#but the portrait IS supposed to be raphael

[red-dead-sakharine]

20 INT Tav: *Ignores him and grabs something to eat*

Raphael: "Not easily rattled I see. Good. Makes this next part, that much more straightforward." *reveals himself*

20 INT Tav: *No reaction*

Raphael: "I'll admit, I expected you to look at least a little bit surprised."

20 INT Tav: "You were standing right in front of a portrait of yourself as a devil. That wasn't exactly hard to figure out..."

Raphael: "...you're no fun."

[bitethedevil]

I’ve been recently contemplating the idea that no representation of Raphael in the HoH actually looks like him. From Haarlep to the paintings and statues. Aside from the Ascended Fiend face in the archive, every depiction is off. (Of course I know it isn’t that deep. A lot of it was EA stuff, but I like to have fun.)

Do you have any thoughts on this? Why would our favorite cambion fill the home with less than accurate portrayals on himself.

Depictions of Raphael in the House of Hope

In that universe, I 100% think it’s Raphael being Raphael. The two portraits I remember are the one at the fireplace where he is holding a staff and the other one being the one in his armor.

I think it’s like those old paintings of nobles irl. They are not really accurate depictions of the person, but rather a reflection of the beauty standards at the time and society.

The “beauty standard” in the Hells would be to look as scary and as unemotional as possible, I’d imagine. I think the scary part is most seen in portrait one and the unemotional part in portrait two.

In portrait one, he looks powerful and scary. His anatomy is sharper and thinner to make him look even spookier, and his expression is stoic. He also looks like he is mid-battle or conquering something which fits in perfectly with the standard of the Hells. Everyone is expected to participate and contribute to the Blood War. That painting is Raphael going “look how good I am at deviling and how fierce I look despite being a bard”.

The second portrait is much the same. In this one he looks physically stronger than in the first one and the bard part that we see in portrait one (signified by the staff and clothing) is left out. He is in full armor and has a flame from his hand. This portrait, I believe is an homage to daddy. The fire from his hand symbolizing the hellfire from Mephistopheles and he noticeably has the same pale eyes that Meph is described to have. This one is him pointing out that he is also physically strong and related to one of the most powerful devils of the Hells. It wouldn’t surprise me if the other things in this painting that don’t look like him are things that make him look more like daddy dearest.

Now the statues are interesting too. People say that they are supposed to look like Mephistopheles. I’m not sure. Some of them look like Raphael himself like this one:

The others just look like devils to me. I honestly think it’s so simple that it’s Raphael again going “look I’m deviling. I like devils. I’m not a mortal”. I also believe he 100% sees himself like this. I definitely also think there is some self-hatred or dislike that he is making up for with all of this.

He’s such a silly little dude. It’s all just him wanting everyone to see how scary and devilish he is.

(Thank you for the ask <3 Super interesting question)

[unreadpoppy]

Theater Director!Raphael headcanons

A/N: So fun fact about me, I'm a theater student, and I particularly love history of theater, so I decided to put that knowledge to good use. This is past HCs, part history lesson.

…

- Theater director! Raphael is a symbolist who tries to pass of as a realist.

In the naturalist/realist movement, the idea was that a play had to be a photocopy of reality. The objects on scene represented only being objects, the lighting was supposed to imitate real light, things like that. The symbolists, as the name indicates, are going to be more subjective. They’ll use the light to indicate feelings, objects on scene can represent elements of the story.

And I think Raphael would do that, he would put a lot of hidden meaning on his staging, but he would try to say that it was all real. We already know he puts portraits that make himself look better in his home, and if his plays were autobiographical, he’d do the same, but if asked, that was exactly how it happened.

- Theater director! Raphael would be textcentric. I could see him being the type of director to write his on plays, so what he puts on the page is exactly what he wants to happen.

- which also means, no. Freaking. Improv.

- his actors need to learn their lines exactly as they are. They need to follow the directions exactly as he tells them, or else, he’s cutting them off.

- Also, I think Raphael would follow Grotowski’s methods of exhaustion to train his actors.

Grotowski will say that we all have vices on our bodies that we acquire on our day to day lives (the way we walk, talk, sit, etc.) To break that, he will physically exhaust his actors with intensive exercises and warm ups that take very long, so that when they are completely spent, they’ll finally be ready to create that character, as they’ll be empty.

-I can see Raphael doing that, and especially drive forward that idea of molding the actor to become that character.

- I also see him having some of Craig’s ideas that the actor needs to completely let go of themselves and their ego, and just be the character.

- as I said before, I think he would write some autobeiographical plays (like Eugene O’Neill) but he would flourish reality to make himself look better. And also, if he wanted to her revenge on someone, they’d make them look even worse on his plays.

- His staging is grand and pompous, kinda like during the baroque period.

- I can see him doing operas only because operas are the “absolute work of art”, in Wagner’s theory. And that would give him even more of an excuse to be grand. Though, I think he’d still focus more on plays, overall.

[wellthebardsdead]

Some more devil prince Falûne because Raphael owns my brain

———

Falûne: *giddily introducing his uncle to his friends after Raphael intercepted the group bringing them to the house of hope* Oh uncle! These are my friends! We were all on the nautiloid and found each other after the crash!

Everyone: *tense, awkwardly looking at eachother at the devils declaration of friendship, all of them nervous and unsure*

Raphael: *noticing their behaviour from a mile away* Korrilla can you go get our dear Lûny cleaned up and better prepared for his little adventure? I need to have a word in private with his, ‘friends’.

Korrilla: *takes Falûnes hand* come on sweetie let’s get you tidied up.

Falûne: *clueless, just smiles and follows her* okay.

Raphael: … *watches them go before snapping his fingers making the doors close before turning to face the group* go on. Speak freely. His feelings can’t be hurt if he’s not here after all.

Shadowheart: w-we don’t know what you mean.

Raphael: oh? I believe you all know Exactly. What I mean.

Everyone: …

Raphael: No? Shall I explain it then? Lae’zel, he commanded creatures of the hells to bow to your blade. Shadowheart, he saved you from the mind flayers pod when any reasonable person would have left you to die. Gale, he gifted you powerful artefacts forged in the fires of the hells themselves just to ease your pain. Astarion, He allows you to drink his blood. You Wyll, he set you free from your contract with mizora, and dear Karlach, he gave you your heart back. All of this, with nought a single want in return beyond your company and friendship… and you meet his earnest words with indifference and cold closed off hearts. Tsk, and people think I’m evil.

Gale: and just how are we supposed to confirm he’s actually being earnest? Devils aren’t particularly known for being paragons of honesty.

Raphael: and all drow are evil, all goblins mindless vermin, and all tieflings are just wingless devils. You all seem keen on trusting Wyll despite his new found horns. Or Karlach despite finding her bathed in blood and hellfire. When he helped you, were any contracts signed? Any verbal agreements made? When he- gifted you your beds and tents, did any gold exchange hands? No?… Then he’s got nothing to go back on to hurt you with. *growls lowly as the fireplace flares* I’m going to make this extremely, clear, for you. He is exceptionally dangerous. But he is kind, and genuinely good, even for a devil. I made damn well sure of it myself. *looks up at the portrait above the fire, himself and Falûne, his nephew seated on the throne of Cania holding Mephistopheles almost severed head in his lap as he stares up at his grandson with terror in his eyes* Ive seen, what he is capable of when he is pushed to his limit. If he is capable of mutilating an arch devil of the hells just to protect me, he is capable of far worse. So, if you break his heart- *turns to face them as his form gives way to a hellish red cambion* I will break you into pieces.

Everyone: *backing up in terror*

Raphael: *suddenly changes back to his human appearance as the doors swing open and Lûne steps back out* oh uncle! Can I show them my room before we go?

Raphael: *smiles* of course Lûny, I see no harm in it.

[spyridonya]

Lessons

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Rating: Mature Pairing: Zophus Emberbane (Tav OC) x Cian (@dmagedgoods's Dark Urge), background Raphael/Cian/Zophus Words: 1880 Trigger Warnings: No sex, but descriptions of body arousal. Light bondage. Summary: An orphan aches to ask for what he wants, but habits die hard.

The rooms given to Zophus in the House of Hope had been spacious, though it lacked the wash of maroon and the false glitter of gold. The expansive marble had been scrubbed clean, appearing the color of sunset due to the ever burning infernal skies of Arvenus coming from the balcony when the curtains were not drawn. However, unlike the other chambers of the Archdevil’s entourage, it was decidedly spartan.

The walls were bare of paintings, tapestries, or statues, save a modest sized portrait of Raphael. Rather, there were only mounted weapons that Zophus had saved during the campaign against the Absolutestists and the Dead Three. Weapons, Zophus felt, that he would never use again. They held memories of the days when the whispering of the tadpoles was far too common for pleasant company, though he did miss the sound of Cian’s voice when it broke through the din of voices. 

The only pieces of furniture that Zophus’ room housed were a bookshelf, a chest, and a large bed. However, even the large bed - which could host far more people than just Zophus himself and another - lacked the sumptuous colored silk of Raphael’s quarters. Rather, Zophus had favored linen sheets and a woven blanket - durable and dependable in their structure and comfort. Eventually the linen would be washed and used enough to become as soft as cotton and the woven blanket was well spun. Compared to his bunk in the Barracks, it was luxurious enough and reminded him not to let his guard down. 

However, Zophus never thought his bed sheets would be dependable enough to bind his wrists to the headboard of his own damn bed.

When the paladin had woken up to his current predicament of being bound and with a blindfold across his eyes, he mentally berated himself for several moments that the decades of training and fighting in the Harmonium, his guard had melted away in a matter of weeks. The nights on the trek to Baldur’s Gate or the horrors of the Shadowlands were short for him, he often woke at the slightest noise or rustle before settling to a restless sleep, but that had been over a month ago.

The paladin then considered that perhaps someone that he trusted had slipped into his room, and his self flagellation ceased long enough to center his senses. Betrayal was quickly rejected for the relative amount of comfort he found himself in. Though Zophus was laying down on his back, and his arms tied above his head, his muscular legs and his wings were still free and nothing had been placed around his throat. Pillows had been tucked under the paladin’s neck to avoid straining his wings and at the small of his back, exposing him to anyone passing, and he felt the stirring of a possible erection.

The air was comfortable, thanks to the arcane weavings of the House of Hope, and the air was fresh though there was no discernable wind. The aasimar licked his dry lips and took a deep breath through his nose. The smell he first expected - bourbon twined with cherries with the barest hint of sulfur - wasn’t there. 

Rather, he smelled something floral, something dark like a forest, so very lush yet not overly sweet and Zophus took another deep breath. It was Cian’s smell. One that he knew well, one scent that he was afraid to linger on despite how much he enjoyed it. 

Sometimes, Zophus thought, familiarity breeds contempt. 

The drow’s whispering footsteps were much louder than Zophus expected, though he supposed that was due to the lack of… anything in his personal chambers.

"How long has it been since you joined us, Zophus?” The soft, sensual voice filled Zophus’ ears despite Cian being some distance away, “Not quite a month since you had this room and yet… it looks like you’ve turned this into an armory.” The mockery was softened by the playfulness in the drow’s voice. “The future corpse of my father forgive me... you kept Ketheric’s hammer, of all things?” The arched tone attempted not to laugh. "Yet, you have no whips or chains. Nothing made of leather - not even silk." 

The growing stirring of his cock had become an ache and likely very visible. 

Cian tsked and Zophus heard the sorcerer approach even closer, "Even your bedding is gray. Nothing lovely at all about it. Do you not like beautiful things?" 

I love beautiful things, Zophus thought. Cian was one of the most beautiful people he knew. His mind’s eyes conjured the whipcord body colored like smoke paired with the contrast of night colored hair, the ebony and silver gaze, the ivory tattoo along the planes of his cheek to ear. 

The growing stirring at Zophus’ cock had become an ache, and likely very visible. The aasimar swallowed and would have turned away if he could. 

"Grey bedding means less work for the debtor." Zophus replied curtly as he took a deep breath, falling into the pattern that he believed Cian enjoyed so much, "So, that means more time for a doomed soul to wash your bedding." 

Zophus had seen Cian’s bedding, the sumptuous tastes for a sumptuous man, though they spent more time in the Boudoir in comparison. It was common enough grounds to them and others in Raphael’s entourage, though Zophus never felt he could speak freely. Haarlep had sharp ears and would give even sharper words to Mephistopheles. The solution to speaking freely with his lovers was simply to arrive upon the drow’s doorstep more often but…

Zophus was not Raphael. Zophus was scarred and rumpled, lacking in grace in exchange for his size and power. 

"Such a precious remark, no doubt you have some concerns for the help," The drow purred, his voice closer but not close enough. The soft caress of fabric against fabric entered Zophus’ ears, and he adjusted his imagination of the drow wearing pants, though he indulged the idea of muscular arms and chest being exposed, "I've heard that the Harmonium don’t have a creative bone in their body.” 

The footsteps stopped, and Zophus’ heart pounded rapidly and fully in his chest. His body shifted and he stretched his wings while he tipped his head back slightly. He could dismiss his wings, he often did when he laid on his back. However, last night he had the luxury of curling on his stomach for sleep after returning to the House from a mission in the early hours. The habits of hard narrow beds that his faction used were dissipating quickly and he likely hadn’t thought about dismissing his wings.

