Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The flames of Avernus burn .

You can hardly believe your eyes– no , any of your senses. And yet there is no denying the physical world around you, not the motion of the gargantuan ship beneath your feet nor the scent of fire and brimstone and viscera in the air. This world is unfamiliar and hostile and alien to you.

… And yet you recognize it immediately.

“I’m dreaming…” You say.

But are you? Even as you repeat the mantra to yourself the heat does not subside, the world doesn’t distance itself from you. It is here and it is real . You can taste every mote of burning ash on your tongue, smell all the acrid odors that waft from the decimated pod at the center of the room… You can hear the red dragons, which cannot exist but do, roaring from outside and the sound of the ship groaning under their attacks. If you have well and truly lost your mind, then your imagination is far more powerful than you’d ever given it credit for.

But, if it is real…

You swallow. This is no time to dwell on the unknown. If it walks, talks and quacks like a duck…

If this is a figment of your imagination (as you hope it is) then no harm done.

But if this is real then your life is very much in danger of being snuffed.

You crawl to your feet, your head throbbing with a horrible migraine (you try not to dwell on the wriggling reason why), and brace yourself against the pod you had been ejected from. The fleshy matter pulses beneath your fingers and you retract your hand as if burnt, stomach rolling and churning with revolt.

It’s too real .

You shake your head and take stock of your person instead of dwelling on the horrible reality settling around you. You are wearing the clothes you remember putting on that morning. You even find your cellphone in your back pocket.

The date on the home screen tells you that three days have passed since you last remembered. What happened during that missing time is a mystery.

Somehow, you are on the nautiloid ship from Baldur's Gate 3.

You wrack your brains for any information, any evidence , that you have been gifted the powers or expertise the character meant to be in your position would have. But nothing comes to you. You feel just as you always have. Normal, human, mortal…

Helpless . You are helpless.

Even if you do manage to make it out of this room, even if you manage to pry the intellect devourer from the corpse in the next room over (the idea itself makes your stomach churn) and enlist its assistance… What are the chances of you surviving the countless battles to come?

You know the answer already.

There is no chance in hell .

As impossible as it already is for you to be trapped in a literal fucking video game , it is even more impossible to conceive of a future where you make it through this world and all its horrors unscathed. Your destiny is death or worse and you know it.

A deafening hiss pulls you violently from your thoughts.

You scramble back in alarm when the pod beside yours suddenly unlatches and opens, white fog spilling out from inside. You hadn’t even noticed it was occupied with your thoughts so scrambled and disorientated. The vapor obscures the occupant from your sight and you hold your breath, watching with rapt attention, as they pull themself out.

A white scaled hand grips the edge of the pod.

You feel your heart sink to the pits of your stomach when The Dark Urge pulls himself from the chamber and collapses onto his hands and knees at your feet. Your heart is beating against your ribcage like a trapped bird as you take in the large and pale dragonborn. You’ve never seen anything like him before. His great head lulls and you can practically count the hard pink scales that line every inch of his face. You spot sharp fangs peeking from his maw. You take in his talon-like claws that you know will yearn to rip and shred and revel in blood and murder .

Dark Urge blinks, confused, his reptilian red eyes roll in their sockets before landing unfocused on you.

You turn tail and run.

~*~

You blindly make your way through the nautiloid, only focused on getting away from the mortal manifestation of literal murder . You run without regard for where you are going, the fleshy walls and the orifice doorways all blending into one another, too panicked to realize that the layout of this place does not match the one of the game you played. It isn’t long before you are completely and hopelessly lost.

You run out onto a passageway where the walls have been ripped clean off, muscle and sinew flapping uselessly in the wind, and before you stretch the whole of Avernus in all its fiery glory. Your eyes widen, illuminated by the orange glow of literal hell itself. When a red dragon flies past, larger than any creature you have ever seen in your short (and about to become much shorter) mortal life, you fall backwards and collapse in on yourself, the last dregs of your adrenaline leaving you a puppet cut from its strings.

This can’t be real. None of this can be real. You want to wake up already.

You don’t want to die.

“Please, god, let me wake up,” you whisper.

Something about what you say lingers with you, even through your mind numbing and paralyzing fear.

God.

There is no god here is there? Not in this world. But…

… But there are gods .

You suck in a sharp breath and wonder if that will actually work. Gods are literal beings in this world, near and dear to every living thing in this universe. Hell, Gale was a bed warmer to an actual goddess. Shadowheart was stolen away from her own by a jealous and petty Shar who liked to break her sister’s toys. Prayers did not fall on deaf ears in this world, even if the gods chose to ignore them.

But… What god can you pray to?

What god will hear your begging and swoop in and save you, a stranger to this world and their ways, when they let their own followers die all the time?

Hadn’t one of Raphael’s debtors said the same thing? How he prayed for coin and food to feed his family but it was only the devil himself that answered his prayers in the end?

Raphael…

You let out a shaky breath, aware of how profoundly stupid the plan just hatched in your brain is. But… The alternative is death. Even if you can figure out which god to pray to, there is little chance in literal hell any one of them will answer.

But the devil? A devil you can bargain with.

And better yet, you already have the perfect bargaining chip sitting right in your skull.

~*~

Somewhere in Avernus, lounging in his House of Hope, Raphael hears his name.

A satisfying shiver runs up his spine and he smiles, already able to taste the victory of another deal on his tongue. Some poor desperate soul is crying out to him specifically . And who is Raphael to deny them?

It has been a long time since someone has called out to him by name though. It piques his interest. Who is this little mouse who cries out for him so sweetly? He longs to find out. Perhaps he’ll reward their good taste by being more lenient with his named price.

“Haarlep, I’m leaving.”

His incubus slides out from beneath his desk, smiling slyly up at him, pressing their hands to his chest and moving their lips to his ear. Cheeky minx.

“Don’t stay away too long,” Haarlep coos and presses a kiss to the shell of his ear before slinking off, hips swaying enticingly as they make their way back to his boudoir.

Father is certainly good at picking his distractions, Raphael thinks as he stands and dusts off his clothes. But it is of no great importance for now.

For now, this devil has business to attend to.

~*~

You gasp for breath, exhausted from shouting your throat raw. You move away from the opening, lest a dragon or its githyanki rider notices you, and curl up on the ground, pulling your knees to your chest and bury your face between your arms.

It’s hopeless, you think. You don’t know why you thought shouting a devil’s name would magically summon him. You are going to die here. It’s only a matter of time before the nautiloid crashes. And even if the Emperor decides to save you (though you don’t know why he’d bother), there is even worse yet to come. You’ve already spent the last of your luck somehow evading the notice of the githyanki and Avernus imps. But just because they haven’t happened upon you yet, does not mean they will not soon.

“It’s hopeless…” You mutter as hot tears prick at your eyes.

“Nothing is hopeless yet, little mouse.”

And you look up into the face of the Devil himself and hope blossoms in your heart for the first time .

Chapter Text

A Devil stands before you.

Though it was your lips, your voice, that summoned the fiend, it’s difficult to get your eyes to truly believe the being standing before you. You stare up at the man—no, the cambion, with wide unbelieving eyes. You have seen his face and have heard the low timbre of his voice more times than you can count. This was someone who existed on a screen, a silhouette composed of finite pixels–a fictional enemy slain numerous times at your hands.

And now he stands before you, fiendish flesh and blood incarnate, and Raphael is laughing.

“Of all the beings I would’ve guessed would be so bold to call my name,” he says, his voice dark and honeyed. You might’ve found comfort in it were it not interspersed with derisive laughter. “I would never have guessed something like you, my dear. You appear as if you’ve never experienced a day of strife in your life–well, aside from today.”

Despite yourself, you flush with shame.

“Let me guess,” Raphael continues, clearly entertained by the circumstances–or perhaps just by the sound of his own voice. “You are some… Nobleman’s daughter? Baldurian perhaps? I had heard that a mindflayer nautiloid had been spotted terrorizing the skies of Baldur’s Gate, plucking up poor unfortunate wretches. Did you manage to sneak out from beneath your dear Papa’s watchful gaze, little mouse? Don’t you know it’s dangerous to play with devils?”

Maybe it’s the dying dredges of adrenaline in your system, or maybe it’s Raphael’s nonchalance at the dire circumstances, but you find your fear dwindling and your mind clearing for the first time since you awoke on this cursed ship.

“I–” Your voice comes out hoarse, wrecked from your shouting into the abyss. But you press on despite the pain, “Does it matter who I am? I want to make…” You swallow, knowing there is no going back from this point. “... I want to make a deal.”

Raphael appraises you again, molten eyes in a black sclera sea dragging across your form, causing you to shiver. “I suppose it matters not, but I hardly think you have something of value to offer me, my dear. Have you any idea who I was before you so foolishly called for me?”

You swallow again, fear returning with a vengeance, this time as a tightness in your chest. If he leaves before you can strike a deal with him, you are doomed. You take a shaky breath and remind yourself that, despite Raphael’s mockery, you do have something he needs.

Your knowledge might even be the only thing standing between him and his own doom.

Resolve settled, you open your mouth to tell him exactly what you have to offer. But before you can utter even a single sound, the ship beneath you jerks. Your words morph into a shout as you are slammed against the fleshy wall behind you. The ship shutters as more bits and pieces of it tear and fall.

There is no time. You must leave before the ship teleports back to the Sword Coast.

Raphael, who stands utterly unaffected by the violent movements, only watches as you struggle to your hands and knees. You throw your head up and stare him intently in the eyes. In them you can see waning interest. In your heart, you know you must choose your next words wisely, or he will be gone with the last vestiges of hope left in you.

So you say the only thing you know will win you Raphael’s undivided attention.

“I will help you get the Crown of Karsus!”

~*~

One moment you are crouching over the flesh floor of the dying nautiloid, on a one-way crash-course for destruction.

In the next moment, you are gasping into your image reflected back by a meticulously polished ornate floor.

All at once, the overwhelming sounds and smells and sensations of the open Avernus skies and the dying mindflayer ship vanishes. You cough violently, spewing out soot and spit and whatever other foreign contaminants you breathed during your blind sprinting. It’s a good minute before the fit subsides and you are left gasping and weak, tears welling up in your eyes as you realize you are safe .

Safe.

For now, at least.

But now you must deal with the other biggest threat, the very same one you invited into your life and proceeded to drop the biggest bomb on.

When you finally manage to sit upright, head still a bit woozy, you see that Raphael has seated himself at a large round table piled high with food. He’s poured himself a drink and now merely swirls the goblet in his hands as he watches you with an intense and suspicious stare.

Seeing as you have finally somewhat composed yourself, Raphael speaks.

“Explain yourself.”

You can’t help but flinch at his tone that promises death (or worse) should he find your answer lacking. So you try to speak, to defend yourself, but all that comes out is another fit of coughs. There is an irritated tongue click followed by Raphael snapping his fingers. Suddenly there are hands grabbing at you, pulling you to your feet. You glance around wildly only to see that two men with sunken cheeks and empty eyes have grabbed onto you.

Raphael’s debtors, you realize.

