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Chapter Text

O Mephistar, cruel diamond of the Living Cold. Your sky tore tonight - split like flesh, and flared with a light that knew no colour, no mercy. Only the bravest soul would have stepped outside. And had they dared, they might have seen, if only for a single heartbeat, how your frozen citadel gleamed in the lightning flash, laid bare beneath the roar of thunder, before it fell back into stormy darkness. But nobody did, of course.

For such tempests are rare in the Eighth Hell. But tonight, your Master summoned it.

Tonight was fated. He would restore order.

Make you feed again.

Ah, poetry was never his strong suit.

A short, calculated snort escaped his throat and Mephistopheles lashed the toy back to consciousness. The creature before him sputtered awake. Pushing heavy breaths through the remains of its once white and shiny teeth. Chains clinked as it struggled and the echo mingled gently with the fall of icy rain that poured from the hole in the ceiling.

"Dreamcatcher," he said in wonder letting the word linger in the frigid air. "Hmh. My spy told me odd things while your lights were out. Frightfully odd."

He lifted a claw and pressed it through the abdomen with a slow, unyielding force that sliced cleanly into its flesh. The creature convulsed and puffs of hot breath curled into the cold air.

"Once, your mind brimmed with the ideas I had put there myself. Now," he let the irony of his words hang, glancing down at the exposed sinew, "I hardly recognise you."

To be honest, it was hard to recognize anyone under all that blood. The archduke let the irony of his comment linger for a moment. 

"My incubus told me you dug up a little trick even I had to look into: an Omuan dreamcatcher. My my, what a scholar you are. Colour me impressed."

Chuckling, he rubbed his massive chin. "You've always had a taste for the curated kind of cruelty. The slow pour," He picked up his next tool. "Personally, I've never seen the point in waiting for a scream when you can rip one out by the root."

As swift as the sting of a scorpion, he sunk a hollow reed into the wound he had just carved, deep and deeper. Finally, his very uncommunicative prisoner moaned.

"O, I know. They say that the finest executioners don't cut, they coax," he said as he pushed against the soft cries of pain, "that real mastery lies in restraint. In patience." The reed was almost fully inserted. Mephisto grabbed a funnel. "In preparing the soul like a perfect meal. It's good theatre. Watching you flounder through it all, so daintily, so precise - I almost see the appeal. Reminds me of food."

A thick, syrupy stream of port wine poured through the reed, filling the stomach. After two months nearly devoid of liquid, the sensation must have been exquisite. Pity it was preoccupied with breathing, drowning as the rain surged over its face.

"Speaking of food. Tonight is a special night, little one, and I believe you are ready for it now. Let me fill your belly before the main course."

This formidable lord and wizard had conducted countless experiments to understand the minds of men, daemons and devils alike and, ultimately, how to bend them to his will (he considered himself a bit of a mad genius here). Yet he'd never mastered the art of psychology. They said he was a walking contradiction: a cold and calculating arcanist who could probably outsmart Asmodeus himself; but he was also a hot-blooded devil with too much passion and curiosity beating in his chest.

Must've been the bad genes. Mephisto loved to play, dissect and rob others of their possessions, as all fiends do. He did it regularly, as was expected of him. But eradicating that human flaw called passion & curiosity was his most aspiring project. Unfortunately, it often proved unsuccessful. For every time he slew one of his breeders or their underdeveloped spawn, he didn't get the pleasure a true baatezu should feel. He only felt terrible. Or rather, a terrible contempt tinged with a raging existential bitterness.

With his failure to avoid producing inadequate offspring, this mortal feeling was slowly reaching its sad peak.

Bad genes.

Usually, he wouldn't give a toss where his seed was spread. But sometimes the sprout comes back to bite your ass.

It was the mothers who poisoned the child. In this particular case he shouldn't have impregnated the lass in the first place. Above all, he shouldn't have let this particular spawn live. Time to correct his mistake.

"Aaah, yes, I can see it, the horror on your face, sweet boy."

"Sire ..."

"And what a clever boy you were, buggering your way up the ranks, ever careful not to tickle the arch-bitch's ire. Gracefully done. Until, of course, you became RECKLESS."

"Sire, I-"

Mephisto pulled out the straw and closed the hole with a wave of his hand. Sniffed.

"You carry the stink of the pit. Lemure stink," he mused, then hums, pondering, "You had promise. Not to replace me - you're no heir. But as a modest soul broker. Something useful, you see. I was under the impression you'd finally found your cog in the clockwork. Of course, then your stunt with the crown happened and I was reminded of your age; ambition - it's the stench of youth's folly. But that is not why we're here today."

The prisoner spat blood and water and gasped for air. Something seemed to be blocking its airways. Maybe the rain water. Or perhaps it was simply collapsing from the special treatment it had received over and over again.

"Indulge me and I may spare you. But know this: if I do not like your answer, you will find true death tonight."

He could hardly wait.

"Now, there are three names I want from you. First - Hope. Who is she? My incubus says she whimpers in her sleep. Cries over nothing. Said it put him off his appetite. You have permission to speak."

"Aah."

The creature coughed and retched, shaking its shackles.

"Yes?"

"Pig-headed, unserving," it gurgled, red, bubbling lines running across its lip and down its cheek and forehead. "Master of the House of Hope."

"So. She controls the fortress. And in all these years, you couldn't take it from her?"

The prisoner swallowed audibly. 

"Or was it something else?"

Silence.

"You wanted her, didn't you?"

Fidgeting, gurgling, then a half-uttered "No".

The duke ran his claws over his ribs. "Are you lying to me?"

"No."

"Why didn't you break her? My spy didn't report any marks on her worth mentioning."

The stammered reply was drowned out by a cough, so Mephisto, growing impatient, opened his left flank. The prisoner cried out.

"What was that?"

"Boring!" the other one wailed.

With a sigh of disappointment, Mephisto licked his wet claws.

"All this time you've been unable to dominate a puny dwarf and, instead, you decided to keep her as a battery and occasional plaything. I'll accept that. It's lazy, but I've known worse. Sloth, after all, is an infernal house trait. Now, to the boy. The human. You kept him until he fled. Why?"

"Potential infiltrator. I-influence in the Gate."

"For what?"

"Soul harvesting. Later ... Crown."

That made Mephisto click his tongue. "Haarlep informed me that this Enver found one of Karsus' stones. If that's true - well. Congratulations on either your impressive long-term thinking or your perverse luck. Either way, it did you no good. The boy was killed and the stone was lost. Which brings me to my last question - the reason why you couldn't attain the Crown." 

He took his time now, licking over the exposed chest as he grew hungrier. The wet and deliciously spiced body lit up in a flash of lightening.

"Tell me about that other mortal. The woman. What was her name ... Tav."

Thunder rumbled over them and everything not made of solid stone shook.

"A human adventurer," he remembered slowly, "a nobody. She took the crown and gave it to some Elysium wench."

The archduke leaned in slightly. "And what exactly were you trying to do?"

His spawn remained silent. He pushed into the ribcage to make it swing.

"Say something," he murmured. "Was she for you? Speak and you may live."

"Deliver me the crown ..." 

"A contractor?"

Coughing up more liquid.

"A long-term plan, then?" He leaned back from the pendulum. "Oh, Raphael. You lie badly."

No words. Mephisto groaned. Why did history keep repeating itself? 

The interrogation had made him hungry. He leaned forward and his fang nicked Raphael's knee. He had already eaten his wings and right leg. Then the liver; the napkin around Mephistopheles' neck was all soaked and smelly, emitting the odeur of copper and decay. Ah, his son tasted of mortal sin that surpassed even the archduke's worst flaw. His juices were laced with leisure, excess, and the stink of the Material Plane. It was unbecoming of an infernal prince. 
Too much of a bastard. 
A lowly cambion. Child of a mortal woman. A freak.

"I always say: If you desire with your cock, act with your cock. Nothing else will serve. You fuck, or you cut it off. But you never leave it hanging."

He placed his fists at his hips and shook his head - mocking the posture of a father too tired to scold. 

"You should have taken her and put an end to this need. But you are so repressed. It's not only disgusting," he said, wagging his finger at his son, "it's dangerous. It threatens the order of things. And have I not taught you the price of disorder? Ah, the little bird turned your head. I see that now. Perhaps I'll go pay her a visit, once we've finished here." 
The chain rattled. A deep groan. But the Lord of Magic Hellfire just turned and grabbed a trinket, a net of stones and thread from a nearby table. It glowed and sang. He walked back and wrapped it around the blackened stump of Raphael's leg. 

"Dreamcatcher, hah. What a quaint little idea. I thank you for showing me this remarkable technique. Now," he picked up his butcher's tool from the wet stone floor. "I'm going to sharpen my knife. And when I return, I will have you for supper, child. In the meantime, have fun with this little trinket, here. It doesn't contain nightmares like yours did. A soundscape, let's call it. Of your mother's last hours with me."

He didn't look back.

"It's not exactly nursery rhymes but it's ... evocative."

A pause at the threshold. The knife swung once in his grip.

"See you very soon."

Chapter Text

There is a saying that you always meet people twice.

After a lifetime of travelling, experiencing the wonders of the wide world and meeting many whom she would never see again, Tav has come to doubt the truth of this proverb. It can't be true, the laws of the world forbid it. Most of all, she would never have agreed to it due to one particular person, because - given her own bourgeois background and her hard-working nature - she should never have met him in the first place. Not even once, let alone twice.

Their first meeting was an accident, a miraculous happenstance. Miraculous because she met her first incubus in the flesh, an infernal creature that usually doesn't show up uninvited. One must wish for it and usually a law-
abiding citizen would never do so. The creature had more or less run away from its master and stumbled upon her in the shrine of barristers and brokers, specifically in the Temple of Asmodeus, which the young woman was decorating as part of her first-ever tapestry commission.
She'd worn a black apron with blood-red trimming to match her plain, colourless work clothes - Tav had chosen the apron to suit the religious occasion, and put on heavy red earrings to match, which Haarlep played with so seductively at the time. Exactly 13 years have passed since that encounter, which, by the way, gave Tav her first full tongue kiss before the unhappy "owner" appeared and removed his incubus. It had made her chuckle then.

The last time Haarlep's master and her met was in the House of Hope. Her whip around his neck and he on his knees.

On the morning of her 32nd birthday, Tav drags canisters through the stream that runs outside the city fortress, not far from the edge of the dark forest. Some diabolist has contaminated the drinking water again. That's when she sees him, Raphael. No, that's not possible. She defeated him. Killed him and delivered him into his father's clutches. But there he is, on the other side of the little stream, in the shape of a flaming-red fox, watching her calmly. If she had a vial of Alchemist's Fire with her, it would land in his little angular face. But she doesn't, so she just stares at him defiantly, turns around and plodd home.

That evening, when she returned from her little birthday toast with her cousins, Tav climbed into her web and thought of all that she lost back in Baldur's Gate. 

"Tav," he whispered in her ear at night, "LITTLE MOUSE."
She sat bolt upright in bed, staring into the darkness. There was no one there, just the olfactory calling card of wet dog still hanging in the air. No sign of sulphur.

She avoids the river for two days. Then, unfortunately, the big canister needs refilling.

The next time Tav sees him, she has her whip ready. It is the oldest in her collection. The end of the driving cord is tattered and the knob is coming apart. But it's the weapon she used to beat him before. It fills her with a sense of divine righteousness as she strikes him down by the river. 
Tav thinks she's caught the fox's front paw, but he had shot to one side and then back again. She realises that he's not going anywhere, so she drops the canister and goes into battle mode, determined to put the nightmare of her past to rest at last. She lashes him a few times, once in the face, until the tail of the cord finally wraps around his throat and yanks him off his feet. Howling, he flies through the air, over the water. At that moment the animal transforms into a human, knocking Tav to the ground and landing on her with the weight of a grown man. The whip flies from Tav's hand and she can only watch in amazement as Raphael rolls over her and lands on all fours in the autumn leaves, as elegantly as a cat. 

As a very wild and butt-naked cat. He rips the whip from his neck and hurls it away. Before Tav can get back on her feet and reach for her weapon, he is on top of her. 

"Stop," he growls hoarsely. "By the Nine, stop or I will -" 

Tav does what many a lady would fantasize about doing in that situation: she kicks him in the balls and pedals the gasping devil off her with her feet. Screaming, she snatches the whip from the floor and clumsily scrambles to her feet, ready to dodge and counter his next attack. No, she won't let the bastard take her. She gives him another crack of the whip and Raphael stumbles away. His bare bottom is the last thing she sees.

She spends all day thinking about him and how he leapt at her. She's not sure why she recognised him in his fox form, or even under all that dirt and long hair. In her memory, she sees the welts her whip gave him, a pair of bright red lines across his grimace, which fills her with satisfaction.

His feral state and the fact that her appeared to her naked and unarmed, make er stop and think. For the rest of the day, she doesn't bother with complex tasks, leaving the more complicated logistics to her visiting accountant, and just trying to get by despite the disturbing experience. Instead, Tav devotes herself to pleasant conversation with the occasional shopper or a client who comes by to pick up the next batch. Most of her rugs now go to Neverwinter and as far away as Menzoberranzan; since her parasite odyssey, she's won retailers in Baldur's Gate and even an eccentric, infernal customer from Avernus who thankfully rarely visits in person (Wyll was not exactly thrilled to hear that Mizora of all people shopped at Tav's). Other than that, Gus Tava, the Weaver of Helm's Hold, is not known for anything special. No medals of honour, no invitations to court. And as the years pass, even the social visits from the Gate become few and far between.

Tav does a quick check-up on her magic loom and then retreats to her workshop for a few hours as long as the light of day is ideal, to work on a new carpet. She knots the carpet by hand. It is a craft that she only learnt after her big adventure. Practicing and gradually perfecting the technique keeps her occupied well enough. It is better than polishing urns and mourning the dead all day.

She finishes late. Tav keeps the lights on long after closing time. Her cousins, twins married to twins, come by and she invites them in for two bottles of wine. But at some point they have emptied their glasses to the last drop and leave, just as a heavy downpour begins to hit the town. Fretting, Tav watches them leave and locks the door. Tonight she dreads the dark. And, indeed, she should. Because that very night, something scratches at the creaky door that leads down to the old, dusty store room. 

Chapter Text

She opens the door and cringes when she sees who is standing there. It's Raphael, once again in the shape of a fox. He looks up at her with large flattened ears. One of them is torn, but looks like it was injured long ago. He's got his right front paw curled - her whip must have hit him so hard that he cannot use it. There are welts all over his face and back, bloody traces that had been pleasing to her when she remembered how they had gotten there. But now, she feels guilty. Sweet Silvanus, the animal needs help. 

'Damn it, Tav, it's not an animal, it's Raphael,' she thinks, scolding herself mentally. The devil. The fiend who tried to "squash" her "like the insect she was", to quote some of his threats from their fight back at Hope's. 

"If I let you in, you must agree to the rules of my house. That means no killing, threatening, stealing or vandalism. Are we clear?"

He just pants and blinks his eyes twice, which could mean anything. She moves aside anyway (as he's already in her storeroom) and he scurries into the shop. His movements are quick and uneven, a dripping wet sort of thing, the fur patchy in places.

After a quick sniff, the devil leaps up the stairs to her living quarters, his bushy tail waving left and right. 

"Oy!" she cries in irritation as she follows him.

He's already on the reading bench in the upstairs bay when she arrives, staring out the window. And, oh gods, he's got his dirty paws on her cream cushion. Tav tries to pull it out from under him, but he turns his head and growls at her. She stops and he turns back to look out the window, which gives him an excellent view of Main Street. His orange fox eyes remain fixed on Helm's Hold's shopping district which lies deserted in the rain now, and he only lowers his head to lick his paw. Otherwise he ignores Tav completely.

That night, for the first time in her life, she locks her bedroom door and tucks a dagger under her pillow. Not that these measures would stop a grown man, let alone a cambion. But in the end, she sleeps splendidly tonight. Wine really seems to be the devil's accomplice.

The next morning she unlocks the door and peers out into the hallway. The fox is still on the windowsill. Or rather back on the windowsill: she sees paw prints on the carpet and later in the shop area downstairs. Grumbling loudly enough for him to hear, she scrubs the floor clean so as not to repel any customers. After that, she stomps past her uninvited guest to wash up in the bathroom. He pretends to be asleep, but his furry ears flick and twitch like two sound funnels following every move she makes. He probably doesn't even know that he's doing it. As she gets ready for the day's business, Tav imagines he'll be gone when she comes out, all cleaned and tidied up. But of course he hasn't disappeared. And why should he? The devil wants something from her, otherwise he would not have sought her out. Tav unlocks the storeroom and, using her magic password, starts up the self-weaving loom. She carries the valuable rugs and small carpets into the main area for display and, finally, opens the shop door. Yes, he must be wanting something from her. She will have to wait until he's ready to share.

Hours pass before the first potential customer enters the shop, with what seems like half of Helm's Hold mud on his boots.

Raphael is lounging on the stairs, watching as she takes one doormat after another from the stock, patiently answering the inane questions of a lady who finally finds three of them "drop dead gorgeous" and buys none of them. She comments on the presence of the wild fox, though, whom Tav had earlier tried to discreetly dismiss by winking very hard at him. Tav gives up and replies, "It's my familiar ... I'm training it." Although she manages to suppress her underlying aversion towards the blasé woman, her calm demeanor crumbles as soon as the customer has left the shop. At first, Tav restacks the doormats noisily on the counter, grumbling quietly to herself. But as her gaze sweeps over the devil still chillaxing on the stoop, something inside her snaps and she grabs her broom.

"For Cyric's sake, what do you want?" she says tired and ineffectively lashes out at him like a farmer who shoos away the crows. He jumps two steps up the stairs and sneezes unimpressed. Swearing, Tav throws the broom in the corner and turns around to return the rugs to the storage.

When she gets back, she challenges him with her fists on her hips (of course, he's sitting so high on the stairs that she has to look up at him; he's done it on purpose, the petty little prince). She tells him that she will neither feed him nor provide him with medical care, and that he has to clean himself if he's ever to use her furniture again, or, by Bhaal's balls, she will kick him out of his beloved window. He gets up and retreats to groom his fur. Tav vows by her mother's ashes she'll let him starve before she gives in. 