Zophus knew Cian liked his wings… and his wings were sensitive. The memory of the last time someone teased along his feathers brought Zophus’s cock to full hardness. 

“However,” Cian echoed once more, right at the edge of the bed, “I have to say, I do like the bookshelf. True wood.” The faint slippery sound of fingers against polished wood might have been in his imagination, but the steps that paused two arm lengths away from Zophus were real. For a long moment there was silence, likely the drow studying the books that were lining the shelves while making the aasimar wait. Most of the books that Zophus owned were collected from their journey together, and the ones that didn’t diverge from magic had been split equally between them. Cian had taken most of the ones related to magic 

The silence passed for another heart beat and he felt the shift in his bed.. Zophus' stomach knotted at the unfamiliar sensation before he spoke. "And what little imp has been telling you these things about Harmoniums? Most Imps don’t leave Avernus and saw even less when they were living souls in Faerun."

Cian laughed. The sound was rich and warm and it made Zophus smile, though the smile lasted only for a moment. The aasimar could hear the mastress shift, and felt the resulting dip of additional weight on his bed. "My, my, have we found a nerve?" 

Zophus took a deep breath, and felt his face and muscles grow tense, despite how wonderful Cian smelled, “I find it’s hard to decorate when you have so little at hand.” 

The clothes on his back, the armor culled from the dead, the weapons dragged from victory, and all the trinkets that could fit in his pocket. When the last battle been fought, it was all he had. Zophus could never go back to Sigil, back to the little bunk and locker that had been for all intents and purposes his 'home'. 

More often than not, he had been living like he had during the journey to Baldur's Gate. The only thing he missed in that bunker was a little journal book about the sea. He didn’t even miss his red steel armor that had been stripped from him by the Illithids. Losing that had been worth meeting Raphael. Losing that was worth meeting Cian.

The drow’s voice was silent, though the soft whisper of fabric was loud in Zopheus’ ears, the shift of Cian’s full weight on his bed and knees and limbs dragging against fabric made his mouth dry. 

The aasimar jumped when fingers caressed down the scared side of his face, soft and tender, before a smooth hand cradled against his jaw and sharp cheekbone. The scent of Cian that filled his senses wasn’t overwhelming, it was welcoming, as was the soft rhythm of the drow’s breath on Zophus’ headed face and neck. The growing need of his body couldn’t be hidden with Cian so close.. Not that it could have been hidden when Cian arranged Zophus’ body to be perfectly displayed. 

Zophus licked his lips, "I feel it is wrong to ask for things I may want. I am… I am all right with that, I’m used to working for what I want… or to get by.” 

The aasimar could feel the warmth of Cian’s body pressed to him, the subtle adjustment of torso and limbs, and soon felt the weight of the drow’s body and the urgent press of his cock against his own. 

“You can have anything you want, everything you want," Cian murmured in his ear, softly, lovingly, and causing a fine shiver to go down Zophus' spine, "All you need to do is ask."

"I'm afraid that's a prospect I'm not used to," The aasimar replied, his tone akin to stone as heat pooled down his spine. The full contact of smooth fabric and the weight pressing against his lower stomach and cock likely had brought a flush to his cheeks and stomach though, it wasn’t from shame. Zophus often flushed due to arousal.

"Then it sounds like I have to teach you to," Cian murmured as both his hands held Zophus face and the sweetest breath teased against his mouth. 

Zophus doesn’t see Cian tip his head, but he feels the flush, hungry slant of his mouth against his and Zophus bends his neck forward to accept the heat of the kiss, the pressure fierce yet sweet, and yet too shy to part his lips despite … everything. 

And that was how the drow began to teach the assimar how to ask.

[gatewarden108]

Mouse Trap - BG3 Fanfiction RaphaelxTav

TW: Consensual Non-Con Find me on AO3: GateWarden You stand before the shimmering, golden door and glance back at your companions. They are eager for you to get on with it and you wonder what the devil could be hiding in his boudoir to spend such care on avoiding unwanted visitors.

You hold the invitation in your hand, your key to getting in through the portal that stands between you and the devil’s secret phrase to his archive. Your friends laugh and wave you on. Your best friend, Shadowheart, the once Sharran Cleric turned to Selune, gives you a simple nod. The firery tiefling, Karlach, relaxed against the wall, thankful for the moment’s respite for her infernal engine picks at her nails. Your overly friendly and knowledgeable wizard, Gale, continues talking, about what? You haven’t been paying attention, but you brace yourself to step through the door.

Upon entering, you’re disgusted by the decadence. A giant pool sits before you, steam rising from the hot water within. It looks tempting, but you don’t have any time to waste. Wardrobes made of mahogany line the walls, gaudy red carpet, and portraits of the devil himself. You nervously begin to trifle through the nightstands and wardrobes closest to you, looking for a clue to either let you friends in or lead you to the key to the hammer you seek.

You don’t search for long.

"I must admit, I didn't expect company," a voice, low and silky says from behind you. You whirl, drawing your sword in one quick motion and face him. The tip of your sword hovering awfully close to his neck.

"Raphael."

Your heart quickens. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He’s dressed in his typical regalia, his cambion form large and assuming as it towers over you. His black hair falls into his eyes, messed from its usual slicked back style and he gives you a half-lidded stare. His horns seem more menacing than normal, but maybe it is because you have infiltrated his home, and you know you are at his mercy.

“You really thought you could break into my home, my little mouse? And get away with it?” he chuckles. You know you could never take him on his own, yet your hand still stays tightly wrapped around the hilt of your sword.

You look away, ashamed that he's caught you red handed. He laughs and steps closer, his clawed fingers reaching out and touching the tip of your extended sword. He pushed the blade down before walking over to you. He leans over you and places that clawed finger under you chin and tips your face up so your eyes meet his.

"You know you'll have to pay for your intrusion, don't you?"

Your stomach flips, is this how it all ends? Because of your pride? You know it was foolish to come to his House of Hope, but you did it anyway. Falsely believing you were somehow more blessed than others and could fool its master. Your tadpole has no power here in the Hells, your only saving grace for any salvation.

He reaches down and grabs your free hand, and you can't help but notice the size of his palms. The way his fingers curl around your wrist. They are large, soft, and hot from his infernal heat. His claws seem to easily encompass your wrist. You struggle, trying to pull free, but it is useless.

He leans down and nuzzles your cheek, and his scent fills your nostrils. He smells like sulfur and… cherries. A strange combination, one you’re not sure you noticed the last few times he’s requested an audience with you. And the feeling of his breath on your skin makes your hands shake and your knees tremble.

"W-What are you going to do to me?" you ask, hating how weak and nervous you sound.

"I have a few ideas," he growls. “But first..."

You watch as his tail comes up behind you, angrily swishing as it approaches, and you gasp as the spaded tip snakes its way around your waist and pulls you flush against the Devil. His hand, now free, begins to take your long hair out of its bun. Once it falls around your shoulders, he brings his hand up and strokes your hair. Gentle, affectionate touches, his claws carefully grazing your scalp. It may feel relaxing if you weren’t so afraid right now.

"Now, what am I going to do with you?"

"I’m s-sorry," you whisper.

"Hmm? Speak up, little mouse," he commands.

"I'm s-sorry. I shouldn’t have broken in here, Raphael."

He laughs.

A deep, guttural laugh with a sinister undertone that makes the liquid in your gut churn.

"No, no, you came here knowing full well what you were doing. I'll admit, I didn't think you had the audacity to show up at my house, but I'm impressed. However, I can't just let you go. That wouldn't be fair. What example would I be setting to all the other adventurers who try to break in here?” You bite your lip and look up at him, his expression is sullen but there are hints of playfulness in the wrinkle of his brow and the glint in his amber eyes. "You know I have to punish you, don't you?"

A gulp escaped your lips. You had expected it, but now, faced with the reality, it scares you. "What... do you plan on doing?” He never really frightened you before, but alone with him— seeing how large he truly was as he held you close, terrifies you.

He smiles, his fangs flashing, and he licks his lips. He leans down and whispers in your ear. "I'm going to ruin you. So that no one else will ever be able to satisfy you again. You will crave me."

Before you can respond, he picks you up and carries you bridal style to his bed. The moment you hit the soft surface of his duvet, his lips are on yours. He kisses you with hunger, with a fire and passion that surprises you. You can’t help but return his kiss, hungrily biting at his lips as your teeth clash into each other. You reach up and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as he hovers above you. His large body and wings cage you in, and he presses down on you, his weight crushing.

You cry out and moan as his tongue slides into your mouth, dominating your own. You squirm and writhe under him, unable to move due to his weight. It should be terrifying, but instead, it excites you. You are at his mercy, completely at his mercy. He could kill you in an instant, and yet, he chooses not to. Your life, the ultimate gamble.

When he pulls back, your lips are swollen and red, and you can't help but stare at him. Your chest heaves, and you bite your lip. "Do you understand what I'm going to do, little mouse?" the deep and husky tone of his voice combined with his intent makes you shudder. The arousal between your legs builds, the wet fabric of your panties clinging to the folds of your most intimate being.

You nod.

"Say it," he commands.

"You're going to ruin me.” The words travel out of your mouth, dripped in lusty want. He revels in the way they fall from your both, a wanton smile curling around his teeth.

"And what will happen when I'm done with you?"

"No one will ever compare.”

"That's right," he growls. "You will beg for me, beg for me to finish inside of you. And then I will send you back, and your companions will know. You will smell of me, and they will know what a little whore you are, little mouse." His hands run up your body, caressing your curves and making you squirm. Your legs part for him, and he settles between them.

"So pretty," he purrs. "I knew you were beautiful, but to see you like this... so helpless underneath me…” Each word is drenched in desire, and his gaze is predatory, almost animalistic as he looks up at you from between your legs.

Your face heats, and you buck your hips, how badly you want him to pull back the fabric that separates you. A longing for him to dip his forked tongue into your slick, dripping entrance. Yet, at the same time you want to be free of his touch, to run and hide from his piercing eyes, but there is nowhere for you to go. You press yourself back into the bed, as if you could suddenly go through it and disappear.

"N-No, Raphael, please, please stop," you whimper.

He doesn't. He knows you do not mean it. He pushes your legs open further and runs his nose up the length of your thighs, breathing deeply and savoring the scent of your arousal. A claw extends from his hand, and he trails it down your pants, pulling at the seams that run down your legs, popping them one by one before ripping the fabric off completely.

"So delicious," he moans. “You smell so sweet, my little mouse."

He licks his lips and then, without warning, he bites the tender flesh of your exposed thigh. He bites hard, breaking the skin, and you cry out. Blood begins to trickle from the wound, and he eagerly licks it up, relishing the taste of your blood. He looks up at you and his eyes flash with inhuman hunger. You know what he wants. He wants to taste you, all of you and there is nothing you can do to stop him.

He reaches up and rips off your shirt, exposing your naked breasts. You cover yourself, ashamed of the way your body reacts to his touch. You know between your legs he could see the slick wetness that dripped from your cunt. He growls, a deep rumbling sound in his chest, and he yanks your arms away.

"Do not hide yourself from me," he hisses. "Let me see how wet you are, let me see how much you want this."

"I don't, I don't," you insist.

"You are a bad liar," he chuckles. A claw trails over your exposed chest, teasing the sensitive skin there. He drags the sharp point across the valley between your breasts, leaving a thin red line in its wake.

"You know," he groans between planting kisses on your navel and hips, "I've wanted this for a while. Ever since I saw you in that horrid wilderness. To have you all to myself, to make you mine. To have you scream my name." You can't deny that his words are turning you on, even as one of his claws travels lower and hooks onto your panties. With a quick pull, he shreds the material, and it falls off you. You gasp as the sharp point of his claw then rises to your breasts and circles your nipple, teasing the sensitive nub.

"You like this, don't you?" he growls, "You like having no control, having me take command of your body. Having me use you however I please."

"No, no, Raphael," you moan. “You’re wrong.”

"Denial only makes this more enjoyable for me," he says with an easy smile.

His hand grips your breast, his claws digging into the tender flesh and making you cry out in pain as you thrash. “Raphael!” you scream out. “Stop! Please, it hurts! I don’t want this, I don't—” His tail slithers out and wraps around your ankle, roughly yanking your legs, forcing them to stay apart.

"Hush now," he murmurs, "I'm going to give you a taste of what it feels like to be owned. To be claimed." His words excite you, despite the terror coursing through your body. You're so aroused, so wet, and his hand slips between your legs and begins to stroke your swollen cunt.

"So wet, so eager for me,” he laughs. “Do you really think I could resist a pretty thing like you?"

You wail with pleasure as he plays with your clit, his fingers dancing over the sensitive bundle of nerves. You moan, unable to resist the feelings he is giving you. "R-Raphael," you moan, "please."

He chuckles and continues to pleasure you, his tail tightening its grip around your ankle. You feel like you're about to pass out, the ministrations of his fingers causing you to feel as though you may completely come undone.

"You're mine, little mouse," he hisses. "And no one else will ever satisfy you the way I will."

With that, he plunges two fingers into your aching cunt, stretching and filling you as he scissors his fingers inside of you. A laugh comes from him as he watches you buck your hips for him in need, desperate for more. He pumps in and out of you, his fingers expertly stroking your inner walls and making you see stars. You can't hold back anymore.

