyes. “No.”

“You’ll let me pass, or die. ”

“You know loyalty better than most of your brethren. I can respect that.  Regardless, you shall not pass for as long as I draw breath. I too made an oath.”

A sneer. “Or for as long as your summon lasts. You can’t stay here for long, can you? You’re not of Baator any longer. Sooner or later, you’ll be forced to leave.”

A quirk of her lips, and she lifted the longsword; behind them, there were cries and a sound of shattering bones when the mastodon charged again, crushing all in her path. Hutijin did not turn to look: all he saw was the celestial between him and his lord. 

He roared, and swung his mace; she caught it with her blade, speaking calmly even as she strained against him, over the screams and sounds of the raging battle. “That being the case,” she replied, “I’ll make sure as few of you as possible live to go up these stairs.”

***

It was the steps on the stairs that alerted them that someone was coming into the pantry. 

Dalah knew it was a devil the instant she heard them. That was not the sound of shoes or boots, but the far more distinctive one of cloven hooves - so it was neither Adonides nor Baalphegor. It was enough to make her wince, and turn to Haarlep. They, on the other hand, were already gesturing for her to hide, and moving to another spot behind a pile of crates. 

Hide. As though that ever helps, Dalah thought, but it was the only possible course of action, and so she did. Maybe it was nothing to worry about; maybe it was one of the supervisors, doing routine checks of the pantry - consequences were always severe, should food run out when one of the Dukes planned a lavish banquet. But even that was a frail hope: who would be bothering with pantry checks with a celestial in the palace? 

And it was indeed no pantry check. A few words, spoken by a voice she knew and hated, were enough to shatter that hope. “I know what you did,” Chamberlain Barbas snarled, his oily voice rougher than before; there was that charred scent that came off fiendish flesh scalded by holy light. “I know you’re here. I can smell that accursed celestial all over you! ”

The last words were a roar, and a bolt of fire hit the crates she was hidden behind. It threw her back with a cry, and she hit the ground heavily. She had barely enough time to look up, to see the snarl on his burnt face, when a voice rang out - all surprise and outrage. 

“Barbas, enough! What do you think you’re doing?”

It caused the chamberlain to stop in his tracks and turn, blinking. He was holding a wounded arm to his chest; it still smoldered faintly. 

“... Justiciar Bele? What are you doing here?” he asked. There was surprise in his voice, but also suspicion. It was no wonder: Haarlep looked the part perfectly, but they were not dressed for it. Soon enough, suspicion would win out… and if it came to a fight, they would stand no chance. Not against a Duke, however wounded.

Dalah did not stand, not yet. She turned and reached out, across the floor, as Haarlep said something she did not catch through Bele’s lips.

Her hand closed around a paring knife.

***

“Impero ti--”

“Don’t!”

Karlach’s hand grasped Wyll’s wrist, and the spell he’d been about to utter to trap the now possessed Raphal in a magical hold fizzled out. 

He turned, taken aback, to see Karlach shake her head. “Don’t bother wasting it. Do something about the hellfire with the magic ice thing, or strike the motherfucker over there.”

Wyll blinked. “He’s under his control, if he’s not stopped we’ll be facing two--"

“Not for long. You didn’t come to the House of Hope, but we fought him - really fought him - and I promise this won’t last. That’s why the others didn’t try to hit or trap him.”

That was true: Karlach had helped Halsin on his feet instead, while both Durge and Astarion had struck out at Mephistopheles. The archdevil has been able to cast the arrow off course with a gesture of the hand; Durge’s blight spell found its target, however, and tore a grunt out of Mephisto. Even still, he had not seemed particularly concerned. 

“Persistent insects at that,” he’d muttered, and lifted a hand. “End them, Raphael.”

The ravaging inferno created by Raphael’s previous attack burned all around them. Wyll and Karlach had narrowly avoided the brunt of it by ducking back behind the wall of hellish ice - Halsin had sought refuge there, too - and it had left them effectively stranded, unless they were ready to take some damage. 

As Rapael turned to Durge - pliant and empty-eyed, a living doing rather than a living being - Wyll knew he had to do something… but Karlach had grasped his wrist before he could. 

“Just trust me ,” she whispered. “Get rid of the hellfire.”

And so he’d trusted her, of course - he always did, with his life - and had called upon the plume to cast an ice storm on the still burning surface around them. It did not come easy to him, but it was enough to encase the flames in ice… and it allowed Halsin to step forward. 

