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Mortal traditions held little importance to a fiend. Raphael’s tail flicked the air with irritation as he dismissed another request – this was his house, and there would be no… festivities getting in the way of a plan that had been in motion for well over a millennium now.
“Just one day off,” Korilla poked once again at his frustrations with her incessant need to bargain and deal. “That’s all, one day. The tadpoled adventurers you’re so fond of won’t be going anywhere, they’ve got plans for their Midwinter feast already.”
“And what, pray tell, is so vitally important that you need a full day away from your contracted duties?” His eyebrow raised, along with his ire, as his heavy boot tapped upon the floor awaiting her response.
“Hope. She’s getting too comfortable, I can see to it that she’s properly uncomfortable. You could join me, if you want?” She laid her offer bare, though it was entirely pointless – Raphael had long since given up on the game of breaking Hope. She was…a frustration at best. Not worth his effort any more.
“No.” He turned away, not bothering to respond to any further pleas. “You will do as you are bidden and be glad of it.”
—
“Bah, humbug.” Raphael slipped into bed in his own secondary room, unwilling to indulge Haarlep’s games in the Boudoir and glad of a locked door from the relentless begging from various debtors for his attention, even his staff joining Korilla in trying to persuade him to do something for Midwinter.
But what did seasons matter to a devil in the Hells where day and night barely had any meaning? There was one season in Avernus, and it was hot . Years could pass in minutes, a month in the blink of an eye, to one whose lifespan reached across millennia.
With a snap of his fingers the room turned dark, heavy velvet curtains drawing around the bed as he pulled the silks up to his chin and closed his eyes to sleep.
A mere few moments – or possibly hours – passed before his eyes snapped open. An apparition hovered by his bedside, illuminated by ghostly light.
“Begone, irritant, you have no business in my room at night.”
“Hmmmmm? Oh but I do,” the voice of the Archivist held a strange echo to it, beyond the man’s usual mannerisms, “I do have business with you.”
“Very well, get it over with then leave me alone.” Raphael sat up against the headboard, arms folded, glaring at the Tiefling by his bedside.
“Tonight you will be visited by a ghostly three, who will show thy indiscretions to thee.” The Archivist’s tail swished behind him as he continued with wide gestures and a hollow look in his eyes. “Should you fail to heed their dire warnings, misfortune shall befall you by the morning.”
“Enough! Enough with the rhyme, tell me what you mean just one more time.” Raphael cursed himself under his breath for the accidental poetry to his reply.
“You’ve buried yourself under contracts, Raphael.” Ah, good, there couldn’t be a rhyme for his name. “A fate that I myself once befell.”
“I will flay you and feed you to the Orthon.”
“AHEM. You’ll be entertained by three guests, and I sugge-” the Archivist paused, stifling the near fatal mistake before choosing another word, “I recommend that you listen to them.”
Raphael blinked twice and the man was gone, leaving in his space only silence and shadows.
“Bah, humbug,” he muttered and rolled over, pulling the pillow over his head to sleep.
—
The next to wake him was a ghost from far past, a distant memory of the architect who built Moonrise Towers. One who still resided in his home as a debtor. “Wake up, Devil,” the cold voice crackled like ice through his veins – unpleasantly reminiscent of Cania where his father yet drew breath, “follow me and see what was.”
“No,” Raphael replied, throwing a spare pillow towards the apparition.
“What the—” it dodged the projectile with a dark frown in empty bones. “You cannot ignore me! Come!”
Reality warped around them as Raphael found himself walking barefoot in little more than his nightgown beside the skeletal man. “I do not appreciate this insolence, Morfred. I am the Master of the House of Hope, not you.”
“Observe,” the skeleton pointed to the halls they were walking through. Familiar, yes, but lacking the current decor. Empty spaces in the House of Hope that had yet to be filled with portraits, decorated with marks of his triumph, and miserable debtors just like this one. “You had nothing, you started from nowhere.”
“I do not need one such as you to stroke my ego,” Raphael smiled wickedly, “but I will allow you to continue.”
“See where you were, were you began. Empty shelves, barely a debtor beneath your feet. You were free to do as you pleased.” Morfred’s boney smile felt more unnerving by the minute. “Endless time and potential, young and hungry for success.”