"I'm... I'm..."

"Come for me, little mouse," he purrs, his tail loosening its grip on your ankle. He knows now that you will no longer resist him.  You come, screaming his name as your body convulses and shakes. The orgasm is intense, washing over you in waves and leaving you gasping and panting.

As you come down from your high, he removes his fingers and licks them clean. He releases his tail's grip around your ankle, and you bask in the glow of your orgasm.

"You're delicious, little mouse," he praises. “Don’t think we are finished yet though.” Your head is swimming and you're still trembling. You look up at him, his golden eyes filled with desire. He removes his clothing, revealing his cock, hard and throbbing. You can’t help but swallow. It's large, larger than you were expecting, and you're not sure you can take all of it. He sees your hesitancy and unease, but it only seems to encourage him. Grinning, he presses his cock against your entrance, rubbing the tip up and down your slick folds. You gasp at the sensation of his warm, smooth skin against yours.

"Do you want this, little mouse?"

"Yes, yes, please," you plead, unable to control the words that escape your lips.

"Then beg," he growls.

"Please, Raphael, please," you squeal. "Please fuck me, please."

With your words, it is all the assurance he needs, and he thrusts his cock into you, burying himself to the hilt. It doesn’t give you any time to adjust and your scream out in a bittersweet yelp of pain as he stretches and fills you all at once, your walls clenching around his thick shaft. He begins to move, his movements slow and deep, causing you to cry out.

"Such a good girl,” he coos as he caresses your cheek with the back of his hand. He quickens his pace, slamming into you with wild abandon. His cock hits that sensitive area within your body, and you mewl and buck against him as his relentless pounding drives you straight to the edge of ecstasy.

"Please," you moan, "please, please..."

He groans and thrusts harder and faster, his cock pulsing and throbbing inside of you. "Come for me," he growls. "Scream my name again as you come for me."

You can't hold back any longer. With a final cry, you come, your release enveloping each and every one of your senses. You scream his name as he continues to thrust, prolonging your orgasm and making you see stars as he continues to slam himself into you, bruises forming on the soft skin of your thighs as he holds your legs in place. Your climax squeezed him, your walls sucking and milking at his cock and he cannot help but watch your face twist in the throes of passion. It encourages him to reach his own climax, his hot, infernal seed spilling deep within your unprotected womb. You feel his releases beginning to drip out of you, his seed warm and stick on the inside of your thighs.

“Now, little mouse, you will smell of me, and everyone will know. They will know who owns you and no one will ever compare,” he ends his words with a quick kiss to your lips before nipping gently at your jaw and neck.

You giggle and kiss him back, your heart pounding in your chest. “I am yours,” you whisper into his ear. He gives you a genuine smile as he pulls you close to him, your head resting comfortably on his warmth of his chest.

“I must say, I’ve never sealed a deal like this before,” he muses as his fingers gently tickle at your upper arm before kissing your forehead. He snaps his fingers and reveals to you, your contract. The Crown of Karsus for The Orphic Hammer. “You break in here and pretend to all your friends that you didn’t make a deal with me? I must admire your bravado. Perhaps that is why I find you so irresistible, my dear. Now, the hammer is yours. However, I cannot promise this will be the last time I will seek you out for our private dealings, my little mouse. You know how much I do enjoy our rendezvous’ in Rivington. There are so many uses I have in mind for that clever tongue of yours. Now, go on, return to your friends. I believe you have a hammer to steal."

You blush. You never would have thought a devil would be so affectionate, and yet here you are, cuddled in the heat of his arms. It's strangely intimate, and you're not quite sure what to make of it. He doesn’t typically cuddle you like this after you fuck. You lean over and give him one more kiss, his hand gently caressing your cheek as you do. With regret, you must leave him, so you slowly rise to your feet off the silky sheets of the bed and walk over to one of his many dressers and grab new debtor’s outfit identical to the one you were wearing when you came in.  

“My heart’s desire,” he grins at you as you turn to leave. “That’s the key to the hammer’s display case.”

A blush creeps to your cheeks and you laugh slightly. “Am I your heart’s desire, Raphael?”

His eyes twinkle. "Perhaps, little mouse."

The way he looks at you, his amber eyes glowing, his lips curled into a sweet smile... it's enough to make your heart skip a beat. You leave his room and rejoin your party, the smell of cherries and sulfur lingering on your skin. Embracing it, you cannot help but grin, his smell on you and his seed dripping between you thighs the reminder of your tryst.

Your friends look at you as you walk back out of the room, confused, but welcome you back.

“It’s about time,” Gale mutters. “It took you long enough. What was in there?”

You pause and glance back at the golden door. "Nothing," you say, shrugging. "Just a bunch of expensive junk. It took me quite a while to look through. I did find the password though.”

They all nod, not entirely convinced.

As you begin to walk back down the hall to the archive another smile finds itself on your lips and you turn back to look at the golden door of the boudoir. It will not be the last time you are alone with Raphael, of that, you are certain, and you wonder when all of this is over, if you’ll ever leave the Hells at all.

[fareehaandspaniards]

Associations post (Part 2)

(Part 1)

Yes, I went ahead with this one after all. While I was sincerely trying to find "my" Logarius among the sitters on old masterpieces of art, I came across other associations with Bloodborne characters. And most of them were Laurences, because I'm boring and call every cute young man with brown hair a young Laurence LOL

Sorry I will repeat some characters from post to post :( Hope it still will be interesting

BTW

Salvator Rosa, "Autoportrait" for Martyr Logarius before he turned into a bearded pthumerian skeleton.

There is a theory that boy on a painting in a Cainhurst is a King of Cainhurst/or Logarius himself. Good ground for headcanons! As for me, this boy is Rogeriusz's brother, because.... He is a brother of a King! :D Just ALL of his portraits were destroyed because of betrayal. But Rogeriusz and King were like twins! I still struggle with Logarius' backstory, because can't choose which trope for him I like more. I need to FeEl him properly

As for autoportrait, I know that artist has other autoportraits. This one is more idealistic suitable for Logarius. Tho my Rogeriusz is much more brutal and has something wild because he is a fucking ideological maniac and a madman. Just mix knight Mordred and Henry VIII and spirit of Russian revilution = sir Rogeriusz in my interpretation. Ludwig, you have AWFUL taste in men

Jean-François Garneray - "Portrait of Ambroise Louis Garneray" for little Laurence. Look at him, just LITERALLY THE WAY I IMAGINE HIM in childhood!!!!!! Kids awwwww Q_Q I still want to draw a few doodles with baby-characters... So sweet and funny in my head......

Look at that boy! ToT He is so happy *_*

Sandro Botticelli, autoportrait, part of "Adoration of the Magi" for Caryll!

I started drawing as a little child trying to copy and trace faces on his paintings! ;_; Also, his robes here have typical-greek patterns on them, I think those might have been the inspiration for all the patterns on the buildings in Yharnam >:3

"The Red Boy" by Thomas Lawrence for little Micolash!

Thoughtful, too clever for his young age boy for me fits perfectly for Micolash. I don't think he was born looking delusional lol, just his researches, mania for Kos and ascending changed him, though inside he was always like that (depends on interpretation!)

"Guidobaldo da Montefeltro" by Raphael for young Damian!!! In the right is Damian's model just with set "young" instead of "old" and eyebrows. They look like brothers !!!!

Part of painting by Jan Anthonisz van Ravesteyn "Pieter van Veen, his son Cornelis and his secretary Hendrick Borsman" for Tomb Prospector Olek!!!

Unexpected, hard to explain, but this is Olek :P His data supposes his hair to be brown but.... But.... Mine Olek is blonde.... D: The only compromise is that his hair is brown but on the light it looks like blonde! Profit!

My version of Olek is a child of streets, who eagerly wanted to learn how to read and write, and asked owner of a bookshop to teach him in exchange of protecting his little shop! Olek is a fan of pthumerian history and had a dream to once meet queen Annalise in-person before Cainhurst massacre happened. Also he has opened confrontation with Logarius who found Olek kinda funny. This all goes from the fact that Olek can be found in pthumerian chalices mostly (I don't remember if he is summonable in Loran chalices). I believe that he lost his sanity long ago and continues to travel through catacombs to find Queen Yharnam (he is summonable NPC for her fight)

[pengychan]

Peek of what youre writing?

Sure! Working on a BG3 oneshot that's, uh, plenty fucked up I guess. This one will come with warnings.

“Of all the rotten fruit my seed has borne, you fester worse than most. I have allowed you to fester for far too long. But no more.” “My liege Lord, I don’t understand--” “There is much you don’t understand, halfbreed, even when your arrogance tells you otherwise.” The Archmage of the Hells sneered, the malevolence seeping off him almost tangible enough for Raphael to choke on it. “Did you truly think I would not notice you asking questions, circling my vault like the scavenger you are?” Raphael swallowed, throat bobbing against the steel-trap grasp of the hand threatening to crush his neck. The thought of trying to fight was there one moment, and gone from his mind the next. The Lord of the Eighth could destroy him, body and soul, with little more than the lifting of a finger. “Lord Mephistopheles, my intentions--” “Don’t you deny it, or I’ll make a meal out of your soul here and now,” Mephistopheles cut him off. “Meager as that meal would be, it would be preferable by far to the chore that it is to listen to your excuses.” A pause, those cold eyes turning to the rest of the boudoir, the portraits on the walls. He sneered. “You still like to pretend you’re a proper devil, I see. It was amusing enough, I suppose, when you were but a child. Now it’s only pathetic. Do you think I do not know what your incubus does to you? What you beg them to do to you?” “I…” Raphael tried to speak, but his tongue felt heavy as lead, all his eloquence gone. A hand ripped open his collar and there they were, the marks Haarlep had left on him the previous night, plain for the Cold Lord to see.

[artinpl]

Disguised portraits of Prince-Primate Imre II Esterházy de Galántha (1663-1745) and sculptor Georg Raphael Donner (1693-1741) in a superb late Baroque statue in St. Martin's Cathedral in Bratislava

In 1733, the old Gothic St. Martin's Cathedral in Bratislava, which became the coronation church of the rulers of the Kingdom of Hungary in 1563, was rebuilt in the late Baroque style on the initiative of Imre (Emeric) II Esterházy, Archbishop of Esztergom and Prince-Primate of Hungary from 1725 to 1745. In April of the following year, the Gothic altars were removed and the Austrian sculptor Georg Raphael Donner began to create a new main altar of St. Martin. The massive baldachin, conceived as a scene depicting a key element of the St. Martin legend - the scene of St. Martin sharing his cloak with a beggar - had a lead equestrian sculpture, created in 1734, placed in the central part, with a pair of adoring angels (now in the Hungarian National Gallery in Budapest, inv. 76.4M, 76.5M). The solemn consecration of the new altar took place on the feast day of St. Emeric of Hungary, on November 5, 1735. On June 25, 1741, Imre crowned Maria Theresa (1717-1780) as Queen of Hungary in front of this new altar. One of the seven large paintings (approx. 250 x 140 cm), commissioned by Maria Theresa and created before 1770 by Franz Messmer and Wenzel Pohl, now kept in the Hungarian Embassy in Vienna, depicts the coronation. During the reorganization of the cathedral in 1865-1877, when it was re-Gothicized, the sculpture was moved and is now located in the right side nave of the church.

The effigy of St. Martin of Tours, depicted in Hungarian national costume, is considered to be the effigy of Archbishop Esterházy, while the naked beggar is supposed to bear the features of the sculptor Georg Raphael Donner, both of which correspond to the known effigies of these two men. In front of St. Martin's Cathedral is another bronze bust of Donner.

Browse >>> Renaissance Poland-Lithuania - The Realm of Venus - Art in Poland (Artinpl) >>> for more …

© Marcin Latka

Interesting and useful? Now you can buy me a coffee.

[the-skybrary]

I'M HERE! I'M HERE! I'M HERE GODDAMNIT !!!!

I’m real I’m real I’m real I’m real and I exist and I live and breath in this body as much as host does. I’m not exactly Raph, I’m not exactly [body name], but I’m here goddamnit!!! I don’t know how I’m supposed to fit into this world but IM HERE!!!! Fuck!! I just wanna be seen!!!

I'm tired of pretending like I’m not here just because I’m considered a ‘fictive’ and having to pass off my existence as nuance, or posting art of myself & pretending it’s fanart and not a self portrait. It makes me mad, actually. I don’t want to do that anymore.

I don't fear judgement from anyone anymore, it hurts me more to hide than to risk anyone coming up to me online and saying that I don't exist or I'm faking or whatever they want to do. I am Raphael Hamato and I exist and no one can tell me otherwise.

[bitethedevil]

A Portrait of A Cambion

Link to this fic on AO3

Summary: Raphael rejects his icky mortal feelings for Tav because he remembers what happens when one is distracted by matters of the heart. He reminisces about a woman who taught him how to paint and who stole his non-existent heart over a thousand years ago.