Her mother would be very disappointed in her because later that evening Tav relents and puts out a bowl of water as well as some leftover pork rind for him. Raphael sniffs at it as if it were poisoned or some unappetising muck for lowly mortals. He gives her a disapproving look, before starting to pick at it. He manages to look as if he's taking the pieces not with his sharp little teeth, but with dainty princeling fingers. 

She wonders why he lets her feed him. Why doesn't he shape-shift? Raphael remains a mystery. On the other hand, all this secrecy is typical of the cambion, who ponders every variable and plots every possible course in his complicated long-term plans for world domination. He is, after all, the son of the infamously cunning Archduke Mephistopheles.

At night he lies on the bench, seemingly watching the street. At least he's much cleaner now although the cream cushion is ruined, of course ... There are two things she can't quite explain: Why the Hells she removed the two caskets from the mantelpiece in her dining room. And why she didn't want him to notice.

On the third day, a report in the gazette makes does not exactly make the headlines, but is at least a side note on page two. It's as bizarre as it is significant for the puzzle known as Raphael: an alarming number of dead foxes have been found in the region, and their numbers are increasing dramatically the closer you get to major cities like Neverwinter. 
Several people outside Helm's Hold have reported seeing a group of warlocks killing the animals and performing strange spells on them. According to the reports, the bloody trail is leading in three directions. It seems that the vulpine population in this part of Faerûn has been purposefully decimated. She hasn't seen Raphael all day and doesn't care, since they (probably) have better things to do than annoy one another.

In the early evening, however, she finds him in the storeroom; the only reason the fox hadn't heard her is that she's tiptoeing around barefoot, to avoid stepping too much over the freshly mopped floor. In the labyrinth of carpets, he's found the trunk. Her very special, highly personal, top secret traveling trunk. Bloody Hells. She sees him sniff the wooden chest and then sneeze twice in quick succession. 

"What are you doing?" she barks.

Her voice startles him, and he replies with a barely audible growl. He has the audacity to try trotting past her, but she blocks his path.

"I know you're using my place as a hide-out," she says quickly, barring his way again. 

He glares at her and his chaps curl, showing his sharp fangs. 

"Soon the warlocks will know as well. They're already outside Helm's Hold, did you know? They're slaughtering half of Faerûn's fox popul- Hey!"

He darts through her legs and Tav grabs his tail. With a howl, he throws himself on his back and snaps at her, catching her fingers with his teeth before she can pull her hand back. 

"Damn it," she yells, nursing her bleeding hand, "They'll be searching the town next. And then what? Are you going to run away again?"

He leaps away and she shouts after him. "Escape? Is that your grand plan? Have it your way, then!"

But he's gone.

"See how much I care." She draws a deep breath and turns around. While she checks that the trunk is still locked she keeps looking over her shoulder.

In the early hours of the fourth day - the night sky is only kissed by the first light of dawn - she's suddenly awakened from her slumber by a howling and wailing from the hallway so terrible it makes Tav's blood run cold. She lies still and listens. It sounds like a goat caught in a wringer, kicking and screaming its way through death. For one wild moment, she thinks: A lich is in the house.

Highly unlikely.

But what if old Ethel's come back from the dead to finish the job?

The shrieking fades into a thin, high wheeze. She musters enough courage to open the door, just a crack, of course, her dagger in one hand, vial of acid in the other. The dim morning light obscures most of the silhouette, but the sight really reminds her of her one-time excursion to the Bhaalist temple which she prefers not to remember: there's blood. Fur. Two horns. A breathing lump, nothing more. And on top of it, an elongated animal skull with a crooked, gaping jaw from which a wheezy gasp is emanating. It sends a shiver down her spine. The fox is gone.

She slams the door and locks it.

No, no, no. NO.

This has to be Raphael's doing. Everything had been fine until he showed up. She paces, circles. Stops to listen. Paces again. Up and down until the morning sky turns light blue and, mercifully, the horror slowly fades away with the night shadows. Eventually, she decides to confront the monster in her house. 

When Tav steps into the hallway - armed, bravely, with a bomb and a blade - the devil is sitting naked under the windowsill, his arms on his knees, looking at her with an ill-tempered frown. The clump of fur is gone. All that remains is a dried spot of blood, just enough to rpove Tav didn't imagine it.

"A bath. I need one," he says, his eyes covered by dark, shaggy hair. "And some clothes."

Had she been apprised of the morning's rustic exertions - scooping water and heating the bathtub (she's no wizard after all), and what a mess her guest would make - she would never have let the fox into her home. It was stupid of her to open the door in the first place. But the fox is a man now, so Tav pays some neighbour's children to fetch her water, throws the hearthstones on the fire and prepares breakfast for two. It's only when she's cutting the bread that she realises her hands are shaking.

She doesn't usually let men near the bathing room. It's barely divided from her bedroom, just a curtain. And she definitely doesn't share personal things - her towel, her soap, her hairbrush. Those are hers. Private. But here she is, brushing devil hair out of her bristles and trying not to picture where else he's pressed it. On the other hand, Tav's always been a bit of a sub to nobility. It makes no difference whether it's the blue-blooded mayor or a prince of the hells, either triggers her conservative upbringing: "Service the fine ser, girl! Their hand will feed ye come bad times," her ma - gods bless her soul - used to say. 
Or perhaps it's this arrogant air that Raphael breathes as matter-of-factly as the sun radiates light. She even gives him an ointment for his injuries, which are strangely still visible. The cambion has not recovered in half a week. For a soul-devouring fiend, he's taking his sweet time.

He finally emerges three hours later, sauntering into the dining nook wearing nothing but her towel. He refuses to put on the clothes Tav has laid out for him. An affront to good taste, he says, as he plucks an expensive table grape and drinks her cousin's fine apple juice. He grimaces, and she can't believe the audacity of it: he says the grapes aren't sweet enough. 
Besides, he continues, the boots are "uninspired. An assault on proportion". Tav blew 40 gold pieces into the wind this morning to get him a bloody outfit. But she doesn't tell him, just sits at the table, brooding. With one ear on the doorbell of her shop, her eyes remain fixed on his shirtless frame. He's still slightly damp from his bath, drops of water glistening in the light hair on his chest. Noticing her embarrassment, he chuckles with amusement. Tav's eyes drift down to his abs, which are cramping with laughter.

"Be a good pup and get me something decent to wear. I suggest you invest a little more coin in your shopping next time."

"Why should I? What's in it for me?" she rasps, regaining some composure.

"The devil's eternal gratitude," he says airily, then adds, "in the form of a one-hour reprieve from my hook."

She remembers the promise he once made: "And if you continue to deny me the crown, I will take your souls. Then we'll gather together in the House of Hope: me in my finest dress, and you skinless, hanging from a hook as you watch your world die".

"My, a full hour."

"It's a short breather compared to the whole century you'll spend hanging from it." His bruised, stubbly face regains some of its former devilish vim. "But I can promise you that this hour will bring you the sweetest relief of all: much needed rest or - else."

Their eyes meet. Tav looks away. His insinuations are throwing her off her game and she wishes she could hide from his gaze, now that he's sitting in front of her towel-clad like the God of Beauty's still handsome, scruffy-looking dad. It buggers her that he still has that effect on her. 

Fortunately, he's already lowered his eyes and turns his attention to the small breakfast buffet in front of him. Tav also looks at the selection of food and watches as he spreads a slice of bread generously with butter and then thickly with paté. 

"Who wants you dead?" she asks.

He doesn't look up. "Today? Or historically?"

"Is it an archdevil? Mephistopheles, perhaps?"

He hesitates for just a split second as he presses the paté in place, but she doesn't miss it.

"And I wonder: why him, of all names?" he asks, casually.

"I saw you," she says, "hanging in his torture chamber not long after our battle at the House of Hope."

His jaw clenches. "And your valiant heart simply let me dangle there? Well, that's touching."

"I was busy saving the Sword Coast, you see."

"I hung there for quite a while."

"And I mourned for quite a while," she replies icily.

"Ah. Is that what you keep in your chest? Memories of a perished lover?" he drawls amusedly, "Of course. I knew it the second I smelled the funky odour of chitin."

She tries not to show any emotions, but the jab lands. Kar'niss. Raphael must be so pleased with himself for stealing his soul just before the drider's untimely death.

"And the warlocks?" she returns to the subject, "whose are they?"

"Who knows. Though I do admire their persistence."

"Will they come here?"

"The longer I wear this skin, the more likely it is they will."

She furrows her brow. "So change it. Be something more convenient. A bird - a vulture? A slimey mushroom from the Underdark? Something you're familiar with."

"Or a spider, perhaps?" he offers. "Hum, but I am not the cuddly type, I'm afraid."

If looks could kill, he'd be riddled with holes.

"If you think I'm going to walk around in animal form forever, you're mistaken. But do not worry, I have a plan."

"You tried to shape-shift last night, didn't you?" she says. "Didn't go so well, did it? Huh." 

A polished salesman's smile is all she gets.

"I have no intention of slinking about on four paws forever; I have far greater things in mind. And those things include you, my industrious weaver. However, it'll require some mobility on my part and, well, symmetrical clothing."

"Why not just conjure up a costume?"

He lets out a long sigh. "I could bore you with the mechanics of my condition, but let's spare us both. The Soul Pillars you destroyed weren't decorative, you see. But your companions attacked them with such tenacity that I assumed it was on purpose. Now I see it was just improvisational vandalism."

She doesn't bother to correct him. "You're cut off from your magic."

"Not per se." A pause. "Merely parched."

A wan smile darts over his aristocratic features, barely reaching his eyes. It draws her attention to his hollow cheekbones and the crows feet that have multiplied around his eyes. Raphael looks worn out. The dark circles under his eyes are so deep you could probably drop a gold coin in them and wait for it to hit the bottom.

"The few lost souls of Avernus which I could nourish upon were not enough to satiate me."

And beloved Kar'niss might have been one of them, she thinks. Raphael takes a hearty bite of bread. 

"I'm not helping you," she says at once.

He chews with relish before replying. "I expected as much. Even if your cruelty wounds me anew. What happened to the warm-hearted Gus Tava who would go through hells and high water for her friends?"

"For the last time, Raphael -" 

"We're not friends. Yes, yes. You've made that abundantly clear in the past. But haven't even monsters found warmth by your fire once?"

"Not actual monsters." Not ones like him, she means.

"Anyway, I'm willing to pay handsomely."

"You've got nothing I want." She scowls at him. "You don't even have the power to offer anything."

"Not yet, but that's about to change. You've got one day to name your heart's desire."

"I want you out of my house."

"And I will be, once it's safe. Help me and you'll have me out of this charming shack faster than you can say "Must be the tadpole"."

"OK, then I'll just sic the warlocks on you."

"Do that and we are both dead, Saviour of Baldur's Gate," he says in a sweet, threatening tone.

"So you do know who sent them. Is it a mutual enemy? Zariel, perhaps?"

He shrugs with a rueful smile. Tav exhales and looks away, but her gaze drifts unwillingly back like a hand to a wound.

She doesn't want him here. Not at her table, not in her air. Yet, here he sits, with that same insufferable calm, the same composure he wore when he made her feel special and she'd believed it. She should be screaming. And yet, Asmodeus take her useless soul, she doesn't. He embodies everything that rotted in her life: not just the death of the one she loved, but the theft of his soul; not just betrayal, but the sick, sinking knowledge that she let it happen. Not just violation - but something truly so perverse and intimate, that she feels dirty just by looking at him. It hurts, the disgust, the disappointment. She's been so blind and it makes her want to squeeze her eyes shut. Instead, Tav stares at the devil picking up his breakfast again. He sprinkles pepper on his paté, then cuts a thick slice of air-dried ham and places it on top with quick nonchalance. The simple cutlery looks strange in his hands. He's probably never had to eat mortal food. Never had to cut anything but live flesh.

And still, he has the gall to sit there, naked under her roof, humming like this is just another morning. Like they'd never had a fallout. Like they'd never fought each other to the death. Like he didn't cut out her soft, idiotic heart and leave it twitching. 

"Who's going to pay for my expenses?" 

He chews for a bit and lets the bread fall back onto the plate with a flutter of his fingers. Even now he grimaces briefly, visibly displeased with the ham or the pepper or both. 
Gritting her teeth, Tav waits until he's swallowed and washed it down with apple juice.

"Quill?" he asks, but it's not so much a question as an order, his eyes still on the juice.

"I'm not signing your contract," she reminds him.

"It is not a contract. It's a letter of intent to repay you."

"What guarantee do I have?"

Slowly, he lifts his eyes to look at her warily. "If you want a contract, little mouse, I'll be happy to draw one up for you," he offers.

She sighs and fetches the quill, ink and paper. Raphael wrinkles his nose at the watermark on her parchment and reaches for his unused napkin instead.

"There's no copy, so keep it safe," he says, dipping the nib into the glass inkpot.

After signing his name with a sweeping hand, he dabs his lips with the napkin and holds it out to her. Tav snatches it from his fingers and murmurs a cynical "brilliant". Ignoring her, Raphael rises from his chair, hums as he shoves the last bite into his mouth and leaves the room, heading back to his bay. Tav watches him, her eyes fixed on his form as he struts away with a barely visible limp, as if the whole room were an audience. 

"I wear an Avernian shoe size 8." 

"Good for you."

She swears she'll buy him Tabaxi thongs.

Chapter Text

That evening, she brings him home an outfit she would have liked to have seen on her former lover: a well-made linen shirt, colourless, with trousers and a vest in dark greys and blues. It would have complimented Kar'niss' alabaster tan quite nicely. She deliberately buys the half-boots a size too big, as if the devil's stumbling gait were somehow a sufficient tribute to all the pain he's sown in the world. But it's not blisters she's after. It's an exit. She wants him out of her life, pronto. Instead she is faced with two dilemmas: an emotionally unsatisfying act of retribution, which Raphael meets with his insufferably condescending look of disapproval, and the frankly infuriating fact that the outfit suits him extraordinarily well. It gives the rather frivolous devil an air of dark gravitas like he's just inherited a portentous family curse. He, on the other hand, is naturally appalled by the knee-length vest. It hides his formidable physique, he complains, twisting for a better look at his behind like he's modelling for the cover of Evoké - Quarterly (a Neverwinter magazin which, in her opinion, had never met a shirt it didn't regret). She almost asks him if he preferred to swan about half-naked in a towel again, but decides she can go one blessed hour without his knowing smirk.
The devil's in an uncharacteristically chipper mood - ruffling the playful folds on his shirt and admiring the shoes, which, curse her practical soul, she's gone and had resoled. Why on earth had she felt compelled to please him? Could've kitted him out in something properly absurd, but no. She panders. Call it a hangover from her 'yes-man' upbringing; this inability to treat the enemy as such unless they're actively swinging something sharp at her. She wants to be dismissive, cold, ruthless ... Instead, she plays seamstress.

Well. It shant be for naught, as Barth would say. Tav focuses on how the devil can be of use to her. After all, he said it himself: he won't bugger off until she signs a pact. 

"How do I make you leave?" she asks, as he twirls and turns in front of her vanity mirror.

Obviously pleased with his reflection, Raphael adjusts the collar of his vest like a Casanova about to hit the slopes. And only then does he reply: she should accompany him to Avernus. 

Her thoughts immediately leap to Hope. "She'll kill you if you set foot on her doorstep."

He smiles benevolently (smug, really), clearly pleased with her quick thinking. "And that's why I need you, my little dwarf whisperer."

Tav stares. Then she lets out a short, incredulous laugh and starts pacing, muttering under her breath as she tries to make sense of whatever lunacy he's serving up this time. Meanwhile, Raphael picks up a brush and a hand mirror, posing with his back to the vanity like he’s got all the time in the world. Her concern that he wants to take Hope's home by force again is "completely unwarranted", he purrs, as he coifs his curls. All he needs is her 'friendship perk', so to speak, to sweet-talk the dwarf into a meeting.

As he primps, she can't help but notice the transformation - his hair, freshly washed and artfully messy at first, now falls in a soft chestnut wave over his ears, with a subtle shine and almost no trace of grey. The lines on his forehead seem fewer, too. If he didn't look so worn, she'd swear he'd reversed a decade. The vanity.
Raphael sets the brush down while fiddling with the hair over his neck. He'll persuade Hope, he says. She'll let him back in, as a tenant. A quiet lodger, if you will.

"You're insane if you think she'll go for that," she says at last.

"Don't concern yourself with my mental state," he replies cheerfully, "I only intend to take up temporary residence in my old rooms; Hope is not to be deprived of anything that belongs to her. Your only task is to remind her that she can take you at your word. Do be persuasive."

Hope is more likely to renounce their friendship and hex them into another plane. 

"If you can achieve that, little mouse, you'll get your wish." 

"That's why I won't even try," she snaps, "Hope will never ever agree to see you unless she gets to kill you. Again."

"And here I thought you wanted to get rid of me," his grin grows sharper and the flames already blazing in his eyes as he looks at her over the edge of the mirror, "I won't budge an inch and leave unless you help me. If you don't, well, prepare yourself for a very violent visit from the warlocks. For they will kill you, believe me. Their patron makes your three would-be gods from Moonrise Towers look like choirboys. Even I am no match for their power."

"For the love of all gods, who is it?"

He gives her a closed-mouth grin in reply, and Tav turns to stomp into the storeroom. There she crouches over a pile of carpets and claws her hands into the fabric. When she's finished her internal debate, she tidies up the shop, locks the doors and goes to her wardrobe to pack. Raphael looks out of the window in the hallway, arms crossed and tapping his foot, waiting for her.

Strategy's never been her forte. Truth be told, she relied heavily on her old mate Barth - dragging her from one misadventure to the next, making the smart calls, and bailing them both out when things went predictably sideways. Handy thing, a roguish bard. Still, Tav has picked up a trick or two. Take Trick 17, for example: make the deal, but don't tip your hand until the other party thinks they're on the brink of winning.

They're both staring at a freshly etched seal on her floor, the portal just waiting to be unlocked. All that's left is for Tav to place the final portkey - a goblin's skull, conveniently procured by Raphael (she hasn't asked where from, and he hasn't offered). The rest of the items, arranged in a six-pointed star on the wooden floor, are her own: a semi-precious stone, a shadow-cursed coin of Mammon, incense sticks, and an infernal marble Barth once nicked off that greedy merchant at the Devil's Fee.