This time, the archmage of the Hells was not able to counter his spell; the sunbeam shot forward, striking the Lord of the Eighth, and the pained noise was unmistakable, even as it turned into a cry of fury at the end. Mephisto once again disappeared in a cloud of ashes, only to reappear a further distance away - right behind Halsin, the ranseur lifted to strike. 

“Enou--!” 

Something shot through the air before he could strike; something that looked like an ice dagger, but which seemed so much colder even at a distance. It struck true, at the center of Mephisto’s chest; the scream that followed made clear it was not, in fact, just ice.

Well. That was fast.

Wyll turned to see Raphael standing a few paces away, once again in full control of himself. His teeth were bared. “You forget, father,” he sneered, “how disinclined I am to follow orders.”

For a moment, the Lord of Cania only stared, stunned, as though he was only now seeing his son for the first time; his chest was covered in ice which his own heat struggled to melt,  Then the surprise was gone, and his features twisted.

“Impudent whelp,” he thundered, lifted a hand… and suddenly, something ground to a halt. Wyll could feel it, the way a fisherman feels the sharp tug of the hooked fish that just ran out of line. He heard it again, the faint humming of the stone Astarion had picked up in Nebulat - a little less faint now that it had been activated.

The first of Asmodeus’ boons had been of help already, it seemed. There would be no summoning any underlings that day… and going by the rage on Mephistopheles’ face, he had just realized as much. 

“You’ll regret this,” he seethed, “but not for long. ”

A single hand was held out, and the souls rising and falling from the pit by his throne were pulled towards it, into Mephisto’s nostrils, lightning him up from the inside before his very features seemed to blur and… and…

“Get away from there.” 

Raphael’s voice was the crack of a whip, the kind of order you just know you must heed - and a dimension door saw to that for Wyll and Karlach, with Raphael grabbing Halsin to fly him to the far end of the room, where Durge and Astarion already stood.

They regrouped, and not a moment too soon. Before their eyes, the rest of the throne room seemed to explode in hellfire. Even from a distance, they felt the heat and might have taken some damage, too, if not for the limited resistance Asmodeus had granted them.

Shielding his eyes with an arm, Astarion yelled. “Isn’t that something of an overkill?”

“I am fairly certain overkill is precisely what’s on his mi--” Durge began, and never got to finish that sentence. Even if they did, no one would have heard them through the roar which shook, once again, the entire palace. 

Wreathed in hellfire was a towering creature of bone and flames, looking at them through three pairs of white, dead eyes. Two sets of jaws snapped; Wyll found himself staring at the gleaming fangs, at the  clawed hands meant for nothing but tearing, rendering, destroying. For a moment, Zariel’s boon was almost not enough to keep terror at bay in the face - faces - of an ascended Mephistopheles.

Beside him, Raphael breathed out. “Down came the claw,” he whispered, and stepped forward into the hellfire.

[Back to Chapter 37]

[On to Chapter 39]

[Back to Start]

[honeyandmahogany]

Mephistopheles cock

I completely agree with this statement, that's exactly what I need right now.

Forgotten Realms wiki has me in an absolute chokehold, I had no clue I had a thing for hot archdevil's until reading more about them.

Asmodeus as a highly honorable mention, my two beloved boys! ❤️‍🔥

[lawful-evil-novelist]

10/10 to the FR wiki for suggesting that the second he was not constantly watching her, asmodeus' daughter remarried the ex he told her to stay away from.

[yeehawpim]

Thinking about gods since watching Critical Role: Downfall

[junorsky]

Commission for @talenthiel!

[gravitycosplays-solarflareart]

“Orym, I pai-“

After drawing The Kiss, I absolutely had to draw Braius. I love Sam’s peak comedy and timing 😂

Update: prints are now available and part of the sale on my website

[oolong---latte]

mephistopheles and asmodeus.

[shellem15]

The Case of Baalphegor

So, in DnD lore, there's this one character who gives me a lot of brainrot: Baalphegor, the she-devil consort to the Archdevil Mephistopheles. (For my bg3 girlies, this would be Raphael's stepmother!) As you can imagine, she isn't really talked about much, but what we do know about her is super cool!

(Note: Though I don't subscribe to their theories, @inaconstantstateofchange has a pretty good compilation of some of the lore and sources I'm using here.)

Baalphegor is an archdevil who's been around since the beginning of Hell (Baator), described as a skilled diplomat, tactician, and unmatched sorceress, as well as an inventor who's created a ton of artifacts and techniques used in the Hells. She's well-respected, and has many allies among Hell's upper echelon (Pit Fiends in particular).