(This is essentially a sort of 'origin story' headcanon that I ended up writing into a fic because people were asking about my dark headcanon that Raphael has experienced love before, but Mephistopheles took it from him. It ended up as a fic because I had a very specific image in my head of how Raphael fell in love for the first time and how he lost that love. Also cambions don't have a heart. Source?: Pulled it out of my ass.) TW: Mention of Death, Blood, Abusive Relationship with Parent (although that should almost be a given with Mephistopheles in the tags)

Another nightmare about Tav. This time it had not been about her and her fellow adventurers besting him. Instead, he had dreamt about her dying a cruel death.

He shouldn’t care and he didn’t, but his mind was sabotaging him and in the midst of the dream, he had felt fear for her. It shook Raphael awake from his nightly meditation and made him sit up in his bed.

He rubbed his eyes and sneered at that disgusting mortal feeling that still lingered in his chest. He had to remind himself that she was no more than a means to an end.

He could not afford such distractions, especially now when the crown was so close…

Raphael’s eyes drifted to the right-hand portrait in his boudoir, the one where he hid his safe behind.

There it was again. That stabbing feeling in his chest. He could not even remember the face of the painter that had made the portrait, but looking at that painting was just the reminder he needed: Distractions will cost you dearly.

It was over a thousand years ago that he had met her. It was before he had even laid his eyes on the Crown of Karsus and witnessed Netheril’s fall. He was still perfecting his art when it came to soul collecting. Back then he mainly went after the most desperate of the desperate and this girl could not have been more perfect.

Her name was Lucienna and she lived in Westgate, a city known for its history with criminal organizations and piracy. The young human woman had managed to make herself quite unpopular with the group of mercenaries that ruled the city then.

She was on the run with two of Westgate’s best killers at her heels when Raphael unceremoniously whisked her away to the Hells. Back then he still lived in Cania under his father’s rule.

The young woman took in her new surroundings while she tried to catch her breath. She looked up at Raphael who was still in his human form.

“Where am I?” she wheezed, out of breath. “And thank you, I suppose.”

“The Eighth Layer of the Hells,” Raphael explained smoothly. He found no reason to pretend when her contract was already as good as signed with the circumstances, she found herself in.

“…Oh,” she said a bit too calmly for Raphael’s liking and nodded.

“Quite a mess you’ve found yourself in, dear,” Raphael said with a smile. “Was it worth it? The protesting, I mean?”

Lucienna narrowed her green eyes at him.

He had done his research. The whole reason that she was on the hitlist of the mercenary government of Westgate, was all because of some posters, she had made and plastered around the city. They criticized the government and called the population to protest.

“It was actually worth it, yes,” she said with defensiveness in her voice. “And I’d do it again.”

She crossed her arms and looked at him. Raphael looked her up and down with a smile on his face.

“I saw your work before they were all taken down and burned,” Raphael said. “You are clearly talented. As a great admirer of the arts, it would pain me to see someone with so much to offer the world dead in a ditch somewhere. Which is why I have a proposal for you…”

“Whatever you are selling, I don’t want any,” she said and interrupted his sales-pitch. “Who are you anyway?”

“Oh, do forgive my manners. I am Raphael,” he said with a bow and in a flash of fire he was in his cambion form. “Very much at your service.”

Her eyes widened for a moment at the reveal of his true nature, but she quickly gathered herself.

“I mean…” she said. “I suppose I could have guessed since you said we were in the Hells, but…”

She looked him up and down, studying his form for a moment before looking back at his smug face.

“I still stand by what I said,” she said stubbornly. “Especially if my soul is the price.”

Raphael’s smirk faltered. He had been so certain that this would have been an easy deal.

“Perhaps you don’t grasp the severity of your situation,” Raphael said with a dramatic hand gesture. “I can make this whole mess disappear if you simply sign my contract. If you do not, I will simply send you back to the exact spot I found you to be hunted for sport by the best killers Westgate has to offer.”

She nodded slowly.

“I’ll take my chances,” she said with a shrug.

Raphael’s brow furrowed. That was not what he wanted to hear.

“Suit yourself,” Raphael said with a sneer and snapped his fingers to send her back to where she came from.

If the little idiot so desperately wanted to walk into her own grave, Raphael would not stop her. However, it did infuriate him that she did not even seem the least bit interested in even hearing his offer. If she did, by some miracle, survive, she could be certain that Raphael was not done with her.

Raphael followed her movements through the city closely. Luck seemed to be on her side because she did eventually make it out of the city in one piece. He tracked her to a house in the middle of nowhere out on the countryside. He kept an eye on her little hiding spot for a couple of weeks before approaching her.

He manifested in a room where a small fortune in painting supplies laid scattered everywhere. There were paintings leaning up against every wall. His person of interest sat in the middle of the room. She looked up from the canvas she was working on and jumped at his presence.

“Are you ready to accept my kind offer or do you intend to hide here for the rest of your days?” Raphael asked with a smile.

“Shhh,” she hushed and put a finger to her lips. “Please, lower your voice. My father might hear you.”

She was bold, he would give her that. Raphael huffed in annoyance but complied.

“Well?” he asked in a more hushed voice.

“I’m perfectly content here, thank you,” she said while her focus returned to the painting she was working on.

Raphael could not believe what he was hearing.

“Please correct me if I misunderstand,” Raphael said. “You would run from the very city that you have been fighting to protect from tyranny, to stay here? You are aware that the mercenaries of Westgate do not forget a face and that you getting out of the city does not mean that you are safe?”

“I understand just fine,” she said calmly. “I did what I could, and it wasn’t enough. I know I’m not safe but that doesn’t mean I want to hand over my soul to you...No offense, of course.”

Her stubbornness was getting on his nerves. Perhaps, it would just be easier to leave her alone, as it seemed he was getting nowhere with her. She was a hopeless case.

“Raphael, was it?” she asked and looked at him.

Raphael nodded with a tired look in his eyes.

“I had a feeling that you would be back, so I have something for you, Raphael,” she said and got up from her chair. “If you don’t like it, I won’t take offense.”

Raphael’s brow furrowed as he watched her go pick up a painting. This was new.

She picked up the canvas that was almost as big as her and turned it around so he could see it. His eyes softened, despite himself.

It was a painting of him in his cambion form, painted in shades of orange. He was wearing armor and was holding a flame in one hand in the painting. He looked imposing yet regal. It was beautifully done.

“The likeness isn’t perfect,” she said with a shrug. “But I also only ever met you that one time, so…”

Raphael blinked and tried to hide how impressed he was with her work.

“Why did you do this?” he asked and looked at her.

“My little trip to the Hells was long enough for the people chasing me to lose my trail,” she explained. “So, if it hadn’t been for you, I probably would be dead.”

His eyes drifted back to the painting.

“Besides, I’ve never seen a devil before,” she said. “I thought you looked quite impressive, so I guess I got inspired. You did say that you were an ‘admirer of the arts’, so I thought it could be compensation for saving my life.”

He was flattered, even though he would never admit it. He could not remember ever receiving a gift willingly from a mortal like this.

“Do you like it?” she asked softly, as if she was half-expecting a ‘no’.

“It’s beautiful,” he said with a nod. “You are quite talented, like I said when we first met.”

“It’s yours, if you want it,” she said with a smile.

“Thank you,” he said briefly, smiling back at her. He snapped his fingers and teleported the painting to a safe location in his house.

They were quiet for a moment. For once, Raphael was not sure what to say. There was no more business to talk about, but it also felt wrong to simply leave after receiving such a gift. It was Lucienna that ended up breaking the silence.

“So, do you paint?” she asked.

“No, I do not,” he answered and cleared his throat. “I’m afraid it is one of the few things that I have never sat down to properly learn. Although, I do see the appeal and I certainly do appreciate the art.”

“Do you want to learn?” she asked. “I’ve taught students before, you know…”

Although the idea of some mortal teaching him anything did not fill him with joy, he was tempted. Perhaps he could gain her trust and make her sign his deal anyway, as he had already wasted too much time on her. It also gave him an opportunity to study this odd mortal who did not seem to fear him.

“Hm,” he hummed in thought. “Yes, why not?”

They kept meeting in her father’s basement as Lucienna taught him how to paint. Raphael started enjoying the sessions. There was something about it. It brought him a sense of peace to paint. He did not mind the compliments to his progress either. She was good at teaching him without ever being condescending.

“You’re a natural at this, you know,” she said, leaning on his shoulder as she watched him work. “The only note I have is to work on the colors. This part isn’t actually red. It’s brown.”

She pointed to the bowl of fruit on the table.

“Are you telling me that red apples are not red?” Raphael said with a chuckle.

She smiled as she mixed some colors onto a piece of paper and held it next to the apple.

“That’s because you use your head too much and not your eyes,” she said. “This is painting. Not writing.”

Raphael huffed. She was right, of course. He could see when she held the paper next to it.

Whenever he practiced at home, it was always the same motif: her. He was determined to eventually pay her back for the gift she gave him. He noticed that Lucienna’s hair was not red either, but rather nuances of brown, orange, and gold. Her eyes were also not entirely green, but rather shades of brown, green and yellow.

Somewhere along the way, the contract was brought up more as an excuse to be in her presence, rather than him actually wanting her soul. In the end it was not brought up at all. Raphael knew that she was too stubborn to sign it anyway, and perhaps she was right: perhaps she was truly safe in this peaceful little haven away from everything.

He enjoyed her company, though he loathed to admit it. The way she would lean on his shoulder when she was watching him work. The way that she looked almost insane when she was deep in concentration, with a paintbrush in her mouth or stuck in her hair as she painted like her life depended on it. The way that they could be in each other’s presence for hours without even saying a word to each other.

He knew that she liked him, but for some reason he did not want to exploit it in the same way he had done with earlier clients. It would have been all too easy to manipulate her into a deal by playing on her feelings, yet he never did.

Lucienna became an indulgence. Someone to take him far way from the endless clients and the toiling for his ungrateful father. Away from all the devils in the Hells that loathed him and away from all the mortals that feared him. Just for a moment.

It was the day when he finally decided to give her the portrait that he had painted of her that their relationship furthered into unknown territory for Raphael.

After he had made endless excuses about him not being as talented as her, he had shown her the painting that he had been working endlessly on from home. Her face brightened up and she pulled him into a kiss. After the initial shock, he wrapped his arms around her and melted into it.

Raphael was far from new to the concept of sex, although those below the Archdevils were not supposed to indulge in such things. The difference was that most of his sexual experiences had been with the incubi and succubi of his father’s palace, or rehearsed manipulation tactics he had used to lure clients. Both of which were exceptions that were acceptable for a devil of his lower rank.

This was new and most definitely forbidden, because this bordered on that awfully mortal feeling: love. Sex with her was so different from the almost theatrical performance of the incubi and succubi that he had been with during his longer visits to his father. Raphael also found no desire to put on a rehearsed performance himself.

Sex with Lucienna was clumsy and imperfect in a highly intoxicating way. They got completely lost in each other and nothing else mattered in that moment. It was heated and passionate, but in such a genuine way that it took Raphael’s breath away.

When they were done, Lucienna rested her head on his chest. Raphael was brushing his fingers through her hair when he suddenly felt her tense up a bit.

“What is it?” he asked softly.

“Your heartbeat…” she said and pressed her ear to his chest again. “You don’t have one…”

Raphael chuckled and smiled.

“I don’t have a heart, dear,” he explained. “It works differently for devils.”

“Hm,” she said and nuzzled her head against his chest. “Maybe you don’t have a literal heart, but you won’t convince me that you don’t at least have one metaphorically.”

“Oh, how dare you?” Raphael chided jokingly. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Mm…you can’t fool me,” she said and smiled. “It is slightly unsettling though…To not hear anything when you expect to.”

“I’m sure,” he said, tracing the soft skin of her arms with his fingers.

She got off his chest to lay down on her back. She patted her chest with a hand, inviting him to lay down on it.

“Here, listen to mine,” she said with a smile.

Raphael hesitated. The vulnerability of such an act did not sit well with him, but he had quickly found that he had a hard time denying this woman of anything.

He put his head on her chest and listened to her heartbeat. She held him close and rested her chin on his head. It would have looked comical for an outsider to see this much bigger man being held by this small woman, but Raphael found that he did not care.

He would never admit it to anyone, but he felt safe. Loved even. Perhaps, for the first time in his long life. There was a feeling, a flutter, in the place where his heart would have been, had he been a mortal man. They fell asleep like that together.

When he finally returned to his house in Cania in the morning, it was difficult to wipe the smile from his face. He could not stop thinking about her. He sat down to write, to try and clear his mind and record this feeling of happiness that he had not tasted for years.

“Mephistopheles missed you last night,” a voice said.

Raphael looked up to find one of Mephistopheles’s warlocks leaned against the wall, watching him. Raphael had forgotten everything about the meeting that he had promised to attend.

“Care to explain?” the warlock asked.

“I was working, Lestor,” Raphael replied coldly.

“All night? What a dutiful boy you are,” Lestor said with that shit-eating grin that Raphael had gotten so used to seeing.

It took everything to not lose his temper and tear the warlock apart for having the nerve to call him ‘boy’. Raphael knew the consequences if he did. Mephistopheles enjoyed sending mortal warlocks to spy on his son, simply to remind Raphael that he was not even worth sending another devil for.

“There were complications,” Raphael said through gritted teeth. “Please, do send Mephistopheles my deepest apologies.”