Travelling bag slung over her shoulder, adventurer's gear waxed (if worn and battered), she turns to find Raphael beside her, no doubt pawing the ground inwardly. He hides it so well that she wonders if it was ever his master plan to reclaim the house of Hope, the mighty fortress that hovers miles above Avernus.

He waits for her announcement with an unreadable expression on his still slightly unshaven face, only his fine nose crinkles at the obviously mothy smell of her coat. But that expression, too carefully neutral, is telling: a composed Raphael would scrutinise her with a raised eyebrow, a smug twitch of his lips and the arrogant come-to-bed look in his eyes. This one's face is blank, save for a faint twitch between the regal vex-me-and-lose-your-head brows.

"Right," she says, tossing the skull lightly from hand to hand, "I'm ready to sign."

Blank face frowns, but then seems to remember how to smile. "I am listening," he offers with a tilt of his head.

"I wish you to release Kar'niss' soul from your service."

She can see it: the breath he draws in and the twitching of his right tear sack. "My dear hopeless haggler, is this your desperate attempt to save an old friend, or is it an act of selfishness, I wonder? Whose wellbeing, precisely, is on the line here?"

"It's not about me," she snaps, "I'm not asking you to resurrect him, am I?"

He taps a fingers to his chin, wondering. "Oh, but why not? It would be so easy."

"It would ...?"

Can it be that simple? Does it make her a monster that his suggestion takes more than one turn in her mind? 

"Anything seems impossible until it's done." He is clearly mocking her.

"In what condition would he come back?" 

The fiend just shrugs with a phantom of a smile, and when she asks again, he looks away with an exasperated sigh.
And that tells her all she needs to know. Maryna's tragedy would repeat itself: Tav's resurrected lover would be nothing more than a rotting puppet following the command of magic, but he would not be alive. Nevertheless, she wrenches her gaze from Raphael's face with great difficulty. Illusion, illusion. Nothing in it but contempt and the faintest hint of pity. Shaking her head, she tosses the idea aside.

"No, that's not what I want," she speaks, feeling her refusal sting more deeply than she had expected. "His soul deserves better than damnation."

"True. But what if," he replies after a thoughtful pause, "I have already devoured his soul?"

The air goes still.

"You don't know the extent of my hunger after my little detour to Cania."

"You haven't," she says, trying to keep her voice steady.

"No."

It sounds like he regrets that fact.

"Have you transformed it in any other way, harmed or sold it? Destroyed it?"

"I have not. But I've been gone for over three years. Who's to say what's become of it? The infernal market's an unruly place."

"Where is it?" she asks, jaw tight. "Where is Kar'niss?"

"I'm starting to find this line of questioning rather tedious," he speaks into the distance, "come, come. What is your wish? To find your lover or to buy him back?"

She tries to read the bluff in his expression, the wool he tries to pull over her eyes. But the devil is hostile, and she senses that he will not give her an inch.

"Well?"

Tav gives him a last, probing look before her eyes fall back to the unfinished hexagram on the floor. "I think I'll have better luck finding him myself," she thinks aloud, swiping a strand of hair out of her face.

Raphael remains conspicuously silent.

"Very well, I want you to nullify Kar'niss' contract."

"You want me to relinquish all hold over your pet drider?" he asks cautiously.

"From now until the end of time."

Raphael turns and raises a hand. A scroll appears in mid-air, and for a moment his designer stubble is bathed in an infernal-red glow. A bushy quill dances in front of Tav and she takes it. Before she ink reaches the parchment though, she shoots him a long, grave look.

"If Hope refuses to let you in, this deal is still off. Your unwanted visit at my house is over."

"I want you out of my house,"  he recites, audibly bored, "it is duly noted."

"Not just my house. Helm's Hold, full stop," she clarifies. "No surprise visits, no lurking at the gates. No shadowy figures à la Korrilla in the market when I go out for bloody potatoes."

He rolls his eyes. "You think rather highly of your city's potatoes."

"You don't follow me in- or outside the city walls."

That makes him sneer. "Quite the v.i.p. attitude you've got. I assure you, you'll find myriads of souls who deserve my economic interest far more than your little flickering light."

Oh what a liar. She still remembers his words when they had viciously fought one another back at the House of Hope: "I would burn a thousand souls to claim yours," he had said.

"I must be careful," she remarks shortly, "Wyll's little devil nuisance has taught me the fatality of contractual loopholes."

"You have made your point," he replies coolly. "You want peace in your tiny weaver's haven. So be it. I shall not spy on you, and I will keep Helm's Hold free of my infernal touch. Until your demise" He pauses significantly, causing her brow to furrow in suspicion. "After which, of course, I'll reclaim my right to do business there."

"Uh-huh. And you swear not to use me to force your way back into Hope's house."

"Your list of demands grows longer than a sea hag's fingernails."

"Swear it or the deal's off."

"Of course," he smiles all sugar and roses.

She nods and sets her signature. As soon as she lifts the quill, the contract disintegrates and for a second the air seems to be filled with the acrid scent of brimstone. A welcome gift for their newly forged pact. But that, too, is gone within two blinks of an eye. Raphael gestures to the seal before them.

"Shall we?"

Tav weighs the skull in her hand, trying not to feel bad about what she's done just now. "Let's knock on Hope's door and hope she doesn't have a heart attack."

She places the portkey on the floor. Raphael speaks the magic words, and with a rush of heat, orange light floods the room, bursting through the seal. The pungent odour of Baator's first plane surges in like smoke from a forest fire.

This time, it doesn't fade.

Chapter Text

Tav gazes longingly up at the fortress that hovers above the mountain range. She can only make it out against the orange sky because its gigantic rocket engine occasionally ignites. Black smoke rises above the dwarfed rooftops. Is Hope home? Does she know Tav is nearby? She would have liked to visit the crazy girl much earlier and under more pleasant circumstances. But with her busy life in Helm's Hold, the opportunity just didn't present itself (at least that's her excuse). Truth be told, she has misplaced the note on how to build the portal to Hope's crib... Considering her current dilemma: couldn't she signal Hope to come and get her? Why does she have to wait here until Raphael has collected his intel or port keys or whatever it is he is looking for? Tav still believes that he could have left her at home, or simply sent her on ahead to gauge Hope's mental state, perhaps catch up with her as she emotionally prepares the dwarf for his visit. After all, that's what he brought her along for.

"I'm sorry we had to take this detour," he had said sounding clearly not sorry, "but Hope must have changed the access to the house. I know how to get there, but I'll have to collect the right port keys one by one. From here to there, we'll need a few more items so we don't crash straight into her wards."

"But I'm sick of waiting," she retorted tiredly. It was as if the place was draining her with every passing hour. "You can't possibly expect me to sit idly by in this HOLE while you go on a scavenger hunt. Take me home!"

"Oh no, I'm afraid that's out of the question. But if you're too bored, why don't you go for a walk? Look around, slay a giant rat: a bit of exercise would do those chubby merchant legs of yours some good".

"My WHA-?"

It feels like it's been days despite time in the Hells being deceptive: She has needed neither sleep nor food, yet her biorhythm keeps telling her otherwise. Most of all, she has absolutely nothing to do. She knows that he's not only gone to collect portkeys, but also to feast on souls (which is his term for eating). She doesn't know how he does it but it is clear that Raphael gets stronger every day. The first two times he flies back to the cave, sprinting into it as he lands, as if to quickly hide from hostile viewers. After that he simply appears and disappears with a snap of his fingers, just like old times. After each return he looks more sated, his eyes glows in a deeper amber, and in his clasp he holds a couple of new items. However, he brings her nothing of worth except the occasional tale of how he's outsmarted or killed yet another monster. Great. 

All the talk of evil night-hags, ghouls and the undead roaming the land can no longer keep Tav in the cave. She is also getting hungry. Finally, Tav grabs her grudge and her weapons - whip and dagger - and heads out into the open while Raphael is still away.

It's been probably an hour and she's still out and about. Not too far, of course; she makes more like a wide arc around their shelter as she slips from cover to cover. Avernus is a bag of surprises, full of salted liquorice and with a few cockroaches crawling inside. Meaning, it's full of yucky stuff but comestible in desperate times. The land seems to offer nothing but burnt earth, at first glance. She gazes at the craters that scar the surface, from which deep, strange tracks of heavy vehicles emerge. Geysers erupt from fissures, hissing through the omnipresent sound of something akin to a giant kiln. The air around the cracks smells particularly foul, of old socks and rotten eggs, a scent that lingers in the nostrils long after one has has passed the fissures. Anyway, her walk would be easier on the lungs if it weren't for the fumes, but it wouldn't be any less stressful: There is constant thunder, and sometimes she sees lightning strike the nearby cliffs with a deafening crack, splitting the solid rock like a walnut and causing a landslide. Tav steers clear of the cliffs. She pulls the scarf over her nose and, despite the heat, folds the collar of her coat over it. It helps little.

Yet there is something intriguing about Avernus. One just has to look closely - ignore the ruins and broken walls, the scattered bones of the fallen, and the thorny trees where doomed souls moan softly. Not to mention the deep trenches dug by the monstrous machines of those warlords who bulldoze through the wasteland to catch souls and gain seemingly pointless territory. And then, eventually, the river Styx, which sears through the black valley and winds between the glowing mountains, takes on a melancholy aesthetic from which even Tav can draw artistic pleasure. She envisions the next tapestry of an Avernian landscape. It would be made of pure silk, of course, to accentuate the shimmering surface of the dark river. She has never seen such a place: it is more evil than any Bhaalist nest, and perhaps more treacherous than the shadow cursed lands. But there is something in Avernus that will fight tooth and nail against any invasion, a defiance that Tav believes she can understand because, despite the destruction, the scars of healing are visible - growing trees in bone-dry crevices, grassy patches in craters formed by explosions. It is as if the land is mending itself, albeit with a bloodied smile.

She searches for food, but there's not even water. She looks at the metal trees from which the remains of souls dangle like strands of grey hair, the foul wind playing with them. Her eyes linger a little longer on these cruel wind chimes, the sight always triggering the same question: 'Could Kar'niss be here?' But she never sees him, and it is an unbearable to-and-fro of pain and relief. The warrior who sold his soul to the devil and died before he could break his contract remains missing.
Tav stands on a knoll that Raphael calls the 'Hills of Haruman' and gazes out over the landscape. She sees the dark storm front building over the mountain range, and a long scream, like that of a dying dragon, echoes in the distance. On the plain below her, vague traces of a once-paved road fade into the distance, and along it a few remnants of a wall crumble like the broken teeth of an old man. Next to it stands a crooked watchtower, decapitated by the Blood War. It makes her poetic.

"Ashen plains whisper
Molten mountains softly weep
Lost light haunts his amber
Always hungry I sleep."

If she turned the other way and imagined that the towering sea of rock before her was transparent, she would see the ongoing battle between Hell's two greatest armies. She would be too far away to make out individual combatants, but the mighty sky fleet would be visible to the naked eye. The vertically hovering battleships and the creatures swirling around them like vultures were still vivid in her memory: visions of demonic armies as the nautiloid had torn through this landscape of fire and blood... while on the other side, devils hurled magic and weapons upon their foes. It is destruction of the most maddening proportions, and it has been going on for eons.

Shuddering, she ducks her head and descends to a dry riverbed. The nautiloid memory makes her long for times gone by. She understands Raphael's pragmatism in trying to get his old residence back, as it's close to his main source of food and power, but Tav feels very useless right now. And thirsty.

Hmm, what if... She muses, looking down at the riverbed and forming a new idea.

She crouches down near some growing bushes. Slowly she runs her gloved fingers over the ashen soil, rubbing it between her fingers. Dry as dust. She still takes off her gloves and digs her hand into the soil to feel any change in texture. When she senses something solid, she pulls it out with a jerk. A root? A weapon? Not, just a bone (which looks big enough to be human). 
"Come on, not everything in this shithole can be DEAD," she swears softly, chewing her lip. Tav takes the bone and starts digging in earnest. Eventually, dark, damp earth comes up. Cool, fragrant clay. Heartrate quickening, Tav unties her scarf and shakes it out. Then she sits down and waits.

As she sits there, a sound creeps into Tav's consciousness, faint and probably there all along, only she hadn't noticed it: a scratching and squeaking that punctures the constant rumbling. Tav freezes and looks around, her hand close to her dagger. Her eyes quickly fall on the only hiding place for several metres, a tree. 
She can't make out any demon or devil or anything hostile (though that doesn't mean she's alone), so she slowly rises and steps closer, blade drawn. The tree is nothing but a burnt black and white skeleton, its branches leafless and its bark long gone. It is hard to imagine that it could have grown to this size at all before it died. Tav circles the corpse of the tree until the cheeping repeats - closer now. She discovers a hole in the trunk that barely reaches her chest, an old hole because the edge is smooth and rounded. Many animals may have used it as shelter in the past, when the tree was alive and the wound had grown over with new wood. Now Tav stands in front of it and peers into a small crevice where she sees a nest of feathers and bones and three small bodies, yet only one is still moving. The other two, fiery red birdlike creatures with tiny teeth, a devil's tail and claws at the ends of their wings, lie there half decayed, their skulls inhabited by wriggling worms.

It looks as if its parents have either abandoned the nest or died some time ago. The surviving creature stretches one leg in the air - half on its back, its bent wing buckling under its weight. Around its beak lie the remains of the maggots it has plucked from its siblings. A real survivor. But one already on the verge of death. 
Tav doesn't hesitate and takes the nestling out of its cave. And there it lies, this atom of life, trembling through its almost weightless feet into the flesh of Tav's thumb. The wing on which it rested has atrophied. 

"Hello, birdie," Tav murmurs and her heart aches. She sees all the little dots bouncing around, crawling over his beak and eyes. 

'It's already being eaten up,' says a voice in her head. 'It deserves a chance,' says another.

Many deserve a chance and don't get one. Only those who know Death understand this.. Like the soldier who kills and the mother who bears stillborn. Better to end it quickly and painlessly. 

The nestling's round, blue reptilian eye seems to be looking right at her, but it's more likely it doesn't realise what's happening. The feathers prickle her skin. It's a strange hybrid mutant in a place that doesn't care about orphans. But it is alive. And there are no open injuries, no blood. Tav suddenly feels her back freeze. 

"Good Lord, look at the blood," a woman's voice said above her, "the only way to get it out of the sheets is with strong magic."

Someone's dice had fallen and landed on One on that day. She compartmentalizes the memory and sits in it like in a pool of black depression. Her free hand moves with a strange automatism. A few tugs later and she has severed the creature's lifeline. Snip. Its beak hangs open. She puts it back to its siblings. 

'All I bring to the table is death,' she thinks as she returns to the hole she's dug, barely paying attention to her cover, her shoulders sagging. Yeah, she is a pragmatic little killing machine. Her whole body kills. 'No wonder Raphael has me in his sights.' 

Water has collected in the hole by now, a filbert high. Tav dips her scarf in it, then sucks on the wet cloth. It tastes bitter.

Chapter Text

The heavy doors swing open and Raphael walks out all tall and lordly. Tav instinctively steps aside and lets him march off with his billowing vest and his - clack-tap clack-tap - confident stride, all of it warning the insignificant rabble not to get in his way.
She steps through the open gate into the archive, where he and the mistress of the house have been talking for the better part of an hour. She barely recognizes the space. Much like the hallways, the walls and pillars are now painted white and plated with gold, except that ivy creeps here and there. In the centre, where the Orphic hammer once stood, a tree rises from the floor. Slender trunk, fresh green leaves, stretching ambitiously towards the glass ceiling. It may not be the ideal climate for storing ancient documents, but the foliage does flatter the aesthetics of the room. If it weren't for the overflowing rubbish and clutter that takes up every corner of the archive.

Tav finds Hope sitting at one of the dimly lit and heavily crowded reading tables, fingers idly picking at cooled candle wax, eyes blank. When she calls her name, the strawberry-blonde dwarf startles and slides to her feet, clearing her throat. 

"Hope? What happened?"

First she gives Tav a bitter smile, and then - manic as ever - she suddenly claps her hands, her wide eyes twitching nervously. "NOW! Where was I?" She draws a sign in the air and a shimmering blue mage hand appears, which immediately flies to the bookshelves four or five metres above the ground.

The dwarf moves away from the slightly too high table and begins to inspect the inventory on the lower shelves. Whatever happened, Raphael got what he wanted. That much is obvious. Which means that he was able to convince Hope to let him move back in with her, in spite of everything he'd done to her.

"Shit. You didn't ..." Tav blurts out, "Don't tell me you made a deal. Did you?" She stalks after the busy dwarf. Accidentally steps on a scroll that crinkles under her feet.

"'Tis hope that dies last. May the end only temporarily justify the means," Hope answers as she rifles through titles, and as always, her words make little sense. "Anywho, what's old has to go, and what's new needs - space!"

She reaches for a leather-bound book on the bottom shelf and tosses it over her shoulder. In the background, the mage hand whizzes around, simultaneously plucking volumes from the wall. One, two, three and more: with a quick flick of the wrist, both remove titles with such vigour that it begins to rain loose pages. Tav becomes slightly concerned.

"But it's Raphael! Why would you want to let Raphael back in of all people?" 

"The old ones go into the rubbish," the dwarf mumbles heatedly. "Make way, make way! Oh, we'll need a new sorting system: young writers and neutral historians. And even perhaps a language section for New Infernal." 

She's skitters between shelves like a squirrel on too much cold brew and Tav grows increasingly worried.

"Hope, did he hit you on the head?"

"No head-hitting involved," Hope pauses, puffing from the exercise, and Tav notices the same bitter grin she gave her earlier. "Or threatening. A necessity, he said. KABOOM - I see it, I get it. Yes. I'm IN." 
Her excitement fades in an instant and her squeaky voice suddenly becomes very soft and fragile. "He asked about Korrilla."

Tav realizes that she had completely forgotten about her sister. She scratches the back of her neck furtively, "How is she?"

"She forges her own path. Somewhere on your plane. We don't talk."