So already, she's got a lot going for her (we love evil women in STEM). But here's where things get interesting:

Baalphegor is, apparently, extremely respected and valued by Asmodeus himself. So much so that he lets her live with Mephisto, and is one of the major reasons why Asmo tolerates him and his constant scheming. Now this is crazy, considering Asmo and his Big Fuckin Massive Ego™ and general lack of respect for anyone he considers "lesser", which is everyone.

Baalphegor toes the line between the two archdevils, keeping her goals "to herself" and being minimally loyal to Mephisto, while also maybe vying for a spot at being Asmo's new consort (or at least getting closer to him). Mephisto tolerates this because of the protection she gives him, but I imagine that he's not too happy about it. (Also she's gone missing? Which isn't really relevant to this post but is still something to note).

All of these details combined suggests to me that she has way more sway over how things are run in Cania (the 8th Hell) than we're told, perhaps even more so than Mephisto! The devil behind the throne, whispering into her arrogant consort's ear. I think this is neat, and makes Mephisto even more of a girlfailure, which is funny as hell (pun intended).

Small sidenote: in the lore of Hell, there's these guys called the Ancient Baatorians, the original rulers/inhabitants of Baator (Hell). These guys were pretty much all murked by Asmo and his devils when they conquered Hell, but some remnants of them survived: In the Dogai (assassin devils), who were transformed into devils; in the nupperibos, which are their larval stage; in more grown ancient baatorians called life stealers (an invisible monster which eats light and your life-force). These more mature forms are only really found in the cave systems beneath Malbolge and Maladomini (the 6th and 7th hells), places which even devils don't enter. There are also some of these guys trapped in the ice of Cania, as well. (Lore about them is compiled in Power Score RPG's Blog here.)

Why did I bring up the Ancient Baatorians, you may be asking? Well, some people on the internet really think that Baalphegor is an Ancient Baatorian. The original ruler of Cania, even. Now, I've looked and there seems to be no lore basis for this at all, but its fucking awesome so I've decided to include it here.

Additional Sidenote: So Asmodeus (and the Hells, by extension) has a lot of origins stories, all of which are iffy at best. One of the origin stories is that he's secretly a giant evil snake called Ahriman who, along with his goodly snake-sibling Jazirian, created the universe and the planes out of the primordial soup with the power of Law™. They disagreed on where to center the universe, and in the resulting conflict Ahriman fell into the Hells where his body now lays wounded at the bottom of Nessus. Ahriman eventually disguised himself and now rules the Hells  as Asmodeus, biding his time and eating the souls of atheists to heal his wounds and eventually rule the cosmos.

Now I don't particularly like this origin story (I find it just makes Asmo less interesting), but the idea of a big giant snake being the original ruler of Hell is sick, so I propose we take a page out of Pathfinder's book and give it to someone who's not Asmodeus. Who, you may asking? Baalphegor, of course!

…

The frozen peaks of Cania hold many dangers, but none so insidious as its dark mistress, the Lady Baalphegor. Consort to the Archduke Mephistopheles, Baalphegor takes a backseat role in the rulership of Cania, but is by no means unimportant—she is, perhaps, the smartest devil in all the Hells; A trait which has seen her rise to a position of great power.

Baalphegor holds immense sway and influence in the Nine Hells. Preferring diplomacy over brute force, her power is subtler than her consort's explosive dramatics—but has far greater reach and longer-lasting impact. That is not to say she is physically weak—she is an unmatched sorceress in the Hells and beyond—but that she'd rather make a friend than an enemy. A rare trait in the Hells, indeed.

Much like her husband, Baalphegor is an inventor, one who has created many of the profane artifacts and diabolical techniques used throughout the Hells. Her knowledge is as vast as Cania's great glaciers, collected over many eons with perfectly preserved clarity. Her spellcraft is precise and calculated, in contrast with Mephistopheles' volatile magics. In addition to her role as the Lady of Mephistar—Mephistopheles' great citadel—Baalphegor oversees the operations of the various libraries and laboratories in the frozen citadel. It is said that she can recite, by word, all the texts and tombs found within Mephistar's halls.

These traits have earned Baalphegor a position of great esteem in the Hells, so much so that she is respected by even the Archduke of Nessus, Asmodeus himself. The Lord of Lies counts her as a great friend and ally, often seeking her advice and counsel in matters requiring a more delicate hand. Rumors persist that Baalphegor's influence is one of the major reasons why the Lord of the Hells has not deposed her unruly consort.

