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pengychan · 2 months ago

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[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 25

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

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

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

*** Sometimes, the session goes smoothly and the characters complete their mission without setbacks. This is not one of those sessions. ***

As he would one day tell an unlikely group of adventurers in the equally unlikely setting of a high-end brothel - not the most fitting backdrop for a dramatic tale, perhaps, but why say no to some luxuries? - Raphael was indeed there when Netheril fell.

Eileanar had been floating over the High Forest at the time, and it was not someplace Raphael had visited often while carrying out his duties as the Steward of Avernus. Unlike most archdevils, Bel did not have a cult of his own in the Material Plane. With all his efforts directed to the Blood War, he was not interested in creating and growing one either,

“The other layers owe us souls to support a war which protects them,” Bel had said with a shrug, one time Raphael had brought up the matter. “We have no need to go seek them out the way they do.”

Still, a few extra souls were never unwelcomed. Raphael had taken to using his spare time to return to the Material Plane; it was not that he had in any way missed that plane, but he had always taken pride in a job well done, something he had a talent for. So whenever he had the chance he returned among mortals, making contracts as he used to do when he lived at his father’s court.

Some souls would go to Avernus, others he’d keep for himself; Bel did not mind. Perhaps, he’d mused, he may make a few deals for a warlock or two of his own, if a good chance presented itself. That day, however, he was not in Eileanar to win a soul, or take on his first warlock - although he was talking to someone who was very interested in becoming one. He was there because he’d been told by his sources that something was about to happen.

Karsus has created something special, they whispered. A crown, to become more powerful yet, as a god. He wishes to do something extraordinary.

It seemed a ridiculous notion, but Karsus was the most powerful archmage to ever have lived - not something anybody in Cania would say before the archmage of the Hells - and it had piqued his curiosity. There was some merit to the claims, he felt it in his very bones. So he was there on that fateful day, listening to the bleating of a woman eager to have him as her patron with only half a mind but mostly gazing around, waiting to see what that something would be.

It was safe to say that an archwizard attempting to wrestle godhood over all magic from Mystryl herself - and destroying the Weave as a result, for a handful of deadly moments that brought to the abrupt end of a mighty empire - was not quite the something he had expected to happen.

As a half-fiend, Raphael was born a spellcaster. A sorcerer, his father would say with all the disdain only a wizard could possibly put into that word, and Raphael had been careful not to wonder too hard if that disdain had played a role in his decision to lean more into his bardic tendencies than on the sorcery which was his to wield from birth. But with all magic gone, neither came to his aid when something gave way beneath him - the entire city. Unable to plane shift, he plummeted towards the ground alongside it.

Dying in the Material Plane would be no great tragedy, as he’d return unharmed to Avernus as all fiends did, but the notion of shattering to the ground, his body exploding into a fine mist along with every other screaming creature around him, was unpleasant enough to fill him with a sort of terror that he’d have struggled to put into words later, if he ever bothered to.

Had he been in his human form, unable to switch back, he’d have experienced his first death that day. But he’d been wearing his cambion form, showing the aspiring warlock he was precisely what he claimed to be, and he’d hand wings.

Even with his magic gone, he required no arcane power to become airborne: only sheer muscle power, using all his strength to escape the powerful winds caused by the entire floating city’s fall. But escape he did and when he turned in mid-air, screams still ringing in his ears, the sight of what Karsus had brought upon his own empire left him breathless. Eileanar was not the only city to fall. In the distance he saw more floating cities plummeting to the ground, every creature upon them fated to die screaming.

Above, there was a sound like the crack of thunder. Raphael looked up, away from the mortals whose screams were so abruptly silenced, and for a moment he saw him: Karsus the archmage suspended in mid-air, something glinting on his head.

He felt it, a new godhood taken by force for one blinding instant before it was ripped away once more. He saw Karsus move, saw him reach up and then go still. He saw him turn to stone, and fall the same way his cities had. And most of all, he saw the glinting something which had made a man into a deity for one single, shining instant fall to the ground with him.

A simple human, wielding godly power if only for a moment. What could a devil do with that? What could I do with that?

Karsus had seen himself a benign new god of magic, bent to ensure the Netherese empire would never fall. Raphael saw himself on the throne of Avernus and on the throne of Cania, on the throne of every layer in-between, on the throne of Nessus itself. He saw Asmodeus broken at his feet, he saw his father forced to bend the knee and bow his head to swear fealty to him. He saw every fiend at court who’d ever mocked him cower in terror, and he saw himself forcing them to keep living in fear while holding all their lives in his hands.

He saw himself ruling the Hells, he saw himself ruling the Material Plane and Celestia and everything in-between. He saw himself as a god, never to be looked down on again .

Few devils are ever satisfied with their station, those with my blood least of all. It's what we're meant to endure, this hunger for more, Mephistopeles had told him not long ago. You wish to reach out and take, because what you're handed can never be enough.

But perhaps this would be enough after all, a crown to make him as a god - if that did not end his hunger, then nothing ever would. Worth a try, was it not?

As Mystra came into being and magic hummed back into existence, too late to save any but a few cities of a once mighty empire, Raphael beat his wings and dove to the ground, after what would remain his greatest desire and obsession for centuries to come.

***

“I still maintain they could have saved us a lot of time, if they’d brought us to the scab directly instead of forcing us on the worst ever road trip.”

“We have grown more powerful in the journey. I suppose there is that. Learning to fight devils may yet serve us well.”

“Do you always have to think up a bright side, love? I’d like to complain, if you don’t min--”

“Well then, complain under your breath. This is not the time to let ourselves be caught,” Raphael snapped, cutting him off. Or at least, Astarion could guess that was Raphael, under the guise of a tiefling with storm-gray skin. One annoying bit of these illusion spells was that he was never sure who he was talking to.

Was the half-orc Karlach, or was it Wyll and Karlach was the elf? It had taken him an embarrassing amount of time to work out the halfling was Halsin, and Durge was the drow. It all seemed a bit useless, since the plan was not to get spotted and Zariel herself surely would not be fooled by a simple illusion… but in case someone did spot them before they got to her, it didn’t hurt to be careful - especially with Karlach and Wyll’s faces likely well known around there. At least, Astarion couldn’t complain too much about his own guise.

He looked devastatingly handsome as a human too. Or at least so Durge had told him, ever the flatterer. Astarion opened his mouth to inform Probably Raphael that he was going to complain how he pleased, only to trail off when yells, curses, and the creaks of massive chains reached his ears. They peered from behind the boulder they were all crouched by to see that gigantic chains were being pulled, and the Flying Fortress was being lowered to the docks. Droves of low-level devils were preparing to secure it in place, and send souls directly from the Styx into the engines keeping the entire, immense structure afloat.

According to Karlach, it would take several hours for the Fortress’ refill. “It’s the only time you can be sure to find her in, too, instead of mowing down demons in the middle of a battlefield,” Karlach had said. Above them the fortress was massive enough to make the House of Hope look like a fisherman’s cabin in terms of size, but it exuded none of its elegance. It was a brutal construction carved out of black stone and infernal iron, with turrets and cannons on every side - more war machine than residence. “The docking is when the Fortress is at its most vulnerable, and she knows it, so she always remains in it to defend it,” Karlach had added, like that monstrosity could ever be called vulnerable . “It makes her restless, though-- well, more restless. There were times I could swear she was hoping for an attack.”

Well then, Astarion supposed it was time to make her happy and give her just that. “This is her lucky day, then,” he commented. Fluttering above his shoulder, Lulu - no changing her appearance until they were in, or else the ring wouldn't fit - let out a noise that somehow sounded scared and excited at the same time.

“It will be lucky, I just know it! It has to be!”

“... Are hollyphants always so unbearably optimistic?”

“Most of us. I mean, I knew one who wasn't. Always the odd one out, so cynical all the time. She kept telling us that the Ride was a bad idea, and I think I was really rude when I told her to shut up.” A sigh. “Ah, that really wasn't nice of me, was it? She was only trying to warn me. And she was right too, even if she was always half in her cups.”

The drow - Durge - tilted their head. “... Are you speaking of Valeria, by any chance?”

A quicker flutter of Lulu's wings. “Oh, yes! You met her? Where is she? I should apologize for not listening. How is she?”

“In Baldur's Gate, last we checked. She did help us with the Netherbrain, and then… well, I'm not sure. She worked with the Flaming Fists, I suppose she went back to that.”

“Oh. Is she still, er…?”

“Entirely in her cups.”

“... Does sound like her.”

A sudden, whooshing sound covered whatever else Lulu may have tried to add. At the Stygian docks, a huge contraption had been lowered to the water, sucking up souls. It was the signal they had agreed upon, and they each dug into their pockets for their rings.

Time to find out if Bel's agents have fucked it up, Astarion thought. He looked up, met the others’ gazes for a single, long instant - and then, finally, he put the ring to his finger.

***

“Oh, you're finally here, pup. Took you long enough. But what fine company you've brought with you! Raphael, is it you? What an honor, even if it's only half of you who deigned to come - I imagine daddy dearest still holds the rest, yes? Could have done without the hollyphant…”

“You! You're the one who killed me!”

While half his companions threw themselves between Mizora and a rather furious hollyphant to prevent a most counterproductive fight, Raphael took the time to look around. The dungeons of the Flying Fortress, or at least that section of it, was empty of prisoners. It was easy to guess that whoever had occupied those cells until moments earlier had likely been on the receiving end of some peculiar rings. Not a bad idea, he had to admit. They would not have turned down a chance to escape any more than Raphael did, back when-- mother -- a mortal soul had been sent to give him the ring, in the bowels of Mephistar’s dungeons.