They maneuver you roughly into a chair and then Raphael is before you, pressing a goblet into your hands, his face twisted into an ugly sneer.

“Drink,” he orders.

You drink.

Cool refreshing water meets your tongue and slides down your raw throat and it is about the most heavenly thing you think you have felt in your entire life. You gulp down the water greedily, using both hands to cup the goblet, hardly taking moments between swallows to gasp for air. And when your cup is empty, Raphael is personally pouring you another glass that you immediately down, only slightly less eagerly this time.

Your stomach hurts and protests by the time you are done, but you are sure that you’ve never felt more euphoric. You hadn’t realized how parched you were until that first drop fell upon your tongue.

“Now that I have rescued you and watered you–all out of my own goodwill and generosity, might I add,” Raphael snaps. “You will explain yourself, little mouse, or you will live to regret summoning me.”

 “I–” You lick your lips nervously, testing the quality and stability of your own voice. There are a million thoughts running through your head, a million ways this could go horribly wrong. And unfortunately you haven’t the luxury of time to debate every single avenue. You may have been rescued from the proverbial pan, but there was still the fire to contend with. A fire with a set of horns and wing and power and magic enough to follow through with his threat.

“Has the cat caught your tongue?” Raphael asks when you do not immediately answer, his words dark and dangerous.

“No,” you say quickly. “I… I’m not from this world.”

Ultimately, you decide that you don’t want to be caught in a lie. The truth may be impossible to believe, but it is true nonetheless, which will only become more evident as time goes on and events begin to line up with your story.

Besides, you need Raphael to help you figure out how to get back to your own world. And he cannot do so unless he knows you are actually from another world.

“And I don’t mean a different plane or whatever… I think…” You continue. “I really mean somewhere entirely different. A world where… The current events playing out in this one are part of a story.”

Raphael leans back in his chair, relaxed as a king, as he listens to your tale. You can’t tell from his expression whether or not he believes you. But considering he hasn’t interrupted you yet, you take this as a good sign and press on.

“I’ve played– experienced this story numerous times. I know everything that will happen. Many things that have happened that most people wouldn’t know. And I know about your role in all of this and what will happen to you in the coming weeks or months… I’m not entirely sure about the timescale of things.”

It is here that you see a spark of interest in Raphael’s molten eyes. He shifts, sitting up a little straighter, and you realize with incredulousness and amazement exactly what has caught his interest.

Raphael is eager to hear more about himself.

“ My role? Please do go on. What exactly is my role in all this?”

You open your mouth to speak and immediately catch yourself.

Fuck. You’d nearly given up your bargaining chip. Spilling precious secrets that could buy you much goodwill and service from this asshole.

You glare at Raphael who holds up his hands in surrender and chuckles.

“Ah well. You can’t blame a devil for trying.”

You most certainly can and will.

“I’ll tell you this much,” you say instead. “I know you want the Crown to overthrow the other archdevils and unite the Nine Hells.”

“That’s hardly a secret, my dear. Every devil yearns for power.”

“... I know who stole it and how,” you continue, ignoring him. You don’t have all the details on how Durge and Gortash went about burgling Mephistopheles, but you know they did so with Helsik’s assistance. “The avatars of the Dead Three stole it in order to control the Nether Brain.”

“Nether Brain?”

Shit. A slip of the tongue.

“I mean the Elder Brain,” you correct, cursing yourself, hoping he won’t dwell on it–likely in vain. “But I’m only saying this because you already know all this, don’t you? This is proof that I know things I shouldn’t.”

Raphael hums.

“Perhaps. It does seem unlikely that you would have such information. And yet, none of this proves you actually know the future.”

You bite your lip, indignant frustration bubbling up inside of you, but you remind yourself that it’s already pretty amazing that he’s indulging your ludicrous tale thus far, no matter how true you know it to be. You wrack your brain for a solution to this problem.

“We… We could do a test trial,” you finally say.

“Test trial?”

Raphael is intrigued. That’s good. So long as you can keep him interested long enough to see proof of your claims you will be safe.

“I’ll tell you things that will happen over the course of the next few days,” or things that may happen, depending on how things played out. With Durge taking the place of Tav (you?), there was no telling which path the party would be set upon.

Perhaps you can get Raphael to influence events to a most optimal outcome? You will likely need to regardless to avoid the metamorphic signal being sent out to all the tadpoles prematurely, your own included. You also realize that at some point you will have to unite with the party to be within range of the astral prism and Orpheus’ negating influence. But that was still some time away and a headache to agonize over another day. You need to put all your processing power into the situation at hand.

“And when they happen just as I say, then you’ll see that I am telling the truth,” you finish.

For several moments there is an uncomfortable silence. You cannot tell what Raphael is thinking at all, but it feels as if his gaze is piercing right through you. The only sounds in the room is that of your own breathing and the distant shuffling of debtors trudging through the halls of their eternal doom. You try very hard to not think too closely about them, their fate, and the monster you are currently trying to strike a deal with that doomed them. You are horrified to realize that it is easier than you thought–a part of you still not quite accepting that any of this is real in the first place.

A part that is still hoping that you’ll wake up in your own bed, and all of this nothing more than a fading nightmare.

You are pulled sharply from your thoughts when Raphael moves abruptly. He uncrosses his legs and pushes to his feet in one movement. There is no longer that dark and dangerous look in his eyes, but instead an intrigue and excitement–like a child who’d just opened up a particularly interesting puzzle on Christmas day.

“Very well,” Raphael says at last. “If what you say is true, I see no issue with verifying the validity of your claims. Though this does bring me to my final question of the evening.”

Something about his tone has you sitting up straighter.

“Let’s say you are telling the truth. And let’s also say that you can help me get the crown… What is it that you want from me?”

You let out a shaky breath, finally hearing the words you’ve been so desperate to hear. You have to rein in your excitement, remind yourself that nothing has been set in stone yet. Not until the infernal contract is drawn up and signed.

“I want… I want to go home,” you whisper.

You’ve been in this world barely more than a handful of hours, and already you feel terribly homesick. You miss your mom. You miss your apartment. Hells, you might even miss your shitty job. You’d give almost anything to be back home.

But you remember that there is more than just homesickness that drives you.

“A-also,” you quickly add. “I want an assurance of safety while I'm stuck in this world. I know the horrors to come and I need insurance that I’ll have someone powerful protecting me from it all. From the Dead Three, from the Absolute, from the gods and devils all involved in this mess… Protection from this.”

You tap your temple.

“I want to go home unscathed and safe. And not just my physical well-being.” You look around but you still see no sign of any of the debtors or Hope, most likely hidden from sight to avoid scaring you off. “But my spiritual and mental well being too.”

You shoot Raphael a grimace.

“I know you enjoy playing mind-games. And I want no part of it,” you say. “I just need you to ensure I will be safe and cared for until such time that you deliver me home. I won’t give you my soul either.” If that’s even possible.

“That’s quite a tall order, little mouse,” Raphael says.

“And I offer you everything you want and more,” you say. “I know you think of yourself as invincible, but not even you are fully safe from what is to come.”

This gets Raphael’s full attention.

“Are you threatening me, my dear?” His voice is once more low and dangerous.

You lick your lips, pushing past your nerves to answer. “N-no. I’m not. But I am offering you knowledge that could save you and your House. Isn’t that all worth more than what I am asking for?”

You suddenly remember his words from earlier, his pointing out that you called for him. And you know exactly how to appeal to a narcissist like Raphael.

“Don’t forget that it was your name I called out for, Raphael,” you say. “Of all the gods and devils in this world, it was you I called out to.” Nevermind that you don’t have nearly as much to offer anyone else, but Raphael doesn’t need to know that. “And I know you cannot risk losing what I know.”

There are a few tense and silent seconds where you fear you’ve pushed him too far. But slowly you begin to see Raphael’s shoulders and wings shake and you hear the laughter from where his face is turned away from yours.

But when he finally looks back, he’s grinning widely and his molten eyes are shrewd.

“Very well, little mouse. You certainly drive a hard bargain. But who am I to refuse such an eager little thing offering me my salvation so sweetly?”

Chapter Text

Raphael is not a man to be kept waiting. With the verbal agreement in place, he immediately demands your first piece of evidence, though hardly more than a handful of hours have passed since you were stranded on the mindflayer ship. If it has crashed already, it will still be many more hours until dawn.

Regardless, you tell him the only sure things you can think of: Shadowheart either unconscious on the beach or banging on the doors to overgrown ruins housing a shrine to Jergal. Gale Dekarios trapped in the portal on a cliff edge. Lae’zel’s capture by two tiefling refugees. The battle between the absolute and the druids at the gates of the Emerald Grove.

You’ve played Act 1 more times than you can remember. The information you divulge are of little consequence in the grand scheme of Raphael’s game, but serve as clear evidence of your foreknowledge. Even Raphael appears taken aback when you lay it all out–a good thing, you hope.

Of course he is still suspicious of you, for the next words out of his mouth are those of warning.

“I shouldn’t have to warn you of the consequences should I find this all to be nothing more than a ruse,” he says, adjusting the cufflinks of his sleeves. He’d donned his human persona just moments prior, black hair fading to brown, scarlet skin to a tawny hue, his leathery wings and horns vanishing in a burst of fiery sparks. The transformation is just as jarring as all the other impossible things you’d witnessed in this world. Raphael catalogs each and every one of your wide-eyed reactions with a critical eye of his own.

“If I find you to have been deceiving me,” he continues anyway, unable to resist the sound of his own voice. “I will not hesitate to return you to the very spot I plucked you, do you understand? By such time, the ship will be long gone. It will just be you and the empty Avernus skies and a sudden, most startling, plummet. You’ll fall, screaming, for all of thirty seconds burning all the while. That is if the imps don’t get to you first and feast before the ground puts your out of your misery.’’

You swallow. The low timbre and melodic cadence of his voice as he recites your grisly demise is simultaneously soothing and terror-inducing.

“I am telling the truth,” is all you manage in response.

Raphael chuckles. “So we shall see. Now come. Before I leave, I can hardly leave you in my humble abode unsupervised. Not whilst you are still under official investigation.”

So you follow him, out of his office and through the familiar halls of the House of Hope, which you are surprised to discover, unlike the nautiloid, to be nearly identical in layout and fine detail to the game. The eternal debtors do not hide from you now, meandering through the halls, moaning in eternal suffering. More evidence of Raphael’s narcissism line every inch of the hallway walls—rich paintings and gold-plated sculptures of his likeness. You don’t dare let your eyes dwell too long, anxious that you might accidentally insult your fiendish rescuer. But you cannot help but fathom how one can love one’s own self to such a degree. It’s nauseating.

You keep your rude thoughts to yourself however, and follow Raphael like the quiet little mouse he believes you to be.

You give pause at the reminder of the nickname— little mouse . It is the same one that his game counterpart uses for Tav. Yet more strange evidence that you occupy the role of the faceless character.