“Complications, eh?” Lestor said with a knowing smile that made Raphael slightly paranoid. “I will make sure to tell him how deeply sorry you are. Remember that you are needed at the palace these next couple of days. Whatever ‘work’ you have can wait.”

Lestor left his house. Raphael’s paranoia grew when he was left alone. Lestor couldn’t have known, could he? He had been so careful, and no one knew where she lived…

There was nothing that Raphael could do about it now. He had to get through the next couple of days before he could return to her, or he would feel his father’s wrath.

Five days later, Raphael finally had time for himself, and he decided to visit the woman who had occupied his mind ever since he returned to the Hells.

The first sign that something was wrong was that the door to the house stood open. Lucienna’s father was a paranoid man who always locked his doors.

Not two steps into the house, was the old man that he had only spoken to a couple of times during his visits. He laid sprawled on the floor, ripped apart and covered in his own blood.

Raphael’s blood in his veins turned to ice, as he saw the sigil of the mercenaries of Westgate smeared in blood on the wall.

“No…” Raphael mumbled to himself and ran to the basement.

There she was. A paintbrush in her hair, exactly where she always put them when she was focused on working. Her green eyes, that weren’t really green, stared emptily up into the ceiling above her.

“No…no…” Raphael said and fell to his knees beside her.

He leaned his head down to her chest. He knew there was no way she would be alive with the way she had been torn apart, but he had to check. The comforting pitter-patter of her heart that he had fallen asleep to just five days earlier, was gone. Raphael cried for the first time in a millennium.

“I told you…you stubborn woman…” he said angrily and brushed his fingers gently through her red hair. “You weren’t safe…”

He held her in his arms while he sobbed. He was spiraling. The emotional walls that he had used hundreds of years to build up had crashed down around him, and for a moment he was experiencing a millennium worth of pure mortal grief and sadness all at once.

He looked at her. At all the paintings that were stacked around him. He noticed that the portrait he had given her had already been hung up on the wall, and it sent a sharp pain through his chest where his heart would have been.

His eyes finally locked unto the sigil that was painted with blood on the wall, with the words under it: “Westgate does not forget”. His sadness slowly boiled into anger. Anger overtook every ounce of his being when he heard a familiar grating voice behind him:

“Mephistopheles wants to talk to you, boy,” Lestor said.

He could practically hear the smug smile in the warlock’s voice. That little shit had known, and he had informed Westgate of her whereabouts. Something in Raphael snapped.

Raphael spent that afternoon doing unspeakable things to his father’s warlock. When he was done, he burned the whole house down. He burned the all the paintings in there, the mangled corpse of Lestor, Lucienna’s father, and Lucienna, the one woman who ever loved him. A part of Raphael burned away in that fire as well. If he could, he would happily have burned down to ash with them. He felt dead inside as he returned to Cania to face his father.

“You spit in my face by not showing up to our meetings and now you arrive late yet again. I sent Lestor to collect you five hours ago. Where is he?” Mephistopheles voice boomed throughout the throne room.

“Lestor is dead,” Raphael answered.

“Dead?” Mephistopheles asked in a dangerously low voice and leaned forward on his frozen throne. “Why? Because he did his job and informed me that you were too busy fucking mortals instead of doing your job of collecting their souls?”

Raphael inhaled slowly, trying to calm the rage inside him.

“I promise you, son,” Mephistopheles said the word ‘son’ as if it was a joke to him. “Fucking mortal women isn’t worth the headache. It’s how you end up with useless fucking half-breed bastards like you.”

Raphael swallowed hard and looked at the ground, as the devils in his father’s court snickered and laughed at him.

“You have high thoughts about yourself,” Mephistopheles said. “But let me remind you that you are not even close to a rank where you are entitled to stick your cock in anything or to keep consorts! Those privileges are reserved for Archdevils exclusively, which you are not. The only reason you are alive, is because I see use for you. I will not tolerate you getting distracted from your purpose. You work for me! Is that clear?”

Raphael hated that his father could still make him flinch, just by yelling at him. He nodded.

“Yes, my lord,” Raphael said quietly, still grinding his teeth in frustration.

“Good, my boy,” Mephistopheles said with a smile that would make anyone uncomfortable.

Raphael bowed his head and turned to leave.

“One last thing,” Mephistopheles called out. “I have a gift for my little would-be lordling.”

Raphael took a deep breath and turned around. Whatever this was, it could not be good. Mephistopheles smirked at him and snapped his fingers. Someone entered the throne room and Raphael’s closed his eyes in embarrassment at the sight.

One of his father’s incubi that Raphael had slept with during one of his visits to the palace, walked through the door. They were wearing Raphael’s form. They sauntered into the room, wearing skimpy leather clothing.

The throne room was filled with roaring laughter. Even Mephistopheles was laughing from his frozen throne.

“A fitting consort for you, wouldn’t you say, boy?” Mephistopheles chuckled. “Since you only ever seem to think about yourself. Their name is Haarlep. Give it a few nights with them and you won’t even remember that little mortal bitch you seemed so obsessed with.”

Rage was threatening to overtake him. He wanted to kill every last laughing devil in the room. He wanted to give his father the most excruciating death he could think of. Raphael also knew that he was no match for any of them. He had to bide his time, and that time would come someday. He would make sure of it.

“What do you say then?” Mephistopheles said, looking down on him from his throne.

Raphael looked at the incubus with disdain and then at his father. Raphael wanted to say many things in that moment: That he would one day take his father’s throne. That Mephistopheles would one day cower at the feet of his son. That he did not care if he had to wait millennium after millennium for him to finally get his revenge.

Raphael took a deep breath and bit his tongue, though it took everything in him to do so.

“Thank you, my lord,” Raphael said through gritted teeth.

“Good boy,” Mephistopheles said with a smile. “Now get out of my sight. I hope you have learned something from this.”

Raphael was sitting in his bed, looking at the right-hand painting in his boudoir. The painting that Lucienna had gifted him all those years ago. He had spent so much money throughout the years on getting it carefully restored.

He couldn’t remember her face anymore, but he could remember all those colors he studied when he looked at her. Her red hair, that was not red, but rather nuances of brown, orange, and gold. Her eyes that were not entirely green, but rather shades of brown, green and yellow. He heard the sound of her heartbeat in his mind each time he went to rest.

When he looked at Tav, that stubborn whelp, he sometimes found himself wondering what her heartbeat sounded like. Wondering which colors he would use if he were to paint her hair and her eyes. And there it was again that flutter where his heart would have been if he had one. Lucienna’s words echoed in his mind.

“Maybe you don’t have a literal heart, but you won’t convince me that you don’t at least have one metaphorically.”

No. He didn’t and he couldn’t. That part of him was dead and gone and it would remain that way. Raphael shook his head and crushed that feeling in his chest. No more distractions. Not when he was so close to the crown. Not when he was so close to finally getting his revenge.

[jmorpart]

@beecreeper Hii, Yes they are!!! I’ve been quite fond of the headcanon/association of forget-me-nots with Gortash & Durge, so I try to sneakily include them in most Gortash illustrations I do! I also included them in my very first Gortash drawing, as seen here!

With this, I’d also like to showcase the other small details on this keychain design.

As adorned with the Forget-Me-Nots, The golden hand in the center is supposed to be the Symbol of bane. While bane’s symbol is usually drawn in black, Gold is very much Gortash’s color, so I went with that stylistic choice instead; as well as including Gortash’s netherstone in the center of the hand, to somewhat mimic how Gortash keeps his netherstone on his hand. I thought it was a fun little detail to include.

And as I’ve mentioned previously, I plan to make a series of BG3 keychains with this similar side profile style and having an item or symbol of some sort underneath them that represents the character or is tied to the character in some form or fashion. It’s a fun idea that I can’t wait to get to work on the rest of the planned keychains!

Here’s some of my other planned keychain portrait designs I have in mind. (I’m Very much picking favorites in terms of order/which ones I plan to draw next.

• Durge with blood drips and the Bhaal symbol underneath him

• Rolan with either the wizard symbol under him or a thunder wave symbol, I haven’t decided yet!

• Cambion Raphael with an infernal contract, or theatrical masks below.

• Human Raphael with a poem/letters or a mouse.

• Kar’niss praying to Lolth, surrounded by lolth candles and the moon lantern at the bottom. (Very excited to design this one in particular, Kar’niss doesn’t get enough love!)

• Ketheric with the Myrkul symbol

• Probably will do an Orin & Bhaal design as well, simply to complete the trio.

• Halsin with a Bear paw symbol

• Zevlor with the paladin/hellriders symbol

• Dammon with an anvil/forge themes

- I also plan to try and figure out design ideas for all of the companions, but these are all the ones I have in mind so far! I’ll keep y’all updated as I work on these keychain ideas. :)

I already have WIPs/Sketches for both the Rolan and Durge keychains, so those will be finished next!

Hello Gortnation; I humbly present to y’all, my latest Portrait of Lord Enver Whoretash. I’m turning this design into a keychain as well!

I finally got around to finishing it and I’m so very happy with the result!

Turns out the only way to keep yourself out of artblock is drawing your favorite blorbo repeatedly. ✨

Anyways keychains of canon Durge will hopefully be finished next so we can have keychains of the murderbfs

[monotoneprowess]

Day 20: Barberini National Gallery

Today we went to the Palazzo Barberini, which holds the Barberini National Gallery. It is a gorgeous building from the photos that I can see, because sadly the entire front facing facade is under some type of reconstruction or cleaning currently, as the entire thing is covered from top to bottom in scaffolding.

But, the actual gallery was beautiful and while there is currently stuff that I missed I don't really feel like I missed much today which I can't tell if that's a good or bad thing.

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The bottom floor, near the entrance, is the floor that contains a lot more medieval and early renaissance stuff. And I will be the first to admit, I am not a very large fan of medieval art. There are certainly pieces that I enjoy and consider my favourites, but overall I don't really seek it out so I didn't actually look around much on this floor. But if you are a fan of medieval/early Renaissance, you'll probably love this floor.

(Saint Sebastian by Antonello de Saliba, 1490-1495, oil on panel.)

I will say though, my favourite thing about this floor was the amount of paintings depicting St. Sebastian. For those of you who don't know, there is a history of St. Sebastian being seen as a gay icon since the late 1970s/early 1980s, so I've been on a mission this trip to see as many variations of him as I possibly can. Plus I think his story of martyrdom is one of the most interesting.

St. Sebastian also has a history of appearing in more paintings during plaques and bouts of disease in communities. Truthfully I don't actually know why this is, but I always interpreted as people hoping that the disease won't kill them and they'll keep on living, like how the arrows didn't kill Sebastian in his story.

So yeah, lots of St. Sebastian paintings on this lower floor that I adored.

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The upper floor is where things start getting more serious art history wise, as this gallery boasts multiple pieces by artists like Raphael, Titian, Caravaggio, Rubens, and even a piece by Leonardo.

This floor is mostly sorted by the big name artists like Raphael and Caravaggio, and then filling the gaps between the big names with artists who seem to be trying to emulate the artists that they're in between.

(Allegory of Painting believed to be a self portrait of Artemisia Gentileschi, 1630-1635, oil on canvas.)

I will say, they casually had a piece by Artemisia Gentileschi who I absolutely adore but there weren't any really any signs or things pointing out this gorgeous work be her.

Also this piece is quite literally located right around the corner from Caravaggio's Judith and Holofernes painting, which weirdly felt like a jab at Artemisia since she also has a very famous Judith and Holofernes painting (which I much prefer personally, I think she handles the subject matter better). It probably doesn't mean anything, but felt weird to just have her hanging around as one of the "Caravaggio Copycats".

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As a side note as well, they do temporary exhibitions in a small portion of the gallery and the current one is about contemporary American art. And as somebody who loves studying post-modern to contemporary American art, I absolutely had to see it.

I'll keep my review of the exhibit short because it's only temporary as far as I know, but I enjoyed it. My only major complaint is because of how small the gallery is, it's very weirdly sorted simply because they just had so much art to display. I wish they also didn't have to have it spread out across two floors, because the spiral staircase up was hell.

But great art, absolutely loved it.

(Untitled #517 by Cindy Sherman, 2016, metal print.)

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Art wise, today was a much calmer day then most of our days up to this point. And while the gallery has so much to offer, I didn't feel like I really missed anything. Maybe I wasn't looking hard enough, but I just felt like it was a little small for how important of a gallery it is. But I suppose if there is important stuff that I missed, then I'll have to come back when it's not under reconstruction and rooms are closed.

Also would've loved to see the facade today but alas, that's for another trip to Italy.

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 4

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

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

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

*** Raphael has Opinions about wine. Wyll has even stronger opinions on using projections for customer service. Durge is projecting, but only figuratively. They'll probably be fine. ***

“Oh, it’s so nice to see you here! I mean, it would probably be best if you were not here. Not here here! I mean, here in Avernus. I’m happy you’re here. As in, in my house. It’s literally the House of Hope now. And you’re welcome in it!”

“Thank you, Hope. It means a lot to us--”

“Anytime! I can’t remember the last time I had guests from outside. I don’t think I have had any, really. Except Yurgir? He stopped by to say hi. And also to burn all the portraits of Raphael I had stashed away. I think he mostly showed up to do that, really, but he also said hi on his way in and out. He was very polite, all things considered.”