“Don’t lie, fiend! You put a dagger through my heart!” Lulu was yelling somewhere on Raphael’s right, entirely too loud for a covert mission, and caused him to turn back.

“And I loved it, don’t get me wrong,” Mizora replied, sounding rather bored and just a touch amused by the sight of several people holding onto one furious hollyphant to keep her back. “But it was not for my pleasure alone, I assure you. I was told you’d return to life within the Citadel, and that blasted place’s doors can only ever be opened in your presence. If you didn’t return to the Citadel one way or another, all of my pup’s pure heart would not have been enough to open its doors and reach the Sword. Which… you do have with you, do you not?”

As the hollyphant finally calmed down, if grudgingly, Durge reached into their bag of holding to pull out the sword, grasping it by the hilt rather than by the handle just to be on the safe side.

The sword glowed, and it caused Mizora to narrow her eyes, instinctively on edge before the celestial artifact. “As unbearably holy as I imagined,” she hissed, not coming any closer to it. “No wonder it may end her. Yet, none of you has turned angelic.” She clicked her tongue, and turned to Wyll. It was rather obvious that she could see easily through the illusion, and tell who was who at a glance. “No wings on you, pup. Not that I am not glad you’re keeping those devilish good looks I gave you, but… who plans to wield the sword, precisely?”

“Why, is it not obvious?” Raphael spoke, crossing his arms. “Zariel herself shall. Once she attunes to it, the archdevil Zariel is no more - thus meeting your demand.”

For a few moments, standing in the middle of the dungeon, Mizora said nothing and only stared at him as though she suspected he’d entirely lost his mind. Then she laughed, loud, mocking… but first, there had been that hesitation, that twitch of her mouth. “Oh! Oh dear. Daddy must have taken all your good sense, if you had any, alongside the half of you that was worth anything,” she muttered, the cold disdain in her voice just a touch too forced. “What makes you think Zariel would willingly attune to her old sword to become a celestial again? She can destroy that thing at will, and if she’s allowed to grasp it, she will--”

“What makes you so certain that she would not attune to it?”

That barest hint of hesitation, again. She was not, he could tell, all that certain. “It is everything she left behind--”

“Yet when you brought her old friend to her, she did not kill her.”

“Right, see!” Lulu shrilled, much too close to his ear. “ The power of friendship will save her!”

Raphael sighed. “Please refrain from destroying my argument as I'm making it,” he muttered, and allowed the illusion to dispel, leaving behind his human form. He and Mizora were never much of anything other than aware of one another’s existence, but they had met a couple of times in the Material Plane. She knew that face of his, and it would not hurt to remind her who she was speaking with. He’d lived far longer than she had, and was older than nearly any cambion ever got to be. She knew that much, and he knew she respected it.

When he stepped forward, she did not step back… but she did not laugh again, either. “No, she did not,” Mizora conceded, ignoring everyone else’s gaze on her to look back at Raphael. “But it does not mean she would want to go back.”

“When I decided to leave behind what I’d been in the Material Plane, I killed the woman who raised me. It did not work as I thought it would, but that is beside the point. I killed her. I had it in me and I did it. Whereas Zariel, mighty ruler of Avernus, couldn’t bring herself to harm what is frankly the most annoying hollyphant who ever came into existence. A fatal weakness, some would say.”

“Hey now--” Lulu began, only for several pairs of hands to reach out and cover her mouth, and for Raphael to entirely ignore her as he spoke again.

“When Zariel found her dead, did she know she would spawn again at the Citadel?”

“... No. No one here did. I was given that information by a different source.”

She did not name Bel, but she may as well have. “And did she mourn?” he asked.

Mizora pressed her lips together, and did not answer. As far as Raphael was concerned, it was a good enough answer in itself. He shrugged, and spread his arms as though to rest his case. “As I imagined. There is more of the old Zariel there than you’d like to admit. I suspect that is the reason why the conspiracy to dispose of her was put in motion - with, I am certain now, the knowledge and agreement of Asmoseus himself. She is cracking, and we are to take her out before those cracks lead to the fall of Avernus in the hands of demonic hordes.”

“... Couldn’t Asmodeus depose her himself?” Durge asked, and Raphael sighed. There he was again, he thought, having to explain the obvious.

“Of course he could. If so he wished he could depose any and all archdukes of the Hells - but this does not mean that he would, when he can get others to carry out his will. Replacing Bel with Zariel as the archduke of Avernus was a move that raised more than a few eyebrows at the time. It is not for me to say whether there was indeed a good reason for it, but the fact remains that if Asmodeus demotes her now to reinstate Bel, some may see it as an admission that he made the wrong decision then.”

“So he’d rather pretend he had no hand in it,” Wyll muttered, and Raphael nodded.

“Precisely. If Zariel is taken out by a force outside the Hells, and Bel seizes his chance… then the Lord Below will have obtained precisely what he wanted, with no direct intervention.”

Karlach made a face. “Ugh, hellish politics. They give me a worse headache than infernal wine the morning after a party.”

Mizora scoffed. “A lot of things more complex than the swinging of an axe give you headaches,” she muttered, but her words lacked bite. She looked back at Raphael, frowning. “A lot of clever words from Mephisto’s least favorite bastard,” she added, as though she too was not the result of a fiend’s dalliance in the Material Plane. A spurt of seed willed to quicken a mortal’s womb, as his father had so charmingly put it once. “But there is no guarantee your plan will work.”

Raphael tilted his head. “Zariel is powerful, and a warrior down to her bones. An attack may not work, either. If our plan works, we may yet take her out with no need to fight and risk defeat. Would you not say it is worth a shot?”

For a few moments, Mizora said nothing. In the end, she sighed. “... She was perfect,” she spoke in the end, frustration and something a lot like fury barely in check. “The only being fit to rule this layer, and I curse the day that thing was brought here. You ruined her.” She cast a look at the hollyphant which may very well have caused a mortal to drop dead.

From her part, the hollyphant in question glowered back. Honestly, it seemed as though Halsin’s outstretched arm in front of her was the only thing keeping her from trying to charge again. “You are the ones who brought her low. I’m going to bring her back. ”

“Why, you little--”

“We will present the sword to her,” Durge spoke up, putting the sword in question back in their bag of holding. “Whether or not she takes it is ultimately her choice, and we’ll act accordingly when the moment comes.”

“Mph.” Mizora scoffed, and glanced over at Karlach. “I am surprised, I must say. I thought you’d jump at the chance to end her, instead of trying to… what? Save her?”

Karlach scowled. “None of your business. We promised to get rid of the archduke of Avernus, and we’ll do that. How we do it is up to us.”

“Rude as always,” Mizora sighed, but she waved a hand. “Very well. If that is how you wish to go about it, I have no reason to stop you. As long as she is no longer an archdevil by the time you’re done, I do not necessarily oppose the idea of doing this without killing her.”

She doesn’t oppose it at all, Raphael thought, but did not say as much aloud.

“Well then,” Astarion spoke, glancing around the dungeon. “Where is Zariel, and most importantly how do we get to her without having to fight half or all the fiends in this fortress?”

Raphael smiled. “Why is it not obvious?” he asked. He picked something from the ground - a pair of manacles made of infernal iron. He held them up. “By bringing her some prisoners. ”

***

On the day an empire fell from the sky, Raphael came only minutes, perhaps moments away from being the phoenix which would rise from its ashes. He almost did get to the Crown of Karus, amidst the smoking ruins that had been Eileanar. Even in the midst of that devastation, the hum of its power called to him… but not to him alone.

Mephistopheles, archmage of the Hells, must too have known that something may happen that day - and for a moment, when he saw the dark blue skin and the wings of a fiend amidst what had once been a city, Raphael almost thought he had come face to face with his sire.

Then the fiend turned, and the fear and surprise fizzled out into anger. Standing above him, a black crown with three shimmering stones in his hands, was the Steward of Cania.

For the briefest moment, Raphael considered trying to attack, to wrestle the Crown from him; for that same brief moment, Adonides seemed startled to see him there. They stared at one another, the Steward of Avernus and the Steward of Cania, the exiled son and the dutiful servant of Mephistopheles. Then Adonides’ handsome features twisted in a mocking smile that did not reach his jet-black eyes. Dust and smoke covered the sun, yet those eyes shone.

“Steward of Avernus. This is an unexpected meeting indeed, but a fortuitous one. You came on time to witness me taking possession of the Crown of Karsus on behalf of the Lord of the Eighth,” he spoke, mockery in every word, before he tilted back his head and called.

Summoned by his cry, four gelugons appeared around him in a burst of cold, cold light - to act as witnesses, no doubt, as well as to act as a deterrent in case Raphael was truly foolish enough to try and attack. But of course, there was nothing he could do. Even if he could best all of them - and perhaps he could, in his Ascended form - the simple truth was that by Infernal law, the Crown now belonged to Mephistopheles, the master of the one who’d claimed it in his name. As a fiend himself, Raphael was beholden to that law.

As long as the Crown was in Mephistopheles’ possession, he could not touch it.

“Behold - this I claim for my master Mephistopheles, Lord of the Eighth, ruler of Cania, master of Hellfire, Archmage of the Hells!”

This too he claims as his, and he needed not lift a finger.

Fury clouded Raphael’s vision, threatened to choke him; he did not voice it but it had to show on his face, for Adonides chuckled, lowering the Crown.