“With a mountain of work ahead of me, and barely a wretch to crush beneath my heel to improve the day. Is there a point to all this?” He gazed into the empty sockets where Morfred’s eyes would have been.
“Watch.”
The illusion of time lurched forwards, portraits hung on the walls and replaced with slightly older looking faces – the visible sign of Raphael’s own progression even as the emptiness became a hive of activity, rag-wearing debtors scurrying around his feet like rats.
“See how miserable they all are?” Morfred gestured to the mixture of pathetic former mortals who had signed their souls away.
“I do,” Raphael grinned, “quite marvelous. I should add to their number, and their burdens, soon enough.”
“As you wish.” The apparition shifted again, the silk sheets soft against his skin as the cambion found himself back in his bed where he belonged.
“Hmph. Good. Leave me in peace.”
The light was once again extinguished by closed eyes as the rattling of bones receded.
—
Time passed once more in brief quiet until Raphael was awoken by a rustling beneath the covers.
“Harlot, I suggest you remove yourself. Now.”
A smiling crimson face with a crown of horns that mirrored his more devilish form slid out of the covers beside Raphael, propped up on the pillow by one elbow. “Mmmm spoilsport~”
“And what exactly do you think you are doing in my bed? Your domain is in the Boudoir, not here.” He frowned more, trying fruitlessly to shove the incubus off the mattress.
“So cruel~ But you were told I would visit, Archduke – I’m your Midwinter present!” The covers were flung aside dramatically as Haarlep revealed themselves almost entirely nude, save for a comically large silk ribbon that somehow covered more than their usual harness. “Don’t you want to unwrap me?”
“I do not. I want to sleep, so return to your abode at once.” Placing both feet squarely on Haarlep’s abdomen he kicked off hard, but instead of hearing the creature tumbling onto the floor he found himself instead standing in front of a scrying portal with the incubus beside him.
“See, everyone else is enjoying their gifts~” Their tail curled up his leg, hand slipping around his waist and pulling him in against their hip as they gestured to the vision before them.
Somewhere in the mortal realm, his Little Mouse was indulging in a night of passion with the vampire, druid, and a pair of drow he recognised from the brothel he often hired a room in for…business arrangements. “Hmph. Petty pleasures of the flesh, and such poor taste.” His nose wrinkled in disgust beneath a furrowed brow, however the incubus was as insightful as ever at picking up the barest hint of jealousy.
“My poor sweet Archduke,” Haarlep’s hand caressed his cheek, guiding his chin until their lips met in a kiss that was almost chaste…by an incubus’ standards. The flavour of spiced cinnamon on their tongue was soon followed by the spark of arousal, their tail sneaking ever higher up his thigh until he swatted it away with his hand. “So ungrateful~ But it matters little. Look.”
The view from the portal had shifted and changed, another bedroom and another couple within. “Why are you showing me this?”
“Because you are too stubborn to admit what you want.” The next image appeared, more mortals whose contracts he held in his archive were indulging in carnal desire, whilst he was kept from sleep. “I was the first and only gift your dear father gave you, do you remember?”
Haarlep’s wings closed around him as they stepped in front of him, towering above and glaring a challenge with fire blazing in their eyes.
Of course he remembered – how could he forget? A spy sent to his home, their name written off in his father’s contract whilst their body was inscribed into his own. Centuries had passed since then, millennia, and they had come to their agreements in more ways than one.
Haarlep’s claw traced down his cheek, even as he tried to turn away from their gaze.
“I’m not in the mood.”
“Oh, Raphael, lies are beneath us.”
—
Instead of resting in his own bed, the cambion found himself pressed to the silk sheets of the Boudoir’s instead, incubus covering his body in soft affection from head to toe. It was most…unlike Haarlep, to be so achingly gentle, so much so that he assumed this was some new kind of torture to spare him the sting of the wip or even the simple bite of their teeth on his sensitive flesh.
Even when they finally removed the ribbon that covered their body and wound it around his wrists, it felt soft , sliding oh so slowly against his skin as he writhed and frowned, needing more but unwilling to admit what he wanted most. The bindings secured Raphael’s arms above his head, the incubus using their tail to pull one of his legs aside, claws digging in to the other as their kiss descended lower and lower.