Lost in your thoughts, you nearly collide with Raphael’s back when he stops abruptly and turns to you, but your attention is instead drawn to the shimmering purple force field that takes up the entirety of the large doorway you’ve stopped before. It is the first real tangible show of magic aside from Raphael’s transformation you’ve seen. You drink in the sight with greedy eyes, awe and curiosity cutting through your bone-deep weariness. The magical curtain is much more beautiful in real life than its game counterpart showcased. Without thinking, you reached out, wanting to know what it feels like.

“Not so fast, my eager friend,” Raphael says, catching your wrist. You hadn’t realized until this moment just how much bigger than you he is. His long fingers easily wrap around your entire wrist and then some. And his skin is hot to the touch, hotter than any human should be–a reminder of his true nature despite his disguise. “Unless you care for a shocking revelation, I suggest you wait a moment.”

He releases your arm and you retract it as if burnt, staring up at him with silent caution. This reaction earns you a chuckle as he shakes his head. Raphael then places a hand on your shoulder and you feel a bloom of warmth grow from the point of contact until it encompasses your entire body, and fades.

“Now you may step through.”

With Raphael waiting for you to make the first move, you have no choice but to step up to the shimmering periwinkle field. Tiny and innumerable motes of light float downward like snowfall, winking in and out of existence. Magic, you decide, is gorgeous.

You step through the curtain hesitantly, Raphael’s warning echoing disquietingly in your ears. But you are unharmed as you step to the other side.

You turn, expecting Raphael to follow in after you, only to come face-to-face with a solid wall, the doorway and mystic curtain gone. That definitely wasn’t in the game.

You’re left unnerved and alone. Or at least you believe yourself to be alone. You’re very obviously in Raphael’s boudoir. If the giant heated pool at the center of the room circled by Roman columns hadn’t made that clear, the lone king sized bed on the other side of it framed by rich red and white curtains certainly did.

But you don’t see Haarlep anywhere.

It takes you several minutes to muster the courage to unroot yourself from the spot you’d frozen in. Still you take slow and careful steps as you venture further into the boudoir, afraid to touch anything. Why would Raphael leave you here of all places? He’d mentioned supervision which you took to mean either Korilla or one of his other servants. But now you wonder if he meant Haarlep.

But you still don’t sense any sign of the incubus.

You’re left in the room for a long time by yourself.

You’re tempted several times to browse through the beautiful tomes that line the shelves but always chicken out before you do. You stink of sulfur and ash but you’re too nervous to strip and step into the pool—and you definitely don’t want to sit around in wet clothes and make this already horrible situation ten times worse.

Eventually your exhaustion gets to you.

You dare not crawl into the bed. Instead you curl up on one of the chaise lounge chairs to the side, feeling pathetic and miserable, trying to stifle the sobs that finally take hold of your body now that you have the breathing room to do so.

Thankfully sleep finds you quick and you know nothing more.

~*~

He stands over you, great maw dripping with blood and viscera. Your blood and viscera. He moans as he tastes you, as if you are the most delicious delicacy that has ever graced his palate. The pale Dragonborn drags his claws across your naked stomach sensually, lovingly, sending shivers up your spine. You gasp at the feeling and you feel his red eyes flit to your lips, entranced by the vision you make beneath him. For a moment you are lulled into a sense of comfort, hypnotized by the erotic drag of his claws over your bare skin.

And then The Dark Urge buries his claws deep into your gut.

You scream. 

“Shhh shh—calm down, little mouse.”

You gasp. You’re blind. You cannot see. The phantom sensations of being gutted like a fish still pulsate out from your torso, pain too real and yet not there at all. You reel, sobbing and reaching outward.

Your hands meet hot flesh. In your addled half-asleep state, you latch onto the person, shaking as you cling to them.

“Open your eyes, pet. You’re dreaming. You’re having a nightmare.” You gasp and shake your head. You can’t see. You can’t see. “I said open your eyes. ”

Your eyes snap open.

“There there, that’s a good little mouse,” a familiar voice coos at you. Large hands rub your arms, helping calm your shaking. “What a good obedient pet.”

“R-raphael…?” You croak out, confused at the sight of the half-naked fiend cradling you close to his chest like a lover. You also slowly become aware that you are no longer where you fell asleep. Someone has moved you to the bed.

“Not quite, little mouse,” the fiend chuckles. “Oh he brought such a cute one this time. Aren’t you just a precious little thing?”

The answer clicks into place.

“H-Haarlep…?”

Haarlep’s molten eyes, identical to Raphael’s, flash with delight. The incubus laughs, “Do you know me, little mouse? I’m flattered. Master had told me our newest guest would just be filled with surprises. I’m pleased to see that it’s true.”

You weakly struggle against them, suddenly needing space. The vision of The Dark Urge feasting on you and gutting you so lovingly is still seared into your mind’s eye, and you want nothing more than to have space. No—not want, need. You feel suffocated.

“That’s not very nice,” the incubus tuts at your struggling.

“Please,” you gasp. “Need. Need—“ Your mind works in overdrive, a million ideas and thoughts all vying for attention. One catches. “I need… water.”

“Water? Well why didn’t you say so before, sweet thing?”

Haarlep peels themself away from you and you sag, relieved, taking the chance to reorientate yourself and calm your frazzled nerves. You hunch over, curling in and breathing heavily. You try to count and time your breaths.

In. Out. In. Out. 

Slowly but surely the panic fades. Your heartbeat grows calmer and less like it is trying to break free from your ribcage. You’re left feeling lightheaded, but a thousand times better than mere moments ago.

“Here, darling.”

A cold glass is pressed to your face. You take the offered cup and down its contents greedily, reminiscent of your earlier interaction with Raphael. Unlike that time though, a hand tips the glass back gently when you are halfway done.

“Slowly, pet. I’ll be cross if you spew your guts across my bedsheets, no matter how cute you are.”

You gasp, and wipe the excess liquid from your lips. “Can’t,” you say, mouth moving on autopilot. “Haven’t eaten anything.”

Haarlep laughs. “My my, you are a delightful little treat. Go on then. Finish your water and I’ll have food brought up.” They release the glass back into your custody.

You drink the rest at a more sedated pace.

Haarlep is right you realize, as you can already feel your stomach protesting. Empty or not, you feel nauseous. And you probably would’ve felt worse if you’d gulped that whole glass down like you’d intended. The promise of food sounds both enticing and revolting at the same time. Perhaps you’ll get off the bed before eating, lest Haarlep makes good on that promise of theirs.

“I apologize,” Haarlep suddenly says. They’re standing several feet away from the bed in front of a vanity now. Still in Raphael’s form, the incubus has thrown on a sheer black and lacy robe. “I’d only meant to give you good dreams. If I’d known your erotic dreams would take on such a violent turn, I wouldn’t have done it. Honestly I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

Their words take several seconds to fully process in your head.

“You—that was your doing?”

You’re aghast and maybe feeling a little bit violated. You’re not sure yet, still too tired and weary to form clear and coherent thoughts.

“Of course.” Haarlep turns to face you, a sensual smirk playing at their lips—or Raphael’s lips rather. It’s even stranger seeing Raphael in the flesh acting like a seductress. “If what Master has told me is true, you must already know what I am.”

There’s a pause and you realize they’re waiting for a response.

“… An incubus,” you reluctantly say.

“ Very good, little mouse,” the incubus praises. “And granting mortals delicious dreams is what we incubi and succubi do. And you were looking so sweet curled up all alone, tear stains across your cheeks. Why, I couldn’t help wanting to give you a little treat to ease your heavy heart! It’s in my nature after all.” They practically purr the end of this statement.

You know fuck all about the nature of incubus seeing as they (probably) don’t exist in your own world. But despite what they say, you’re sure the fiend had ulterior motives than just to “ease your heavy heart”.

You don’t call them out on it though.

“Please just… Don’t do that again.”

Haarlep pouts, “Very well. I suppose we don’t want to risk such nightmares again. It’s strange, I’ve never had any human react to my lust magic in such a manner before. What were you dreaming of, little mouse?”

You’re surprised. “You… Don’t know?”

“And how would I know the contents of your dreams, my dear?”

Right… But you're not exactly keen on sharing the horror you just experienced though. That dream had felt… Too vivid. If you could, you would purge it from your mind.

“It’s nothing,” you deflect, perhaps a bit too quickly. “I don’t even remember.”

If Haarlep can tell you’re lying, they don’t call you out on it.

The incubus gives you your space for a few minutes after that, vanishing to who knows where, and you’re grateful for it. But the reprieve is short lived when Haarlep returns not long after, expression less coy and more serious than previously.

“Apologies, little mouse. Dinner will have to wait. The Master of the house has returned and wishes to see you immediately.”

Chapter Text

Raphael greets you like an old friend upon your return to his study. You are immediately on guard, untrusting of the friendly smile across his handsome features. On one hand he appears happy, which you hope is a good sign. On the other hand you are starving and exhausted and staring down a devil who clearly wants something from you.

You slip into the chair he pulls out behind you. Haarlep whispers something into Raphael’s ear before stepping away, briefly letting their hand linger on your shoulder, then taking their exit and leaving you alone with their master.

Your stomach gurgles and stings with the pangs of hunger as you mournfully remember Haarlep’s unfulfilled promise of dinner.

“Hungry, little mouse?”

You nod curtly, saving your breath and energy for the fight to come. You’re under no pretense that this is anything but intentional. The hungry and weak are vulnerable to manipulation, and usually thankful you place food before them—easier to endear and manipulate. Your suspicions are proven correct a moment later when Raphael snaps his fingers and a golden platter of hot steaming food appears before you. The smells hit you before you even register the contents and your mouth begins to salivate.

Fresh bread. Roasted chicken. Steaming potatoes smothered in butter and rich brown gravy. A bunch of grapes so plump and perfect that they gleam like purple jewels, the fine dew misted over the fruit reflecting the flickering candle light. Even knowing Raphael’s ploy, you cannot help but feel thankful for the spread.

“Eat to your heart’s content, for we have much to discuss,” Raphael says.

You do.

It’s as you’re taking your third bite, flavors bursting across your tongue like ambrosia, that Raphael begins his sales pitch. “I have verified your claims. Each and every event is as you have said. I’m most impressed,” he purrs.

You pause and take a slow bite out of the drumstick you are holding, swallow, and clear your throat. “… Does this mean you believe me then?”

Raphael does not answer immediately. Instead he hums a delighted sound, expression that of pleasant surprise. “My my. I think I much prefer your lovely voice after rest and nourishment,” he says. “You must be a singer, I take it?”

The change in topic and observation does actually catch you off guard. You are, in fact, a singer. More hobby than professional, but you’ve had your fair share of public performances. Still, you see the ploy of flattery for what it is and shoot him an unimpressed look. Raphael just shrugs, grinning like he cannot help his own nature. He probably can’t.

“Straight to business then, I suppose. Very well… Believe isn’t exactly the term I would use,” he continues. “‘ Moved’ is perhaps the more accurate expression. I was moved by the evidence I have personally witnessed of your claims.” He takes a dramatic pause here.