“Do not look so sour, Raphael,” he said, still smiling in that way that told him clearly he would tell everybody in Mephistar about this, how he’d taken the Crown from under his nose. “Believe me, this trinket is in good hands. If anyone may uncover its secrets, it is your lord father. Lord Bel wouldn’t have known what to do with it,” he added, not knowing - or pretending not to suspect - that it was for himself and not for the Lord of the First that Raphael had come there, to try and claim the Crown.

He did not tell Adonides that, of course. He wasn’t that much of a fool. He only watched, in silence, as his father’s steward left with the Crown and headed to Mephistar - where the most powerful artifact created in thousands of years would collect dust in a vault alongside all of Mephistopheles’ novelties, trophies and projects, which inevitably failed to hold his interest.

But he would not give Adonides the satisfaction of seeing more of his fury. He did not move, said nothing, until he knew for a fact he was alone, the only living thing standing in the midst of utter ruin.

And then he raged.

***

The roar which rose from the bowels of the palace was faint, yet audible enough to make the entire hall - the upper crust of Mephistar enjoying a lavish banquet, nearly all pit fiends with the notable exception of a rather sour-faced steward Adonides - freeze, as though the glacial winds of Cania had somehow found their way into the heart of the citadel.

The silence that followed was brief, but it felt like hours to Dalah, who clutched the pitcher she had been carrying in silence. Another distant roar, and all eyes in the room shifted to Chamberlain Barbas. The one, everybody knew, who had been put in charge of the vaults’ new guardian.

There was a tittering laugh from one end of the table, where Justiciar Bele sat. “It seems to me, Barbas, that your charge is once again misbehaving. I heard he destroyed several servants and killed two guards only last week. Shall you bring it to heel permanently, as you said you did last time, or should you perhaps inform Lord Mephistopheles that the beast needs… correcting?”

The mere thought of Mephistopheles approaching Israfel, doing anything to him, made Dalah want to scream. Part of her wanted to plead to be sent back to work in the vaults instead of serving at those hideous banquets, where she’d been put to work on a whim, picked at random after some sort of incident befell the souls who’d been put to work there before.

It was lighter work, yet she’d despaired. How could she keep watch over him, how could she protect him, so far from the vaults where he dwelled? She could not, and each time she heard him roar in the distance she felt as powerless as she had on the day he’d been born.

She’d been helpless then too, feeling her life slip away alongside the blood, too exhausted to deliver the burnt lining of her womb. She’d seen Rahirek’s stunned face when he found her, the horror, the grief; she had seen him raise his sword to kill what must have been a vision of horror indeed, that creature nursing at her breast like a leech taking its fill of blood from a dying body. Yet he had stilled when she’d cradled it tight and raised a hand to protect it, when she’d spent her last moments pleading for her husband to let her offspring live so that he too could keep drawing breath, to not let her death be for nothing.

Now, it was worse. She couldn’t even plead, not without eliciting questions she could not answer.

I can make it stop, it’s me he wants, can’t you see? Are you all so blind you cannot see this only started when you took me from the vaults? Take me to him, let me soothe him, let him know that I am well.

At the end of the table, Barbas was standing with a scoff. “Bothering our lord is unnecessary. He is on the cusp of a breakthrough in his studies, and should not be disturbed for minor inconveniences. The creature can be brought under control quite easily, as long as the guards have enough nerve,” he added.

A lie, that: no guard in the vault was a match to Israfel’s perpetually ascended state. But the chamberlain did not want Mephistopheles to think he may have lost control of the new guardian to his treasures, plainly enough, and so lie he did. As transparent as that lie was, every devil at the long table pretended to believe it, only letting their lips curl in mocking smiles when Barbas left the hall with hurried steps.

In truth, everyone knew that Lord Mephistopheles was on the cusp of no breakthrough at all. He was rather in one of those dark moods of his, when he was alone in his quarters with none allowed even in the vicinity but ever faithful Duke Hutijin, guarding the doors to keep everybody else out.

Even so, it was not unusual to hear the horrifying noises coming from that closed off wing of the palace, the shrieks like those of the damned, the devastating onslaught of unleashed, uncontrolled arcane magic. Some murmured of horrifying experiments on souls, causing them to cry out so; others murmured, their voices even lower, that Mephistopheles’ fury and hatred would turn inward when alone and in such a dark mood - that once he destroyed walls and furniture he’d tear at his own robes, gouge deep lines across his own skin in his wrath, drawing black blood thick with rot and arcane magic.

“My consort may enjoy company upon occasion,” Duchess Baalphegor had once said, in a rare moment of talkativeness on the subject. “But there is company which he cannot bear when in a particularly foul mood, and unfortunately enough it happens to be his own.”

Whatever the truth was, the screeching would eventually cease and the Lord of the Eighth would emerge from his quarters dignified and even courteous as ever, no trace of destruction in his rooms, no marks on his face nor tears on his robes. Everyone would pretend to have heard nothing, just as everyone pretended not to know of the hellfire burning away beneath Cania’s ice… and so it would go on until the next crisis.

As of now, pit fiends were clearly happy to turn their gossip to an easier target - the chamberlain, and Israfel. “I heard he had to get the High Cantor in the vault to sing for it, last time, to soothe it,” someone said, and the comment brought laughter around the table.

“A voice so lovely, it can even tame that beast.”

“Rumor has it that Raphael was sweet on her, when he was young. And, well, whole.”

“Well, of course. A halfbreed she may be, but Lady Antilia is as beautiful as they come.”

“Rumor has it she was sweet on him, too.”

“Oh, that I do not buy for a second.”

More laughter, but Dalah was not truly listening, her gaze fixed on the door which had closed behind Barbas’ back, trying not to think how the chamberlain planned to bring Israfel back under his control. Worried as she was, she failed to notice another servant who was no servant at all leaning towards the only guest at the table who’d not laughed, and whispering something.

She could not, however, not notice the consequences of that quick, whispered sentence. Dalah turned just on time to see Adonides, steward of Cania, standing from his seat and saying something about work to be done as he took his leave. She went to move out of his way as he headed to the door, still clutching the pitcher, but a look from him was enough to make her still. He looked at her rather than through her, those pitch black eyes terrible to behold against the dark blue of his skin which so set him apart amidst pit fiends. Out of place, even, he who was native to Cania.

“You,” he said, his voice somewhat bored. “I’ll require your services.”

Dalah found herself staring, terrified as always when directly addressed by a devil who could destroy her with a gesture and hardly a thought. She bowed her head. “Duke Adonides, I am to serve here until further--”

“This is your further notice. It is an order, and I shan’t be questioned. Come,” he added, and went to step past her. Only then did he speak again, his voice only a whisper, meant for her ears alone. “Come, and you may yet help your son.”

He knows.

The realization sank in her stomach like a stone, and part of her wondered if it was a trap, but she forced herself to ignore it. You may yet help your son, he had said, and it was that sentence which got her to follow Adonides out of the room, her fingers still clenched on the pitcher. Behind her, the servant who was not a servant at all kept staring, quietly, before fading back into the coming and goings of servants and then disappearing entirely without anybody taking notice. Months since her banishment from Cania, not one fiend in court had taken notice of her presence but those she chose to turn to.

Lady Baalphegor had always known how to go unnoticed, when she had to.

***

Looking back later, Karlach would have to admit that thinking they could really make it all the way to the topmost floor of the Flying Fortress unchallenged had been maybe a touch optimistic on their part. Sometimes you’ve just got to hope something is going to go your way, even in the Hells - especially in the Hells - so that you don’t go completely insane.

And to be fair, they made it remarkably close to that top floor before it all went wrong.

Soul refills were always a busy time in the fortress. Actually, all times were busy times in the fortress, but refills would be busier. That meant that any devil they came across - some new faces, some fuckers Karlach remembered well - could do little more than spare a passing glance and a sneer when they saw her walking by, hands held behind her back by manacles which were actually not locked shut, with Wyll holding the end of the chain as he walked by Mizora’s side. “Got her in the end, Mizora?” some asked, gaining themselves a sharp smile.

“One of my warlocks turned out to be useful, for once.”

They laughed, then, half satisfied to see Karlach brought to heel - who did she think she was, thinking she could escape what they could not? - and mostly envious that they were not the ones to succeed in the task and earn Zariel’s favor… as if her favor was ever anything but bad news. The sneers did tend to die down when they noticed what came after them - a hollyphant, that hollyphant, seemingly back from the dead, with a manacle around each limb.

They plainly did not recognize the others - Raphael’s human form was not so widely known in the Hells, he’d assured them, and it seemed he’d been right - but they could very easily guess they were headed to Zariel. A few words from Mizora sent anybody in the mood to ask more questions scurrying away.

Soon enough they were as far up as the mechanical elevator allowed, not quite to the top but almost; close enough that Karlach could almost sense the dread that came with Zariel’s mere presence, overpowering, worse than the smell of iron and the constant, constant humming noise in the background. That noise had almost driven her insane several times, to the point she’d even been relieved to hear it drowned out by the thunderous bangs of infernal weaponry a few decks below or above, by the roar as engines were pushed to their limit.

Even being ordered to go on the ground and fight had been a relief, sometimes. Better than being in the fortress, which felt so much like a gigantic coffin waiting to claim her for good, all stone and infernal iron, glowing runes spelling some bullshit she could never read on the walls. And now there she was again, by her own choice.