“... Yes, I imagine the bar is not very high,” Wyll muttered, looking around. The House of Hope had certainly… changed, compared to the description the others had made of it. The souls wandering it seemed more at ease, no longer rushing from one task to the other and muttering to themselves nonsensically. The looming portraits of the former master of the house were gone, and so were the statues and the sense of foreboding that, he'd been told, permeated every stone. 

Something was still slightly off about it, but it was more of a home than a house, and he supposed it was the best one could strive for in the Hells.  Behind him, Karlach sighed. 

“Ah, a shame we missed him. He’s one hell of a warrior, no pun intended, and he might have been willing to join us in our little suicide mission. He’d be just crazy enough to do it.”

“Oh! I’ll join you!”

“Hope, this is really something different from anything else we’ve been through.”

“Even the giant floating brain with the all-powerful crown?”

Karlach opened her mouth, paused, tilted her head. “... You know, maybe not too much further up the scale. But still, we’ll need all the help we can get.”

“See? You need my help.”

“Well… let’s see how many of our companions we can contact,” Wyll said, and allowed himself one last mouthful of wine before he stood. It had taken them a few days to fight their way across the section of Avernus they were in and get to the House of Hope, but it had been well worth it. Whatever defenses Raphael had put up to keep other devils out were still working, and the only way for them to get in was being allowed in by Hope.

Wyll would have to go back to the Material Plane to try and reach their companions, to find out if someone could help. At the moment, he only knew where he could find Gale and Halsin; Lae’zel was leading her own war, and everyone else was wandering Gods knew where. Jaheira and Minsc were probably in Baldur’s Gate, but the city was in such dire need of help to rebuild all that had been destroyed, Wyll hated the idea of taking them from that duty.

All in all, Gale and Halsin were his safest bet; once he got to them, they might help him track down at least some of the others. But it could take some time, and he refused to leave Avernus until Karlach was somewhere safe. He’d joined her there to help keep her out of Zariel’s grasp, and he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if anything happened while he left her to fend for herself - hence their detour to reach the House of Hope. 

Karlach had not precisely been thrilled - “Fine, I’ll just be there eating dirt or whatever!” - but the risk of being forced back into the Blood War by Zariel was even less alluring, and in the end she’d agreed. Begrudgingly. And making him promise her a dozen times he’d be careful, like he was going to the Hells rather than leaving.

It was not a long walk to the room of the Outer Portals. Most were shut down now, but on Wyll’s request, one was now functional. Beyond it, he could see Waterdeep - and, above most buildings, Blackstaff Academy. Hopefully, Professor Gale Dekarios would be able to help out a friend in need… and help him find the others, if possible. 

“Be careful,” Karlach called out again. “And tell Tara I said hi, will you?”

Wyll turned, and smiled. “Of course,” he promised, and stepped through the portal.

***

“Vis medicatrix.”

It had been a very long time since Raphael had to cast a healing spell of any kind. In the rare cases he needed any healing he’d consume souls, but that was not an option now, and he had to resort to old tricks. Remembering the words was relatively easy; recalling the exact gesture came harder, but he got there in the end.

It didn’t heal him entirely, not by a long shot, but it gave him some relief at least. Maybe he could try casting it again, but decided against it. He wanted to speed up the healing, but not so much it would be noticed; he’d rather the rat and their friends remained unaware that he was able to cast any spells. Just to make it even more surprising when he killed them all.

He did enjoy surprises a great deal, after all, when it was him to spring them on someone else.

Raphael let out a long breath and leaned back against the bedpost. Almost a week since he’d been brought there, and he could just now sit up without pain. According to Isobel Thorm, he might even be able to walk unaided in another week. She had seemed genuinely pleased as she said that. How moving; Raphael was almost tempted to consider sparing her life.

Then he looked out of the window to see that the sun kept on shining, birds kept on chirping, children kept on chattering, and promptly decided that no, he was sparing absolutely no one. He couldn’t wait to gather enough power to level that place. Except that he had to wait, and it frustrated him to no en--

“Ah--!”

Raphael’s thoughts were cut off when a sudden shiver went up his spine, the faint but unmistakable feeling of hands running across skin, smooth palms and calloused fingers. He ground his teeth and gripped the nightshirt, like feeling the rough fabric under his fingers would do anything to stop the sensation of being undressed. Heat was already pooling in his loins, the phantom touch went lower down the small of his back and oh, Haarlep would be in so much trouble when he returned--

“Um. Not the best moment, is it?”

Raphael turned to the door so fast he almost sprained his neck. He tried to snap at the rat - Durge, or whatever idiotic name they went by those days - to get out, but another shiver ran up his spine and all that left his mouth was a moan. Perfect. Wasn’t this simply perfect. Raphael clenched his teeth to hold back another moan and dropped his head against the bedpost, face heating up even as the sensation began to slowly fade.

“Are you very pleased to see me, or is Haarlep…?”

“I will never be pleased to see you,” Raphael snapped, eyes tightly shut. 

“Yes, that’s what I figured. Been there. At least it’s usually over quickly.” A pause. “That was not meant as a jab, by the way.”

Teeth still ground against the fading sensation, and focused on little else but getting his breathing back under control, Raphael scoffed. “A jab about what?”

“... You know what? Never mind.” The rat placed a bowl on the nightstand, and Raphael turned to have a look, ready to make his displeasure known if he found it filled with fiddlehead soup again. To his relief - mild relief, for he still resented the sudden need for nourishment to keep his body alive - it wasn’t. “Venison stew, if that’s what you’re wondering. Astarion went hunting last night.”

Well, at least it wasn’t fiddlehead soup again. Raphael took the bowl; he was still getting used to the lack of heat at the core of his being, and the warmth of it against his palms was welcomed, at least. So was the smell, but he’d rather willfully ignore how it made his stomach rumble. He’d never felt hunger before: enjoying food was a pleasant pastime in Hell, not a necessity. 

The need of refueling one’s body continuously had always struck him as ineffective and annoying. He hadn’t been wrong: it was both. “Is there a reason,” Raphael asked, reaching for the spoon, “why it’s always you or the druid who take me my meals?”

“Isobel is doing more than enough for you as is, Astarion showed a little too much interest in sampling your blood, and Aylin showed far too much interest in taking your head.”

“Surely, there are others who can take a bowl upstairs.”

“None we know for sure could take you in a fight, should you decide to put up one.”

Raphael turned back to the bowl, and ate some venison to hide his scowl. The rats were being more cautious than he’d hoped; despite knowing of his-- mutilation-- condition, they didn’t simply assume him to be harmless, and were not entirely dropping their guard. Annoying, that. Particularly as he’d look less and less harmless as time passed and his wounds healed. If they were so cautious around him while he was bedbound, they’d be all the more cautious once he could stand and walk again.

If they even let it get to that point.

“You still consider me a threat? Why, I’m honored,” he finally said, voice dry. “Although that begs the question of why you’d keep someone so dangerous alive in the first place.”

“I know it seems foolish--”

“It seems foolish because it is.” Raphael replied, and ate some more. Foolish may also be a good word to describe what he was doing now, taunting the being keeping him alive over the fact they were keeping him alive in the first place, but it was a calculated risk. Raphael was fairly certain it wouldn’t result in murder; the Chosen Bhaalspawn seemed keen to avoid resorting to it those days.

A sigh. “... Are you looking to get killed?”

“Not particularly, but I am sure you’ll understand, this is unprecedented,” Raphael replied. He gestured to himself and the room both, and narrowed his eyes. “What do you want in return?”

A raised eyebrow. “You think me foolish indeed,” they replied, “not to have learned to avoid deals with devils after all this.”

A scoff, bitter as bile. Raphael looked to the far end of the room, where a mirror showed him his own reflection. He’d never hated his human form - he even liked it, as it served him perfectly well - but now that it hosted only half of his soul, and the wrong one at that, it looked so frail. So small. Powerless, dull, on its way to become dust and ashes as time marched on and he was trapped within it. And whoever had taken scissors to his hair while he was unconscious should, quite frankly, be flayed.

“Am I to believe,” he sneered, looking at the rat through the mirror, “that you’re keeping me alive out of the kindness of your heart?”

The bhaalspawn returned his gaze through the same mirror with blood red eyes. Raphael did not much like how they towered over him. Dragonborns had a way of looking imposing without even trying; perhaps that was why Bhaal had chosen that form for the first ever offspring carved out of his own dead flesh.

“Stranger things have happened.”

“That is not how my kind operates,” Raphael replied, and put down the bowl. Still, he did understand how mortals operated; a necessity, in his line of work. He didn’t have to think too much, nor too hard, to guess at least one thing: the child of Bhaal whom Bhaal had tried to extinguish felt some kind of misguided kinship towards a son of Mephistopheles who’d narrowly escaped his own father’s clutches.

That was foolish, childishly so, but it could work to his advantage if he fed the delusion. “And it isn’t how your kind operates, either. Bhaal would have shown me no mercy. And Mephistopheles--” he paused, and he had to force out the words like they burned his throat. “Mephistopheles would not have failed to destroy you as I did.”

“Yet both failed to destroy their children.”

“As much as it pains me to admit it, that wasn’t by our own power alone. We both had help.”

“We did. That’s a thing about being just another mortal.” A shrug of massive shoulders. “Sooner or later, you find someone who can lend you a hand.”

What a nice sentiment, and what a cartful of horse excrement. Raphael let out a chuckle that was only half an act. “Most mortals don’t have Jergal at hand to resurrect them, I’d wager.”

“Jergal?” The rat turned to look at him, taken aback. “It was Withers who brought me back.”

Raphael blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Reached up to rub his forehead. 

They cannot be this stupid, surely. 

“You are aware, I am sure,” he finally said, “that Withers was not his name? That was Jergal you had in your camp all along - you were aware of that, weren’t you?”

The rat stared.

“... The Scribe of the Dead. The Bleak Seneschal.”

And stared.

“You had the Lord of the End of Everything in your camp and you didn’t know?”

A scowl, arms crossing defensively. “He refused to tell-- how was I supposed to know?”

“Did the lot of you think you’d just stumbled upon a withered corpse who just so happened to be able to resurrect the dead, and willing to do it for a pittance, because he enjoyed looking at your frankly forgettable faces?” 

“... I suppose we didn’t think it over a lot,” they finally muttered, and Raphael let out a sigh.

“You didn’t think at all, I’d say. How in the nine Hells you bested a Netherbrain will forever remain a mystery to me.”

The rat shrugged, picked something from their bag. A bottle of wine, by the looks of it. “Well, good thing we did, or else your return to the Material Plane would have been far more unpleasant. I doubt mindflayers would have offered you venison stew. And you don’t strike me as someone with a taste for brains.”

Raphael scoffed. “Oh wait. Now I remember how you bested it. By backstabbing me”

“Isn’t it lucky for us that you’re not the type to hold grudges?” they said, like they didn’t know perfectly well how Raphael excelled at holding grudges, one of his many qualities. They opened the wine, and poured it in the empty goblet on the nightstand, next to a lanceboard where Raphael had been playing a game against himself, bored half out of his mind. “I did promise you the best red wine I could get my hands on, and this is it. As in, it was the only bottle of red wine I found in the cellar. Everything else was spirits and ale.”

“You’re offering me vinegar, is what I’m hearing.”

“You man of little faith,” the rat muttered, just as annoying as Raphael remembered but somewhat more flippant. The vampire spawn had been rubbing off them quite a lot, hadn’t he? Just when Raphael thought they couldn’t be any more insufferable. Unaware of his thoughts, they pushed the goblet in his hand. “Here, try it.”

“What wine is it?”

“You’re such a connoisseur, you tell me.”

Raphael glowered, pulling back his teeth in a powerless snarl. “I am not here to humor you,” he snapped, and the bhaalspawn held up the bottle, where only scraps of a faded, yellowed label still clung on.

“I literally have no idea what wine it is. All I can tell is that it's wine, and it’s red. And…” a pause, and they sniffed at the opened bottle. “... Well, it smells nice,” they added. Raphael frowned, unconvinced, but he did lift the goblet to his nose. The sweet, strong scent gave him pause. He blinked, looked at the dark red wine more closely, and finally sampled it. It had yet to properly breathe outside the bottle, yet to develop the aroma, but it was familiar all the same despite the heaviness - sweet, dark, a hint of a burn in the aftertaste. 

Well. That was the first pleasant surprise since he’d awakened in that devil forsaken hole. How had a bottle of Berduskan Dark come to be in a place like that? He looked up to ask the bhaalspawn as much, and found himself staring as they drank a few mouthfuls directly from the bottle before setting it back on the nightstand. “It tastes good, too.”

“... It’s fine wine. The kind to be drunk properly, but I see you’re partial to guzzling fine things down like they’re cheap ale.”

“That’s the best way to drink anything.”

“Your ignorance should have ceased to surprise me, and yet. I’m waiting to drink the rest of mine for a reason.”

“I thought you were just being haughty.”

Raphael scowled, and tilted up his head. Haughtily. “Good red wine should be poured and allowed to breathe before you drink it. You’ve wasted half a bottle of very expensive wine.”

“Define expensive.”

“I’d say upwards to fifteen hundred pieces of gold per bottle.”

“What!” The rat’s voice came out several octaves higher than normal. It was the first time since he’d awakened there that anything Raphael said to anyone struck a nerve, and he savored the moment like that too was a fine vintage. Small victories were still victories. 