In any case, an understanding exists between the two that Mephistopheles is not privy to, a fact which ignites much jealousy and insecurity within the Cold Lord. Despite the tensions between them, Baalphegor manages to walk the fine line between the two Archdukes, appearing loyal to both her consort and her King without making a distinction between the two.

Baalphegor's talents and connections have made her an invaluable asset to her consort, but also a grave threat. If she so chose to, she could quite easily overthrow the Lord of Hellfire. Luckily for Mephistopheles, however, Baalphegor has no current desire for usurpation, content with being the power behind Cania's icy throne.

While all in the Hells know Baalphegor to be an old and powerful devil, few are aware of the true extent of that fact. The entity known as Baalphegor is an ancient being—older than the Hells, older than Asmodeus, older than the Outer Planes itself. A serpent as vast as a galaxy, devoid of any light save for the stars in its belly. A devourer of suns and stars, one who feeds off of light and life and hope itself.

Somehow, this great serpent found itself trapped in the depths of Cania, long before any devil stepped foot in the realm. It found kin amongst those strange and incomprehensible Ancient Baatorians, the original rulers of Baator. This state lasted for countless eons, until the arrival of the Heavens' greatest angel, a young Asmodeus.

Before his fall, the Lord of the Hells discovered the plane of Baator on one of his many expeditions to the Abyss. Intrigued, he ventured deep into the bowels of this dark realm, until he found the great serpent in its nest. Instead of devouring him, the serpent hosted the Son of Light, sharing with him secret knowledge and long-forgotten truths of the cosmos. Asmodeus left the serpent's nest with his life, and, more importantly, a newfound friend.

When Asmodeus returned to Baator with his infernal host, he entreated the serpent for its aid in his conquest over the plane. The serpent agreed, on condition that the favor be repaid at the time and place of its choosing. This is the only debt that the Lord of Nessus still yet owes.

The serpent donned the guise of Baalphegor, and served as Asmodeus' advisor in his war against her former kin. With her knowledge, the Lord of the Hells vanquished his foes and seated himself upon the throne of Nessus. He rewarded her with a position of power in Cania, but cleverly did not grant her the title of Archduke, instead bestowing it to the obstinate yet controllable Mephistopheles. Baalphegor was made consort to the Lord of Cania, a station she holds to this day.

The truth of Baalphegor is only known to herself and Asmodeus, a secret well-kept and well-hidden. Only the lady herself can say what her true goals are, but for now she bides her time, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

[fluorescentbalaclava]

Last thing you see before you fail the dexterity saving throw ✨

My girlie Elysen, gif made by me 💖

[sharess-festhall]

I wanna fuck Raphael's Dad Mephistopheles... Maybe even in front of Raphael..........

Also, Asmodeus.... Maybe both Asmodeus and Mephistopheles at once.

[asha-mage]

DnD Character Concept: A Cleric who insists stubbornly and earnestly that their obviously evil patron deity (I'm thinking Lolth or Asmodeus but really any Evil Greater God would do) is actually Good and Benevolent and Just and dismisses all evidence to the contrary as slander from rival deities. Their proof to their claim? Using their divinely granted powers for the most intensely Good tasks and quests they can find: feeding the hungry, protecting the weak, curing the sick- all done in the name of their Terrible Dread Lord and without any expectation of compensation or string attached.

The deity in question is all "???" but keeps granting the cleric power because all that free worship and influence from the people who now pray to them is nice, and hey if the cleric wants to put in the leg work to launder the deity's reputation what reason do they have to say no?

Only it turns out that the cleric is actually playing 4D chess because of the way faith works in Faerun (and most DnD settings). As more and more worshipers start believing The Terrible Dread Lord is actually a Good and Kind and Noble god they start to be influenced by that to become Good and Kind and Noble. Slowly but surely they find themselves warping to match the perception of the masses. It starts by just giving a few random blessings out of what they think is pity, or maybe sending a sign to help someone who is lost on what the deity insists is a whim....but it snowballs until you have Lolth smiting down slavers or Asmodeus sending out devil's to drag down a tyrant to the depths of hell and then they realize 'oh oh no' but by then it's to late: the religious reform movement within their flock is too massive and been ignored for too long as benign. They can't just turn around and smite their own followers- not only because it's tacky but because they feel... compassion and responsibility for those that look to them for guidece.

And then you have the cleric, who at level twenty is literally their most powerful agent and also the high priest of this out of control heresy smugly sipping their tea because, because they where right all along. Their faith in their deity is vindicated- after all what is faith if not believing in something so strongly, against all evidence, that it becomes truth onto itself?

[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.

Art in the chapter is by @sabbathism! ***

“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.”

***

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