“How big is this place?” Astarion whispered when they stepped out the elevator, when he realized there were yet more flights of stairs to go up before they reached the top.

“Fucking big, but we’re almost there,” Karlach whispered back, and looked over at Mizora. “You sure Zariel is going to be alone? Flo was always around her, like a very ugly lap dog.”

A light scoff. “Of course I made sure that wouldn't happen. I ensured she took her barking somewhere else.”

“Good. That's a face I'd rather never see again,” Karlach muttered, and of course - of fucking course - she didn't get her wish. Speak of the devil and all that.

“We only have one chance to talk her into reverting to her old self,” Raphael said, and glanced sideways at Lulu. “I certainly hope that speech of yours--”

Whatever he was about to say next, they never got to hear it. The ring at Raphael's finger glowed suddenly - stupid stupid they should have all taken them off - and before any of them had the time to react, there was a burst of light. It was bright enough to force Karlach to close her eyes against it but even, so knew precisely who she'd see standing in Raphael's place before she even opened them. The laugh alone was a dead giveaway, loud and obnoxious and almost like she meant it. Somewhere on her left, she heard Mizora mutter a curse that had something to do with Graz'zt cock for some reason.

“Hey, Karlach,” Florenta the Garroter spoke with a wide grin, the ring still glowing at her finger. “Long time no see.”

***

“Obey, damn you! I command you , obey!”

It was rare for a devil of the chamberlain’s ilk to give away what they were truly feeling, but even Dalah could sense the not-too-subtle panic beneath Barbas’ imperious orders. He was standing several paces away from Israfel, one hand lifted, struggling to gain a hold of him through… whatever magic he’d been granted to do so, she supposed.

It kept the burning ascended fiend at bay, but that was it; Israfel still stood over the charred remains of what may have been either guards or servants. Rather than retreating, he roared.

“Duke Barbas, perhaps we should--”

“Be quiet, is what you should do, while I bring it to heel!”

Barbas’ fist clenched, lifted up in the air, some sort of dark magic shimmering around his fingers; it made Israel’s roar turn into a strangled noise of pain and he staggered back, making clicking noises in the back of his skulls. He was hurting, and still he raged.

“Whatever it is you do that calms him, do it,” Adonides had hissed when he brought her to the vault, putting her in place of another soul cowering by the door and taking her away to serve at the banquet hall instead, to her utter relief. “Bring him under control before Barbas is forced to turn to Mephisto, and he decides his volatile new guardian is too much hassle to keep alive. He is not in a merciful mood as of late.”

Is he ever, Dalah had wanted to ask, but she had enough sense to keep quiet and pushed her way through the cowering servants, to the doorway from which the roars came. There was nothing Dalah ever did to calm him; not the way the High Cantor could soothe him with her voice. She did nothing, other than being there… and she could only hope it would be enough now, too, that he wasn’t too far gone.

Heart hammering somewhere in her throat - how curious that she’d still feel such sensations when she truly was nothing but soul and ether, her actual heart dust somewhere on another plane - Dalah pushed her way to the front of the cowering mass, as close as she could get without angering one of the guards, and tried to catch Israfel’s eyes. If she could no longer calm him-- she didn’t even want to think of it.

“We need all of him to be safe,” Haarlep had said. “I’d rather find you both still here when I return.”

To her relief, it only took moments for Israel to see her. Those unnatural yellow eyes paused on her, and he went very still, the roar that had been building in his chest toned down to a growl, more questioning than furious.

Unaware of the fact it was not him the creature was looking at, Baras let out an unpleasant, barking laugh.

“Yes! Know your place, you wretched thing, and obey me, in Lord Mephistopheles’ name!”

Oh gods, please shut up, Dalah thought. If the way one of Israfel’s eyes shifted to him and he growl in the back of his throats ratcheting up were of any indication, her son-- what is left of him -- was thinking precisely the same thing. If probably without the ‘please’, and with a ‘or else’ tacked at the end.

Dalah shook her head, as subtle as she could, and to her relief all eyes shifted back to her. Obey, she mouthed, and Israfel let out a huffing sound… but the fury was gone, and he was no longer beyond reason. To her utter relief, he finally backed down with a shake of his heads. She let out a long breath and glanced around to make sure no one had noticed her, but it seemed no one had.

Hard to pay attention to a measly human soul, she supposed, with an ascended fiend and the chamberlain of Mephistar facing off just a few paces away.

“... Mph. See, it can be brought under control. You only need to be assertive, you imbeciles,” Barbas spoke, as though his voice hadn't almost cracked when Israfel had roared. He said more, the usual mix of bragging and assurances that now the creature would certainly behave, no need to bother the Lord of the Eighth over it.

Orders were given to clear the corpses and call in more guards, more souls to resume the work. Dalah kept her gaze low, lest she be recognized as someone who was serving him wine in the banquet hall not half an hour ago, but it was a useless precaution. No one bothered to remember a debtor's face, and the chamberlain made no exception.

It was a relief when he left, a relief to be once again in the vaults. The other souls and the guards were on edge, moving slowly and as far from Israfel as they could, but she felt lighter than she'd had in days. As long as she was there, he'd behave. As long as she was there, he was safe… just as she'd promised Haarlep, before they left to try and assist her son’s other half, all the way up to the first layer of the Hells.

“Be careful up there. I’d rather see both come back.”

As she took on her usual work, acutely aware of the fact her presence alone made all the difference when it came to Israfel's survival, she wondered how the other half of him - that human half she barely had a chance to look at, the one which looked like her but whom she could only think of as Raphael, the name Mephistopheles had chosen - was faring all the way up in Avernus.

***

Raphael was not easily surprised.

Part of the reason why he'd lived as long as he did was that he could always predict several outcomes for his every move, and made contingency plans for each. In most cases, he had contingency plans for the contingency plans. Granted, it was not infallible - for example, he had not accounted for the sheer insanity of a gang of mortals choosing to infiltrate his House of Hope and steal for him. He was not impossible to surprise but still, it was no easy feat.

When he was transported back outside the Fortress in the blink of an eye, finding himself back under the red sky of Avernus and surrounded by a couple dozen armed barbazus as well as a few hamatulas, he would have had to admit he was very surprised indeed, if anyone bothered to ask him. However, none of the devils around him was in a conversational mood.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” a broken, bleeding thing that may have once been a tiefling was choking out, curled up on the ground. It didn't take a lot of guesswork to tell she had to be the prisoner Mizora had swapped for Raphael… and there were no rings at any of her fingers now.

Of course. Seven prisoners swapped for seven intruders, and the one to get caught simply had to be my replacement.

“They caught me while I tried to get away, they made me tell them, she made me tell her--”

With a guttural roar, one of the barbazus brought down his glaive into the tiefling’s throat, silencing her for good. As she gargled, drowning in her own blood, every guard's eyes turned back to Raphael. Lips were pulled back on gleaming fangs, weapons were raised, and they growled. It was clear that there would be battle, and a very unbalanced one to boot. His companions were nowhere to be seen; they were still in the Fortress, dealing with whomever had taken his place there. He was on his own.

Raphael closed his eyes, drew in a long breath, and muttered a single word that, however crude, summed up his predicament quite accurately. Concisely, too.

“Shit.”

***

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pengychan · 2 months ago

Text

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 27

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

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

*** Don't you hate it when talk about Feelings has to wait because you've got an archdevil to take down. ***

In the many centuries that followed the Fall of Netheril, the Blood War raged on as it had for time immemorial. In that time as Steward of Avernus, Raphael witnessed all manners of events across the Hells and many other Planes.

Most were mundane, some unusual, some extraordinary; very few, however, compared to witnessing a mortal coming within a hair’s breadth of godhood, the blinking out of existence of all magic, the destruction of an empire in a matter of moments - all made possible by an artifact of immense power and potential, now collecting dust in the Eighth layer of the Hells.

All in all, until a couple of decades into his seventeenth century of life, Raphael could quite safely say he had yet to witness anything that came close to that. Until he witnessed a blindfolded Solar with a glowing sword in hand, charging into Avernus atop a golden mastodon, leading a mounted charge of thousands of Hellriders against demonic hordes.

That, he had to admit, did fit the definition of an extraordinary event… and it was as much a folly as Karsus’ bid for godhood had been. There was a reason why Celestials had long stopped waging war against the demons of the Abyss: those of them who were sent to do so had been changed beyond recognition, taking on characteristics of their enemies to better vanquish them.

In the end they became something altogether different, ever caught in-between demon and celestial: the first devils. Sworn enemies of demons and yet reviled by what had once been their own kin and by the gods - the very some who had sent them forth to be their scourge and their shield, the only bastion against the hordes of the Abyss.

So many eons had passed that history had turned to legend, and a little known one at that. But it was the truth. Raphael would know; Lord Mephistopheles had been one of those first devils, after all. He had never willingly spoken of that distant past to him or anyone as far as he was aware, but Raphael had made it his mission - one of several - to learn all he could about his sire, so he could spot any gaps in his armor.

While he did learn much, he had not found any such gaps. None large enough to let a figurative dagger slip past, at least. But Raphael had also learned to be patient, and he had time in abundance.

“Apparently, they intend to chase the demons into the Abyss, and slaughter them all,” Lord Bel had muttered, unaware of his thoughts. He had been watching the charge through a telescope atop the Bronze Citadel. On top of the outer rings of its defensive walls, much of the garrison was watching the events unfold too. “What does my steward make of it?”

“I think it’s the epitome of idiocy,” Raphael had replied, gaining himself a chuckle.