Tav sighs. The conversation's slipping sideways. She wants to - needs to - know what Raphael has offered Hope, but her friend is clearly avoiding her questions. It's strange why she would risk reliving old traumas: memories of being chained up for a hundred years and under the constant threat of being "melted like butter and spread on toast", as Hope had put it once, are probably an uneasy companion. Tav fears for her friend's mental wellbeing, no matter if she's seemingly the one in control now.

"I just want you to be safe, Hope," she says, quiet now, "but with him being here ... He abused you. If you let the monster back in, it might just destroy you."

Hope is not someone for grudges. But her body holds memories with a brutal loyalty. The scars on her face, once tears of anguish and grief, are forever etched into her skin, and her twitching nerves and jumpy demeanour still remain. But she takes Tav's hand and gives her a warm, cherubic round smile.

"O I know. I'm glad you're here, friend." Her voice softens. "Sometimes it's hard to understand what's real and what's not. You being here - it reminds me of true and good memories. We slayed the dragon together! If hope survived that, hope will survive the rest."

They hold each other and Tav feels a strange calm wash over her. Everything will be fine, she thinks almost convinced and sighs. Ah, sweet hope. 

"I'm afraid I can't tell you what we discussed," the dwarf finally murmurs into Tav's robes, "it's confidential. But confidentiality belies his insanity. Hah! Yes, it's official now. Raphael is mad, Hope is mad. Now the only one missing from the crazy club is you." 

"I'll pass," Tav says in slight defeat and looks around, "I like what you've done with the place. Like a little green oasis in a moral desert."

"Kind thanks. It took me a long time before I could bring my ass to make any alterations. The horrid reports ... I should have got rid of them ages ago."

"What reports?"

With a sigh, the dwarf pulls away and takes Tav's hand again. She wants to show her the archive, tell her about her plans for the house. The mage hand builds spires of discarded books. Tav kneels down to decipher some of the titles. There is certainly a pattern. They're mostly ancient books, hundreds, even a thousand years old, if the scribbled dates are to be trusted. But more striking than the age is the name: Raphael. The dwarf is purging his entire back catalogue. His musings, his treatises - thrown out. Replaced with new authors and whiter paper. They stop in front of a trolley with a fresh delivery, and Tav, impressed with the printing quality, reaches for a brand-new compendium on Baator's devils. It's written in common tongue and smells faintly of leather.

"Chapter "Cambions"," she reads aloud, raising a brow.

"If you're DYING to know more about your devil, you should check out his dream diaries," the dwarf chirps, pointing her chin at the pile of books on the floor. "Cringe central." 

Tav waves her off with a grimace and flips pages.

"I'm sure he'll want to save some of his masterpieces," she remarks, "Especially the ones with his godsawful poetry."

Hope just winks and pops her knuckles with a grin. Tav pauses on an etching of a kneeling devil, claws folded in prayer.

""Depiction of Nusemnee, minor Goddess of Reformation. Statue from the upper Underdark, date unknown.""

She knows a thing or two about evil gods and patrons - Helm's Hold is, after all, a stronghold of many of Asmodeus' followers. However, this one doesn't ring a bell. Most of all: humble devils?  
She slams the book shut and drops it unceremoniously back on the trolley.

"What happened to the boudoir?" she asks, more as a distraction than out of genuine interest. "I assume you disposed of its ... contents?"

"The demon inside was released and presumably returned to its true master. Everything else in that room ... has rather been at the bottom of my priority list."

Tav glances over and sees the clouded look on her face. Unbidden and without a warning, the intensely uncomfortable feeling the devil's reign used to cause in the House of Hope returns. She can still hear Wyll's question after they had rescued Hope: "Have you ever been in the boudoir?"

And the slight crack in the dwarf's voice,"Never by choice."

Of course. Some things remain unsaid. Tav swallows. "Sorry. That was tactless. I can trash the room, if that helps," she says as her cheeks get hotter, "Burn it. Brick it up. Whatever you want."

"AACH," Hope says a little too forcefully, making a dismissive gesture with her hand. "I know what you're thinking! But do not worry: Raphael never laid a hand on me, nor did he specifically order his incubus to do so. It was mostly Zariel's generals and High Inquisitors. They liked marks."

"I wasn't -"

"He's a sleazeball," the dwarf barrels on, "let others do the rough stuff - being too much of an ASSHAMSTER to intervene while his high guests had their fun."

Tav's stomach clenches. "Not sure that's a relief-"

"Oh, Raphael is DISTURBED, let me tell you!" Hope's new outburst makes her jump in surprise. "Never touched anyone in the usual sense. Left that to the incubus. That one did the seducing. Made the greedy ones think they were getting the real prize, until WHOOPS! Signed and sealed!"

Hope's grin sharpens.

"But it didn't work on the ones who hesitated. No, the unwilling ones, those he wanted for himself. Not with fists. No blood, no bruises. Just words. He'd twist you up till you didn't know which way was out. Till you wanted what he wanted - or thought you did. Clean hands, devil's grin. That was his style."

She shrugs with a peculiar sort of pride, as though having survived it counts as a kind of personal rebuke.

"So you can rest easy, friend! He's innocent - of the messy bits, at least. Oh, I mean, except for the necro kink, I guess." She scratches the back of her head. "What a reveal that was, am I right? That devil of yours? Whoof, issues, man."

Tav stiffens. She'd forgotten: Hope had been there the day Raphael "confessed" his heinous act. The one she herself had witnessed years ago and buried so elegantly. Tav quickly swallows down her bitter reply. 

"He's not my devil," she mutters instead, "We have a deal, that's all."

The dwarf sniffs at her, then leans back. "But you smell of a shared past."

"Right. Past," Tav says pointedly, "my contract with him is temporary." She wrinkles her nose. "In fact, he's banned from Helm's Hold. That contract will burn the soles off his boots if he tries."

Hope's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh?"

And just the sound of that small, noncommittal expression tells her she might have overlooked something.

"Of course! How else -" Tav stops and frowns. "Why are you looking at me like that, Hope?"

"I'm not looking, no, really! I'm not looking at all. I cannot even SEE you! Because you're pretty much not even HERE, haha! You're in Helm's Hold, all good, all right!"

Duh, Tav knows very well that she has to leave before the contract can go into effect. Soon, though! Soon this nightmare will be behind her. Easy peasy. Piece of cake. Nothing to worry about.

Then why, exactly, does it feel like her stomach's dropped into the lower planes of the Nine Hells?

"I'd like to see my contract." 

She stares at the gleaming document that Hope's mage hand has plucked from the otherwise bare wall in Raphael's old study. It bears her name and the date the contract was signed - according to both the Faerûnian and Avernian calendar. So. Undeniably her contract. Hope is standing nearby, valiantly attempting to translate the text into Common, or at least some flavour of it. The document is, naturally, absurdly long-winded. In between the 'uhms' and 'ers', the occasional rustle of paper and shuffle from behind the mountainous pile of discarded books that takes up a good portion of the room reaches Tav's ears. It could be the devil shuffling about, for she can sometimes hear somebody grumble or snort. At one point a jet of flame shoots up. Now, though, her attention is fixed on her own cursed signature. She tears her eyes away and straightens her shoulders. 

"What's that bit? The part with the asterisk."

Hope squints, lips moving as she reads. "This encompasses any form of covert surveillance, influence, or physical presence, so long as the aforementioned conditions remain in effect. Gosh, this poetry is giving me a headache."

"Further down, the double asterisk."

Hope obliges. "Notwithstanding the above, it is emphatically agreed that affiliate R, by virtue of the inherent nature of this contract, reserves the unrestricted and irrevocable right to bind affiliate T, in the full execution of this agreement, both legally and physically, to his person, until ... uh ... until such a time as affiliate R, and affiliate R alone and without the need for further contractual or legislative justification, sees fit to be physically and mentally able to meet the conditions of the agreement as laid down in Clause 1 Section 3 of the contract. Affiliate R reserves, notwithstanding any contrary presumption, the unrestricted and inalienable right to fully exercise the privileges associated with this binding until its complete termination."

It takes Tav and Hope a minute to let the words sink in. And when they do, and all doubts are put to rest, the weight of it all falls on her shoulders like a roof avalanche.

"Shit."

"Yeah," Hope mumbles feebly, "stepped right into it. But you'll sort it out. Just make sure you don't lose your skin and everything will be fibbety-fine."

"The devil and fair ... FAIR! My arse. That lying bastard!"

She can barely contain her rage. Fuming, she shouts his name. When the echo dies and nothing but silence fills the room, Tav marches around the tower of books. And there he stands, in full cambion glory, standing before what remains of his once-opulent library, looking like an orphan before the grave of his parents. Tav is too upset to care and steps into his view, clenching her fists.

"A word."

"Not now."

"Yes. Now."

Hope, ever attuned to incoming chaos, begins backing away on actual tiptoes.

Tav ignores it. Storms forward. "'Reserves the unrestricted and irrevocable right to bind' me? Are you shittin me? Fix this dilemma, or, by my troth, I'll scream this whole bloody tower down."

Raphael turns to look at her. "Decorum, Tav. A modicum I beg of you. What seems to be the problem?"

"Decorum," she gasps indignantly. "That's rich coming from you. What about the "devil who always deals fairly"?"

"What about him?"

"He tricked me into an adhesion contract," she snaps.

And right after the words leave her lips, it hits her. It was her mistake.

"The trick was thinking you understood it," he says.

"You mean the pseudo-legal lingo you drenched it in?" she retorts, but the anger is already leaving her voice. O, the bitterness.

"Exactly. Also known as The fine print you barely glanced at." The not so fair devil tilts his head, mock-concerned. "You thought you could make a wish list of demands but conveniently ignore the boring parts - a classic miscalculation. Textbook, really."

Tav buries her face in her hands. "Alright, fine, my fault," she groans, then glares back up at him. "I thought you had standards, you know. After all these years, I didn't expect you to stoop to Mizora's levels. Now I'm bound to you until you're capable of liberating Kar'niss' soul, huh. How long will that take, I wonder."

'Bad luck', he indicates cynically with a pursed lip."You'll just have to wait and see, my sweet little thorn. I do prefer my clients close to home. My home."

She scowls and Raphael defensively lifts his hands.

"You were so deeply entrenched in that idyllic, small town citizen bubble, I didn't see any other way."

"Like that's why I didn't want to go," she laughs bitterly.

'Not because he's manipulative, power-hungry, and emotionally stunted. It's the bloody nonexistent picket fence, is it?' She doesn't say it, though. He'd probably just bow to the compliment. Tav runs a hand through her hair, seething.

He watches her little internal struggle, head slightly cocked, like he's enjoying the show. 

"I told you I don't have the crown any more," she finally grounds out.

"But you have my wrath, little mouse," he replies calmly when she doesn't continue. His gaze is positively evil. "The crown's no longer relevant, you see, for I've set my sights on something far more diverting."

His hand clenches at his chin. "And until that is achieved, you'll enjoy the full extent of my wrath, along with the humiliation I suffered while you proudly bragged about beating me in my own home."

She drops her arms angrily. What is he talking about? She never bragged about killing him.

On the contrary.

"Be prepared to be treated to the full extent of a monster's hospitality," his mouth twitches, "All the delights of the Hells, at your bleeding fingertips."

"You bound me to to punish me? What are you? Twelve?" she gasps and his proud villainous expression sours a bit, "I will make your life a living hell if you don't release me right now."

"How droll. However," he says with a lazy wave of his hand, "my plan is not to drag this out any longer than necessary. Unlike my previous ambition to rule Baator and end the Blood War, this little caper will be swift. And thanks to you, you'll have a ringside seat."

He begins to pace, warming to the performance. "I know what you are thinking: "What is he up to? Orchestrating uprisings against the Hells, gathering armies of ghouls and lesser devils to serve him, the ever ignoble usurper?" He chuckles at his own insult. "How gauche. My standards are much higher. And now I have my own personal court jester to brigthen the way, hm hm hm."

"Fuck. You're on a bloody revenge trip, aren't you?” she breathes out, feeling tired of this futile fight.

"Revenge," he hums but offers nothing more.

Instead, he turns and walks slowly to his desk, which is cluttered with books. "Regarding your self-imposed dilemma, you admitted your mistake, now I shall do the same. You are right: this devil's lost a touch of honesty ... Some of the virtues of order died during my sojourn in Mephistopheles' care, I guess. And for that I do feel ... cheap."

He leans against the wooden desk and crosses one leg over the other, looking at his fingernails. 

"What does -?"

"I won't go into it, because it is what it is: not contractually relevant. Clause Four, Section Twelve, however ..." He quotes without hesitating once, "This binding, which operates both on the contractual and physical level, shall remain in full force and effect until such time as affiliate R fulfills the specifically prescribed conditions. Ergo, I can summon you-" He snaps with his fingers, "anytime I wish, as long as I wish for."

"Until you're capable of meeting your part of the agreement," she adds and her voice wavers between hope and presentiment.

He looks up, a lazy smile of triumph on his face. The room seems to darken somehow, the light changing from orange to red.

"You could try to fight me, of course, or destroy as many copies of your contract as you want. But since you have no magical powers and you are isolated from any real support network, I wouldn't recommend a revolt."

His grin becomes distorted and for a second she thinks she can hear thunder in the distance. How does he do that? 

"Plainly put, you're entirely in my hands now. I'd advise against giving me reason to make this ... unpleasant."

"If it's punishment, what could I possibly do to make this pleasant for myself?"

She realises too late that she's handed him an opening. His eyes gleam. He pushes off the table and strolls over. When his lanky frame has reached her, everything around them but his winged form seems to fade out. His face is cast in an eery glow.

"You know full well the wide array of meanings 'punishment' can take."

Without waiting for her reaction, he grabs her by the shoulders and Tav is hurled into a nightmare vision of dungeons and fire, want and agony, literally itching her; aches that call out for actual pain to dull the initial ache until she wants to chew her arm off. She sees, as others have done in their hellish visions before her, walls caked in blood and seminal fluid, adorned with mortal appendages still twitching. A storm of fire flares up so hot it hurts to breathe, and just outside this burning pyre, impish figures greedily claw at those inside, shaking bloody chains or humping each other. She is among the burning mass of lost souls. At the centre of this conflagration of flames and writhing bodies, the devil strides towards her, now dressed in sparkling black and with iridescent horns, growing ever larger until his flashing canines outstrip her in size. The way he looks at her, it's as if he has chosen Tav out of a thousand souls to become his favourite plaything - it's exhilarating, an honour, her only purpose.

Arms close around her. Claws tear into her flesh.

His voice, a rumble underneath the infernal din, shakes her to the bones as he speaks, filling every fibre of her being with raging disinhibition:

---- Do you prefer this? ----

Yes, she does. It feels so good, she wants to rip her own skin off. 

Then-

"Oi, there you are! Took me donkeys to find you in this shiny maze, it did."

And suddenly she is back, slumped against an empty wall of books, with the devil leaning over her. Through clouded eyes she notices a red figure standing behind him and a keen female voice that sounds oddly familiar.

Chapter Text

"Oi, you can't have the sword back." 

"Why would I want a sword?"

"I've already sold it for a decent bit of brass. And that you can't have either - s'already been invested."

"I want neither sword nor money. I'm just happy to see you! It's been a while."

The growly tiefling teen gives a sceptical snort.

"If you says so."

Mol looks so much older than when Tav last saw her. She has grown a little taller and a little stouter, of course. But it's the outfit that makes Tav look twice: Mol is clad entirely in finely punched leather, wearing expensive pussyfooters, and instead of the old grimy eye bandage, her female contours are now adorned with a brass-rimmed eye patch that highlights the metal veins in her right horn. If her attire gives any indication of her sponsor, it is the rich crimson colour of her robe. She's obviously become one of Raphael's rogues. The rosy apple, plucked for good.

"Feels like ages to me," she says. Her little girl's voice still has that sharp edge that warns you not to trust her too easily, "You saved us in the Grove. Didn't leave a goblin standing. Not so bad to hang around with either." She nods benevolently. "You didn't even bat an eyelid at my Brats thieving, no, instead your folks saved three of my friends, one from a harpy, one from a mad druid with a snake and one from the shadows. Aye, I remember everything. I pretty much trusted you with my life back then."

"And now?" Tav asks.

"Now I'm old enough to do the stabby game myself."

Mol grins darkly and turns the dagger she is sharpening in her hand.

Tav leans down to her so that they are at eye level. "So you made a pact with Raphael," she says quietly.

"Choosing the right allies is just common sense. Big Raph doesn't own me. He's giving me the tools to keep myself and my family alive, s'is all. And to take what we deserve."

"The Thieves' Guild?"

A dark bark of a laugh. "Right so. The new head of the Guild can't be setting foot in no tatty gear, can she?"

And that is all she has to say. Tav looks at her thoughtfully.

"We missed you in the final battle, Mol. But I'm glad you didn't have to see it."

"Hah! Imagine my surprise when I came back from the Hells! Felt like I’d been away just a minute! Then I heard Raph had been done in, so I legged it home ... But by then, the whole town was in a right mess and my crew was scattered all over the place."

Tav sighs deeply. Yes, she remembers the chaos and the losses. "How are Mirkon, Arabelle and the others?" 

Mol finally drops her defensiveness: she rolls her padded shoulders back and lifts her chin proudly. "They’re doing right, cheers to you saving the Gate," she says, and Tav feels her ego swell a little at the praise of this young thief who usually gives little praise. "They have pulled a lot from the mess afterwards - it's set them off right nice in the city." 

In other words, after the battle, the kids did a fair bit of house plundering. Tav's ego wants ot shrink into a dark corner and weep, all the while Mol continues to brag.

"And with the gold I brought back from the depths, my takeover of the Guild was basically in the bag."

"But now you returned to the depths ..."

The girl shrugs as if it were trivial, but the grin on her thin lips curls into an unhappy grimace. "Well ... I was having a right dry spell, so I weren't too depressed when the old codger hit me up again. Told myself why not head back to Avernus, yeah?"

"Under a new contract?"

"Just the small print from the old one, no biggy."

The tiefling is evasive. Tav isn't surprised. She has seen what happens when a bound soul is torn from its peaceful slumber: it must heed its master's call. Wyll Ravengard is a living example. Tav had been unable to change Mol's mind about teaming up with Raphael. The girl is an obstinate one - "bold as a lamb cavorting in a lion's den", as Wyll once said. One way or another, she sold her dear independence to the Hells and Raphael collected another tool.