“However,” Raphael's tone is darker now and more serious. “There are still methods you may have implemented to achieve such a feat that I cannot rule out. Divination for instance, while a largely imprecise arcane skill, is within the realm of possibility. Though I will admit that if you are a seer, you are by far the most talented that I have come across in my centuries of existence. I’d even be willing to forgive any deceit and bring you under my employment for such a rare and valuable talent…” 

“I’m not a seer.”

His eyes flash with something—delight maybe, or amusement—at your lack of hesitation. “I like your confidence, little mouse.”

You don’t feel very confident. You just know the truth.

“So you don’t believe me then?” You ask with a grimace. “I-I don’t know what else I can do to prove—“

“Ah ah. I did not say that I do not believe you, little mouse,” Raphael cuts you off. “I said that ‘ believe’ is a strong word. Do not take me for an amateur, my dear. I am perfectly capable of protecting my own interests in the face of uncertainty. And if you do not know that already, then perhaps you know less than you profess.”

You go silent, contemplating these words. You’ve offended him, you realize. Not enough to draw his ire, but enough to sting his pride. Now that you know it’s obvious in his words and prideful body language. You’ve inadvertently challenged his craft and expertise and you’re not quite sure if you should laugh or apologize.

You do neither.

“I know,” you settle on at last in a quiet voice. “I’m just scared.”

Raphael’s face predictably goes sympathetic. He hums commiserating as he rounds the desk to stand next to you, leaning up against the desk. “Poor little mouse,” he all but coos down at you. “All alone in this big scary world. Lost your way and found yourself tumbling down into hell. But that's what I'm for, isn't it? You need safety, protection. I can offer you salvation— hope. It is why you called on me, isn't it, little mouse?”

His words are saccharine, and despite your better judgement they still shake you to your core. There’s a part of you still running through that burning ship, fearful and trembling, uncertain if your next breath would be your last. You let out a shaky breath.

“Yes…”

You look up into Raphael’s face. His human eyes are brown and warm—so very different from the molten indifference and mockery they shone with first you met. Now they gaze at you welcoming and promising and you suddenly recall all the stories of demons and devils and their seductive ways, even in your world where such creatures do not exist. It would be that easy to fall completely for his honeyed words and sweet promises—a trap in disguise.

But you are no fool. Scared and helpless, yes, but not foolish.

“Then allow me to draw up our contract. Your foreknowledge and cooperation in exchange for my offer of protection and a means to return you home should such a thing be possible,” Raphael says. He snaps his fingers and a shimmering scroll appears floating before you, the parchment unfurling to reveal its contents. The words are indecipherable, written in a language you can only surmise as infernal.

“Presumably you cannot read infernal,” Raphael states, answering that question. You shake your head. “Not to worry. I will translate the relevant sections for you—“

“Wait,” you cut him off.

You feel his gaze burn into you curiously.

“Is there a problem, my dear?”

You worry your molars nervously, the pressure of the bone against your tongue grounding. You then take a breath and steady your nerves once more.

“I want to speak with a lawyer.”

~*~

Haarlep won’t stop laughing.

The incubus finds the entire situation far more hilarious than you feel it deserves. When they find out that you not only demanded to speak to a lawyer but also refused all the fiendish barristers (as is the proper term you were told) Raphael proposed and demanded that you be able to scout out one of your own, Haarlep burst out laughing and has been tickled since.

Raphael was decidedly unhappy with this, given the lip curling sneer he’d given you last you were in his office. But he did not smite you or deny your demands.

Haarlep says that Raphael is, in actuality, quite pleased by the fight you are putting up.

“It’s rare that anyone but other devils give Master any real fun in the games he loves to play,” they explain between chuckles.

You don’t particularly feel like your life and soul (and his for that matter, considering his fate at his father’s hand should he be defeated by the party) is a game. But you can’t deny that it tracks. Still, you reach into the far depths of your barebones Faerûn and Dungeons and Dragons knowledge and demand to speak with a barrister or consultant from Waterdeep (which you were surprised to discover there apparently was a group of law practitioners who called themselves lawyers who existed there, albeit well over a hundred years ago).

In the end, you get what you want.

There is still a chance that the half-elf barrister you finally settled on consulting could be in Raphael’s pocket, but it’s better than going into this blind or accepting Raphael’s first recommendations.

Haarlep was delighted when a disgruntled Raphael finally returned you to the boudoir after a long day of negotiating, and found out why it took so long. Apparently Haarlep expected you back for lunch and it is well into the evening now—not that you can tell considering there is no day and night cycle in the hells, just the endless glow of fiery orange.

The negotiations are far from over, but you can also barely keep your eyes open.

“Am I going to be staying in here?” You ask Haarlep as the incubus braids your hair.

They shrug. “It’s not for me to say. Though Master certainly wants you in the boudoir for now. But I’m not letting you back in the sheets until you’ve bathed.” Haarlep finishes putting up the last of your hair, pinning it up so that your nape is exposed to the warm Avernus air.

“I don’t mind sleeping on the couch,” you say.

“Nonsense. Now go bathe while I find something suitable for you to wear.” They walk away before you can protest, still softly laughing to themself.

The thought of bathing in the same room as a stranger (an incubus even) is uncomfortable. But you also feel bone-deep exhaustion, and a hot bath sounds heavenly. So, with only a little bit of reluctance, you walk over to the pool’s edge and begin stripping. The steam of the water hits your bare legs and the very first step into the water washes all hesitancy from your mind. You walk into the pool and sink down into the hot rejuvenating waters, a heavy sigh escaping your lips as the warmth sinks into your skin. You remember that in the game this bath is magically rejuvenating. That same magic must be affecting the steam because, in here, the atmosphere is soft and green, canceling out the harsh orange glare of the Avernus skies shining in from the windows.

You close your eyes.

The next thing you know, gentle hands are rousing you awake. You blink blearily. You look up and see Haarlep grinning down at you from beside the pool. In their arms are a towel and something made of shimmering dark cloth.

“We really must stop meeting like this, little mouse,” the incubus teases. “Did you enjoy your bath and nap?”

You're too tired to respond so you just nod sleepily. You reach out blindly and the soft linen towel is pressed into your hands. Too tired to care about your nudity (not that Haarlep would blink an eye), you get out of the pool and wrap the towel around yourself as quickly as you can. Your fingers and toes are prune-y, but your muscles and limbs feel soft and relaxed.

“I’ve only the things I wear when Master prefers my female form,” Raphael informs you. “Your clothes are strange, but I sensed that you prefer something more modest. This is the best I can do on short notice, unless you’d prefer what we clothe the debtors in?”

You shake your head. You’d rather not have another reminder of the slaves your savior keeps in his home. And you’d rather be sleeping than debating what you’ll be sleeping in. You take the shimmering black cloth.

It’s a shift, a nightgown—the cut is beautiful, and the fabric is lovely and delicate to the touch. Haarlep is much taller than you, so it reaches past your knees when you slip it on. The fabric is sheer but not entirely scandalous. It covers what it needs to. It helps that it’s big on you.

You can’t help but finger the material, wondering what it is. It reminds you of silk, but different somehow. Weirdly enough, you can’t shake the impression that this cloth is… Quieter than you’d expect.

“What is this?”

“A nightgown.”

You’re tired, but not tired enough to not shoot an unimpressed glare at the grinning incubus. “I know what a nightgown is. I meant the material.”

“Ah. It’s spidersilk. From the Menzoberranzan, the Jewel of the Underdark,” Haarlep purrs in a tone that seems to imply you should be impressed by this information. At your blank stare, Haarlep elaborates. “It’s very expensive and very difficult to procure. Master gifted me a set six years ago.”

“It’s quiet.”

They snort. “I should hope so, or else I’d be in possession of a very pretty knockoff. It’s primarily bought by the wealthy seeking to outfit their assassins and spies, and yet the Master of the House adorns his precious consort in spidersilk.”

At first you think Haarlep is implying that they are an assassin, but you quickly realize that they’re bragging. Bragging that Raphael is so wealthy and affluent that he can even afford to dress his pets up in priceless cloth meant for elite killers where they’ll be of no practical use.

Haarlep sounds genuinely smug about the fact and you’re left wondering what their true allegiance is and their feelings towards Raphael. You know the incubus is an agent of Mephistopheles, though you’ve no plan to share the fact you know this secret. And then there is the way Haarlep so easily betrays Raphael in the game, but it’s unclear if they’ll do so just for fun or if they actually believe Raphael can be killed by the party. And then… There is the letter in the epilogue and what seemed to be genuine affection. That, in and of itself, seemingly at odds with the way Haarlep bad mouths Raphael to the player.

Is Raphael actually any good in bed?

Hahahahaha-! No.

“Lost in thoughts, mouse?”

You shake your head, dispelling such lines of thinking that will surely get you burnt to a crisp. “No… Just tired.”

Haarlep quirks a brow at you, a small smirk at their lips that says they don’t quite believe you. It’s strange, despite looking physically identical to Raphael, Haarlep’s expressions make them appear almost an entirely different person. And despite being more expressive than their Master, you can’t read them like you can Raphael.

Or maybe you’re just overthinking things.

“Enough talk for one day, I think,” Haarlep says. “Off to bed with you now, mouse.”

~*~

You stand in a pool of blood. The warm viscous fluid laps at your shins.

Before you stands the pale dragonborn, as nude as the day he crawled from his egg and emerged into this world fighting and screaming. He watches you as a predator would its prey and your heart trembles in fear under his piercing red gaze, but you do not run. You do not want to run.

The pool around you has stretched into an ocean. The blood churns and roils as if disturbed by some great leviathan swimming beneath its red opaque surface. The waves splash up at the two of you, the only figures that stand out in this endless infinite ocean of gore, leaving you streaked and dripping with the wet hot sanguine waters.

The pale creature is both beautiful and terrible. You yearn to flee and go to him at once. But you needn’t make a decision in the end, for he does so for you. The Dark Urge makes his way to you, powerful limbs cutting through the thick water like nothing. You do not know when he reaches you, if you will be greeted by the gentle caress of his touch or be butchered and torn apart by his teeth and claws. Either way, you are rooted in place.

He reaches out a hand just inches from your face, claws dripping with carnage, when he suddenly stops.

It’s like a spell breaks. Your eyes flit up to meet his.

Where you’d expected hunger and worship– though you cannot say why–instead there is confusion in his eyes .

The world around you shudders. The ocean grows violent and angry. You only have a moment to catch the confusion and fear in the dragonborn’s uncertain expression when a tidal wave of blood swallows you both.

And you know nothing more.

~*~

You wake alone to a dark room, the curtains drawn closed over the windows. Your heart is still fluttering from a dream you cannot remember. But you are calmed by the realization and relief that you were left alone for the evening, Haarlep nowhere to be found.

Beside the bed are your things and a note from Haarlep informing you that Raphael will pick you up for breakfast and to continue the negotiations, though no time is given. The clothes you’d woken on the nautiloid in are folded neatly at the foot of the bed. They smell fresh and clean so you throw them on. You feel silly as you gather up your other effects—wallet and cellphone and house keys—none of which serve any purpose anymore.