“And my steward is correct.”

“I have been known to be.”

“Don’t get complacent, boy,” Lord Bel had replied, as though Raphael wasn’t quite past the age to be considered one even by hellish standards. He’d lowered the telescope before speaking again. “It is idiocy. She will fail. Her mortal friends will die and she’s likely to suffer a worse fate yet. But as long as she’s fighting demons, she can be a useful idiot.”

“A strategic alliance?”

“If she’s so inclined, which I doubt. Celestials are usually too righteous to do the clever thing. More likely than not, she will refuse the alliance and make some lofty oath to take up her sword against us should we intervene - with the unspoken implication she will do so either way once all demons are dead by her holy hand, of course.”

Raphael scoffed. Demons were close enough to infinite in numbers, and anyone with half a brain knew that defeating them for good was impossible. They could be held back, never destroyed; they were as eternal as the chaos they had spawned from.

“Does she truly believe her quaint cavalry can succeed where all of our forces could not?”

“Don’t underestimate a celestial’s arrogance. Still, the remote possibility exists that this one may see reason.” Bel pulled away from the telescope, and turned back to look at him. “It would be foolish of me not to make an attempt. As soon as this battle is done and they make camp, you shall go as my envoy. Do try to return in one piece.”

He did go, and the meeting was short as it was unpleasant, with the solar doing most of the talking. As Bel had predicted there was the refusal of any cooperation, the promise to destroy their forces should they approach, the silent threat that they would be next once the demonic hordes were crushed. He’d returned to Bel in one piece, at least, and the Lord of the First had laughed when he heard his report.

“She thinks she can destroy demons and then us in one fell swoop? Well then, let her try. Let us see how many demons they can slaughter for us before they’re felled.”

It was many; hundreds, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands and more. Zariel fought furiously, if recklessly, and she fought well. So did her host, which lasted longer than Raphael had thought it possibly could - but they were mortals, and they fell far more easily than a celestial would; more easily than a fiend, too. More and more fell, their numbers dwindled, and the demons kept coming - wave after wave, horde after horde, shattering spears and shields, disemboweling horses and riders alike. Battles turned to indiscriminate butchery and no legion of devils intervened one way or the other. Their offer for help had, after all, been quite rudely rebuffed and Zariel, sworn sword of the Morninglord Lathander and herald of dawn.

She had made plain that she was their enemy, and few things are quite as convenient as two enemies making one another bleed. So the troops of Avernus retreated, took advantage of the rare lull to reorganize their numbers, repair weapons, and prepare for the fighting that was inevitably going to resume once the Ride failed.

Because it did fail. When a group of terrified Hellriders finally broke away over the course of a particularly bloody battle, Raphael knew it would seal their fate. They fled back to the portal they’d opened up from the Material Plane, went through it… and such was their terror the demons may follow, they closed it behind them, leaving the rest trapped.

Of those who remained some broke, turned on one another, tried to seek escape where no escape existed. They died, almost every one of them, until a small gang was left, closing ranks alongside a wounded mastodon and a solar who still held her head high, still attempting a last stand. It was brave, and it was futile. Raphael was there to see Netheril fall; he bore witness to the fall of Zariel, too.

But unlike Karsus, Zariel did not stay down for long. She was alive when a delegation of bone devils sent by Asmodeus himself came to retrieve her from beneath the pile of corpses, to take her all the way to Nessus. They came quickly, a little too quickly for Raphael not to suspect the Lord Below had been expecting precisely that outcome before making a move.

Raphael assumed she would be tortured, or made into a trophy; he was dreadfully correct, but not in the way he’d thought he would be. When Asmodeus announced Zariel - now an archdevil, corrupted by the Hells down to her bones - was to be the new ruler of Avernus, leading their forces against the demons of the Abyss, saying it was an unexpected development would have been a severe understatement. It surprised and angered many, but none dared voice that anger - especially not Bel, who publicly accepted the decision without protest even as he schemed, from the beginning, to regain his lost throne.

Losing the position of Steward of Avernus did not bother Raphael nearly as much. All things considered, it was perhaps a blessing in disguise - too many centuries in one position can make anyone complacent, dull the edge of ambition. But he’d prepared for that chance: over the centuries he’d set aside enough souls to his name, enough warlocks and connections.

He could not retain the title of duke, but he was allowed to remain in Avernus, in a dwelling he may create for himself, as long as he paid a quota of souls each year. Simple enough, truly.

As Zariel rose to power Raphael, servant of none at last, was ready to strive out on his own.

***

The first time Karlach had seen Zariel, there was a moment when she’d almost been relieved.

Surely, none of that was truly happening. She had not been grabbed and thrown through a portal to the Hells; she had not heard Gortash say she would make the perfect specimen for a prototype, whatever that meant. She had not been dragged inside a flying fortress of iron and basalt high above Avernus, sulfur threatening to choke her at every breath.

None of it was truly happening, she’d reasoned, because she was having a nightmare. She had to be dreaming. The creature standing before her with a burning halo over her head, ashen skin and burning eyes, could only be a figment of her imagination. She had a few precious moments to take solace in that.

Then the pain started - her chest sliced open and ribs spread apart with an iron instrument, something torn out and then replaced by what felt like molten lead - and she knew that if this was a nightmare, it was one she would never again wake from. Until she did wake up ten years later, under the sun amidst the remains of a nautiloid, swearing to herself that she was never, ever going to set foot in Avernus.

Things hadn’t precisely gone according to plan, because she actually set both feet back in Avernus in the end, just so that she wouldn’t… well, die. But she would have never gone back alone, of that she was certain. She would have never been able to survive half a year there, never been able to find out that there was a chance to replace her engine with one that could function outside the Hells. In choosing to come with her, Wyll had saved her life.

And he still thought I’d let him get himself grab the sword and get fucked over again for my sake. As if. As fucking if.

She could hear the sword in question humming faintly at Halsin’s back. Actually, the hum kept growing less and less faint the higher up they went. Reacting to Zariel, Lulu had whispered when Karlach asked about it.

“We’re close, I can tell - I feel her, too!”

“Shouldn’t she be able to feel you and the sword approaching, too?” Wyll asked, causing Lulu to frown. At least, it looked like a frown. Discerning the expressions of a hollyphant really wasn’t easy.

“... Yes, she should feel my presence too, shouldn’t she? And she hasn’t come to meet us.”

“What were you expecting, miserable little thing? A hug?” Mizora muttered, but she looked thoughtful as they made their way further up, among turrets at the slit windows and other infernal machinery. One good thing about the earlier fight was that they met no one the rest of the way; clearly, whoever was supposed to occupy the few highest floors had responded to Flo’s call to come and fight them.

Still holding the chain they had attached to Lulu for show, Halsin had frowned. “She has not called upon any forces to stop us, either.”

Mizora hummed. “She may very well wish to keep that pleasure for herself.”

“No, she wouldn’t hurt me. And you know that. You had to kill me because she wouldn’t, even if she kept coming to see me every day,” Lulu had replied, and it seemed Mizora had nothing to retort to that. She only scoffed, and Lulu spoke again. “She will listen to me. I know it.”

“... I am sure you still mean a great deal to her,” Wyll said, not unkindly. “But in the event she does not take up the sword--”

“You’re not picking it up. If we have to fight her, we do it without that thing. No one’s getting changed beyond recognition on my watch,” Karlach cut him off the same moment Lulu huffed, shaking her head.

“There will be no such event. I know her, I’ve known her forever. And it’s only been… less than a century and a half since the Ride. That’s not long!”

Wyll chuckled. “It sounds like a long time to me, but I am certain Halsin would say otherwise,” he said, and Halsin smiled.

“That’s a very kind way to call me old.”

“Oh, come now. You’re barely a middle aged elf.”

Lulu fluttered closer to Karlach, who was still frowning. “I know you don’t understand - I know she hurt you - but please-- she is still there. She must be.”

It’s all the hope she has to cling to. If she’s beyond saving, what will Lulu even do with herself?

It was a sad thought, and Karlach forced herself to chase it away. No, she couldn’t think that way. She had to hope that the hollyphant was right; that enough of the old Zariel was still there within the monster. Honestly, that was one fight she’d happily do without. In the end, she sighed.

“If the Zariel you knew is still there, we’ll do our best to bring her back out.”

“Yes! And she’ll apologize!”

Low bar to step over, that, but well. They were in the Hells, and it would still be one step up Gortash. I’m sorry you felt wronged, the bitch had said. The absolute bitch, pun fully intended.

“She had better,” Karlach said, making an effort to smile. Up and up they went, until they finally were at the very top of the Fortress, before the metal trapdoor leading to the roof. From there, Zariel would survey their surroundings while the Fortress’ engines got their soul refill from the Styx.

She’s right there, right beyond this door. And there is no way in all the Hells that she does not know Lulu and her sword are here.

Karlach swallowed, stared at the door a moment, and turned to Wyll. “Just in case something goes wrong, I just… I wanted to… er…” she cleared her throat. “I mean--”

He smiled, and reached up to cup her cheek. “This is not the day we die,” he promised, and brushed a thumb over her cheekbone before he stood on his toes to kiss her. Karlach kissed him back - oh it was so, so nice - and almost wanted to cry when he pulled back. Almost, because he was smiling again and he had that look on his face, the one he got when he made a promise he’d do anything to keep. “This kiss wasn’t our last.”

A sigh. “Delightful, truly. I believe you just rotted half of my teeth,” Mizora muttered, and vanished the chains on Karlach and Lulu with a single gesture. “Well then. I believe I shall let you go forth.”