"Don't hate me for saying this but: This will end badly, Mol. Everyone who takes a devil's deal will give up control in the end."

"You should know by now that I'm not everyone. Anywho, YOU seem to be tagging along with him. What's that all about?"

She points at her with her dagger.

Tav lets out a bitter laugh. "Like you, I thought I was clever. But he tricked me. I'm physically bound to him until he decides I've suffered enough. It could be forever ..."

"Blimey!" exclaims Mol, more amused than dismayed, cackling her typical evil devil laugh, "That’s a proper high number of lanceboard sessions waiting for ya."

Tav chuckles, but doesn't correct her. So far, they haven't played a single session on their journey.

"I found them as boring as owt," Mol giggled, "specially with all his never-ending lectures."

"Don't let him hear that."

"Ah, the old man's as soft as a kitty cat."

Suddenly, a mage hand appears in front of them and makes an impatient come-hither movement. Grumbling, Mol slips from the sofa and holsters her dagger. She gives Tav a sloppy salute and follows the lava-red hand back to the study where Raphael is ready to hand out his next assignment. 

Once upon a time in Helm's Hold. The year was 1486 DR - six years before a small band set out to battle the Netherbrain of Baldur's Gate. It was a golden autumn afternoon, two figures sat at the famous Lanceboard Stone - a slab of rock where the humble blacksmith Zestin Geldzegen is said to have defeated the champion of Vesperin, Marbol Etcheen. But on this day, just outside the Cathedral of Helm's Hold, under the yellow canopy of a birch tree, no match of the century was taking place, for there were no spectators, nor was the underdog in this match even remotely likely to win. 

Chewing her lip, Tav glared at Raphael's Mystra, then at her rogue, then at her cleric, and back again. 

"A little more courage wouldn't hurt," the devil said, breaking the silence.

"Hm," she muttered, resting her chin in her hand.

The wind rustled the leaves above them and Tav pulled her mother's too-large fur coat (may she rest in peace!) more tightly around her shoulders. From beyond the high, overgrown iron fence that surrounded the church grounds, there was only the muffled clang and clatter of the city's hustle and bustle. 

As the devil sat enthroned like a king on his conjured chair, she shifted restlessly on her tripod. 

"You're playing like you have a soul to lose," he commented, but she only gave him a quick glance, her pinky tucked between her lips, "is something troubling you?"

"I'm thinking."

He didn't need to know that she had lost four customers in the last six weeks because of the mice in the storeroom of her new shop and that the exterminator had given her a horrendous bill. She still did not know how she'd pay it. Times were hard. 

"That's obvious." He sighed and threw one leg over the other. "But I can feel my body ageing rapidly the longer I watch you."

"I don't want to lose all my important pieces."

"You won't be able to save them all, Gus Tava. The value is in the player, not her pawns."

"Mhm."

"Uh. You've gotten a nack for giving me the dullest reply you could have POSSIBLY given."

He reached between them and, to Tav's protesting 'Hey!', reset the board.

"What are you doing?"

"I was going to win anyway. You know that."

"But it was still my turn!"

"I'm sorry, but time is unforgiving."

Stunned, she sat back and decided to quietly vent rather than make a scene. She knew she shouldn't have retreated in the middle of a double counter gambit. 

"Come. Let's up the ante, raise the stakes a little. Makes winning more exciting, don't you think? You can open, too, this time."

She fumbled for the small vial in her pocket. "Yeah, well, I have to be somewhere in -" she squinted at the sundial on the church square, "thirty minutes."

Getting the potion of Mind Reading to her cousin, that was. Her cousin Selena, who was really into this guy from Amphail, but wanted to know if he was a decent fellow. Tav just happened to know someone (her mate Barth) who knew someone (Barth's uncle) who sold the stuff at black market prices. Selena was probably sitting on pins and needles already, waiting for Tav to bring it over. It had been expensive enough. Dizzyingly expensive, probably being super-potent and all ...

Hm.

"Besides, I don't "up the ante" with you. My mother always used to say that you should never make a bet with a devil," she quoted, seasoning her words with a dash of daring.

"You wound me, weaver. This timidity doesn't suit you."

Raphael leaned back and put fingertip to fingertip. "But I don't hold it against your dear mamà - may she rest in peace. Most devils have no regard for fair play and usually resort to underhanded methods. I, on the other hand, always deal fairly. If you win in under thirty minutes, you get whatever your heart desires. No traps."

Well, that got her attention. "And if I lose?"

He placed his finger on his chin, perfecting the look of a deep thinker. It was his signature move, she quickly discovered. Most of the time she thought it was just for show.

"Your form."

She looked down at herself. 'My ... You mean my body?"

"Your likeness. If I win, I can borrow it for a while. Let's say, until the first crocus blooms coming next year?"

"What do you want with my likeness?"

"Oh," he exhaled, letting his lazy gaze wander. He seemed to enjoy the quiet of the sunlit church square and a playful smile danced around the corner of his lips as he looked at the somewhat bulky temple which still bore visible damage from the Ashmadai siege of a few years ago, "Terribly nefarious things, my dear. In fact, I'd like to teach your form how to actually play the lanceboard, so that I can live, at least temporarily, under the illusion that you could ever follow my instructions without a fuss."

He turned his gaze to her again, and there was something more deliberate in his half-smile now. Every inch of her face that he regarded in these mere seconds, her ears, her nose, even her jawbone, seemed to either be a reassessment of the merits of his plan or to plant a new idea in his mind. His eyebrow twitched, his eyelids fluttered. It felt like he was re-evaluating Tav's appearance, and it made her skin crawl.

"And as it would be such a well-behaved form," he added with more drawl, "I would then wipe out every silly whim it had inherited from its owner and fill its head with ... with other things."

Tav winced, the lameness of this threat, or flirtation, or whatever it was supposed to be, took her by surprise. Raphael pursed his lips and looked down.

"And that's all you want with my form? An empty doll to entertain you."

He sighed and rolled his shoulders back, all while staring at his knees. "I admit I enjoy the pleasures of your badinage. You are a delight, simple as that. Like a fresh breeze that clears the stale cellar smell of my many clients. No doubt it's because you're not afraid of me. Helped, I suppose, by your truly angelic complexion. It's so charming to watch you brood and chew your fingernails."

She rolled her eyes at him, but she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. What a weird thing to say. Was he flattering her or was it hidden sarcasm? Probably the latter because he gave an annoyed sounding sigh as he looked up.

" But since we are both terribly busy people and have little time to spare, I'd simply obtain your form for now. It would just be your likeness, nothing more. I won't neglect our already rare play sessions together. I promise."

Frowning, she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "And how are you going to obtain my form?" she asked warily. But, secretly, she was already thinking about winning.

His smile broadened and he quickly lowered his eyes. "With a little charm. That's all."

"I could beat you, though."

"You might. And in that case, you're free to make a wish."

Her eyes wandered up to the blue sky filtering through the treetops. "Easy. I'd wish for a prosperous career as a weaver. I want a thriving business that practically runs itself."

She emphasised the last sentence with a snap of her fingers. 

"Ah, ambition," the fiend laughed after his initial surprise, inhaling the chilly air through his nostrils, "the delicious perfume before every fateful tryst. That's a tall order, my dear."

"Too tall for you?"

"Not with your angelic complexion."

Right, right, right. Reddening, she pulled at her cloak and sniffled. She held the bottle fast to her breasts, her thumb already on the cap. If he'd known that her face was not flushed with virginal arousal but with a cheater's excitment ... Oh she wanted to giggle.

"Hmm ... Did your mother teach you any other things never to do with a devil?" he asked then.

Oh no, had he noticed anything? Impossible. But their eyes met and Tav suddenly felt all her hairs stand on end. 

"Like what?" she whispered. 

Was it a warning? A threat? That she should never fuck with him? Or, for that matter of fact, never 'fuck' him?

'Good lords of mercy and all that's modest! Shut up, brain.' 

Raphael leaned forward and touched her head lightly. Tav froze for a second but he only pulled a yellow birch leaf from her hair. 

"To make him wait. It's your move."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Tav gives her belongings - her weapons and a small backpack - a final squeeze and tug. She decides that all she can do now is wait for their departure to Baldur's Gate. She clicks her tongue at the poor state of her gear. She's always been too cheap to replace the broken parts, too busy to repair the still okayish ones. The bag, long unused, has become a banquet for the moths. Even her chest belt, once strong and reliable for carrying all her explosives, now shows serious signs of crumbling. It's a taint of her inaction, this once sturdy equipment reduced to ruin by mere neglect. 

As soon as she returns home - if she returns - mending, waxing and oiling it all is going to be her first task. As Tav sits down on the broad stone railing of her spacious bedroom balcony, her gaze drifts across the horizon of Avernus. She thinks about her long postponed plans to go on city trips again, maybe venture along the Sword Coast's friendlier paths. The streets are open to her now that she can afford it. Maybe she'll find the time to visit Menzoberranzan ...

A heavy sigh escapes her as Tav lets her head fall back to rest on the limestone wall. Once Raphael has regained his full strength - and he will, as soon as he consumes enough souls - there should be no reason for him to keep her around any longer. Perhaps he'll kill her when she's served her purpose. His claim that all this is done in the pursuit of revenge rings hollow in her ears, somehow. The contract he has twisted to weaken her position only adds to her confusion ... it makes her doubt even her own instincts. What could his true goal be? And where does she fit into all of this?

"Already prepared for departure, I see," comes his voice - silk, gliding through space as if the air were a woman's skin.

Raphael stands framed in the doorway to her room. She's certain she locked it. He's dressed to impress - immaculate red, a sash slashed diagonally across his chest, as though he's about to attend a formal duel or seduce a royal family. His hands are clasped behind his back.

"Barely back in your old home and already you trample on the concept of privacy," she mumbles, and turns away.

"How does the saying go: 'Sorry, but not sorry'?"

The infernal peacock steps further onto the patio. At least he's keeping his distance - there's still a full two metres between them. His presence is as composed as ever, his hair cut and styled to perfection - no longer a wild tangle of dark, stormy strands zigzagging in his profile. He belongs here, against a backdrop of black and white marble, ruby curtains and pale sandstone. The setting flatters him, casting him in a light that enhances every elegant line. But of course the devil always looks good, even if he is only dressed in a towel. How unfair.

"Did you want something," she asks flatly, "or are you just here to ruin my mood?" 

"You missed dinner," he says. He pronounces it 'dinée', drawing it out with a deep, vocal fry. Tav can't help but notice how he always makes foreign words sound like an audition. Is he aware of how pretentious he sounds?

"I had better things to do."

"Now that's just childish," he states, "and unwise besides. Are you so eager to let some witless parasite lay claim to Kar'niss' tattered little soul?"

For a second, his question throws her whole brain off balance. As if he wanted to throw it off the railing straight into the void.

Instead, as if by reflex, she bites out her defence. "I don't recall you summoning me."

"I did send for you. But as you know, my powers are not fully restored, so I can't just snap you into my presence."

"Well, until you can move mountains, you’ll just have to move yourself. Sorry, not sorry."

He gives her a sharp smile that says "Touché" and Tav mentally pats her own shoulder. She is impressed with herself for hiding the rising panic under a decent performance of contempt.

"You seem out of sorts, my dear. Dare I ask what tragedy has soured your mood this time?"

Her hands clench into fists in her lap, nails digging into her palms.

He turns toward her, and though she still isn't looking at him, she can hear his words being directed straight at her, "May I remind you that we have upcoming events to discuss. Besides, you used to enjoy my company. Perhaps you might ... find that fondness again-"

"So. About this event." Her voice cuts clean. She lifts her gaze from the void and meets his eyes, which now show the faintest trace of displeasure. "Let me get this straight: We steal from a soul collector in Baldur's Gate, bring the treasure back to power the house’s engines, and in return, Hope lets you stay here. Right?"

"Yes ..."

"Good. Then I guess we're done discussing." A pause. "Except maybe for one thing."

She turns and looks him straight in the eye, dead-serious. "Why do you need me to be there? A 'lowly mortal'?"

"Tut tut, my pouty pup," he scolds her. "Don't sell yourself short. Someone has to carry all the luggage."

Ah. Humiliation, then. That's his price. Manageable, assuming he doesn't tire of this tepid game. She searches his face for a sign of reassurance, but all she finds is a reflection of the monster. The one who once nearly tore her heart out in anger. who would have cast her virginal innocence at the feet of a desire demon. And who just recently flung an eschatological vision of eternal damnation at her like it was a bedtime story. No, the cambion may have human roots, but he is a devil, and the nature of a devil is that of a sadist: He will want more. Just ... what will it be?

"Why the long face? That is not the Tav I know," he says leaning in slightly with false cheer, obviously misreading her silence as dismay at being his pack mule. "Chin up, you may even survive this if you behave."

Hollow words that quickly die away in the stifling air. His gaze is now on her with full attention; Tav's reticence seems to attract him, making him turn towards her to look her up and down.

"You know, when you defied me back then -" he says with lingering irony in his voice. "I was angry, I admit. Those who try to betray this devil don't usually live to tell the tale. All is forgiven though."

'Forgiveness ... How dare he talk to me as if I were the one who -?'

Tav bites her tongue. Silence seems the safer choice to drive him away. She doesn't want to talk. She doesn't want company. She chooses to stare at the rocky foundation unterneath her balcony. Sharp, tawny stone.

But of course Raphael keeps going.

"It was a low point in my long life, after toiling so ceaselessly," he muses, as if confessing a secret. "I've seen grand ventures crumble. I felt the Abyss open beneath my feet. But I have never given up on a dream. Until then. It was a first for me, I'll admit. All that remained were ashes, blood, tears and no crown. No crown."

'Poor princeling,' she thinks, the ghost of a cynical smile on her lips as she looks up to catch Avernus' orange tinge in his big, stray-brown eyes. Seems like everything turns tangerine in this world. It's a dirty colour.

Raphael is staring out over the wide landscape again, hands still behind his back. But now she sees it - the white knuckles. His control has seams.

"If I learned one thing in Mephistopheles' care, it's this: ambition, courage, hope ..." he chuckles darkly, while his chest deflates, "they all burn you in the end."

It's an unexpected thing to say. "That's bleak."

"Everything else is child's speak," he replies devoid of his usual charming friendliness, turning back to face her. His eyes narrow slightly, scrutinising her as if she were an unruly pupil. "And you don't want to be a child in this world, believe me. But enough of my rambling. I see I've wearied you."

Finally.

"True. I am tired," Tav says. She looks down at the barren wasteland below. "But sleep won't fix it. It's this place. I long for Faerûn. Perhaps tomorrow - if such a thing exists here."

Raphael's voice softens, almost gentle. "After you're done packing, then."

However, something is on his mind because he hesitates. Or maybe he's waiting for her to dismiss him. There is a slight intake of breath, a subtle tension in his shoulders, as if he is holding himself back from speaking further.

"I bid you good rest," he finally says, suddenly curt.

Tav nods, watching as Raphael turns and withdraws into the shadows of the room with his usual saunter - or is it indecision?

She feels the sudden chill in the air as his presence fades. It shouldn't be like that. Avernus is hot and it's winds do nothing to cool the sheen of sweat around her nose. She turns her gaze back to the landscape and watches it for a little while. The ruins of an ancient civilization rise like jagged spires, needle-thin from this height. Lightning flashes behind the sepia clouds, momentarily illuminating their edges. Do the gods even know this place exists? Are they watching?

"What am I to do?" she mumbles.

'Throw yourself off the balcony,' a voice whispers inside her. 'See what happens.'

She longs for solitude, yet even when she has it, the stench of sulfur and other gases lingers in the air, reminding her whose hands hold her fate. Freedom is an illusion, even in Faerûn. It is a state she has always sought to avoid - dependence. She doesn't follow any god. Yet now she feels the urge to even beseech Fharlanghn to free her from her predicament that had been going on way longer than she had admitted to herself. Now, she would even make a pact with him. 

The very thought of the drider still wandering somewhere in Avernus, a lost soul forever on the run from soul-hungry marauders and Baatezu warlords, makes her heart weep. She is so close to saving him - and still stalling. It's maddening, her idleness, the waiting. Turns into a fever, a hunger that demands to be fed. If only she could SMASH something. In another world, at another time, she would have let Kar'niss take her to bed and make her forget the world. Then, finally, fall into that deep sleep she's been longing for. 

'He is dead, and no complaining will bring him back. Dead dead dead dead.'

Rubs her bleary eyes.

'But his soul still lingers,' a hopeful voice answers.

Kar'niss. How clever, how underestimated by friend and foe alike, a master of Illithid powers, cunning and skilled beneath the mask of insanity he had been Tav conjures his image in her mind, his hair silver as spider silk, his eyes black as onyx. His claws so deft that when he touched her, nothing in her was left untouched. If only she could see him again. If only she could make it right! If only her friends were here to guide her. But all she has is a half-mad cleric and a ruthless devil.

Whenever Tav feels so lonely that she thinks it will tear her apart, she climbs into her web of ropes. It took a while to learn where to knot the cords on her body, how not to cut off the blood flow, what kind of rope would hold best, and how to attach it to the beams to recreate the feeling of weightlessness she once had on that stormy night outside Rivington.

Kar'niss and her, in the barn. He had held her until morning. His breath on her neck, his rasp in her ear. Never had she felt tenderness like that before.

Something stirs in her at the thought of the two of them - naked and intertwined. The ember that has been smoldering for so long heats up between her thighs. Starved for attention. Too long ... too long since she last fed the fire. Tav's gaze drifts down her dust covered legs, up to her thighs to where they meet, hidden beneath thick fabric and tight laces. With a sigh, she places a hand over it, as if to close the book of her desire. But her arm twists and two fingers slip between the laces. She feels her own warmth through the thin fabric of her underwear. She exhales deeply. Her eyes wander to the room. She is alone. Her fingers twitch hesitantly.

Then she presses where the heat is strongest, where her lower and upper body join, just as the drider and the weaver once joined in so many ways; presses her finger tips over her covered flesh. It brings relief. It desires for more.