Your phone, at least, is still at half battery. The group photo of you and your friends grinning joyfully and carefreely greets you when the screen lights up and you’re suddenly awash with homesickness, eyes stinging from tears you refuse to let fall. The date shows that it’s been four days since you were last home. If this is how you feel now, you wonder how you’ll get through the coming months…

… Perhaps longer.

You turn your phone off to preserve power and slip it into your pocket, pushing the dreadful thoughts down with it.

Raphael makes you wait for some time.

It is as you are growing restless and begin to pace the room that the candles in the room flicker to sudden life and the window curtains draw open all on their own, dousing you in the orange glow of Avernus. Distracted, you don’t notice Raphael appearing into the room until he is clearing his throat, clearly amused watching you startle at the show of magic.

At least he seems to be in a better mood today.

“I hope you had a good evening’s rest,” Raphael says. “Because I anticipate a very long day ahead of us. I hope you’re prepared, little mouse.”

Or maybe not.

Chapter Text

The following three days are filled with nothing but headache-inducing legalese and term negotiations. There’s a part of you eager to get this over with, because the faster you finish the faster you can catch up on what is happening in the wider world. Being in the dark on the party’s movements is driving you up the walls of the House of Hope, and even that is nothing compared to the stressful paranoia of anticipating the moment the transformative signal will be sent to the parasite living within your skull.

Thankfully Lorkas Erlshade, the half-elven consultant from Water Deep you’ve hired (on Raphael’s coin), acts as your voice of reason. He encourages you to slow yourself and take measured considerations to certain sections and terms of the contract. You’re no less antsy than before, but the advice helps you keep a cool and steady head, and it bodes well to the hope that Lorkas isn’t secretly one of Raphael’s pawns. You may not be an expert in legal minutia (let alone those of an entirely different world and species), but from what little you can parse through he is helping you.

By the second morning Raphael’s desk in his study is strewn across with parchment filled with messily scrawled notes. Your notes. Your hands are stained with ink from unfamiliarity in using a quill. You can’t help but flush with shame as both Raphael and Lorkas stare at you with bemused expressions, witness to your pitiful attempts to tame the accursed thing. But you’ll be damned if you let a little bit of embarrassment and self-consciousness be the reason you miss something vitally important. So you forge forward with barely legible chicken-scratch and ink stains that have Haarlep clicking their tongue at you when you return to their boudoir each evening.

At one point, bewildered by your inability to write but yet possessing clear literacy competence, Raphael finally asks you through half-amused-half-ridiculing laughter how this can be, to which you reluctantly explain the concept of a ball-point pen, cheeks burning with mortification.

Raphael looks intrigued by this. But he is ultimately a contract broker—not an entrepreneur—and the inquiry is laid to rest.

Finally, after many painful hours and nearly three days of discussion, pouring over obscure legal tomes Lorkas produced from a bag of holding, it is finally done. A contact you can live with (hopefully) now sits before you, nearly twice the length it was previously. Raphael made you fight tooth and nail for every concession but he was ultimately more fair than you expected him to be.

The conditions in simple terms (including but not limited to) are as follows:

• At execution of the contract, the contractee (you) are to immediately provide the contractor (Raphael) with all relevant information pertaining to the events to unfold regarding the Crown of Karsus and the dread three to the best of their knowledge and ability.
• The contractee is to advise and assist (within reason) the contractor in obtaining possession of the Crown of Karsus.
• From the day of contract execution to substantial completion of the term written herein, the contractor is to dedicate a minimum of 15% of daily waking hours into investigating methods to deliver the contractee back to their world/plane/dimension (or otherwise) of origination, or until a method is discovered and secured.

And most importantly:

• The contractee is only permitted to leave the contractor’s custody and supervision and return to their place of origin upon the contractor having the Crown of Karsus in-hand.

It’s the one term Raphael would not budge on no matter what. You attempted to argue several times, citing that you’re going to be providing nearly everything he’ll need that you can possibly give to help him to obtain the crown, that such a term could theoretically leave you stranded here forever, but in the end Raphael was very firm and even threatened to walk out on the entire affair if you did not agree.

“From our discussions already, it can be easily surmised that I do not perish in every iteration of this vision you’ve witnessed,” Raphael growled. “I would even wager that there are versions wherein I win the crown without your interference. I’ve enough information already to play my hand more carefully. Even if I cannot get the crown now, I will live to see another era. I do not need you, little mouse. You need me.”

He is right, and you couldn’t deny it. And when you reluctantly agreed to this term, Raphael finally lost that scowl of his and smiled.

“See? Now we are in this together, little mouse,” he’d purred. “For better or for worse, your life and mine are entwined.” 

And you wondered if you’ll live to regret this.

There are, of course, numerous other terms of liability baked into the contract, entire sections dedicated to prevent you from betraying Raphael or otherwise going behind his back or sabotaging him (not that you’d be bold enough to do such a thing, especially now that your fate rests with his). And there are protections in there for you as well--you made sure to pay very close attention to the one outlining how Raphael is to ensure your safety and well-being and relative comfort during your time in his care, and how he is to minimize any “undue or unecessary duress” to your mind, body, and soul. All within reason, of course. That particular term agreement only ends when you step foot into your own world, so you can be certain that the method he finds to get you home won’t kill or maim you.

And now you sit before all your hard work and all your hopes and desperate wishes, all wrapped up in a length of fragile parchment.

“And all that is left is your signature,” Raphael says with a pleased purr. His countenance is that of satisfied pride, like a cat with a belly full of milk or a lion after gorging himself on some poor hoofed beast. He pushes the ink pot and quill towards you.

You’re nearly tempted to ask to break for the evening and think and sleep on it first, as you are dead exhausted. But the idea of spending another evening tossing and turning—not knowing whether tonight will be the night the thing in your head will burst from your skull in a shower of gore and writhing tentacles—is enough to convince you to see this through to its end. Besides, you can’t imagine what else you could possibly put into the contract that hasn’t been discussed and debated to death already.

“Alright,” you say, more to yourself than anyone else. You reach out and take the slender quill between your fingertips.

As your hand and the quill tip hover above the parchment, a sudden strange thought and impulse comes to you. It is a phenomenally stupid idea, as both Raphael and Lorkas were very clear on the legality of contract binding:

These infernal contracts must be signed with your true name--any other will render them null and void, and the devil contractor under no obligation to fulfill its terms. And such deception was rarely met with goodwill and understanding.

Yet you cannot shake the sudden impulse, like the pull of a string you cannot break that guides your wrist, or an unheard siren’s voice leading you to a precipice you know you cannot step away from but you cannot reject either. You touch the tip of the pen to the empty bottom line where your name is to be homed, watching as the black ink immediately suffuses into the page, and you begin to write the name you know is not your own, almost as if of another will. It takes less than a moment to scrawl out the three letters.

Tav

“Simple,” Raphael comments curiously, leaning over you to look.

You lurch back in surprise when the contract suddenly catches fire. Your heart leaps into your throat and for a moment you fear that you’ve made a grave mistake--that your little moment of folly has rendered the contract void. But then Raphael lets out a pleased hum from above you.

“Cheeky little mouse, to give me a false name before,” he says in a teasing tone. “Cheeky, but clever. Not that I can judge. We devils do not use our true names either. Do forgive me if I do not call you Tav, however. I’ve grown quite fond of ‘little mouse’, with the way you scurry about my house so soft and silently.”

That’s just the thing though, you’ve never given him a false name. From the beginning, you’ve never once lied to him—until now. You sit dumbfounded, unable to answer the fiend, though he hardly seems to mind. Of all the mysteries surrounding your presence and role in this world, this is perhaps the most blatant and unnerving clue of them all.

“If that is all, I’d like to return to Water Deep,” Lorkas says, though you barely register it past your racing thoughts. “I am not fond of the hells.”

“Yes, I think we’re done here,” says Raphael. He snaps his fingers and the half-elf vanishes in a burst of fiery sparks.

This finally gets your attention and pulls you abruptly from your thoughts. You leap to your feet in alarm, the chair clattering to the chilly tiled floor behind you.

“What did you do? What did you do to him?” You demand horrified, staring at the spot the half-elf had stood but a second ago.

Raphael’s low mocking laughter is expected but still feels like a slap to the face. “Relax, my dear. I merely sent our associate back to Water Deep.”

Your panic fades, but you still feel your teeth on-edge.

“O-okay…” You breathe out, trying to reconcile this information (which you will choose to believe for now) with your frayed nerves. “W-what about everything he knows?”

You beat yourself for not considering it sooner, but it suddenly occurs to you that Lorkas knows every little detail of your arrangement with Raphael. Such information could put you in considerable danger should it reach the wrong ears. You like Lorkas as much as you can anyone you’ve just met. He is pleasant and courteous, if a little cold, and most importantly he has earnestly assisted you. But how much can you actually trust him? It’s not like you have a contract with Lorkas.

Raphael must be able to read the worry right from your face because he chuckles, lets out an indulgent sigh and shakes his head. “If you’re worried about loose wagging tongues, you can be sure that Mr. Erlshade will retain no recollection of these past several days.” This gives you pause.

“You erased his memory or something? Won’t he be confused about the days he’s missing?”

“He will wake with a bank account topped off with that much more gold for his troubles,” Raphael explains. “Mortals like him have little qualm where they obtain their wealth. Mr. Erlshade will know enough that he has been commissioned for his services, one where discretion and his silence are of the utmost importance, and be satisfied. For his ilk, such arrangements are not uncommon. I’d even venture so much as to say that he’ll be very pleased we spared him from such volatile knowledge. Speaking of which…”

Raphael snaps his fingers again. This time, instead of vanishing a person from one plane to another, a small glinting object appears above his palm. He catches it and you see that it is a small jeweled pendant strung on a delicate silver chain.

“… I believe it is our turn to exchange volatile knowledge.” He bends down beside you to pick up the fallen chair and then gestures for you to sit in it. You do so hesitantly, eyes fixed on the thing in his hand curious but wary.

“What is it?”

In lieu of answering, Raphael disentangles the chain and unfurls it before you. The pendant jostles and then settles dangling between his outstretched fingers, and you see that there is a blue crystal set into the center of the silver pendant with flecks of gold glimmering from within the stone. It’s a thing of beauty.

“Turn around and lift your hair,” he tells you. You have half a mind to demand he explain himself first, but something tells you that doing so will eat up what little goodwill you have left with him after these three days. So you do as he says, trying to relax as you turn your back to the devil himself and lift your hair from your nape, reminding yourself that Raphael wouldn’t fuck you over right after you just signed his contract and before you’ve even said a word of his fate.

“Call this a gesture of good faith,” Raphael says as he reaches around you, lays the pendant between your clavicles, and loops the chain around your throat. “Per our agreement I should be demanding that you spill all your secrets to me at once. But since I am a kind and generous patron, I will fulfill my end of the bargain first.”

“Your end?”

“Protection, little mouse,” elaborates Raphael, the warm breath of his words, mere inches from your right ear, and low rumble of his voice forces you to fight down a shiver. His feverish fingers brush up against your nape as they work to clasp the necklace closed. He then pulls back to admire his handiwork, and you turn and stare at him in confusion. “I’m quite proud of this particular acquisition of mine. It came into my possession following a deal I made with an especially talented artificer. I helped her be rid of a worrisome pest some three hundred years ago now—the details are unimportant.”