Halsin glanced over. “Are you not coming?”

She did not reply right away. First, she looked at the closed trapdoor with an expression Karlach couldn’t quite place, but which seemed infinitely bitter. “If you do succeed in redeeming her, I don’t relish the thought of finding myself face to face with her.”

“And if it comes to a fight?” Wyll asked. Mizora sighed, the way a parent does when faced with a particularly slow child asking a particularly dumb question.

“In that case, I’d have all the more reason to make myself scarce.”

“It won’t come to that,” Lulu declared, and bodily slammed into the door before any of them could add a single word, throwing it open and flying outside. “Zarie--”

There was a burst of flames, and she barely managed to duck beneath it. Lulu let out a yelp, wings beating furiously after dodging the attack. “Hey! That wasn’t nice! It’s me!”

That wasn’t nice, she said. Oh gods, they were so screwed. With a groan, Karlach climbed out, a hand ready to fly to her greataxe, which had been silvered for the occasion. She heard, faintly, the sword's humming growing stronger as Halsin followed her and Wyll outside… to be met with no more attacks. The roof was empty but for one being.

At the apex of her fortress, cutting a fearsome figure against the red sky of Avernus and with her only remaining hand still lifted, Zariel stood alone, looking at them all with flaming eyes.

***

Raphael’s face was still wet when the notes of the Song of Rest rang out.

It was a small respite, far less than the long rest he clearly needed - and Haarlep, truth be told; Durge wouldn’t have said no either - but it was all they could afford now. They sighed at the relief the spell did provide, and tilted their head towards Raphael. They had to rein in a frankly ridiculous impulse to reach out and wipe his face dry, brush back his hair.

Later, perhaps. We have precious little time. The others may yet need us.

“Thank you,” they said instead. There was much more they wished to say, but that too would have to wait. “I am sorry the circumstances don’t allow for the kind of rest you need.”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead.” Raphael’s voice came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat before speaking again. “Which will be very soon, I suspect,” he added, in the same tone one may use to make observations about possible rainfall later in the evening. Durge had to admit he was doing an admirable job at pretending he had not been sobbing his heart out against their chest until minutes earlier, in a breakdown that had been… nearly a couple of millennia in the making, from what they’d gathered.

“Oh, thank you kindly. We really needed a little bit of doom and gloom, to balance out the insufferable cheery surroundings,” Astarion huffed, gesturing to the wasteland all around and the towering fortress above them. All seemed business as usual; the others may not have gotten to Zariel yet, which meant they may very well be still on time to help.

A couple of steps away, having taken on the glamor of a bone devil, Haarlep sighed. “It would be inconvenient,” they lamented, in the raspy voice that left the skeletal jaw. “And after we took such pains to keep you alive.”

Raphael scoffed, putting the lyre on his back. “Regardless of convenience, that is the most likely outcome if we attempt to walk through the fortress’ front door.”

“Oh, not if I walk you in as prisoners while wearing this form.” Haarlep bared the bone devil’s fangs, causing Raphael to pause and turn slowly to look at the glamor. “See, I had a plan and everything, before I spotted you fighting for your life and had to make a detour. I figured that if I took the form of one of the fortress’ guards, no one would question me going in.”

“And when did you get--”

“About an hour ago. Poor thing was so pent-up, he couldn’t resist. Gave up his body soooo readily, it was almost a shame to push him in the Styx.” A sigh. “Ah, well. Couldn’t let him show up while I was using his form, could I now? It may have been a little embarrassing, one of us would have had to change. Or he’d have killed me on sight. Anyway, I never went into the Fortress, clearly. I checked on Raphael’s sending stone, and saw it was suddenly outside, so I rushed to the spot and not a moment too soon.”

Raphael stared for several moments, looking all the world like he had a million questions he’d rather pull out teeth than ask. In the end, he only asked one. “Dare I ask what you were planning to do once inside? Fight Zariel?”

“I mean, I’d rather not. But I could have cheered from the sidelines, or snatched you if things went wrong and tried to make a run for it. Or I could have distracted her. I’m good at that.”

“I doubt she'd be particularly vulnerable to your idea of distraction.”

“I mean, with the crossbow.”

“I doubt she’d be particularly vulnerable to your crossbow, either.”

“Well, that’s why it was Plan C. But surely, right now what matters is getting in the fortress, and then we can… well, we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it, no?”

“Cross it. You cross a bridge when you get to it,” Astarion corrected them. “But that slip aside, I say we go for it. It’s the kind of plan I could have come up with myself, really.”

“It’s hardly even a plan,” Raphael pointed out, gaining himself a toothsome grin.

“Precisely,” he said, and that was that.

***

“So, you have come to cut me down. It took you more time than I was expecting. You’ve longed to do it for a very long time. I can always tell when someone thirsts for blood.”

Zariel’s voice was raspy as Karlach remembered it, as though fire had scorched her throat once and the burns never healed. She sounded calm, but that could change at the drop of a hat; Karlach had seen it happen more times than she could count, a quiet façade burning away like flash paper to leave behind seething fury, bottomless hatred, a thirst for blood and war nothing ever seemed to quench.

And if that happened there would be no turning back, no getting her to calm and listen. So she ground her teeth and forced herself not to say that yes, actually, she’d dreamed of sticking a blade where the sun didn’t shine more times than she could count and part of her still really fucking wanted to go ahead and try to do just that. She might have, if she’d been alone. But she was not - Wyll was there, and Halsin too. They had risked too much already, for her sake.

As though the bitch had just read her thoughts, Zariel’s eyes shifted from her to Wyll. Her lips curled in a humorless smile. “The warlock who’s been aiding you. I see, now. I can sense Mizora’s mark all over you. It was her to betray me, then. She’ll pay the price for this, once I’m done with you.”

“We’re not here to cut you down! We’re here to help you!” Lulu called out, immediately fluttering between them and Zariel. It was almost painful to listen, all that hope in her voice. “We have brought--”

“Silence.” The flail secured to the wrist missing a hand was raised and brought down to the floor. It cracked the stone, but she made no move to attack. Not yet, at least - she’d just given a warning. It wasn’t like her to give warnings of any kind, but Karlach found she was not overly surprised. One thing was clear: Zariel, archdevil of Avernus, was unwilling to harm Lulu.

If not for her, she’d have attacked on sight, or called for a legion or two to back her up, or both. And now she wants her out of the way so she can do just that.

“Whatever foolish notion you have of saving me, you are wrong.” She took a step forward, the blood red feathers of her wings glistening as they shifted. Karlach reached for her weapon and so did Wyll, and they took a step back - but Zariel ignored them entirely. Her gaze was fixed on Lulu, and on her only. “I let you leave once, you stubborn creature, and you keep returning time and time again, seeking what is no more. Can’t you see there is no use?”

“No! I’ll come back again if I have to! You kept coming back, too!” Lulu dared flutter closer, that desperate hope still in her voice. “When I was locked up in the dungeons, you came to see me almost every day. And you got so mad, but you kept coming. And you never struck me even if you screamed, even if this was all my fault.”

That struck a chord. Zariel paused mid-stride, and the look on his face turned to something much closer to confusion. “Your…?”

“I am sorry I couldn’t get to you on time-- the battle was so fierce, I couldn’t find you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you fell. Please, let me--”

A scathing laugh, the confusion burning away in the brightness of the flaming halo. Zariel lifted a hand in the air. A black warhammer, the very same one she’d ripped from the grasp of a demon lord, appeared in her grip in a faint cloud of mist. It was called Matalotok, but Karlach had heard it referred to as the Maul of Brutal Endings. Not very reassuring, that.

“I did not fall, Lulu. I rose, so that I may shoulder a burden none in Celestia was ever willing to take on. Asmodeus and his angels were right from the beginning. You cannot stave off the bottomless hunger of the demons of the Abyss with virtue .”

Karlach scoffed. “Oh, so we’re supposed to thank you now?” she spat, and Zariel’s flaming glare turned to her for only a moment before Lulu spoke again, high and desperate.

“This isn’t about that anymore, Zariel! You know it! This isn’t you, this--”

“I told you, didn’t I?” Zariel cut her off, and bared her teeth in something that could have been a smile, or a snarl, or both. The halo of fire around her head seemed to burn hotter. “When demons die, they cry out my name in terror. This is who I am.”

“How many times have you told yourself that, so that you could believe it?” Halsin’s voice rang out before Lulu could retort, and it caused Zariel to stop in her tracks. Halsin had stepped forward, and in his hands was the Sword. Even in a scabbard, it hummed and shook as though alive. “I know what it is, to dedicate one’s life to a mission. I know what it is to lose oneself to the pursuit. But if you were indeed lost, you’d have struck already. Us, and her. ”

Zariel stared, and the corners of her mouth curled in a sneer of disdain… even as something in her gaze faltered, as the flames of her halo burned somewhat less brightly. Then the moment was over, and she bared her teeth again.

“Fools. I shall take that sword from your cold dead hands, the last remnants of my shame, and shatter it to pieces. You should have wielded it when you could. ”

There was no time to think of a response, much less to utter it. The next thing Karlach heard was a scream that seemed to shake the sky itself, Wyll’s shouted warning, Lulu’s own cry of dismay. Then Zariel charged in a wave of flames, warhammer and flail lifted.

End of diplomacy. Oh well. We tried, Karlach thought, and let out a cry of her own before she lifted her blade to meet the attack, the engine in her chest roaring with her.