He smiled, and put the goblet on the nightstand to let at least that breathe so it could be properly tasted. “What would your dear little vampling say if he knew you handed such a rare vintage to me?”

A soft scoff. “He wouldn’t be as heartbroken as you think. All wine tastes like muck to him.”

Annoyingly, that was a point well taken. Raphael scowled, the brief moment of triumph soured far too quickly. “Mph. Regardless, he may not be pleased that such a valuable-- did you just happen to have a decanter in your bag?”

“You never know what you may need on the road.”

“Who did you steal this from, I wonder? A drow matron? A vampire lord? Bhaal?”

“A lich. But most of the time, I just pick up things left around. I got myself a bag of holding just so I could take anything that’s not bolted to the ground.”

“So you pick up everything you find? Fitting for a rat, stashing everything in your pouches.”

A shrug. “Rats don’t have pouches. I suspect you’re thinking of hamsters. After seeing Boo fight, I’ll take that,” they replied, not in the slightest insulted. They poured the rest of the wine in the decanter before setting that, too, down on the nightstand. Plus a couple more books on the small stack of books Raphael had already read, or skimmed when they were not worth reading, which was the case with most. They stood. “I’ll let you rest.”

Ah, blessed silence at last. Raphael leaned back against the headboard, listening to the key turning in the lock and the steps fading away before he cast one more healing spell on himself and turned his attention to the books. Reading a good book, sipping good wine - that never failed to make him forget any and all headaches, although what he was dealing with now was worse than a headache by several scales of magnitude. 

That, and the books were probably mediocre at best. Raphael sighed, picked up one of the books, and read the title - only for something in his stomach to lurch, suddenly and unexpectedly. For several long moments he could only stare.

Mother of Flames.

Had he been able to stand, Raphael may have done something rash - like going after the accursed bhaalspawn, wrapping his hands around their throat, screaming for them to tell him what they wanted, how could they know, what game were they playing. But he could not stand, and suddenly he couldn’t find his voice either. He could only lay there, ears buzzing faintly and mouth dry, turning page after page of a tale he already knew.

-- the devilish spawn came forth into our world in blood and flames. The unfortunate man returned to a dying wife and a horned monstrosity shrieking on the charred, bloody mattress. He drew his blade to kill it-- 

There was a snarl, and Raphael didn’t even realize it had come from him. The old book hit the opposite wall with less force than he’d hoped, but it was enough to break the spine and for pages to come apart, fluttering to the ground. He let himself fall back, barely holding back from throwing a fireball that would annihilate the damn thing but also destroy his pretense of utter helplessness.

His hands shook, the cold empty nothing where half his soul once was ached, and he felt bile in the back of his throat. It made no sense; the book told him nothing he didn’t already know. What was there that his soul, half his soul, the blasted human part of it, could not handle?

Raphael squeezed his eyes shut and cursed everyone he could curse - the damned baahlspawn and their companions, the traitorous orthon who’d aided them, Hope, the concept of hope itself, his father, the Material Plane, Baator and everything in-between - until he finally ran out of curses, and lay silent for a time, trying not to think of anything.

It didn’t work; he was not wired to remain unthinking for long. Raphael scowled, and grabbed the goblet of wine, emptying it in a few gulps. Then he filled it once more, and drank again. It affected him exactly as he knew it would affect a mortal. 

For once, it was a relief.

***

Wyll realized he was going to need some more wine - large amounts of it, in fact - within one hour of his arrival in Waterdeep.

“What do you mean, a sabbatical-- he’s only been a professor here for what, three months?”

The secretary - or rather, the projection of one - smiled soullessly at Wyll’s disbelief. “Professor Dekarios got special permission after presenting extremely promising theories that merited further research in the field. He departed from Waterdeep two days ago. According to our records, he will be back within three months.”

“Uuugh. Just my luck.” Wyll rubbed his forehead, feeling a massive headache building up between his horns. “Where did he go?”

“That is information we cannot divulge.”

“This is urgent. Isn’t there any real person I can speak to, please? A faculty member?”

Another smile as the projection flickered briefly. “I am sorry, that is not among our options. If you wish to enquire about enrollment for next year, say enrollment. If you wish to enquire--”

Oh Gods, he really needed a drink. Wyll sighed, mulling over his few options as he looked around for a tavern. He still would rather not distract Jaheira and Minsc from their work in Baldur’s Gate - the Gods knew, his father needed all the help he could get - so really, Halsin was next. He’d talked a great deal about the new settlement he was helping build in the lands around Moonrise Towers, and how his wanderlust was gone now that he had somewhere to truly belong. He’d probably not be on sabbatical and maybe, just maybe, he’d have a slight idea of where he could start looking for some of their other companions. It was worth a try.

Wyll breathed in deeply, enjoying the fresh air, the lack of sulfur and the absence of fire and shrieks. It was a relief, but it was somewhat soured by the fact Karlach could not enjoy the same things… yet. But they would change that. He was sure of it. 

Wyll headed to the nearest tavern for a drink and to enquire about the quickest route to Moonrise Towers, just as the sun began to set.

***

“Fiat lux!”

Four orbs of light appeared in the middle of the hall, dancing slowly in a circle, bright enough to eclipse the candles and nearly burned-out fire in the hearth. Israfel grinned, trying not to break concentration. Was that it, all it took to cast spells? Some words and the right gestures? Nan had made it sound so difficult. Or maybe it was, and it only came easy for him because he was half a devil?

I got to learn how to make illusions next, Israfel thought, still focused on the light. He should have learned that first, really, because then he could have used it in the kitchen, to distract the cook long enough to steal a bite of the sweets she was making. Or at least see what kind of sweets they were.

“It’s a surprise, birthday boy,” she’d laughed him off when he tried to talk her into at least telling him. “What kind of surprise would it be if I told you?”

“I hate surprises,” he’d protested, to absolutely no avail.

“You won’t hate these sweets, I promise you that. Have I ever cooked anything that was not to your taste? No? I didn’t think so. Now scram and don’t come back until evening.”

He’d left in a huff, wondering if she would have been that unyielding if he still made his displeasure known through uncontrolled bouts of fire. But Nan had told him it was unbecoming, and so he hadn’t thrown a tantrum in… a while. The servants liked him better now, but it made it so much harder for him to get what he wanted, he was starting to suspect it wasn’t the great trade-off Nan had made it sound like. Sometimes he could bargain with them to get what he wanted - actually, he had a knack for it - but Amira was always so annoyingly uninterested in anything he had to offer. 

… Maybe, if he was really quick to learn the illusion spell--

“What is this?”

“Gah!”

Israfel winced and turned, the orbs of light fading the second his concentration broke. The master of the house stood in the doorway, looking at him with solemn black eyes under a mop of prematurely gray hair. It rather made Israfel wish he’d picked Invisibility as his first spell to learn. The man wasn’t very happy to see him on good days; the tenth anniversary of his wife’s death in childbed was probably not a good day. Israfel had thought he’d be away longer than that; he usually spent that entire day at the crypt.

“It was a spell. Dancing Lights,” he said, and forced himself to meet his eye. He was ten now, and he shouldn’t look down anymore. It wasn’t like the man had ever done anything to punish him; he just wasn’t overly thrilled about his existence, which Israfel could live with. If he returned from a war to find his wife dead and someone else’s spawn under his roof, he wouldn’t find it a very fair bargain either.

“Mmh. I was told you showed interest in spellcasting. Do it again, will you? This room is much too dark.”

He did, and the orbs returned, resuming their slow dance a couple of feet off the floor. In their light, the ever-grieving husband of his long-dead mother looked even older than usual, even more tired; Israfel could see that his eyes were puffy and reddened. When he spoke his voice sounded a little hoarse, too.

“I have been told,” he said, still on the doorway, “that you can now take a human form.”

“Yes, sir.”

He could, and he’d found out almost by accident. He wasn’t even sure how it had happened. He’d wanted to go out, but his wings were starting to get too big for a cloak to hide them. He got frustrated about that, and wished for an easier way to go unnoticed. The frustration had boiled over into something, a burst of energy, and suddenly he was a little shorter, his head a great deal lighter with his horns gone.

He’d looked in the mirror to see a stranger, a human boy with brown eyes and skin that had only a very, very faint reddish tint to it. That was weeks ago, though; now he could switch back and forth with almost no effort.

“May I see?” the master spoke, and Israfel blinked, taken aback. He wasn’t sure why he’d want to see it - the less he saw of him, the better - but he had no reason to say no, so he did. 

It came so easily, he didn’t even need to break the concentration keeping the spell going. He looked back to see the man suck in a sharp breath, and recoil as though about to step back. But he did not, and breathed out slowly before he spoke, his voice barely more than a murmur. 

“... It seems Nan was right,” he said. “You look like your mother.”

His mother. Ten years dead and still everywhere in the house - in every stone, in every object, in the very air they breathed - but so very rarely spoken about, and never as his mother. The unspoken presence was always ‘the master’s late wife’, or ‘the late mistress’, or even ‘mother of flames’ in some whispers. Israfel didn’t even know what she looked like. There was a portrait, he knew, in her husband’s private quarters, but he’d never been there. He had never wondered very hard, either, and now he wasn’t sure what to say.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to say anything. The master just breathed in again, and turned to pull something out from his satchel. It was a lyre, and he looked at it in silence for a few moments before holding it out. “I was also told you showed interest in learning to play an instrument. This was gathering dust in the crypt. You may as well use it, but it will need new strings first.”

“... Thank you.” It was a little awkward, but Israfel stepped forward and took the lyre. He was no expert, but he could tell it was of good quality, polished black wood and ivory. He stared at it for a few moments, and looked up again.

Why are you giving me this?, he wanted to ask. Was it hers?, he almost did ask. But when he opened his mouth, he blurted out something entirely different. “I didn’t mean to kill her.”

Another sharp breath, another slow exhale. “... You had no choice in the matter,” he finally said. He didn’t sound angry, he never did. He just tore his gaze away from him, and stepped past, up the stairs. “Do tell Amira I’ll be eating in my room,” he added, and was gone before Israfel could say anything else. Not that he would have known what to say, anyway.

For a long time he just looked at his very first instrument, in the bright light of his very first spell.

***

As far as work in Mephistar went, cleaning the vault was not the worst. 

Since Duke Baalphegor had left the court - but not Cania, oh no, Mephistopheles’ former consort was still very much around, hiding in plain sight and moving devils and debtors like pieces on a lanceboard no one else could see - Dalah had seen her other attendants reassigned to a variety of duties. Some had gone to the pits; she was rather relieved not to be one of them. 

She had been among the debtors who had remained in the court, and sometimes she wondered if Baalphegor had been able to pull some string to make that happen. It seemed far too convenient, with the vault not all that far away from the dungeons.

“I have a mission for you,” she had told her, handing her the ring. Then, “You gifted Raphael his life once, to please Mephistopheles. I need you to do it again, to spite him.”

No offer could be sweeter than getting to spite the archdevil for once, and she’d accepted. She had played her part, the incubus had played theirs part; now it was back to duties, wondering what that had been all about in the first place. Baalphegor must have had her reasons to save Raphael, she always had reasons, but there was no telling what they may be. 

The incubus had no idea, either, but they generally seemed to hold little interest in anything that did not lead back to the bedroom. The reason why Mephistopheles’ consort of thousands of years had suddenly left Cania, or why she’d be interested in the fate of one of his spawn, seemed as uninteresting as dust to them.

Or at least so it seemed. Haarlep may very well know more than what they were letting on, have a higher stake on it than they were telling anyone. It was difficult to tell with them. It was difficult to tell with anyone in Mephistar. 

“Are you certain, Chamberlain Barbas,” one of the devils overseeing them was speaking, all politeness and courtesy, “that the new security measures will keep others from entering this vault? Lord Mephistopheles was most displeased with the recent breach.”

“Absolutely.” Barbas’ response was as calm, yet as oily as the thick black hair pulled back between curled horns. “We are protected from any portal in the Material Plane now - never again will someone be able to simply stroll in. And I have added, of course, some extra security. If you're inclined to test it, that can most certainly be arranged.”

“Oh, no need. I am certain you’ve thought of everything.”

A smile. “Your trust is moving,” Chamberlain Barbas replied, and turned to Dalah and another couple of debtors close by. Dalah did not know their names; fraternization was far from encouraged. And neither was the use of their names in the first place. “You, what’s that box doing all the way to the back? Bring it over. Its contents need to go on display.”

The box was right past the threshold of a tall doorway. Dalah was the last to step through; if what she had could be called life, that delay was what saved it. 

The roar came suddenly, loud enough to drown out all other noise - then came the heat, and the screams. Dalah was thrown back, and lifted herself on her elbows just in time to see the two souls who’d entered the room first give one last, blood-curdling scream before collapsing, half-melted and charred, into the pool of fire. Hellfire.

Something that looked like a hoof wreathed in flames came down on the skull of the debtor, crushing it in a pool of gore that immediately began to sizzle. Dalah looked up, unable to move, to a vision of horror - all exposed black bone and glowing fire, skin stretched tightly over three fused, bestial skulls crowned in flames, gaping mouths crammed with fangs. Yellow eyes stared at her, betraying no thought at all.