You finger the pendant between your thumb and index. “What does it do?”

“That stone contains a powerful chronomantic and transmutative enchantment traditionally used to stop your enemies in their tracks, frozen in a single moment of time. Here the spell has been repurposed for protective measures—I believe the artificer fashioned it after her wife died of a heart attack.”

The answer clicks in your head.

“It’ll stop me from turning into a illithid!” You gasp, recognizing what you think is the spell Time Stop from the 5th edition Player’s Handbook.

“ Precisely. Although…” Raphael continues, his smug knowing tone promising nothing good. “The spell itself can only be sustained for ten minutes. About enough time for the secondary alarm enchantment to alert a concerned party to check on their misfortunate ward. However, it cannot reverse or indefinitely prevent whatever ailment besieges you, such as our little illithid problem.” His words trail off with an anticipatory leading edge.

You realize that he’s fishing for information. This is a test. Gesture of good faith your ass.

“You’ll take me to the party then,” you say slowly, watching Raphael’s expression, still clad in his human mask, for any sign of change—any minute twitch of a muscle which will inform you what he is thinking. His expression remains unreadable and he waits silently for you to continue. So you do. “The spell will freeze me before I transform. You’ll then take me to the hero’s party where… Where the Astral Prism and the githyanki Prince Orpheus’ protective aura will stop the transformation.”

You watch as a sharp grin slowly curls across Raphael’s face at the show of your knowledge, and for a moment you think you see a flash of teeth as sharp as they truly are beneath his disguise of humanity, but you blink and they are once again perfect, blunt, and pearly white.

“Very good, little mouse.”

~*~

You retire for the evening exhausted, relieved, and stressed in equal measure, with a promise to continue your discussions tomorrow. Raphael wasn’t too pleased listening to you describe his defeat at the hands of the very party meant to deliver him his quarry (his pride certainly stung) and how he will then meet his final end swallowed down his father’s gullet. Between his agitation at this news and your visible exhaustion, Raphael finally takes pity and bids you a good evening before vanishing from his study with a thunderous expression twisting his handsome features grotesquely, and you are left alone.

By now you well know the way to and from the boudoir and stumble half-awake across the House, trying your best to ignore the shambling debtors and the chest-aching guilt festering in your heart. You remind yourself that you are not meant for this world, that you are only doing what you need to do to survive, and that you are just as much a victim here and cannot be expected or responsible to further ruin yourself to help strangers of another world.

The justifications do little to ease your shame.

Haarlep is predictably waiting for you, as they always are, when you arrive. They are leaning against a pillar when you stumble into the boudoir, a knowing smile playing at their hells red lips. Tonight you are surprised to see them dressed more modestly than you’ve yet seen, with tight black britches that hug every taut muscle and curve of their legs and a flowing white tunic that plunges at the neckline. Somehow, this more discreet ensemble leaves you feeling more flustered than all the sheer negligees and supple leather harnesses that came before.

“Tav,” the incubus greets, the name rolling of their tongue startling you out of your tiredness and wallowing pity. Haarlep laughs at your reaction. “Or do you prefer your other given name?” You never know how Haarlep always seems to know exactly what you and Raphael have discussed when you’ve never seen them in the room nor did it ever seem to be time for the two to confer. It’s not a secret you will be able to pry from the incubus’s mouth anytime soon though.

You easily tell them that you prefer your “other” given name—considering that it literally is your name, and because you refuse to entertain the implications of being ‘Tav’.

“But I quite like Tav, little mouse,” Haarlep teases, ignoring your stated preferences entirely. More laughter now at your unamused stare. “Spoilsport,” they release a dramatic sigh. “Come along, then. You’ve got Master into quite the mood tonight, and the responsibility to show you to your new room now falls upon me.”

You perk up immediately. You’d nearly forgotten that little piece of comfort baked into your contract. The boudoir is lovely and all (nicer than even the nicest hotel you’ve ever stayed in), but it is still the dwelling place of an incubus and where said incubus saw to their… Guests. You try to not dwell on the mental image. Besides, you just really need a space to call your own— a refuge you can return to whenever you need it.

You follow Haarlep quietly, scowling to yourself when you remember Raphael’s earlier comments about your scurrying about his House like a silent mouse.

You are not a mouse.

“Such a grumpy expression. And here I thought you’d be more excited to finally sleep in your own bed.”

Haarlep turns so abruptly you nearly run face-first into them, only just catching yourself in time. The incubus smirks at the dirty look you shoot in their direction.

“You’ll ruin your pretty face like that, little mouse.”

You roll your eyes, not in the mood to entertain a clearly bored incubus, and instead turn your attention to where Haarlep has led you. Before you is one of the numerous doors leading off from the boudoir. Haarlep had called them “guest rooms” when you’d inquired about them previously, though they’ve always remained locked and inaccessible to you—until now.

This particular room on the west end of the boudoir now stands unlocked and open. From the ajar door, you can just make out the dark shapes of a bed, a wardrobe, a desk, and other miscellaneous furniture scattered about, far more sensible and subdued than you expected of the House of Hope. Of course, every bit of it still looks significantly more expensive than anything you’ve ever owned in your life, each piece of furniture crafted from rich dark woods and fine hand-made jeweled-toned textiles and likely accompanied by a price tag you don't even want to think about, but it looks comfortable as opposed to all the gilded halls and ostentatious displays you’ve come to expect from Raphael.

You’re instantly enamored.

“Like it, pet?”

You nod in lieu of a verbal response, captivated by the space that will soon be yours and yours alone. Between this and the blue and gold pendant that hangs from your neck, perhaps you’ll finally experience sound sleep for the first time since waking in this impossible nightmare. You don’t always remember your disquieting dreams—only fleeting impressions of being stalked as something unseen and predatory watches you with hungry gluttonous eyes—but maybe now they will cease too.

“Good, I’m pleased to hear it,” Haarlep purrs. There’s a strange quality to their voice that wasn’t there before, and it rings alarm bells in your head. You turn bemused only to see that the incubus’s body language has shifted. Even in your exhaustion-addled state, your mind isn’t so dulled as to miss the blaring signs of someone coming-onto you—not with the way Haarlep braces an arm on the door frame, leaning over and into your space with their superior height, the angle leaving you at eye level with the plunging neckline of their tunic and the full expanse of their pleasing chest, molten infernal eyes half-lidded and seductive, a brow quirked attractively on that angular face, and those hells red lips pursed with a half lilt as if the two of you are sharing some unspoken secret.

“Now then—“

You cut the incubus off before they can possibly finish that sentence.

“It’s a very lovely room! Thank you very much! I think I’d like to sleep now though. Good night!”

The words tumble out of your mouth nearly incoherently and you slam the door into a bewildered Haarlep’s face, clutching your own as you slide down into a squat and attempt to calm your racing heart to little success. You’re quite certain your face is so red it could give a devil a run for its money—or gold.

On the other side of the door there is silence for a moment then a quiet chuckle followed by the receding pitter-patter of feet. You let out a sigh and collapse back, too tired to be dealing with this bullshit.

Haarlep has never been this forward with you the entire time you’ve not only stayed in the House of Hope but in their literal bed. Well, other than that very first introduction you suppose. The implications are not lost on you. Haarlep is as much Raphael’s concubine as they are a tool to further his goals. That the incubus waited until the moment you were under contract to attempt to seduce you is not exactly subtle.

Though you suppose they don’t really need to be subtle at this point, neither Haarlep nor Raphael. The cambion’s words during your negotiations ring more true now than ever: for better or for worse your life is tied to Raphael’s. And it can’t hurt to put further shackles on you. An incubus’s influence is not to be underestimated and also not technically against any of the terms in your contract.

After all, if you foolishly fall into love (or lust), any choices you make based on that will be entirely of your own free will. Your contract may protect you from any sort of direct attempts to influence you, via magic or other means, but you're certain Haarlep is perfectly capable of seducing people even without the aid of incubus magic.

So it should seem that your troubles are not quite as distant as you believed them to be—this is, after all, still the home of a devil and you are still in hell. As you settle in for the night, finally in your own bed and secure in the knowledge that the thing in your skull can no longer kill you in your sleep, you resolve to remain vigilant and ready for whatever this nightmare may throw at you.

At last, sleep takes you.

Chapter Text

In the House of Hope, bathed in the orange glow of the every-flowing magma rivers of Avernus, you find yourself seated once more in Raphael’s study—fed, awake, and refreshed. Whether by sheer coincidence or direct correlation, no haunting dreams of the Dark Urge plagued you last night, and you woke in the morning as fresh and lively as a spring daisy. Considering the day awaiting you, this is a very good thing.

During your negotiations with the master of the house, he’d been adamant that your time under his care would not be spent idling away. Instead, you will take an active part in the study and reconnaissance of The Party’s movements, and report any changes or events of significance to your sponsor. After all, what good is a prophesy of an ever-changing narrative? And what good is a prophet that cannot forewarn you of those changes? The logic is sound and easy enough to agree to.

Besides, some non-insignificant part of you is glad to be given a task you can set your mind to, even if that task is technically spying , if only to distract yourself from… everything else going on. Your thoughts and your nightmares and your dire circumstances are the last things you want to be trapped alone with, and the company the House offers is dubious at best.

Your reconnaissance task sits before you now. It takes the shape of a crystal ball resting in the metallic talons of a dragon claw-shaped stand. Its opaque depths drift lazily with some sort of glimmering purple murk, only interrupted by the occasional hypnotic whorl across its otherwise uninterrupted curvature.

You recognize it at sight, even before Raphael names it.  It’s an Orb of Infernal Envisioning, nearly identical to the one that sits in the Devil's Fee.

As weird as you feel about stalking and spying on people-who-were-once-beloved-fictional-characters, you can’t deny a small thrill of excitement at the prospect of using a genuine magical artifact. The excitement tingles just beneath the epidermis of your fingertips as you struggle to stay still in your seat and listen to Raphael explain how the orb works.

Raphael quirks a brow at your antsiness, but does not comment as he continues to explain how to activate the orb. “Clear your mind and focus on your desired quarry. Simultaneously, you will rub the surface of the crystal ball counterclockwise. Keep your eyes open. When the image appears, you can stop.”

“That’s it?”

A chuckle. “That’s it.”

Simple enough. You adjust in your seat, attention wholly captured by the Orb, no longer paying any attention to the Devil looming behind you. You set your elbows on the soft cloth-covered table and press your fingertips delicately over the strangely warm glass surface. You nearly close your eyes but catch yourself as you begin to think hard about the Party.

Your thoughts jump to Astarion immediately, his angular features and silky white hair popping into your mind’s eye. Astarion, who you’ve romanced more times than you’d care to admit. Astarion, who is possibly your favorite character, though it’s honestly hard to pick with such a stellar cast.

Though… Not exactly a cast anymore, you remind yourself. Astarion is a real person. They’re all real people. Living, breathing people who are walking about somewhere in the world at this very moment.