***

“Hah! See, I told you it was going to--”

“Haarlep!”

“Hush!”

“Gods above, shut up !”

Now that was rather rude, Haarlep wanted to point out, but they did not, mostly because they might have a point. Dropping the ruse of marching prisoners inside the fortress as a bone devil - enforcers of Baator’s laws, and arguably the most feared devils by anybody below a pit fiend - was probably not a good idea while still within sight of guards. So they bit their tongue, quickly regretting it because oh those teeth were sharp, and kept going.

There were a few glances their way, but the chains the dragonborn had pulled out from their bag of holding were pretty convincing, as well as a really interesting item to just carry around. That, and the general fear of bone devils kept anybody from coming to take too close a look, which was good news.

Haarlep’s glamors were good enough to fool other devils, certainly… but this was probably not the moment to test that assumption. So they shot a few glares around, waving the tail and stinger, and proceeded undisturbed deeper into the fortress.

“Prisoners for Zariel,” they snapped once or twice, when someone dared ask, and that was it. They kept going - up and up and up, until the elevator ran its course and they were left with only a few more levels to go up on foot. They only stopped a few moments when they came across a room full of corpses; Haarlep could only assume that was where Raphael had been when the bearer of his ring had been found and he was forcibly ejected from the fortress.

“We’re close to the top,” Raphael spoke, nudging a corpse with his boot. “Surely, if Zariel is up there, the others would have reached her by now. And yet, nothing seems to have happ--”

A scream rang out suddenly, somewhere above and yet everywhere, shaking the walls, the floor, the ceiling. It caused them all to still, and exchange a glance.

“Remind me to make a sarcastic remark about your timing after we’re done,” Astarion said, and Raphael only sighed before they rushed up the last flights of stairs, not wasting their time or breath on more words.

***

Karlach was honestly holding her own, fending off most blows and even working in a few good hits of her own, until a lash of the flail took out her right arm at the elbow.

Not that she realized what had happened right away: at first there was only the sound of her weapon hitting the ground, along with a thud she didn’t quite place; then there was Wyll’s scream, and the realization that she was falling back. Then her back hit the ground, and there was pain.

Laughter, too - Zariel’s laughter, above her own scream. “You should have known better,” she snarled, and lifted Matalotok above her head, ready to end her or at least come pretty damn close to it. She never got the chance, because suddenly Wyll was there in a burst of swirling mist, between her and Zariel, and pressed a hand against the archdevil’s before crying out.

“Dolor!”

At such close range and without warning, the blasts did exactly what they had to do - throw Zariel back. She did not fall, a powerful beat of her wings saw to that, but she was pushed back enough that Wyll could turn and cry out. “Halsin! Help her!”

Ah, right. She was missing an arm and bleeding out, which was really not ideal.

“Wyll--” Karlach tried to call out, but he was off, head to head with the archdevil of Avernus. He had no hope of defeating her on his own, and he knew that. He wasn't trying to down her: he was trying to hold her back, away from her.

No, no, no, no, no. Not him.

Karlach groaned and tried to sit up, despair overriding any and all pain. She felt for her weapon with the remaining hand, and just as she grasped the handle there was a touch on her back, helping her sit up. She heard Halsin speak, not far from her ear.

“Don’t move. I think I can help,” he said, and Karlach groaned.

“No, no. Wyll, he-- wait-- the sword…?”

“Lulu has it.”

Out of the corner of her mind Karlach could see her, hovering a short distance away. She was holding tightly onto the sword, trembling, and staring at the unfolding battle with wide eyes. The very picture of a broken heart; Karlach would have felt sorry, had she not been distracted by the sight of Halsin holding up her own severed arm. She had seen some nasty shit, but looking at it still made her puke a little in her own mouth.

“The fuck…?”

“Hold still. I never tried this before,” Halsin replied, and held the arm to the bleeding stump, murmuring some incantation Karlach did not grasp. She sure as fuck saw the effects, though: under her stunned gaze the shards of bone in the stump shifted, set themselves straight again - and then there was tissue growing, stretching, knitting itself back together. Within moments her arm was hers again, with only a tingling sensation in the nerve endings that had already faded by the time she stood and picked her greataxe up. She laughed, incredulous.

“Well, that was horrifying, but really damn useful. Could you always do it?”

“I learned recently. Traveling with you never fails to broaden my horizons,” he replied, and Karlach took a mental note of paying for his drinks at the next occasion before she turned back to the most pressing matter - Zariel. Wyll fought viciously and he fought well, but against an archdevil… well, he was going to need a little extra help.

Good thing she was there with a big fuckoff axe, ready to provide that help.

“Hey, handsome! Need a hand?”

“What-- how--?”

“Halsin’s got new tricks!”

Wyll had a deep cut on his forehead, turning his entire face in a bloody mask, and his right horn had broken clean in half, but he still smiled. “Oh, thank the gods.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but it would have to wait. First, they had an archdevil to deal with.

And they did just that, the two of them and Halsin, in a blur of magic and fire and blows. Karlach wasn’t sure how long it lasted, but soon enough she was locking blades and eyes with Zariel. The engine in her chest roared, and so did she.

“Take a good look at me while you’ve still got eyes! You’re going to pay for what you did to me!”

Her fury was met with a sneer. “I made you stronger, and instrumental in a war upon which the safety of all Planes rests. You ought to be thanking me. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You never made a willing sacrifice.”

Were you in my place, would you risk it all to save others?

The memory of Zariel as she had been once, seeking to protect rather than destroy, caused Karlach to grind her teeth. “Didn’t have to, did I? You made that fucking choice from me! Took my heart! Made me a weapon! YOU HAD NO RIGHT!”

Zariel sneered, again. It was really starting to piss her off.

I could stem the tide of chaos and save many lives, the memory of her had said.

“I had every right to do what was needed. Would you rather have the demons of the abyss run amok across Planes?” the archdevil she was now snarled instead. “Would you rather--”

“Oh, fuck off!” Karlach pulled back, ducked under a vicious swing of the flail, and caught the falling hammer with her greataxe. The metal vibrated on impact, but it held up, courtesy of the improvements in Bel’s forge. “What of the innocents you were supposed to protect? What of them? The ones this bullshit was supposed to be all about!”

Yeenoghu slaughtered those I swore to protect.

The sneer of Zariel’s face froze, and for a moment she looked stunned, as though she had no idea how either of them had come to be there. Karlach sneered, and took advantage of the lapse to push back with all her might before ducking out of the way.

Wyll’s blast caught Zariel in the chest, causing her to stagger back; she unfolded her wings and took flight, only to cry out in surprise and pain when Halsin’s lighting spell hit the mark, and she fell back to the ground, snarling.

“You--!”

The already boiling air of Avernus seemed to waver, shimmer, and it was the only warning they got before a wave of fire burst forth from Zariel with a cry of blackest fury. It burned hot, but fuck it - Karlach already had an infernal engine in her chest. She knew hot. She could withstand it. So she charged through it, not caring if it scorched her, and swung her greataxe in a wide enough arc to cut, deep, into Zariel’s shoulder.

There was a crack, and a scream; the flail attached to her wrist hung limply alongside her entire arm. Zariel was barely able to hold up the warhammer to block Karlach’s next blow and there they were again, locked in combat, their faces so close Karlach could see each flicker of flames in those eyes. They saw her, and hated.

“I was a fucking kid! I was dragged here and forced to fight! Was I not supposed to be protected from this bullshit?”

“You? A bodyguard idling her life away! I gave you a greater purpose! What is one life compared to--”

“And Elturel! The entire fucking city!” Karlach screamed, straining to push her back. The engine roared, blood rushed in her ears. “Were they not innocent? The very people the Hellriders were sworn to protect, too! The ones who followed you! The ones who died for you! Don’t give me bullshit about greater good! This isn’t about protecting anyone!”

“Enough!”

“No! You’ll listen to my every fucking word if I had to cram them down your throat!” Karlach disengaged, ducked under the blow. She heard Wyll crying out some incantation, felt the air shimmer around her - some sort of protection spell - one moment before Halsin summoned a wall of thorns right where Zariel stood.

Thorny vines reached up to grasp her and she cried out in fury. She incinerated them, of course, but they held on just long enough for Karlach to strike. The silvered blade cut through the air, and then through the wrist where the flail was attached. The bloody flail fell onto the ground, and Zariel screamed.

But not loud enough to cover Karlach’s own scream.

“They died because they followed you, and you failed, and you tried to take Elturel! Yael died hoping you could be saved, and you tried to take her fucking city to the Hells!”

“I SAID ENOUGH!”

The warhammer fell, and this time Karlach was not fast enough to entirely avoid the blow. She was able to roll with it and avoid getting her every rib shattered, but it still hurt like a bitch and sent her tumbling across the ground. Zariel may have been on her the next instant, if not for the barrage of magic from Wyll and Halsin keeping her at bay. Karlach groaned, and forced herself to stand with a grunt.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Lulu was still motionless, as though paralyzed, holding onto the sword with all limbs and her trunk. But all her attention, again, was for Zariel. So she met her gaze again, and sneered right back as one of Halsin’s healing spells hit, allowing her to breathe more easily, the pain in her ribs abating.

“You can take your bullshit about a greater purpose and shove it up your ass. You don’t give a damn about protecting the Planes anymore. You only want the excuse to keep slaughtering demons because you like it, and it’s all you’ve go--!”