Raphael began to lose track of time and his senses as Haarlep relentlessly teased and devoured him, their eyes burning ever brighter as they summoned the scrying portal above, showing each salacious scene again – mortals sharing bodies and beds, his Little Mouse with soft squeaks and moans between the vampire’s bite and the bear’s tongue…
“Why do you show me this, in the middle of the night?”
“Isn’t this better,” the incubus propped their head up on their elbows, gazing up at him from between his thighs, “better than burying yourself in endless work?”
“So this is your game…” He bit his lip even as their tail withdrew from his body, still slick with oil. “Time will not stop, and neither will I. The crown belongs to me, and the hells need a proper ruler at their head.”
“Mmm yes, very impressive, my Raphael,” he bristled as they used his name in place of the usual insulting nickname, “yet still you continue to find your way to my bed.”
“Enough, Harlot, you got what you wanted.”
“Perhaps,” the incubus laughed, darkness pulling in around them like smoke as their smile was the last thing in his sight, sharp teeth in a twisted grin, “but I’m not the last you’ll see tonight.”
—
Raphael sat bolt upright in his own bed, no sign of ribbon tying him down nor the incubus beneath the covers.
He checked.
Twice.
Unfortunately, however, the dream had perhaps been too vivid – a problem solved with a swift spell removing the evidence of lustful thoughts he had not invited, the echo of Haarlep’s words still ringing in his ears.
“I shall have words with them come morning,” he muttered to himself, checking under the covers a third time just to be certain before settling back to sleep once more.
—
“You look so sweet when you’re sleeping,” a distinctly feminine voice broke through Raphael’s rest, his eyes snapping open to see a horribly familiar form sat on the edge of his bed, “well come along, I don’t have all night. And neither do you.”
“The third… You speak?” He blinked away the questions that made no sense as he tried to work out how to get rid of Mizora as swiftly and painlessly as possible.
Well, painless for him at least, he didn’t much care for her comfort.
“Always so sour, little half-prince,” she poked his nose with one careless finger as he transformed from his human shape to the more devilish form that matched her winged blue self. “There he is, the very picture of hubris.”
“Apparition or not, I do not appreciate you in my bed.” Raphael waved his hand as if to dismiss her, though the gesture was largely ignored.
“No, I don’t suppose you would – I lack the mirror or your face that your pet provides~”
“Do not speak of that which you do not understand, lapdog of Zariel.”
“I understand perfectly well, but that’s not why I’m here – you need to see what lies ahead.” Mizora raised her hand in a swift gesture, infernal fire swirling around them as Raphael was left standing only in his nightshirt once more.
—
“Avernus,” she stated – somewhat redundantly, given the cambion knew all too well the realm in which he lived, yet held his tongue from pointing that out. “Your precious House is permitted because Zariel wills it.”
A shimmering image of Avernus’ current ruler appeared like smoke, vanishing again before his eyes to be replaced by the illusion of his House crumbling into ruins and falling to the lava below.
“Why are you showing me this?” Raphael demanded, tail whipping in irritation behind him.
“To remind you of your place, Raphael.”
“You are, all of you, beneath me,” he snapped.
“If you say so~” Mizora turned away, leading him through scenery that shifted and changed like oil until he was standing in his own prison before Hope.
The Cleric wouldn’t even look him in the eye, turning her gaze to the floor and gritting her teeth as the agony ripped through her body in a fresh wave.
“See, even this one has no respect for you, Master of the House,” Mizora stepped behind Hope, fingers curling around her cheek in a motion that mimicked an act of care and compassion. “All she dreams about is leaving, of stepping over your corpse and never looking back.”
“I have no interest in the lies of Hope,” Raphael sneered, turning his back on the pair even as the surroundings changed again.
“Then what of the Orthon?” She had appeared now beside the sleeping form of the huge demon, his snores almost shaking the walls. “Give him just one chance and he will rip the wings from your body like an insect.” Slender blue fingers illustrated the point as she spoke, plucking the limbs from an invisible butterfly before crushing it beneath her heel.