Your thoughts shift to Shadowheart, both her Sharran and Selunite selves fighting for purchase in your mind. The favored princess of the gods.

You think of Lae’zel and her harsh exterior and surprisingly dry humor and her adorable froggy nose.

You see Gale and Karlach and Wyll. You even picture Minthara, though you quickly bury that thought as there’s little chance she’s in the party this early in the campaign if she ever will be…

Unless of course, the Party chooses an evil route. To side with the goblins instead of the tiefling refugees and druids? But why would they?

Raphael watches you curiously as you suddenly suck in a sharp realizing breath. If he could see into your mind, he would’ve been blindsided and confused by the sudden sharp image of the bhaalspawn, stark and clear in your mind’s eye in a way too real to be a picture from a simple story. But he cannot see into your mind.

All he sees is that immediately following your gasp, the orb flashes white. The languid violet murk beneath your orbiting fingers suddenly surges into a frenzy of turbulent eddies before vanishing entirely to reveal the image of a slumbering pale dragonborn.

Here Raphael does make a noise of interest. His next words are somewhat accusatory.

“Little mouse, you failed to mention that the bhaalspawn was part of this tale.”

~*~

In your defense, you’d never played a Dark Urge run before. You’d certainly wanted to and tried multiple times. But each and every attempt left you feeling ill and uncomfortable before you inevitably restarted yet another Tav playthrough. There was enough in the game to keep it fresh and interesting and fun even without playing as Durge anyway. You’d not even gotten through half of the origin characters.

And also in your defense, you’d thought Raphael already knew about The Dark Urge. But you realize, just as quick as Raphael is to inform you, that you’d never actually named The Dark Urge. You’d named Lae’zel and Shadowheart and Gale, but not the pale Dragonborn.

You do your best to explain yourself. Most playthroughs are not Durge playthroughs after all. Most versions of this story are told with the bhaalspawn already long dead and dethroned by his sister. Aside from your terrifying first encounter with the beast and the subsequent nightmares you’ve spent more time trying to suppress than understand, you’d never actually stopped to consider all the implications of meeting Durge that first waking moment. You’d honestly half-assumed Raphael had seen and known of him considering the bhaalspawn’s role in the initial theft of the crown.

You’d assumed wrong.

Thankfully, the mistake is genuine on your end and not in violation of your contract (though Raphael does click his tongue at you once you’ve finished explaining). Afterwards, he does ask:

“Am I to take this to mean you do not know this version of the future?”

“I know it!” You quickly defend. “I never played… Watched a Durge run before.” Raphael quirks a brow at the nickname. “But I’ve read up on it and all his lore and I’ve seen scenes of it on…” You want to say YouTube, but don’t really feel like explaining the concept of what a video hosting platform is, let alone a video, so you just let your words trail off awkwardly.

“And you are certain this mistake will not throw our plans into disarray?”

You shake your head. “No. If anything… Him being in the Party helps us. His story is a lot more grounded than…” You can’t say Tav, not now that Raphael seems to think that is your name. “… Than the typical main character. There are more defined checkpoints and events in his story to keep track of.”

Also, if Durge does choose to go all evil bad guy, maybe you can feel a little less bad about fucking over the Party by helping Raphael get the crown. Not that you want that to happen but it’s hardly like you have a say.

“I’ll need more than just your word, little mouse,” Raphael warns. “Give me proof of this claim.”

You lick your lips. “Okay… Um…” You begin to wrack your brain for something—anything. The problem is that time is such a weird concept in BG3. Events do not occur linearly or by any sort of meaningful calendar cycle, but by triggered circumstances instead.

“The bard,” you begin to say. “The tiefling bard, Alfira. She will only appear to the Party after they've gone to the Emerald Grove and the first battle between the grove and the goblins has happened.” Technically she only appears after you’ve entered the blighted village, but you’d really have to go out of your way to ignore the grove entirely to manage that. “How Durge reacts to her will also… Give us insight into which direction the party will go in.”

You feel bile rise in your throat as you suddenly realize the implications of your words. Alfira is going to die— brutally. Not just some endearing fictional character, made conceptually immortal by virtue of existing within a digital world, but a real living breathing person. Fuck. She’s going to be murdered. And there is nothing you can do about it.

A thumb brushes against your cheek.

“You’ve gone pale, little mouse,” Raphael notes. “We’re a team, are we not? Share your thoughts with me.”

You explain through stuttered and staccatoed breaths the ill fate of Alfira the Bard.

Raphael hums, his hand still on your cheek—not comforting, just there, and you make no attempt to push it away. “And this will grant us insight into the bhaalspawn’s path in this epic of yours?”

You nod.

He smirks and pulls his hand away, your cheek left cold where the warmth wanes. “Good. You really must learn to stomach such butchery, my dear. Such dramatics over one little death. It’s little wonder I mistook you for a pampered sniveling noble first we met. I enjoy your fire, of what occasional flashes of it grace my vision, but you’ll find it difficult to survive in this vast uncaring world without steeling yourself. Softness does not become you, little mouse.”

You nearly recoil at the harsh rebuke, his words striking at a nerve deep within. But you don’t. Instead, you stare him straight in the eye, summoning the so-called “flash” of fire he’d named, and say, “But that’s what you’re here for. To protect me from all that.”

Raphael lets out a loud bark of laughter.

“This is true enough!” He exclaims. “Are you reminding me to fulfill my obligations to you, little mouse?”

You think about it for a second.

“Yes.” Do your job.

This earns you another bout of laughter and something prideful flutters in your chest at the sound despite your stung ego. It shouldn’t feel good to impress Raphael but it does. And there’s a part of you that withers a bit in self-contempt for it.

At the very least, the banter and Raphael’s improved mood has distracted you from the panic and guilt festering inside your throat. You force yourself to think about Alfira distantly, to not dwell on the reality of her coming days. And maybe that makes you a bad person. But this is how you’ll survive. Maybe Raphael’s advice isn’t unhelpful.

“Sometime after that you introduce yourself to the party,” you say. “Most players—“ One of these days you’ll get a hang of not using video game terms to explain the plot. “—In most versions,” you amend, “you meet the party on the broken bridge behind the Blighted Village.”

“I remember when that place was once a quaint little hamlet by the name of Moonhaven,” Raphael says conversationally. “Quaint but dull. Selune and her followers never did learn to enjoy the more… Exciting facets of life. And of course, they would never dare strike up a deal with hellspawn, not even when the Sharrans and her Justiciers ran afoul that adorable little hamlet. Naturally they were all slaughtered. I find the un-temptable and pious by far the most insipid and wearisome mortals of them all. Where’s the fun? The daring? The desperation and drive to cling to a mortal life? Pah.”

Considering the way the debtors in his House are living out their eternal afterlives, you somehow think the Selunites were better off. Needless to say, you don’t voice this opinion. You’re just glad that you had a bargaining chip worth more than your soul to trade.

Instead you ask, “Will you still go and meet them?”

“Considering you have confirmed that they will be the ones to defeat the Netherbrain,” here Raphael smirks at you, reminding you of your slip of the tongue during your first meeting. You flush at the teasing stare. “I’d prefer to stay largely on schedule. Aside from a few unpleasant turns, the bulk of your prophecy suits my needs. And I’d rather my favorite new soothsayer not be rendered useless so soon after I’ve acquired her.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m your only soothsayer.”

“And that is why you’re my favorite.”

Raphael has you return to the Orb after that, but there’s little to see.  Despite the morning sun rising high in Faerun’s skies, Durge and his companions (just Shadowheart and Astarion for the moment), seem to be fast asleep in some overgrown outcropping, concealed from the view of outsiders. The location looks vaguely familiar (though BG3 is hardly lacking in overgrown ruins) and you wonder if they’re about to meet Withers.

You have a sudden strange thought as you watch the three of them rest, dead to the world. Their adventure must’ve taken them late into the previous night if they’re sleeping this late into the day.

A sudden thought strikes you, though seems silly—coincidental at best. You’re prone to overthinking and analyzing things after all. You really shouldn’t be indulging your anxious thoughts. But still… no matter how you reason with yourself, you can’t shake the nagging suspicion.

Last night was the very first night in this world that you had not dreamt of The Dark Urge.

~*~

 “I suggest you stay in your room tomorrow evening,” Raphael says as he escorts you back to the boudoir after dinner. “Haarlep and I will not be able to keep your company or watch over you. I’ve many an enemy who’d like nothing more than to take and destroy what is mine. And as you have already so helpfully cast a light upon, the security in this House is not nearly as robust as I had previously believed.”

It’s almost funny how frustrated he still looks at this fact, his left brow scrunched downward, the reaction almost making him appear human.

“Where are you going?”

“Nothing to worry your pretty little head about,” Raphael replies unhelpfully. “Just do as you’re told and stay in your room. The boudoir is the most protected and heavily warded space in the entire castle.” He shoots you a sly grin, “There’s a reason it’s where I stored you when first you came to me.”

You glower a bit at the patronizing words, but bury your grievance in favor of voicing a serious concern.

“What if I… begin to turn?”

Raphael regards you with a careful look, his brown human eyes unreadable.

“You need not worry about that either. The pendant will perform as intended. I will come for you should you begin to transform. I will not allow harm to come to you.”

You swallow nervously, but the words are comforting. You nod in acknowledgement.

“Good. If that is all, I will see you on the morrow, my dear. Goodnight.”

You enter the boudoir, now lit only by candle-light with the curtains drawn closed, and make a beeline for the shelves where Haarlep keeps the towels and toiletries. At this point, you’ve bathed in front of the incubus enough times to no longer blush or hesitate at the act, and aching muscles are thrumming with excitement at the prospect of taking a hot soak before settling in for the evening to care. You’re positive this magical pool has pretty much forever ruined all other hot baths and tubs for you as nothing will ever compare, which is a problem for future you to deal with.

Present you has other problems to contend with.

Like the fact you can hear a very irate incubus stomping around their room slamming furniture around.

“Useless scum beneath my heel! Incompetent and worthless wretches! You sorry insignificant worms—!”

You awkwardly gather up your soaps and towels into a basket along with a spare bathrobe as the expletives continue on. You’re not even entirely sure there’s anyone else in the room with Haarlep. This doesn’t seem to deter the fiend from raging on however, and they continue to do so even as you make your way to the pool’s edge and gingerly begin stripping.

The softly gurgling water and rising steam immediately eases some of the tension in your shoulders from hunching over a crystal ball all day. You can already anticipate the pleasurable initial sting the first step into the water will bring. You almost do so when another cry of outrage comes from the other-side of the partitions and sheer curtains, followed by a defeated wail. You flinch a little when you hear the sound of something slam into the vanity.

You have half a mind to just take your bath anyway and ignore whatever… that is. You stare down at your fragrant herbal soaps and the green steaming water with wistful longing. But when Haarlep lets out another beaten groan you sigh, slip on the bathrobe, set your basket down carefully by the pool edge, and make your way hesitantly towards the commotion.

“Haarlep?” You ask carefully.