Isn't it a wonder they ever fell in love, she thinks. Tav, an ordinary human woman with a pronounced fear of spiders, and he, an eight-legged drow hybrid with more than a few screws loose who, to add insult to injury, had fought on the side of the enemy. Yet he had been a fearless warrior with more passion in his heart than any poet. She had seen so much of him and yet understood so little. Kar'niss had been like the deep seas - all-encompassing, powerful and full of darkness she could never penetrate. Time hadn't been on their side; Dame Aylin's deathblow, once halted in Moonrise Towers, had eventually met its target (and Tav had struggled to forgive her). But in those few weeks of their closeness, he had changed her. Pushed her beyond her limits, cradled her in his love, engulfed her in his fanatical desire. Sex with him had been a stormy sea in which she first had to learn to swim.

Tav's hand moves again, enjoying the way her body slowly softens like a barrel of butter left out in the sun: her back moulds to the cold marble, her muscles melt around her bones, her thighs wrap around her hand ... utterly lost, she searches for the memory of his touch.

"Jaluk," she laments, her fingers tracing the phantom lines he carved into her, as if his touch could still mark her. A shiver rises at the memory of him, the way he mapped her, sacred as a pilgrim's journey to the shrine of his goddess. Her mouth parts ... where his venom once kissed her skin. She reaches for those marks now, fingers seeking the paths her lover once drew. But they are gone.

Tav recoils, clenches her teeth until her jaw aches, feels she is about to lose him, searching for her old lover's face in the moment of ecstasy - and then, another face, horned, devilish amd surrounded by the same hellfire of her, no, his vision. 
And his gaze, ever-present, is upon her.

"Do you prefer this?"

His voice. 
It's like pouring oil on a fire. She surrenders to the cool stone beneath her, hard and smooth. One knee bends, leaning towards the edge of the yawning void. 
Her hand freezes.

'Wait ... Hells. No. No, no, no. Why now?' she thinks. 'Why HIM? Not now, not of all times.'

'Just a little, if it helps ...' 

She shudders, torn within herself. 'Don't go there. What is this? Some twisted, perverted-?? It's icky. Stop.'

"Fucking devil," she hisses, rolling her head to the side. "Fucking, fuck, fuck, fuck."

'Why would I even start this? I'm already trapped in a nightmare - and now I'm just making it worse.'

Even as she flaps the front of her shirt to cool herself, the image of him pushes back into her mind. Her hand has begun to move again, unbidden. Ah, it's no use. She presses on, desperate for the solace of her own touch. The betrayal urges her, drives her faster - faster - chasing the release that might cleanse her, if only for a moment, if only to forget. But the harder she pushes, the deeper it pulls her into wanting, until his presence drowns out any other touch.

'Just a little longer. Just a few more strokes.'

She closes her eyes, forcing herself to turn the whistling wind into Kar'niss' breathless whisper, murmuring sweetly in her ear.
But instead, it is Raphael's velvet that slips in as her fingers hurry over the damp fabric, and Tav can no longer hide from it. The thought that he desires her - or at least once did - feeds her fantasies. She spirals down a desperate abyss while her lust surges up a hundred miles, imagining him now as he stands in his boudoir, violating her again indirectly: him, naked in his infernal form, with Haarlep behind him, while she a stranger lies on the bed, presenting her mouth to him.

How shameful that it's so easy to summon him, when before she had grieved so deeply for her lost lover. But Kar'niss is dead and gone. And her time with the devil will swiftly come to an end, probably as soon as he's got his power back, and, also, there is -

'Something about the devil.'

In her mind, he gasps her name as he climaxes in her mouth.

'Oh gods, yes, that's it.' How powerful, his submission. She feels her own release rushing towards her, ready to meet her.

Finally.

She feels like she is toppling over. Tav opens her eyes. The void to her right is tilting.

"Woa ff-!"

Cursing, she tears her hand from her breeches and grasps for the parapet, fingers damp and warm. Within seconds the fire in her loins is extinguished as she stares up at the sky shocked by the fact that she almost fell into the abyss.

Loom break her, what was she thinking?

"By the devil," she gasps breathlessly and laughs.

The devil indeed. And the thought of him alone had almost driven her over the edge. She laughs even harder.

When his little mouse emerges from her little "slumber", Raphael still smells her desire. He can't help but associate her supposedly private performance on the balcony with the unmistakable scent that had filled his study earlier. He knows it well, has savoured it before, but never so raw, never so undiluted. It's as intoxicating as an infernal distillate - It makes his head spin.

He stands in the reception hall, hands clasped behind his back (per usual), chin held high. Waiting - like a valet, no less. What an indignity that he, Raphael (the son of the Lord of Hellfire, no less), should have to wait on a mortal. The lady of the house is grovelling before him, smaller than usual because she's on her knees. Her hair sticks out in every direction, a dishevelled mop fit for a savage. He's on the verge of boredom - seriously considering whether setting her curls on fire would be an improvement - when the doors finally swing open. Ah, there she is! The Black-Haired Fury, his Little Blemish on a Devil's Soul enters. And she's marching towards him like an angry Orc princess.

Just before reaching him, she makes an abrupt turn to the left, clicking her heels like a soldier in greeting to the dwarf. He watches her with bemused interest, but his head still swims too much from the rush of pheromones filling his nose to greet her eloquently. Her fragrance, more revealing than she'd likely appreciate, tells him all he needs to know as she glides by: Tav has obviously bathed - he catches the whiff of soap on her skin and argan hair oil in her tresses. But it's the same garb she has been wearing since they arrived in Avernus what makes her so delicious. Her clothes reek with arousal, that decadent, buttery musk that clings to the fabric like old blood. It's so thick and potent it coats the back of his throat. He can almost taste it.

Raphael shakes himself from the haze. Follows the mouse's sudden shift towards Hope with a quiet hum of interest. For now, he says nothing. Patience, after all, is a virtue.

The dwarf activates the seal to Baldur's Gate, and the two women say their wordy goodbyes. A ridiculous display, by the way - they'll be back in a few days. But of course Tav has to make a show of it.

'Mortals. Hah!' He suppresses a laugh. 'Always so scared of dying.'

The dwarf says something sappy, and his mouse responds with a soft, breathy chuckle. A series of short breaths, nothing more. And yet Raphael feels a fine trembling slide across his skin, shooting down to his loins. His body reacts instantly, back standing rigid and gaze fixed on the one woman that somehow gets away with kicking the devil in the rocks. He's just beyond her line of sight, so he averts his eyes - she's not even aware of him. Instead, he focuses his attention on the dust motes floating lazily in the light of the portal, allowing them to irritate him.

'Ah,' he thinks, happy about the distraction, 'Hope's sterling care, or lack thereof, has utterly ruined this place. Filth everywhere.' He already knows the first thing he'll do when he gets his hands on those soul coins: clean the place (or have it cleaned). He will hunt down every last speck of dust until-

"Hello-o! Somebody home?"

She must have called his name several times now, her voice has changed from girlish excitement to cool resentment. A pity. A relief. 

"Are we done here?" he asks over his shoulder, trying to not breathe in her scent. "Then let's go."

His exquisite herald of artful disruptions steps closer with a frown - something he notices even as his gaze remains fixed on the bright light before them.

"Fine," she says acidly in an adorable way, "the sooner we get this over with, the sooner I'll be at least a floor away from you."

"Still in a mood, I see," he replies, his eyes quickly flicking across her familiar half profile. The portal's light washes over her, hiding most of her freckles, but her eyes (those earthy, dark eyes) gleam. "Is it really the Avernian air, or are we pent up for some other reason?"

Her scowl deepens, suspicion rising in her gaze as she catches the slight twitch of his lips. He knows something, and that little shift in expression says as much. And then, realization strikes. He watches the flush creep up her neck, spreading across her cheeks. It's a deep, furious blush -impossible to miss, even in the portal's light.

For a moment he imagines how she must have looked when she almost tumbled off the gallery, the shock of the near fall shaking them both. Instinctively, he had grabbed the window frame ready to leap after her. No victory had ever felt as sweet as the relief of her landing on the safe side. He wanted to spank her for giving him a fright. Preferably with a studded paddle. Hard to believe that this woman had never succumbed to Haarlep's charms. Stranger still that he had actually considered offering her comfort in her obvious despair - when all it took was her own hand to lift her spirits. He hasn't decided whether that makes her more of a brute or less of a sentimental fool. Either way, she looks mortified now, staring down at the ground as if she wishes it would swallow her whole.

"Why the look of horror?" he murmurs, leaning in conspiratorially.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she whispers.

She likely suspects that her little hand party (a phrase Mol had once used that still amused him to no end) wasn't as private as she'd hoped. But she doesn't fully grasp how exposed she's been - that he heard every breathy expletive, every moaned-out curse. He had stood and listened attentively to her laboured breaths beneath his window as she muttered the words: "Fucking devil ..." She had sounded so agitated and flustered. Moaning only seconds later.

Raphael hums and turns away, his smile thinning until it disappears completely. His mind goes round in circles again. It's tiring. Obsession, his old friend, has returned to claim him once again. Only now it's harder to concentrate on his main business when the object of his desire is always around.

'Mayhaps it's best I keep her at a distance.' 

He swallows the lump in his throat. There are still some question marks surrounding Zariel's pet soul trader, a fiend called Biktul, who has been shenanigating on the southern Sword Coast for some time now. How fortuitous that Raphael's absence was so quickly filled! Almost as if Zariel had anticipated Mephistopheles would keep him trapped in Cania. Convenient, too convenient for his taste. The sheer number of souls Biktul has collected in just a few years is frankly obscene. Luckily (and this is where his smile returns momentarily) Raphael is back. Time to take a bite out of Zariel's profits - and where better to start than with the juiciest piece of the cake?

If only she hadn't distracted him. For the past few hours, his mind has been filled with theories as to what Tav's whispered words of pleasure might have meant. Haunted him until he was thoroughly annoyed by his own unproductiveness. He had fished an unused notebook from the aggravating jumble of papers and scribbled down his thoughts, trying to make sense of it all. The task had seemed simple at first: jot down a few theories, tidy it up in a page or two. Easy.
Except for the last theory, the one where she had actually almost gotten off thinking about him. That one alone took up three full pages of erratic scrawl, his list of actions becoming increasingly and erotically absurd as his thoughts unravelled. Somewhere around the part where he imagined her whispering his name just so, he felt that clenching fist in his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs, his thoughts spiraling into places they had no business going. Eventually he had dropped the journal to the floor and leaned against an empty bookshelf, wings drawn around him, squeezing his hard-on back into submission because he was supposed to be ABOVE it and because it HURT to breathe and because he had nowhere to sit and find release anyway.

'Right,' he remembers, 'someone's removed my gilded armchair from my study.' Raphael inhales sharply and makes a mental note to order a new one once he returns.

Tav, apparently tired of waiting for an answer, steps through the portal. Sparks fly up and - SWOOSH! She's gone. The devil gives Hope a tiny nod, ignoring her response, and follows his dearest disruption into the light.

Chapter Text

"It's the infamous 'Privy Duet' from the first act of Sin Fano," Tav mumbles, adjusting her explosive belt which is looking increasingly like a chain of colourful, giant pearls.

Raphael glances up from his crossbow, raising a delicate brow. "Which composer?"

"Mossa Dsharif," she replies, brusque, as if everyone should know that.

He squints at the crossbow bolts with a casual precision. "Mmm. Doesn't ring a bell."

"She was the conductor of Helm's Hold Symphony Orchestra some two centuries ago," Tav says, a touch of pride slipping into her voice.

"Well, well. I would never have pegged you as a connoisseur of the classical arts, little mouse."

He sounds - at least mildly - impressed.

"Coming from someone with your opinion of mortals, I'm not exactly flattered."

A soft laugh curls from him, flashing his sharp teeth. "What gave me away?"

"I might be only mortal but even I can appreciate beauty. Sin Fano is regarded as one of the most important operas in all of Faerûn."

"Important? On a continent of pothouses and pig farmers, maybe. You've clearly never heard the works of the infernal maestros."

Tav sighs as Raphael counts his bolts and checks the doors for signs of intruders. They don't have time for this conversation, but he seems determined to have it. He continues, lost in his own theatrical reverie. "Nay, hearing doesn't do them justice, you would need to experience them: exquisite arias - four-octave coloraturas, no less. The overtures rival the melodies of Netheril's angels. And the libretti - to die for."

He hums a tune, surely from some beloved opera. Tav could almost enjoy this high-brow banter, if it weren't for the warlocks massing outside, likely preparing to flambé them both. But Raphael, devil that he is, has already filched the soul coins from Biktul, and consumed one. Now they wait, fidgeting on the razor's edge, for it to take effect.

He draws in a deep breath, swelling with the anticipation of power. "Ah, just a few more minutes. I can already feel my magic building."

He has tinted the meagre selection of projectiles with a silencing effect that won't drain his energy too much and tucks the bunch away except for one arrow.

"Oh nice. Maybe that magic of yours could hurry along?" Tav grumbles, checking the primer on her grenades for the hundredth time. "We don't even know if you can teleport both of us out."

He shakes his head, his laughter a mocking but friendly melody. She's noticed with some amusement that the cambion is in a playful mood. He reminds her of a boy with his wooden sword, ready to slay his fantasy dragon. She's noticed the shift. The preposterously good mood. He's been like this since Baldur's Gate - walking at her side, bowing her through doors, the whole gallant act. The soul he consumed must be doing something unnatural to his mood. She doesn't trust it.

Also, it's been years since Tav has seen combat, and the idea of doing so with a half-recovered fiend who might spontaneously combust is not helping her nerves. Perhaps he shouldn't have robbed an envoy so heavily guarded.

He tilts his head, a thought tugging at the corner of his lips. "Well, if my magic fails, I suppose we'll get to experience the fine wall decoration of Zariel's torture chambers up close. Won't that be fun?"

She won't deny - Tav's stomach drops just then, a chill creeping up her spine. His words, though laced with jest, carry a cruel truth. She swallows, her eyes flicking to the theatre's door again and again where she thinks she can hear the door knob rattling.

'Happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts,' she chants silently, as drums thunder on the other side of the walls and the orchestra gallops through the introductory score.

"So, beautiful stories, eh?" she clears her throat. "Operas all end the same way - either with a merry wedding or a tragic death. Don't tell me it's any different where you come from."

"Of course it is. We don't wed, we wedge. Sometimes we rend first, then wedge," Raphael explains smoothly.

"And that's why Sin Fano remains the unrivalled pinnacle of culture."

He pulls the string taut on his killer weapon. "Parochial at best."

"Ignorance is bliss, I hear," Tav quips, giving him a deliberate look up and down.

Raphael meets her gaze, lips curling. "And as they also say, what goes around, comes around," he counters, and with a huff her gaze is drawn back to the blasted entrance.

"Dear Tav, you make me weak. When this fiasco's behind us and you're not tragically dead," - She let's out an unamused grunt - "I might feel obliged to take you to a performance of true art. Something with depth. With form. With stamina."

Still fixating that damned door. "Sure," she mutters absentmindedly, "Just as long as I'm not impaled by your baton in the first movement."

The same moment the last word leaves her mouth, she feels the chill of embarrassment run down her spine - followed by a self-deprecating chuckle that's tickling in her throat. She doesn't need to see his reaction to know she's struck a nerve. Raphael's sudden lack of movement reveals that his thoughts have also turned ... colourful.

Yes, she has just low-key flirted with him. 'And I am going to ignore his probably hilarious expression.'

"However," she adds quickly, "nothing in all the Nine Hells could ever be as angelic as this famous duet." She raises a finger as soft music swells again, trying to redirect the focus.

The singers' voices rise in ethereal beauty, but Tav barely hears them over the pounding of her heart. Raphael clears his throat.

"Whether sung by angels or demons, let us hope that the audience appreciates a forte most fortissimo," he remarks, calm and collected. "Because our own performance is about to get rather loud."

The instrumental motif changes as the doors to the grand theatre's lobby blow open. The first fireball hisses past them, and time seems to thicken like honey. Tav sees everything in crystalline detail; Hot sparks burst in all directions, and a grinning Raphael hurtles over the balustrade, his crossbow in hand. As he fires, the bolt tears into the fire warlock, sending him sprawling with a silencing spell. Then a flash of arcane lightning zips past Tav's ear, shooting into one of the marble columns, which probably cost a fortune and rapidly develops a web of fine cracks.

Tumbling forward, Tav makes a clumsy roll behind the nearest pillar while in the background the soprano glides gracefully over the mezzo. She grabs her grenade chain and fumbles with the fuse. Alas, the sodding match won’t strike. 

She ducks, swearing under her breath, and glances back at the attacking warlocks. Raphael, ever the graceful devil, has landed on his feet and reloaded. A man who doesn't even need his fiendish form to upstage everyone else. What a show-off.

From the concert hall, the voices soar in a crescendo while more and more enemies surge through the main entrance. Raphael drops to one knee and shoots, aiming straight for the heart of a spellcasting warlock. The bolt flies, only to bounce off a conjured shield. Never mind - her match lights up. Tav curses excitedly.

With a yell that makes her voice crack she calls Raphael's name just as the fuse sparks. She doesn't wait for him to move and throws the chain straight down where the crowd of enemies is the thickest. Counts down, waiting for the explosion to tear through the theatre. Three - two - one.

It goes off like a goddamn firework. Tav is hurled to the ground, the force of the first explosion knocking all the oxygen out of her lungs. Heat, noise, and debris crash over her, a rainbow of different colours from the explosive mix quickly fills the air. While she keeps her head down, she distantly thinks what a pity, that she couldn't even hear the duo's final maginificent peak - the BOOMS and CRASHES of the massive chain reaction drowned it out. Or probably interrupted the whole performance. One blast after another shakes the floor, until, eventually, it gets quiet again - save for the marble stone crumbling to the floor.

Coughing and scrambling to her feet, she takes in the full desaster: Smouldering bodies lie strewn about; only two warlocks remain, staring dumbfounded. She blinks down at the remaining grenade at her belt.

'Huh. That's one - nil for the unbranded blackmarket smokepowder, I guess...' 

On the other side of the concert doors, the music has stopped and instead panicked voices now rise. Metal clatters. Lots of it. Oh wait, that's armour.