“Yurgir is loyal to me,” crimson arms folded across his chest, eyes barely glancing at the commander of his forces. “Unlike those you have tricked into your contracts. Do tell me, Mizora, how is the young Ravengard these days?”
Mizora hissed her anger through gritted teeth. “That business is none of yours, Raphael. I have no need for rabid strays who have outstayed their welcome.”
“Ah, finally – something we have in common. Do send Wyll my regards, won’t you? I would love to see how well his sword matches your blood.” Smiling in the face of the woman’s scowl, Raphael felt himself drift back into a far more satisfied slumber as the dreams became his own once more.
—
Korilla waited in the hallway beside Haarlep, Morfred, and the Archivist as the door nearly hit them in the face. Mizora swept out past them, pausing only to snatch the soul coins from the warlock’s hand before vanishing in a swirl of infernal flames.
“What now?” The Archivist looked to her with concern written across his features.
“Now we wait until morning – I can help you pass the time, if you like~” Haarlep’s claws beckoned to the tiefling, drawing him closer before Korilla put her hand between to stop them.
“You will do no such thing. You all played your parts, now we wait.” She pulled the bag of holding from her robes, taking from inside it several larger bags that grew as they were removed. “The three of you will put up the decorations regardless, but if I don’t get my day off I’ll make your lives miserable for the next decade.”
“I love it when you’re angry,” Haarlep purred, their tail curling around the handle of the bag as they leaned in close enough to smell the hint of cinnamon that followed them wherever they went. “And our friend here would far rather you wrapped him in ribbon rather than waste it decorating the furniture~”
Korilla was almost certain the Archivist’s already crimson skin turned a deeper hue on his cheeks and at the tips of his ears before he sharply turned away, snatching the bag from Haarlep and walking swiftly towards the relative safety of the Archive.
“You should know when to stop,” Morfred reprimanded the incubus with a fleshless finger.
“Mmmm you’re no fun, not since you lost that body – much as I love to bone, you make that far too literal.” Haarlep took the next bag and turned with a nonchalant wave. “I’ll decorate what matters, then catch up on my beauty sleep.”
“Then that leaves us,” Korilla handed over more supplies to Morfred, “and you are the expert in such affairs. Get to it.”
—
When Raphael awoke, he felt surprisingly well rested – it was a wonder what a little petty vengeance and simple pleasure in one’s dreams could do for the mind. He stretched his arms wide, along with his wings and tai—
The cambion did not recall shifting form before bed. Sleeping in his human body was often far more comfortable…
He shook off the feeling, rising and dressing within a few short minutes before strolling out through his House.
Leaves and vines, glittering ribbons, and other Midwinter nonsense lit up every corner he turned, even the boldest of debtors scurrying away at the sight of his glowering visage. He entered the Boudoir to see Haarlep laying on the bed with only mistletoe dangling over their middle and promptly turned on his heel and left, ignoring the protests from behind him.
Finally he found Korilla hiding out in the Archive, busying herself with some scrolls.
“Did I tell you that you could take the day off for Midwinter? Does that sound like something I would do?” Raphael folded his arms, glaring a challenge toward her.
“N…no, Master Raphael.” An uncharacteristic nervousness from his strongest warlock raised several suspicions about the night’s dreams.
“Good, because I did no such thing. See to it that you deliver all of those scrolls today, and if you have not inscribed a dozen more contracts before the sun sets in the Sword Coast I shall make you wish you traded places with that sister of yours.”
“Y…yes, of course. I will not let you down.” She hurried away with an armful of papers as the Archivist cowered behind a large book in the corner.
Raphael rounded on the man, using his tail to tilt the tome away from a face that attempted to hide the fear written all over it.
“I certainly hope that isn’t poetry you’re reading there,” he grinned wickedly, plucking the book from the tiefling’s hands.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” The Archivist clamped his mouth shut the moment the sentence had left his lips.
“Perhaps you and I should have a lovely long chat,” Raphael’s smile widened dangerously, “about how you are going to re-categorise every single contract before the auditor arrives in…oh, let’s say six hours, shall we?”
—
There was a spring in Raphael’s step now as he stalked down the halls, infernal flames from his fingertips incinerating every ghastly decoration as he made his way back to the Boudoir.
Well, there was no point in letting a gift go to waste, was there?