There was another shriek and the hammer fell, cracking the floor, causing the entire fortress to shake and all of them to fall back. Fury and hatred was a tangible thing now, coming off Zariel in waves, the most burning hatred and deepest despair. Pain, too, cutting through the very soul, almost unbearable - but just almost. Karlach could bear pain. She’d borne plenty already.

So she stood, downed a potion, and back into the fray she went.

***

“I take it that diplomacy did not achieve the desired results.”

Raphael’s voice was barely audible beneath Zariel’s agonized shriek, and beneath the crack of thunder as Durge immediately stepped in, striking her before she could so much as try to deliver a blow to Halsin. Astarion was right behind them, bow drawn and some sort of shimmering arrow ready to let loose.

Raphael almost followed - if he had to get himself killed, he may as well do it properly - when Haarlep lay a hand on his shoulder and spoke. “Huh. What’s wrong with her?”

“Wh--” Raphael turned, and there she was - the hollyphant, silent at last. Well, not entirely silent: she was muttering ‘no, no, no’ repeatedly to herself, hovering in mid-air and clutching the sword they had gone through such pains to obtain, a distant cast to those beady little eyes. All in all, she was a wretched sight. A shattered mind; Raphael had seen plenty of those, many shattered by his own hand. He was always rather good at that, as many of the broken souls wandering across the House of Hope would have confirmed, if they could.

He supposed he may as well try his hand at the opposite, if he did still have a powerful enough restoration spell left in his arsenal. As Zariel landed a devastating blow on Halsin’s summoned Myrmidon, Raphael took a few steps towards the madness-stricken hollyphant.

He lifted his hands, and she did not react when they glowed, nor to his words. “Te curo.”

The light flared up a moment, engulfing the hollyphant. It faded quickly, and before it did she was already gasping, recoiling as though awakened from a deep sleep.

“I-- what--” She looked around, eyes wide. There was another cry of fury and she turned - they all turned - to see that Zariel was unable to move, her legs having seemingly turned to stone. Ravengard’s doing, no doubt; he was staggering back just as Zariel beat her wings to try free herself, only for Astarion to put an acid arrow through one, and for Karlach to bring down her blade on the other.

Zariel screamed again, and lifted the handless arm, began crying out words - a summoning , for her legions to come aid her. That would certainly mean their end, and Raphael didn’t pause to think: he stepped forward, and cast another spell.

“Silentium!”

To Zariel’s fury and Raphael’s relief, it took effect before she could complete the summoning. She let out another cry of anger, or at least so the silent twisting of her features suggested. On the other hand, Durge turned back and grinned at him, all fangs.

Good one, they mouthed, and lifted Mourning Frost. A sorcerer’s subtle spell required some more power but oh, wasn’t it useful to cast with no need of words. Above Zariel there was the spark of lighting, so bright it almost turned the red sky white, and then--

“NO! PLEASE! DON’T!”

Everything happened too quickly for Raphael to react, let alone to try doing something. The hollyphant darted forward, still clutching the Sword, and came between Zariel and the descending bolt of lighting at the last moment. Raphael saw Durge snatch back their hands, but it was too late.

The spell was cast, and lightning struck.

***

Everything happened in the blink of an eye, and in utter, eerie silence. Lighting came down, and Lulu rose to meet it; it went precisely as one may expect, when one takes the full force of a powerful spell. It threw Lulu back, and she fell some distance away; the sword clattered by her, skidded a few more paces before coming to a stop. It still glowed.

Lulu, on the other hand, remained motionless.

Shit, Karlach said, or tried to. She went to the hollyphant without thinking, out of the sphere of silence Raphael had cast, and crouched by the stricken celestial. Why did you do it, she almost asked, but she did not. She knew exactly why she’d done it.

“Hey! Say something!” she called out instead, reaching to shake her. Lulu let out a groan and shuddered, but didn’t lift her head. Karlach was reaching for a potion of healing when a bone devil she could only assume was Haarlep, if anything for the fact they stood next to Raphael without trying to kill him, spoke.

“Huh. You may want to look behind you.”

Karlach did just that, and for a moment she could only stare, her mind blank of all thought. Zariel had broken free of the spell that had turned her legs to stone, but the battle had not resumed. Under her companions’ stunned gazes, she was walking slowly, almost tentatively, towards Lulu. One of her wings had been almost hacked off, and she left bloody footprints in her wake, but she did walk. Her eyes were fixed on the hollyphant, the fire in them faint in a way Karlach had never seen. The flaming halo, too, seemed to be petering out.

“Fool,” Zariel rasped, and stepped closer, her face a mask of agony. Karlach backed off quickly, ready to attack if need be, but the archdevil of Avernus did not so much glance her way. She made it to Lulu, and fell to her knees. "You utter fool. What have you done?”

“I promised Yael-- I promised, ” Lulu gasped out. She tried to move, but her head fell back again, and she could only look at Karlach, at the sword a few feet away. “Please…”

Zariel lifted her gaze to look at the sword, still glowing within the scabbard, and Karlach put her greataxe away to pick it up, in a daze. She was vaguely aware of the fact her companions were approaching, ready to fight again if need be; for a moment, all that existed in the world was herself, her tormentor, and the sword that may put an end to the archdevil Zariel with no need to risk lives, no need to risk more of her life.

Then Karlach looked up, staring Zariel in the eye - it seemed so wrong, that lost look on those features - before she stepped closer, and held up the sword.

It’s not just any sword, it’s sentient, Lulu had told them, and she had not been joking. The Sword of Zariel glowed brighter and slid out of the scabbard, lifting itself into the air before her old wielder. Celestial runes seemed to draw themselves into thin air around it, and the vibrations almost sounded like a song.

Beyond the glow of the sword, Zariel was shedding tears like molten lava. Her only hand reached for Lulu, hovered a few inches from her golden fur, but she hesitated to even touch her. At last, she looked up at the sword, then at Karlach. “This,” she rasped, “is your chance to cut me down.”

For a moment, Karlach’s fingers twitched; for a moment, she almost did reach for her weapon. But then she saw it again, Gortash’s corpse in his silk robes, laying on a marble floor and somehow still smirking at her, even in death.

He's dead, and he's no fucking sorrier than he was before. What was the point?

A rhetorical question, that. If she could go back, he’d kill him another dozen times. She’d help Astarion kill Cazador another two dozen times, too. But now that Zariel knelt before her willingly, she balked. Of fucking course.

Maybe she was tired. Maybe she wanted to find out if she’d really get an apology for all the bullshit she had to go through. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, she pulled her hand away from her weapon.

“... No. Fuck this. I didn’t claw my way out of the Hells to hand you a coward’s way out. So take that thing, and deal with what you’ve done. It’s all I’ve been doing for the past ten years.”

For a few moments, there was only silence and Karlach could almost believe someone had cast another silencing spell. Then, slowly, Zariel stood. Karlach found herself taking a step back, holding her breath, as Zariel's fingers brushed the hilt of the sword. There was a sound like sizzling flesh, and Zariel let out a pained gasp, but that pain seemed to break all hesitation at last. Her only had closed on the hilt and held on, tight, even as it seared her flesh.

When she spoke again, her voice was a cry of pain, and sorrow, and yet something that was much like hope. “I, Zariel, supplicate myself before the holy light of justice. If it should accept me, I vow to take up this blade once more in its service.”

For a moment, nothing happened, her words echoing in the silence.

Well, Karlach thought, that was a whole bunch of noth--

And then there was light. It cascaded from the skies, the same light they had encountered in the Citadel. Karlach stepped back, ready to call out for Astarion and Haarlep to get back, but there was no need: the light only fell on Zariel, and on Lulu - bright, so bright, Karlach had to close her eyes against it. Then the glare faded and she opened her eyes again, blinking.

For a moment, all she saw was a wall of golden fur. “You’re back! You’re back! Oh, I knew it!”

It was odd, really, listening to Lulu’s voice coming from the immense golden mastodon standing before her. And hovering in the air on gold-feathered wings, her eyes covered by a blindfold, was the Solar she had seen in the stained glass at the Citadel. She remained in mid-aid for a few moments before slowly descending to the ground before her.

She looked at Karlach for a moment - could she see, with the blindfold? - before she bowed her head and sank on one knee. “Karlach,” she spoke, her voice a melody so unlike the rasping voice she knew. “You have my thanks, herald of dawn.”

Karlach opened her mouth to speak. She closed it. Opened it again. She heard voices, faintly, felt Wyll’s touch on her arm. In the end, she spoke with a voice that didn’t feel like her own, either.

“I'm the herald of nothing. Just say you’re sorry.”

Zariel lifted her face, and again she seemed to be looking at her despite the blindfold. Her skin was flawless, unmarred by fire, the way Karlach’s own would never be again. Such a stupid detail to get fixated on, but she couldn’t help it. Those beautiful features twisted in sorrow.

“I am sorrier than words can ever express, for a wrong I know words alone cannot atone,” she spoke, and that was it. Karlach closed her eyes, leaned back against Wyll, and for a time she just cried and cried and cried. She wasn’t even sure if crying helped, to be honest.

But the several pairs of arms around her sure as hell did.

*** One archdevil down, one more to go. ***

[Back to Chapter 26]

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#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #the dark urge #raphael bg3 #halsin bg3 #haarlep #raphlep #wyll ravengard #karlach bg3 #haarlep bg3 #bg3 raphael #raphael the cambion #bg3 astarion #durgestarion #wyllach #mephistopheles dnd #lulu dnd #mizora bg3 #hell to pay

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