When you round the last pillar you spot a red figure, smaller than you’d expected, hunched over the vanity. At the sound of your voice, their head whips up and you are greeted by soft feminine features. The face is still unmistakably Raphael’s but you recognize Haarlep’s female form immediately.

“Oh, you’re back, darling,” the incubus says, a little flustered. Like their master, there’s a frustrated scrunch between their brows. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Raphael just dropped me off.”

The incubus lets out a humorousless chuckle, “You and your strange phrases. I’m fine, pet. Truly.”

There’s a mass of luxurious white fabric bunched haphazardly on the vanity desk and pinned beneath Haarlep’s crossed arms--matte silk from the looks of it, but with a gorgeously intricate embroidery stitched across its ivory expanse. You can’t discern the pattern from how the fabric is folded over itself, but it’s easy for your expert eyes to see how stunning it will look when on full display. The stitch work is just incredible and clearly performed lovingly by skillful hands.

This all serves to make the horrible tear and gash in the fabric, like a gaping wound, all the more eye-catching.

The source of Haarlep’s ire and despair is apparent.

“May I take a look?” You offer.

Haarlep’s expression morphs into one of confusion and vague disgruntlement. For a moment they don’t seem to understand what you are asking, but after following your gaze to the garment, lifts it up dubiously.

“Oh this? Be my guest,” Haarlep says flippantly. And then, in a more aggrieved tone, “It’s worthless now anyhow. Hmph. What is the purpose of having slaves if the incompetent fools cannot even see through a task as simple as delivering a single dress!” Their voice raises to a shout once more.

Staunchly ignoring the comment on slavery, you take the proffered fabric, unfurl it, and hold it out before you, letting the candle light catch its pearlescent folds. As you suspected, it is stunning. The embroidered pink and white peonies (and numerous other flower species you’d need a botanist to identify) are even more masterfully executed than you’d initially guessed. The flowers stretch up the entire length of the satin gown, the movement of the embroidery practically molding itself into enticing feminine curves even while the dress is held loose. There’s a gauzy inner lining too that you hadn’t noticed earlier, that spills out from a long tantalizing leg slit that runs from the dress hem to hip.

It’s the exact kind of mock-fantasy gown you’d been dreaming of owning your entire life, held back only by your poor emaciated bank account. The materials alone to make one yourself more than you could ever justify, which is not even to mention the time commitment. But oh how you’d always longed to have one.

Your eyes go to the damage.

The tear is nasty, like it had been caught on a dull blade and ripped, fine threads ripped and fraying, and the embroidery already coming apart at the torn edges. You can’t fathom how it could’ve happened accidentally. It really does just look like someone took a blade to it deliberately.

“Can’t you or Raphael just mend it with magic?” You ask, genuinely curious.

You receive an exaggerated eye roll in return.

“Don’t be daft, pet,” Haarlep says, the annoyance in their tone barely concealed and now apparently directed at you. “That dress isn’t some simple cheap garment that can be haphazardly fixed with a spell. The complexity of the embroidery alone would render any mending spell utterly worthless. More likely than not, it would make it all the more difficult for an embroiderer to repair it.”

You catch their meaning. “Ah, like taking a sledgehammer to a nail.”

Haarlep’s eyes crinkle at the corners in amusement. “There you are again and your strange phrases… But yes. I believe you have the right idea.”

“I assume this is for whatever you and Raphael are doing tomorrow?”

“I’m pleased to hear my Master has remembered to inform you. You’ll be a good little mouse and stay hidden away in your room, yes?”

You roll your eyes and do not deign the question with a response. Patronizing as it is, you knew what you were signing up for when you sought out Raphael and his ilk.

Instead you ask, “Why not have it sent out to be fixed?”

“Would that I could… You truly are not from this world, are you?” Haarlep asks and you shrug, not wanting to keep answering that question. “You’d know that tomorrow is the Feast of the Moon otherwise. No being, mortal, devil, or divine, will conduct business on such a day. Even churches to the likes of Bhaal and Myrkul will be celebrating… in their own way.” 

“Is that what you and Raphael are doing? To celebrate that… Holiday?”

Their smile is a secretive slant across their face that casts their expression in nefarious lights and shadows.

“Something like that.”

You decide that you are better off not knowing.

“I could try to repair it, if you want,” you offer.

Like before, Haarlep appears to not understand your words. This time you help by shaking the gown in your hand to call attention to it.

“I’d need the right tools…” You add, starting to feel self-conscious beneath the incubus’ intense stare.

“You?” Haarlep finally says incredulously and you try not to feel offended as your cheeks heat up. But then the incubus stands abruptly, reminding you of their current female form as your eyes are drawn immediately to their full breasts, barely held back by the lacy sheer negligees Haarlep favors, and your blush deepens and you hastily avert your gaze.

By doing so, you miss the vicious predatory smirk that flashes onto the incubus’ expression when they catch your reactions, vanishing within the blink of an eye.

“But your hands,” Haarlep says, grabbing your right hand and pulling it close so they can examine your fingertips closely. “Pet, I do not wish to call you a liar but there are hardly any calluses on your pretty little fingers. I would bet gold that you’d never worked a day in your life, and now you’re trying to claim that you can fix my gown? This isn’t the type of mastery that can be replicated by a few lessons on embroidery for ladies, you understand.”

You jerk your hand back, face completely red with mortification now. “I know,” you hiss, offended on your own behalf but not knowing how to explain that your lack of calluses is a result of modern day conveniences and not laziness or lack of experience or skill . “And I can fix it. Temporarily at least. Enough to last an evening until you can get it out to a professional.”

At least you think so.

Haarlep still appears skeptical of your claim.

“I can,” you insist, now more about defending your own pride than anything else. Making and designing costumes and making your own clothes may not be what you ended up doing as a career, but it is still your one greatest passion in life. Fixing up old fraying clothes and thrift store finds is the one skill you have utmost confidence in—there was no other way you could afford to keep up your hobby otherwise.

At Haarlep’s continued disbelieving stare, you add, “You weren’t going to wear this anyway. So what do you have to lose?”

Finding no fault in that logic, Haarlep at last agrees to allow you your attempt. But their smirk and the cruel little glint in their molten eyes belies their true infernal nature–that they are eager to see you fail.

You resolve to prove them wrong.

~*~

Raphael is displeased upon seeing the dark circles beneath your eyes the next morning, but you have a tight deadline to work on and none of your modern tools of convenience to work with. Without even a tambour frame to be found in The House of Hope, you end up having to throw together a make-shift one by popping the glass out of the vanity mirror in your room and pinning the fabric down–thankfully pins and needles and thread are not an issue, which Haarlep had the servants bring up to you last night.

You did get some sleep, but your sudden new repair project subsumes your every waking thought, especially with your pride in your craft on the line. With both Raphael and now Haarlep having made comments deriding your self-sufficiency (it’s not like you grew up rich for goodness sake!), you feel the sting to defend yourself a powerful fuel.

It takes more than some convincing to get Raphael to leave you be when you take your project, dress and makeshift tambour frame and all, to his office to work on while you conduct your daily reconnaissance, but he eventually relents when it becomes clear that you do, in fact, somehow focus better with your hands kept busy.

It helps that you recognize immediately what adventure Durge, Astarion, and Shadowheart are about to embark on and quickly explain to Raphael how the three of them will soon stumble upon the entity that calls himself Withers, or rather Jergal himself, after they defeat the bandits camping out inside the old dilapidated temple. At Raphael’s expression of disbelief, you assure him that no you are not jesting or trying to trick him, and that he will see the truth for himself soon enough. He leaves you alone not long after that with a small shake of his head.

The only moment of note during your entire session with the Orb of Infernal Envisioning is when you realize that it’s rather strange that the party hasn’t met Gale yet.

The landscape is obviously not the same as the one in the game, leagues being stretched out from video-game logistics to miles and miles of actual land. But you feel like for the Party to be at Jergal’s temple but having not met up with Lae’zel yet, their path should’ve taken them past Gale’s botched portal already.

But there is no Gale in sight.

The realization makes your stomach churn with unease.

Not much else happens all that day. You watch the party. You carefully repair the tear in the delicate fabric and meticulously extend the embroidered pattern, to the best of your ability, over the seams where you’d snipped away loose thread and joined the silk back together.

The deadline of this evening means that you don’t have the time to make it perfect. This is patch work, and to any expert or discerning eye will obviously be so, but to the average person you’re confident that it looks passable, like it was never damaged in the first place. The gown will still need professional repair if it is to last for any period of time without coming apart again, but for what it is, for one evening, it is damn good work.

It is some of your best work on such a tight time crunch.

And the look of shock on Haarlep’s face (and by proxy, Raphael’s face) when you present them the finished product that evening is worth all the aches in your fingers and the dryness and exhaustion behind your eyes.

“Well, don’t just stand there and gape at me,” you say, confidence being fueled entirely by your exhaustion and the rush of having actually managed to get the dress fixed on-time. “Go put it on and let me make sure nothing will come loose.”

To your surprise, the normally brazen incubus actually obeys you without a word which sends another thrill through you.

When Haarlep emerges from behind the privacy set, they are… Absolutely stunning.

The gown fits them like a glove (though you’d expect nothing less from a shapeshifter). The pearlescent white fabric makes their red skin appear almost pink. The red, pink, and gold embroidered flowers match perfectly with Haarlep's skin tone and the molten lava of their irises. The high leg slit teases at their thigh, only obscured by the gauzy waterfall of fabric. The entire ensemble is a fantasy fusion of European and East Asian styles that you can’t help but adore.

Best of all is the expression on Haarlep’s face which, for once, lacks its usual coyness and sensuality.

You are shocked to see genuine joy and gratitude on their face.

You’re even more surprised when Haarlep rushes forward and throws their arms around your shoulders, pulling you tight into an embrace.

“Oh thank you, thank you, darling!” They gush out. “I have no idea how you managed to do this, but you did. You have no idea how pleased I am. It’s utterly beautiful. I’m sorry I ever underestimated you, pet.”

“You’re welcome,” you squeak, feeling a tad overwhelmed.

When Haarlep pulls back, still holding you by your shoulders, that familiar coyness has returned to their face and their eyes are full of heat.

“If there is anything I can do for you to repay you for this,” Haarlep purrs, and you have to wonder if they just can’t help themself. The hands at your shoulders begin to slide down your arms sensually.

You step back and pull out of their grasp.

“Nothing,” you say with a pleased and tired smile. You are so ready for a nap. “I was happy to do it so I don’t need anything in return. Just… I hope you enjoy yourself tonight.”

Haarlep regards you with a curious expression, bemused, as if you are a particularly confusing puzzle that they cannot figure out. But then their expression morphs into something you hadn’t seen before, something softer and more genuine.

“Very well, pet. Stay safe while we are out.”

And, surprising you yet again, Haarlep leans down and places a gentle kiss on your forehead, lacking any ulterior carnal motive. They pull back and smirk a little at your dazzled expression. And then they step around you, presumably to meet Raphael in the hall of mirrors, and you are left alone to wonder what exactly just happened.