Time to get out of here. Tav bolts down the once white staircase, leaping over pools of bubbling acid - no doubt the leftovers of her handmade grenades. Just as the City Watch marches in.

"Fff...fiddlesticks."

Tav skids over the final two steps, already stumbling when a hand jerks her behind a half-demolished pillar.

Raphael is leaning over her, sleeves torn, face black with soot, curls an untamed mess. But he flashes her a grin so carefree, it leaves Tav speechless. She stares at this strangely untethered sight but he roughly pulls her close, the chest of precious currency already clutched under his arm. And before the first city guard lays eyes on them - they vanish.

Now the entrance hall lies in ruins. Smoke curls through the air, as the City Watch charges in, their boots crunching over broken marble and debris, too late to catch the chaos-makers. Only the faintest smell of sulfur lingers where Tav and Raphael once stood.

Baldur's Gate's new opera house, not-so-lovingly referred to as "the city's grandest money pit" by Baldur's Mouth, hosted exactly three performances before being reclassified as "under reconstruction".
"It hit all the right notes," a tiefling editor later quipped in the feature section of another newspaper called Lords & Laws, "until it was decomposed."

Chapter Text

1. Now

The first time they do it, it's like war. Silent, save for their harsh breathing and the mockingly arhythmical grate of table legs that are dragging across the floor. Tav lashes out, slaps his thighs, but Raphael is pitiless. He answers with a brutal thrust that tears a cry from her throat.

"Fight, resist, beg - it's all the same," he snarls, every word lined with cruelty and punctuated by another hard drive. "Your soul is mine. No. Pact. Required."

Enemies. Bound to each other, their rivalry now spills into a new form of destruction.

She grips the edge of the table. Knuckles turn white. Tav wasn't ready for him, for how impossibly large and jagged he feels inside her, every inch like chiselled granite scraping her raw. It hurts more than is pleasurable, and her free hand presses against his hip, pushing, trying to ease the pressure. It does nothing.

"Give in," Raphael grits out behind her, voice constricted as though her agony fuels his pleasure.

She forces her legs wider though every muscle begs her to recoil. If she can just shift the angle, she might lessen the onslaught. But Raphael ignores her offer; he keeps his weight close to her back and his claws firmly locked in her hair like a needly vice, straining her neck and pricking her skin. He is practically pressing her down with his heavy elbows while hammering into her and slamming her body against the edge of the table in the process. The pressure from all sides - his body, the sharp edge of the table, the weight of him inside her - renders her rigid. Tav prays for the relief of wetness, willing her body to ease the way. She can hear her inner Jaheira pep talk to her: "Focus! Push through!" She wills her body to relax, but with bared teeth. 

Then his fangs are on her nape, his hot breath on her skin - and she shudders. She can't help but welcome it, a more useful distraction than the table digging into her flesh. When he lets out a low growl against her neck, still pressing into her back, Tav growls back. Yes. She needs more of that. More sounds. More sensuality. His ragged breaths, the strain of his desire - it could stir her, too. Could make him less of a monster. More desperate. She's close to a soft moan. So close.

'It's not enough.'

Shit. She won't last like this.

'Nope. I can't.'

She'll tell him to stop. Let him sneer, she doesn't care.

"Tight little thing, aren't you?" That infernal voice hisses close to her ear, thick with exertion. And it makes her pulse quicken within the very second. "You'll ruin me at this rate. Still not all the way in and you're already ..."

The vulgarity.

"You'll wreck me, you know that?"

With one powerful yank he pulls her head back against his sternum while thrusting forward. She gasps, he groans. And his words cut through the pain like a hot knife cuts through butter. Immediately pulling at her strings. Gods, she hates his dominance, the disregard. But, oh, how is it that she's so weak for it at the same time? Especially with that rich and deep timbre of his voice ...

'Always have been. Fuck.'

Always had a thing for it.

Whatever, the devil will have to do much more than that to -

"Don't," he whispers and grips her harder. "D-Don't -"

Don't what?

But all he does is let out a shaky breath. Giving her full body goosebumps. Incredibly so, the good kind.

Good gracious, a devil losing his composure. There's nothing hotter than that.

Her temple presses against his, fingers curling into the fuzz at his nape. With the hand that had struck him earlier, she pulls his mouth back to her ear, craving more of his filthy whispers. She hears his breathy laugh, all but lost in the newly quickened rhythm of his panting, and she is aflame.

It's that sound that makes her so idiotically wanton. Even when he uses her like that. It dulls the discomfort, the stress, the blood his talons have drawn. She's turned into a bleeding bimbo, hasn't she? Wanting to tell him to keep going, to never stop speaking, to fill her with his wicked words. But that would mean surrendering.

And she won't give him the satisfaction.

2. Earlier that evening

Raphael sprawled in his chair like a fat old cat, wine glass poised with all the grace of a man who thought he deserved every last drop. "Ah, nothing quite like an evening at the opera. The drama, the wailing ... Still, I suspect Zariel's reaction to our little theft will outshine even the best arias."

Tav shifted in her fancy, probably overpriced, and highly uncomfortable designer chair; somehow she managed to bang her elbows on the hilariously narrow armrests every time she moved. "Think she'll be subtle, or go straight for the 'flames of Hell' theatrics?"

She giggled, lightheaded. It felt like little bubbles of jokes were leaving her mouth everytime she said something. 

"Subtle?" He stretched his long legs toward the lit fireplace, "No, no. This archdevil has all the grace of a stench kow that charges into battle. The moment she realizes her precious soul coins are missing along with a handful of her warlocks, she'll explode. Her righteous fury is as predictable as it is comical, you see. All righteous fury with flared nostrils, you see. She'll look like she's trying to snort out all of Avernus."

Tav threw him a buzzed grin and tossed another gnawed off chicken bone into the fire. "The mighty Zariel, reduced to a snorting beast. I'll drink to that."
She didn't, but licked the grease off of her fingers with ungraceful casualness, ignoring the devil's scantly concealed look of disdain as she did so. He seemed to loathe watching her eat. She could guess why; a near-immortal like him would see it as a messy, human indulgence. Too base for his refined sensibilities. It was such a funny look on is regal face that she just had to reach for her fifth chicken wing. 

"S'probably not wise to poke fun at such a powerful devil, by the way," she said, speaking around a bite.

"Perhaps not," he said after a moment of staring at her chew, and returned to swirling his fine Cormyrian Red. "But certainly entertaining. She's a fallen angel pretending to be the paragon of virtue, blind to the fact that it's her own rot keeping her on that throne. She is at odds with herself. It's quite disgusting," he mumbled into another sip.

She lowered her gaze, nibbling the salted meat. "Maybe she thinks she can hold both parts. Light and rot. Keep them balanced. She wouldn't be the first."

He chuckled. "Oh, that's always the story, isn't it? Mortals convincing themselves they can flirt with the shadow and not fall. But that's the flaw - opposites aren't meant to stay separate, my dear. They clash and slash and shape new things."

"Sounds like proper destruction."

"Not destruction. It's change. Growth."

The peculiar tenseness in his voice made her look up. Raphael was staring at his feet. "Power doesn't come from standing apart - you must step into the tension and let it fuel you. Zariel struggles with it and thus weakens herself. But you," his eyes found hers, head immovable, "you've felt it. You've utilized it."

"What? The brain bug ordeal you mean? I didn't give in." She winked blithely. "But ta for noticing."

'Noticing that my friends and I managed to beat the illithid with its own tricks,' she thought and threw him a wink. 'Right after I trounced you in your own house, mate.'

"I'm not so sure you haven't," Raphael narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her frame. "You've danced very close to the edge. I can already picture the moment of your ultimate fall. The ... tumble you would take. Hm hm."

A suggestive grin crept onto his lips and she glowered. Of course he was dragging the balcony incident back up.

"Back to the cheap metaphors, I see," she retorted and swung the next bone to its hot grave. "What's next, a speech on 'embracing my darkness'? S'this the part where you hit the girl with a really bad pickup line?" 

"I don't do pickup lines," he said dryly.

"Yeah, well, with a voice like that, you might wanna reconsider."

"Are you saying that you like my voice?"

Tav let out a laugh meant to sound sarcastic, but to her ears, it rang too coquettish, making her squirm. Any second now, Raphael would attempt to crush her with a cruel jab, probably about her being unworthy of his voice or something cheesy. 

Much to her surprise, he remained silent. When he looked at her again, his brows were furrowed, a question smouldering beneath them. He stared at her like she was either divine ambrosia or deadly poison in his wine. Tav stared straight back. Did she say something that put him off? Because either her brain cells were too saturated or he was acting weird right now. She blinked, mirroring him again, confused. That's when she became aware of the new tension between them. The silence in the room seemed to stretch out forever, puncutated only by the fire crackles, while his gaze weighed heavy on her, making her shift in her seat like a magnet trying to escape its homopolar sibling. Eventually, Tav broke eye contact, gaze dropping under the authority of it all. Only to notice, barely, that he, too, looked away.

She fumbled for her glass.

"Well, thanks for the drinks," she said with a cough and a glance to her folded cot (Yes. The mighty fiend had managed to secure the priciest loft in Sharess' Caress, but somehow forgot to book her a proper bed). "But, er ... I think I'll head to my stretcher. You probably want to, uh, head to bed yourself?"

Even to her ears it sounded like a stupid question. Did devils need sleep? He had his boudoir, yet somehow she couldn't imagine him resting there, with jim-jams and all. Wouldn't that be funny?

'Probably sleeps in the nuddy, though, in silky sheets like that ...'

She grunted.

He didn't answer. When Tav risked a glance, Raphael was glaring at her, his expression one of incredulous derision at her feeble excuse, as if she'd sold him her soul and was now asking it back. 

"You haven't finished, pup," he said slowly, not even glancing at the half-empty plate beside her chair. "Are you sated already? Or slipping off to say your evening prayers like a proper little faithful?"

He crossed his legs with a practiced ease that felt too rehearsed. "Ah, I forget - you answer to no god. It's one of the qualities that's always made your company so refreshingly uncomplicated."

Raphael turned his gaze elsewhere, taking a sip from his glass and putting the matter to rest. Thank the gods for small mercies. She didn't miss the nervous twitch in his foot, though.

"Thank you. I think. I've never been the 'prayer and salvation' type, s'not really my style." She threw him a sideways glance. "Besides, I've yet to find a god worth the groveling."

"Still no gods to beg for mercy, then?"

"I'm not interested in begging for mercy - least of all from the likes of you," she said, then smirked, because it was almost the exact same statement she had given him when he tried to pressure her into a deal for Orpheus' hammer. She hoped he noticed, too.

His head tilted, amused. "Still so defiant."

He leaned back, eyes fluttering dreamily. The wine glass rested on his knee, his hand swaying it gently back and forth.

"But when Death and the eternal Fade come knocking, everyone grovels. You, too, will grovel."

"Yeah well, that's your opinion."

"It's a fact. You're already halfway down, little mouse."

His voice dropped to an over-acted whisper, however, this time, Raphael didn't let her escape so easily. He turned his head and his gaze locked onto hers, with an intensity that felt - to put it mildly - unsettling. 

"When the time comes, I will be there, counting the numerous contracts we'll have signed by then. The only difference between me and the high and mighty ones is that when you're on your knees, it won't just be my name on your lips."

"Here we go again,” she murmured. Not wanting to acknowledge the growing ambiguity of their already strange conversation.

"I'd be a greedy god," the half-devil-not-full-human interrupted her. "I'd take everything from you, even that which you're first unwilling to give."

His gaze, hazy with intent, drifted down her body.

"Your flesh, my supper."

He dipped his pinky into the wine glass infuriatingly slowly, the innuendo practically slapping her in the face.

"Your blood, my wine."

He sucked the finger clean with a pop, and with a puff of smoke, the glass flared, then vanished. 

"Your soul, my plaything."

Gagh. Tav exhaled, his words sticking to her like sweat. Raphael's gaze softened slightly, but she wasn't sure if he was gloating or just catching his breath. For a second, the alcohol had her nearly forget who he was: not a drinking buddy, not a comrade-in-arms. She laid her hand on her belt. Touched the leather of her lash. A reminder. He was still the enemy - and they were still at war. Perhaps it was time to remind him who was really in debt here.

"Big talk, Big Raph. But as soon as your godlike powers are back, you'll be doing only one thing: letting Kar'niss go," she said quietly as she held his gaze, "And then I'm gone for good."

In one swift move, Tav pulled her whip from the belt and stood from her chair. He watched her rise, a defiant grin contorting his face. Gods, how she wanted to add more red welts to it. She flexed her grip, giving His Royal Smugness a moment to reconsider his stubborness anew.

However, he did the opposite. Raphael spread his legs, just a fraction. An invitation. 'Step closer. Join me.' And Dendar damn her, she took the bait. His knee grazing her thigh, and Raphael looked up with that accursed grin, tapping his lap as if offering a seat.

Tav's eyes flicked to his bobbing Adam's apple and her mind flashed to the memory of him on his knees, the whip that had coiled around his neck. She raised it now, brushing the leather against his cheek. He swallowed. And before he could lean into it like the fat, needy cat he was, she grabbed the fiend by the throat.

Raphael's eyes widened, his body tensed. Her fingers were still dirty from dinner, which only made it more satisfying.

Tav leaned in, ready to spit an insult in his face. But she caught it before she spoke. That flicker in his eyes: 'Go on, I dare you.'

She raised one brow. He mimicked her. Sassy.

Scowling, she glanced at the fine wrinkles around his eyes and squeezed a little more. Feeling his muscles jump. Not too much, just a reminder of who was in charge. She called it the Kar'niss squeeze. In another universe, it might have been an offer. In this one, Raphael's eyelids fluttered, his lips parted, and for a second, she saw it - a ray of pleasure. A flush on his cheeks. Ho-ly. Hells. He was beautiful when he was oblivious. 

"Raphael." 

Nothing more to say, except maybe that he was just a jumped-up profligate who'd been bested by a mortal one too many times. He inhaled sharply, his eyes back on her, trying to burn through her and claim her soul by staring it into submission. Instead, he wrapped his hand around her neck and tugged. She braced herself. He made another attempt, pulling, as if to - what? She froze. To bite her, kiss her, whisper one of those nauseating threats in her ear? Tav just locked her hold around his windpipe and resisted with a racing heart, and now they stood paralyzed in a ridiculous mock-strangle, each daring the other to make it real. Whatever 'it' was. She almost missed his frustrated grunt above the blood rushing in her ears.

When the cambion finally dropped his arm back onto the chair, Tav also let go, staggering back. Her head spinning (not nearly hard enough, though - she got a good view of the bulge in his pants). She turned around, tumbling into the room and finally catching herself against the nearest piece of furniture. She drew a long breath. Her vision swam, and for some absurd reason, it felt like she'd just lost some stupid bet.

Maybe it was time she switched to water.

"Pull yourself together," she muttered, tossing the whip onto the table she was leaning against. Whether she meant him or herself, she wasn't sure. All she knew was that he'd ruined the docile mood between them. Had dirtied their truce. Had made her do something so crass as to (almost) strangle him. The perv was literally getting off of it.

Soon. Gone for good, her, him.

She heard the sudden scrape of the chair behind her and her spine went stiff. His heavy steps followed. Death on two legs, approaching. And then he was there, right behind her. His heat pressing in - a sulfurous stench barely masked by his saccharine cologne. The soul-snatching fiend was back, and with him, the breath of Hell. 

In one swift movement, he seized her jaw with crushin grip and growled against her ear. "You're playing with fire, Tav, but you don't want to play by the rules," he hissed. "Either go all the way, or leave it. But quit the tease."

In his full infernal form now, he towered over her, nearly two heads taller, swallowing the dim light in the corner of the room. Feeling the heavy huffs from his nostrils against her neck. His angry arousal pressed against her bum, and she had to grip the edge of this lacquered eyesore of a table so he wouldn't shove her straight into it. So, that's where this was heading.

'Knew it all along, didn't I?' Had this feeling in her gut.

"You're either delusional or drunk, old man. Or both," she rasped. Hot, expectant. Confused about what she ached to know.

What it would be like to taste what's forbidden.

His hands slid from her face to her waist, caging her like a doll in the grip of a spoiled child. For the first time, he touched her like this. And instantly, her senses exploded awake.

"And you like others to make your decisions for you, don't you?"

Moves against her, slow but insistant.

"You just can't handle a complex woman," she whispered, half-expecting him to laugh.

Instead, his voice came out so choked, it sounded like he fought his own words. "Let me show you how well I handle anything."

That's when she felt it - the tremor in his fingers. He squeezed briefly, as though asking a question. And waited. Throat tight, she rolled her hips. Meeting his. She heard his wings roar open, pulling her even closer.

His breath shuddered. "It's supper time. And I'll sup on your ..."

He let her imagination finish that for her.

He'd said he would be there when she fell from grace. Maybe he'd meant it differently, but now? Now, she wanted him to walk her over the edge. She wanted him to make her lose herself - lose her mask, her pain, her loneliness. He was a devil, after all - surely, he could make it happen. The question was, how would he do it? 

Tav rested her head against his chest. Guided his palms to her breasts. 'Do it already. No more hesitation.'

Raphael understood and, finally, he yanked her close.

It was an assault on her senses. His hands and mouth were everywhere - biting, grabbing, gnawing at her still covered nipples, her neck, his breath deep and desperate against her skin. Tav braced herself against the furniture trying not to be shoved face-first onto it. Raphael was exactly what she expected: selfish and impatient. His hunger might have been flattering if it weren't for the cold disregard between them. He kicked her legs apart, and she understood. He wanted her standing. Mildly disappointing, if she was being honest. His polished, high-and-mighty air had led her to expect ... more. She shook it off. This wasn't supposed to be romantic. No point in regretting anything.

'Be glad you won't have to be looking at him.'

His claws slid beneath her dress. She let him. Trembling. Her eyes fluttered shut as warm hands crept up her thighs, tension building with every inch. He paused. Their breaths, uneven, filled the room. And then, it was only her breath. He still hesitated, she had no clue why. Tav turned, a quip about performance nerves on her lips - only to choke it back. His growl came first, then the savage rip of fabric, the suddenness of it jolting her lungs empty, making her whimper in surprise. Too fast. Too rough. His nails slid between and pressed against her most sensitive skin. She flinched, but Raphael locked her in place. His voice way too gleeful.