“See, our Lord found some use for it, in the end,” Dalah heard Barbas say, calmly, as though from miles away. “Once free of the unfortunate imperfections that come with humanity, and with a little conditioning, the whelp could be repurposed. A brilliant idea, if I do say so myself.”

Towering above Dalah, the thing that had once been half of a whole being shrieked, and lifted a flaming claw to strike. She’d made him - she’d made this, and now it would undo her again and for good, her folly, her mistake, her blood, all the strife she’d brought to the world - this monster she’d helped create in exchange for a few more years of life for a mortal man she’d loved, long ago, when she could still recall his face. Now she only recalled his sword, glistening and he lifted it above their bed, her deathbed.

Don’t kill it, she’d managed, gripping his sleeve. Its sire will end you if you kill it. You’ll live if it lives.

There had been tears, pleading, but she was fading away and beyond saving. She’d heard one last question, choked out, as all the light in the world faded and the wails of the being she had brought forth echoed in her ears.

Does it have a name?

And she’d said… she’d whispered…

“Israfel.”

The claw stopped in mid-air, close enough that the hellfire burning within it singed her hair, but did not strike. The yellow eyes bore into hers, unreadable, and the creature remained still as a statue, frozen in place. Behind her, there was a mocking laugh.

“It seems your new guardian needs a little more calibration, Barbas.”

An annoyed scoff. “It’s nothing I cannot fix,” Chamberlain Barbas snarled, and lifted a hand. The beast shuddered and staggered back, shrieking in agony, and Dalah didn’t stop to think.

She just stood, and ran.

***

[Back to Chapter 3]

[On to Chapter 5]

[Back to Start]

[devildomwriter]

Game Fun Facts 201-220

Celestial Realm Special

• In the celestial realm, Raphael never trusted Mammon in his room

• Mammon as an angel sold bird feathers and told lesser angels they were seraph feathers and tricked them into buying them

• Mammon almost fell from the celestial realm thousands of years before the war thanks to his shenanigans. Thankfully Lucifer stepped in

• Asmouse in the celestial realm was known as the Jewel of the Celestial Realm

• Among the seraphs Simeon was known to be the most care free and accepting

• After Lucifer’s fall, Michael kept his ring and stored it in his room secretly, though Simeon knew it was there

• Lucifer recommended Beelzebub as the next Seraph. This makes Beelzebub the second highest in position out of his brothers in the celestial realm

• Angels can be both seraph and archangel. Though archangel is the second highest rank, their job is to be leaders and protectors of the other ranks. Michael and Raphael are both seraphs and archangels

• The brothers are most “homesick” for celestial realm food

• After falling Lucifer didn’t realize he’d been made into a demon until Barbatos pointed it out. This is likely because he was unconscious as he fell from heaven as shown in an animation from a UR+ card

• Lucifer and his brothers had lived in the celestial realm palace

• Levi and a few of his brothers had a secret room they’d hide in when they needed a break from work

• Leviathan was general of the celestial navy and after it was made redundant thanks to Diavolo wanting peace, he became bored and his inferiority/useless complex developed

• Michael was supposed to be the one to visit Diavolo for the first time but got Lucifer to do it instead

• Originally Lucifer only intended to leave the celestial realm not become demons. He even told Michael who was distressed by this. When Lilith was sentenced to be erased from existence is when the plans changed

• When Lilith fell in love, Lucifer spied on her and her partner time to time

• Asmodeus and Lucifer met because Lucifer liked surrounding himself with the best of the best and Asmodeus was the most beautiful Angel. Likewise Asmodeus was in awe and “obsessed” with Lucifer. Their bond later became brotherly

• Angels all see each other as brothers and sisters. An interesting detail of this in the game can be seen in Lucifer and Simeon’s chat name (brothers no more) not because they aren’t close but because Lucifer is not a heavenly brother

• The brothers all had portraits in the celestial palace but they were removed following the war

• Raphael is a hitman for the celestial realm and assumably usually carries out his tasks through his rain of spears, his ability to call forth spears from the heavens

191-200 • 221-240

[randomnameless]

Edel's reaction to her allies's quirks is...

Pretty mild, when it comes to dealing with Bernadetta, but iirc when Linhardt opens their support chain with "I have a new theory about crests and relics that contradict the CoS's version" she quicky shuts him, calling his theories "meaningless blabber".

Maybe he could have discovered the real "secret" behind relics and revealed the plot!

Oh well,

The Emperor Class is so... well, when you compare it to Dimitri and Claude who can solo armies, Edel is supposed to have a lot of def and res? But it doesn't really work.

I've heard a lot of people reclass her to wyvern classes, because her canonical classes suck so much lol. Just you wait until you see the exclusive class skill, iirc, it's something that gives you res+4 when you wait.

Given what happens in the next chapter, sending the brunt of the army towards the capital while the BESF targets Cornelia is a good "decoy" tactic - but I'm pretty sure the Imperial Army sent to the capital was destroyed (since they are fighting both Rhea AND Dimitri!).

Too bad for them, I guess.

Lysithea in this route is... well, you could have expected another reaction learning that the Empire was in cahoots with the people who ruined her life and turned her siblings in, hm, whatever they were turned into before dying, but no. She's happy to be trusted by Edel, and she's going to fight Cornelia. Please ignore how she might have conflicted feelings for fighting with the Empire that used Cornelia'n'pals tech and bioweapons, or have conflicted feelings for fighting for the Empire (they are the ones who sent the "dark mages" to Ordelia, lore wise, after the Hyrm story!). That kool aid must be something really really strong!

Felix's descent to, well, "boarness" is dramatic in CF lol, it feels like he joins the Empire on an emo whim (fuck Dimitri, fuck Dad, fuck Faerghus) and now he tries way too hard not to regret it...

Granted, even if Felix's negative character development is really interesting in CF, Ingrid being here explains more or less why in 3 Nopes, the devs said "stop" and made every BL unrecruitable (save for Ashe and Mercedes), because quite frankly, it doesn't make any sense for those characters (Ingrid, Sylvain, Felix, Annette, etc etc) to ditch the Kingdom when it's being invaded. CF tries to wash it with "Byleth sensei uwu" but it doesn't cut it.

Ah, the unfamous portrait scene! CF in a nutshell, being tone deaf about what your allies and your protagonists are doing, vs the "enemy side", preparing to be invaded and fighting for their lives.

The tone deafness is even more jarring when you realise people you were supposed to be attached too died (Randolph and Ladislava?) last month, but now we're back on drawing and blushing around the avatar. For comparison, if you killed Seteth'n'Flayn, Rhea loses it (even if, as the weeb i am, I still find Inoue's performance more interesting, she's angry, she sounds broken and somehow crying?). So while Rhea is spiralling in her worst nightmare, during the exploration scene (after revealing the plan to strike down the Agarthans!), Edel draws your portrait.

Oh well, it's still not on par with Raphael's "I wonder what's for dinner" during GW's last map when he engages the final boss (I am barely exaggerating), but we're close.

The Insurrection of the Southern Church is more detailed in a book in Nopes, but basically, House Varley back then had two kids, one kid was supposed to inherit the House and the other the Ministry of Religion, Southern Church supported one over the other, one of the kids lost and the Southern Church was kicked out.

Caspar's supports with Shamir and Petra could have been much more interesting, but we're definitely not talking about death tolls in possible supports that can be unlocked in CF lol. For a good Caspar support, if you have the occasion on other PT, I'd suggest to get the one he has with Catherine (that is unavailable on CF!)

Funny to see some people apparently being resentful that Arianrhod became part of the Kingdom when it was built with Adrestia's "tech and money", especially in the route where you are set on demolishing Nabateans and the CoS, who helped create Adrestia (and gave crests to your characters!). I swear it started off as a joke, but the Adrestian Double Standard (TM) is real ^^

Indeed, Cornelia has no lines against Edel, but her end quote is directed to her, even if the lolcalisation lolcalised :

She sorts of praise Edel for having turned against them and made a plot she couldn't anticipate. I guess she's a fair player, and gives praise where it's due? Kuddos to her?

The Agarthans nuking Arianrhod is supposed to be a warning shot - but as I've said on a previous post, CF's plot armor is thicker than an atomic bunker so...

Let's say the Agarthans don't nuke the BESF at the end of the route, or don't even nuke Enbarr at the end CF, when their goal is achieved, and without the excuse of the plot armor, I really can't see why this never happened.

Oh well. Just CF things!

For the next chapter, you have two alternate endings, depending if you kill someone within a certain turncount or not. And Rhea cosplays!

Staring the Kingdom half of CF!

The standout point is obviously the interplay regarding Arianrhod. Taking it is part of a strategy to attack Fhirdiad in a pincer maneuver, but a side goal is killing Cornelia, who Edelgard and Hubert know is an Agarthan. The whole thing is cloaked in plausible deniability and doubletalk, but Arundel pretty much immediately retaliates by dropping javelins of light onto Arianrhod as a warning. Of course, Edie then proceeds to lie and claim the church did it. Woof.

As a side note, there was a lot of supports this chapter because I went to the monastery a few times and ate a bunch of meals. I don't care too much for the Black Eagles, so I didn't have too many impressions (though some pairings seem to work better than others imo), but one interesting thing is that Edelgard is... hm, more patient that I would necessarily give her credit for?

I know people say they admire her drive and determination, but given her nonsense and unfounded goals, I never really saw those as positives. However, I have to say her self-control is quite impressive. She really can keep a straight face through anything (only giving actual emotional reactions to Byleth once she's very comfortable with them) - compare to Claude quite easily losing his cool and getting defensive if something hits too close to home. But she also keeps a very even keel when dealing with the Black Eagles' "quirks." In particular, she's quite calm in regard to Bernadetta's nonsense in a way that is quite humanizing.

It's not anything deep, but I did find it interesting.

Live blogging:

Hum... the way they go "we're marching to Fhirdiad!... except we're not! we're going to Arianrhod!" really feels like they realized they needed to squeeze in at least one more chapter to pad out the route. Edelgard's promotion to Emperor class also feels very random.

In-universe, we're sending most of the army toward the capital, while our little group goes to assault a famous fortress. Somehow. How are we even reaching it...

Hubert and Edie know about Cornelia having a "weapon" (Titanus, as we see later).

Lysithea is touched at being trusted with this secret plan (as part of the strike force) and says she's now fully into Edie's cool aid. Petra likes surprise tactics. Leonie... does not. She slips up and calls it cowardly lol.

Felix insists he's totally cool with betraying his homeland and his family, he'll kill his king, his father and the goddess, you just watch... but his sword feels heavy u.u

Ingrid says she's... not cool with being a traitor everyone who ever loved her, but you see, she must because uh Byleth said so and she trust Byleth (and their C rank in lances or whatever it was).

Sylvain is thinking about Dimitri and wants to train. He's mentioned before that he's afraid he'll get killed in battle, as well as the rest of us.

Dimitri is called the Tempest King because there's nothing left in his wake, like after a storm.

Edelgard has locked herself in her room. She also painted a portrait of Byleth. Sure, ok.

120 years ago, the Southern Church in the empire "had a massive insurrection" and the bishop who participated was exiled by the emperor. Boy, the Empire sure has a lot of insurrections, huh?

Bernie has decided she wants to travel and draw pictures of (cute carnivorous) plants she sees.

Caspar's supports with Petra and Shamir both bring up his feelings of guilt about his father's and the empire's war and the human toll of that. It's... kind of something that both of them seem to mostly sidestep the issue in the end.

I think the quest to get the dark merchant to appear on this route only gives you... Brigid and bandit battalions, so the Morfis battalion being linked to it on SS was just a coincidence, I guess.

Arianrhod is a fortress city that was built about 400 years ago. It was built by the Empire (using their "money and technology") against the Kingdom, I guess during their independence war. However, the head of House Rowe betrayed the empire and sided with the kingdom, making it change hands right before its completion. It has not fallen since. It's called the Silver Maiden due to its beautiful white walls.

Cornelia brought some Titanus with her, along with dark mages and... Gwendal. She tells the Titanus(es?) to go ahead and kill Kingdom troops too.

Doesn't seem to be any special dialogue for Cornelia vs Edelgard.

Immediately after we beat up Cornelia, Arundel comes over lol. Lots of double talk between him and Edelgard but the main point is that, per the paralogue, Edelgard is beginning to act more impudently toward the Agarthans, since she is gaining more and more power and getting closer to her goal (after which, they're next on the chopping block). This includes intentionally targeting Cornelia while still maintaining deniability about how she totes didn't know Cornelia was an Agarthan mole.

btw, the fact that I know we do not have a section for fighting the Agarthans on this route is high-key ridiculous, given the buildup.

The Agarthans nuke Arianrhod as a warning, though that's uh... quite pointless, honestly. Based on Hubert's panicked reaction and Edelgard's obvious surprise, they did not know this was a thing.

However, they had previously investigated Aillel and thought it was the goddess's doing. They know better now... but that won't stop them from blaming it on the church anyway!

The scene of Edelgard calmly lying to the crew is amazing as a contrast. I haven't seen whatever equivalent there is on AM, but iirc VW had a pretty direct parallel where Claude explains stuff to the team. It had the usual Church Bad issues, but that's at least his honest perspective and not... flat lying. This route is really just lies all the way down.