"Too late, little mouse. I'm going to take what's mine."

"Gentler, damn it."

"Say 'please'."

The word dripped from his lips like venom. His fingers grazed her with minimal care, and the insult of it made her blood boil. She struck back, an elbow to his ribs, swift and furious. The satisfying grunt of pain was instant. 

"Please yourself, old man," she said hoarsely.

His fingers withdrew. A small victory, if fleeting.

"Straight to it, then," he spat. 

He shredded her underwear, the tattered remains flung to the corner. Her heart raced as she felt the solid pressure of him against her arse. He'd magicked away his clothes, and now, with no foreplay or preamble, he was pushing himself between her legs. Tav's breath hitched.

'So this is it? A quick fuck against a table?'

How absurd. What had begun as shock and disappointment now morphed into a revelation that made her cheeks burn. Something in this monster, usually so fond of control and grand gestures, had snapped. Here he was, taking her half-dressed, standing, against tasteless art deco furniture in a bordello. It felt like a world-ending explosion, sudden and violent, one she hadn't seen coming - and all because of her. She blinked, trying to focus, but he was already overwhelming her with his force.

"Brace yourself," he rasped, voice rough with desire as he pushed between her folds, forcing a clipped yelp from her throat. "It'll hurt a bit. But you can handle it, can't you?"

Wait. What?

"Now be a good mortal and suck it up. And don't mind the neighbours."

His hand fisted in her hair and yanked her head back as she hissed and struggled for breath. He let out a low, ragged moan, revelling in the power rush. "I want them to hear you scream."

Her eyes grew wide.

3. Now

The table smashes into the wall with every thrust, sending a steady thud-thud into the hallway of Sharess' Caress. This place must hear all sorts of filthy noises, but this? This is so embarrassingly crude, even she feels awkward about it. And really, how silly is that? She's being shagged by a fiend, of all people - the same one she's had trivial chats with for years. Sure, he was always a bit of a slimy charmer, but she'd chalked him up as mostly harmless. And yes, he'd established himself as a ruthless negotiator. However, he was also governed by a sense of decorum and order - the devil with a manual on etiquette. 

Oh, how naive she'd been. Every bit of that naivety is getting fucked right out of her now.

Then he lets out a laugh. Is he serious? What's so bloody funny? Has she made a joke she's unaware of, or is this his idea of humiliating her further? The malice in the laugh is clear, and he slams into her with more force, like that'll somehow compensate for his complete lack of skill. The whole thing's falling apart, his movements so erratic he seems to have lost the beat entirely.

"Fu- damn it!" Tav spits through gritted teeth. "Shit! Ow!"

'How very commanding, Tav.'

"So vulgar," he adds, voice strained. "What I wouldn't give for fine silk to stuff in that mouth of yours."

"Silk! How about more s-" He drives into her mid-sentence, "-kill!"

And she still eggs him on.

At this point, she's practically using a fist to keep him at arm's length. Her eyes dart to her whip; it's dangling over the edge of the table, flopping around with each shove. Much like her, really. Worn out and barely holding it together. If only she could reach it and regain a speck of equality.

At least she's finally slick enough for this not to be pure torture. She sways along with him, matching his "rhythm", telling herself she's going to regret this tomorrow. But tonight? She's going to make it worth the bruises.

'Make it count, Tav. You've earned at least that much. It's a hard fuck, lass, it's not supposed to be nice.'

But oh, the realisation hits her right then and there: she's not going to get anything out of this. Raphael is terrible in bed. Every flicker of pleasure is a rare accident amidst a mess of friction. The incubus hadn't exaggerated; apparently centuries of only entering via the backdoor have left him clueless about how the front gate works. He's lost in his own pleasure, probably loving the novelty of her warm innards.

Frustration wells up, sharp and suffocating. She has given up the reins too easily and now her dignity is tossed aside, wasted. The only one benefitting from this thing is the one who deserves it the least.

Raphael keeps going, oblivious to her struggle, and Tav swallows down the sting of tears. 'Kar'niss, what have I done?' This might just be the worst decision of her life.

"Why so quiet?" Raphael gasps suddenly and his pace falters once more.

'Why do you care?' she thinks, clenching her teeth, already hating him for asking.

"Is this some game of retaliation?" he manages, his frustration obvious.

His hand fumbles under her skirt until he finds her clit, rubbing it with the grace of an angry child trying to solve a puzzle.

"Oh, I'll make you scream yet. Care to bet on it, pet?"

She cannot even entertain the thought. Between the fear of his claws and his clumsy handling, it's all just too much.

"No," she groans with a shake of her head, fully done with it. "No, no, no!"

He snarls in anger and raw need, his claws sinking into her skin, pushing her against the table with too much force. But Tav has made her decision. She shoves him from between her legs, shrugging his grip off her shoulders, tears threatening to escape her.

"Enough! Get off me."

Finally, it takes an acute elbow to the ribs for him to get the message. She spins around to face him; his tail is flicking like a rattlesnake's, his erection an angry red, lifting the hem of his tunic. Now free, she rolls her stiff shoulders. Raphael, however, seems ready to rip her to shreds.

"What's the matter?" He gestures to himself, a furious grin on his lips. "My blade not to your liking? Or is it just too big for your taste?"

His face twists and he looks like a dog about to bite. This isn't the Raphael she knows. Gone is the slick and suave charlatan. He is a feral creature, ready to tear.

Tav's gaze jumps to his muscular lines, watches the veins bulge beneath his lizard skin like a slithering monstrosity. 'What's the point of all this if he mostly shags himself?' she wonders for a second. Is it all for vanity?

"Cat got your tongue?" he sneers, grabbing his cock, pumping it lewdly. 

"Your blade's fine," she finally says, keeping her eyes on his upper body, not the absurd motion just outside it.

"But the hand that wields it? Absolutely shit."

"Something wrong with my technique?" he grates, but there's a flash of doubt.

"It's dreadful."

His chest rises and some of the bravado is starting to bleed out of him. 

"You've no idea how to touch a woman," she continues. "What, centuries and you've never had the chance? Too busy polishing yourself?"

That landed. He hesitates just a beat too long, an unexpected flash of bitterness tightening his jaw. But he blinks it away within a second, his hand quickly dropping from his cock, and Tav can see the fury ignite in his eyes. She readies herself, because if he charges, she'll need to dodge. Fast. And maybe, if she's lucky, find a window to throw herself through. Great. A sprained ankle would top this night off nicely.

Instead, he steps back. 

"Careful," he says lowly, baring his teeth. "This claw might strike before you see it coming."

"Already has, devil," she replies and wipes a smear of blood from her brow. "And look at that: I'm still breathing."

She straightens her spine. Chin up. Can hardly believe she's doing it - offering him a second chance.

"However ... I think it's my turn now. Time to show you how it's done my way."

His eyebrows shoot up, him clearly not expecting this. She perches herself on the edge of the table, watching him carefully. Will he sulk like a spoiled brat, or is he actually curious? His whole body is tense, but his tail thrashes erratically. Did she hit a nerve? 

"How it's done?" he presses out, intrigued but cautious, like a starving predator sizing up prey that might be too complicated to kill.

She responds by lifting a foot to part her legs. His gaze drops instantly and she can feel the literal heat of his stare. 

"If you're hoping for an encore of that little circus with your pet spider, think again," he drawls roughly, not quite back to his usual seductiveness, inching closer. "I'm not in the mood for bondage games - and I'm not the understudy to that performance."

He's referring to that night with Kar'niss in the barn. Again. Somehow, it's become his favourite joke: Tav, tied up for sex. And, of course, Raphael can't help banging on about doing the same to her, though always framed as some twisted punishment. Just another one of his bizarre fixations.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips. He seems still interested - she just needs to tempt him the right way. So she hikes her skirt higher, letting the air cool where he bruised her. His pupils flare, thirst written all over his face. Good.

"Oh, you would have to earn that trust first," she says evenly. His pull is undeniable, hypnotic, really. "And by the time you figure out the basics, I'll probably be dust."

"Don't tempt me to end the lesson early," he murmurs under his heavy breath, stepping closer, hand creeping toward his cock again.

Ignoring the threat, she lifts her hand. "I want your human form."

His jaw ticks. "Why? Is my sword too imposing?"

"No. It's your fingernails. Too dangerous." Her eyes meet his his. Steady. "I've got other plans for that sword of yours."

Namely, to never touch it again.

He frowns, genuinely unsure if she is still insulting him. The confusion is oddly satisfying.

"Well?" she asks, half-expecting him to refuse.

He tilts his head, neck cracking with tension, and when he exhales it also seems like his violent intensity dissipates. Finally, Raphael shifts back into his human form. There he stands, with his perfectly styled hair, chiselled cheekbones, and the familiar dark shadows under his eyes. But waist down, he's still every inch of lewd flesh.

"Please take that off," she says and nods to his tunic. She motions for him to step closer to the firelight so she can get a good look at him.

He smirks and obliges, swaggering forward like a performer soaking up the last bit of applause. She lets her eyes linger on his backside a little longer than necessary. He turns slowly, his fingers moving deftly over the buttons, and each bit of skin revealed seems to ignite something primal in her. By the time his frock and shirt hit the floor, she's struggling to keep her composure.

He reaches for his erection again, stroking it absently. Tav swallows, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. Here we go.

"Good. Now, on your knees."

Raphael chokes on his own spit, hand freezing mid-stroke. She doesn't miss how his grip clenches, though. Confirming her suspicions.

"I'm waiting," she says, calmly.

"You'll be waiting forever, girl," he scoffs but she sees the hesitation. He's verging on giving in. 

"You can either stay the nescient princeling who turned down this one-time opportunity-" His eyes narrow. "Or learn what a woman like me really wants." She drags her fingers slowly over her heat, meeting his gaze head-on. "So what's it going to be, Raphael? Ignorance or illumination?"

"You're not as complex as you think," he snaps.

"That your final word?" She drops her hand with a shrug. "Either go all the way or leave it."

He takes a deep breath, his free hand curling into a fist. She can tell he's imagining wrapping it around her throat, forcing her into submission. Her heart pounds, but she meets his stare with a confident smile, refusing to flinch.

"I'll think of an appropriate punishment for this," he promises lowly.

"Think whatever you like."

His eyes are glued to her hands, and to her surprise, Raphael slowly lowers himself to his knees.

"Don't even try to seal a contract with me," he warns, eyes still fixed on her. "I'm the master of all deals."

"That you are."

She raises her boot, resting it against his solar plexus. She gives him a moment to savour the view before pressing him down. Grumbling, he leans back, propped up on his elbows. He's anything but relaxed, every thew in his body taut as he watches her. So she puts on a little show, raises her skirt further and gives him a teasing glimpse of her bare arse as she sways her hips. His groan is low, guttural, and his chest rises and falls heavily with each breath. She leans into the boot, testing the give.

"I can't hurt you," she says softly, "I'm under your control. Always."

Indeed, she is, that's what should worry her. He, however, accepts it, sinking back with her boot planted firmly on his chest. Tav breathes deep. There lies the villain, all his arrogance stripped away. She pauses for a long moment, taking him in. His body is all cut lines, his muscles dense beneath the golden skin, sharpened by centuries of battle and self-discipline. His collarbone juts out prominently, and for a second, it makes her poetic. She's seen him shirtless before, but this - this is different. Only his right leg seems out of tune with the rest of this perfect body; it's slightly paler than everything else, and slimmer than the other leg. Curious.

What is she even doing? Admiring the bloody hangman like that ...

"Enjoying the view?" he asks, pulling her from her thoughts. 

She smiles thinly, surveying the rest of him: his narrow waist, the near-perfect V that leads down to his rigid manhood. Its size is perfectly fine, nothing too outlandish.
'At least I won't need a healing potion after this', she muses dryly. No, she won't go anywhere near it again.

"Yep," she finally says.

The devil sprawls beneath her, humming with satisfaction. His need, so obvious, sends a shadow trailing up his lower abs, drawing her gaze to the dip of his navel. The satisfaction of seeing him like this, vulnerable, waiting for her command, feels as good as victory in a real battle. This was the same Raphael who once had her on the ropes, now desperate, submitting to her whims. Almost as sweet as taking down the God of Death himself.

Tav gathers her skirt and lowers herself onto his chest. His breath stutters out, hands landing on her calfs, tentative, as if he expects her to pull a knife at any second. She rolls her hips and enjoys the heat of his skin beneath hers. A rumble, deep in his ribcage, shoots through her. His heartbeat - racing.

"Show me your secrets. Give them all to me. Feed me," he murmurs quickly.

She sighs inwardly. The drama. She presses down ruthlessly, leaning into the delicious vibration.

"I don't give," she whispers, voice low. "I take."

She shifts higher, her thighs bracketing his head, and without hesitation, she straddles his waiting lips. Raphael's tongue flicks out, broadly, and the moment it strokes her, she hitches.

"Slow," she warns with an edge to her voice. "Don't devour me like you've not eaten since the Second War."

He exhales, shoulders tense. He shifts beneath her, attempts to collect himself, but his hands' twitching gives him away. She watches him, unimpressed. He's too proud, too desperate to impress. Probably too used to being praised for the bare minimum, too.

"You said you'd show me what makes you special," he rasps needily. "You get one shot."

"Then suck," she says, rocking once against him.

"Say 'please'."

"Please get on with it."

With a light shake of her head she rolls her eyes towards the ceiling, his chuckle underneath a little too smug and a little too self-satisfied for someone still underperforming.

As his lips finally close around her and begin to do their magic, she sighs and sinks into the feeling. There. He starts sucking properly, and it earns him a grudging moan.

But it doesn't last. He switches rhythm, now blowing lightly against her, as though that were somehow seductive.

She freezes. "OK, what the fuck are you doing?" she pants. "Are you - are you blowing me? You think I'm a bloody flute?"

No answer. Just his stupid tongue nudging experimentally.

"Harder," she commands. "Much harder." Her skin prickles, not from pleasure, but from ticklish frustration.

Still not getting it, is he?

"Good gods," she mutters. "All right. Think of it like uncovering treasure: It's already yours. No fight, no rush. Just something waiting to be claimed, if you dig deep enough."

Her words seem to sink in. Raphael's nostrils flare, she can feel the warm, wet muscle move more intently, dragging a gasp from her lips. He isn't really submitting to her yet. More like trying to control her. Tav shivers as his mouth works over her, his technique becoming more confident with every flick and drag. Fast learner.

"That's better," she says, her tone laced with focused approval. "Would be - amazing if you - dug a bit deeper."

His tongue dives in like a finger, wanting to fuck her this way. She is fishing for words, wondering what would make him understand.

"Not like that. Do it, ah, differently. Do - lick me like you want to devour my soul."

He presses down, fingers spreading around her ass as he pulls her closer. Suddenly it's not just his tongue anymore - his whole mouth consumes her, messy and eager. The sounds he makes vibrate through her core, adding to the pressure building inside her. A mewl escapes her and Tav is shocked by the sound.

At one point, he tries to flip her over, but she clamps her legs around his head relentlessly, nails digging into his scalp. His teeth graze her, playfully, and she yanks on his hair. Even now they are fighting. And even now he defies her expections - he should be pushing her off, but instead, he buries himself deeper. His breathing becomes ragged, muffled by her body, but Tav doesn't let up. She rubs against his face daring him to be smothered in her climax, retaliating for what he has put her through tonight, the past days, the past years. 

Could she kill him that way? Wouldn't that be glorious? And so horrifying a thought that she deserved eternal damnation for it ...?

His pace falters. When she, as zoned out as she is right now, looks down, his eyes are glassy with lust, the blaze in his irises glowing brighter with every panted breath she feels against her wet skin. She falls into his embers, his lovely flushed features. Her breath stops. He truly is beautiful.

'Perfect like that.'

And his desire for her very much apparent - boner aside. He has never looked so raw and unguarded. 

"I hate you."

She blinks. The words slip through the smoke and mirror. Her hands lands on his eyes, clumsily shielding herself from the sight of him.

His chest shudders once and in her dazed state, she realises that he's laughing. Wrecking her contempt with that godless mouth and another merciless swipe. Every pressure point of his tongue sets her further on edge, making it impossible to resist the pull of pleasure. Tav has to brace herself against his chest just to stay upright, and there they are again. His eyes. He's trembling, lashes fluttering shut as his mouth and hands clamp down on her, nails digging into her flank, teeth pressing just a bit too harshly. Suddenly he bucks beneath her. Alerted, she glances over her shoulder just in time to see it.

He is coming. A hoarse, guttural sound escapes him. His neglected cock jerks in weak effort. A single, thick drop. That's all. His breath rasps out, his body slumping back, spent. It only drives her harder. Tav grinds down on his face and rides his lips like a woman possessed.

"Not- done- yet," she pants.

He honours her wish, his licks snaking deeper, reaching further. She digs her fingers into his scalp, pulling roughly enough to make him wince. He'll lose some hair for sure, but it only seems to spur him on.

"That's it," she babbles, breath catching. "Keep doing that. Don't stop."

He howls against her and it sounds an awful lot like "Louder." 

When she doesn't comply, his hand slides behind her, fingers tracing down between her thighs. Two quick strokes and his fingers are wet. Then, slowly, he circles around her back entrance, teasing her there, before holding his other hand against her butt cheek, increasing the pressure where his fingers roam.

Her nerves flare up and her heart skips a beat. The forbidden stimulation causes sparks to scatter along her body, a delicious and bright wave that finally does her in. Her climax hits her like a club. With a jagged yell she collapses forward onto her hands, shivering. She even feels it in her legs.

'Well, well,' Tav thinks, 'credit where it's due - he did have a decent teacher.'

Or he is just good at following orders.

'When he wants to.'

Raphael the Cat. She jokingly wonders if he also has a penchant for pushing things off a table.

It takes a few moments for her to realise he's holding her, his hands steadying her hips, thumbs brushing over her ribs. She pulls away, rolling onto her back, and he lets her go. The silence is filled only by their ragged breaths. Tav glances at him just for a second. Her body blocks most of the dying firelight, but his features still glisten, damp from their effort.

She stands up without another word, refusing to look back at him. And really, it's fine; he seems content where he is, lounging on the floor with one leg bent, an arm tucked behind his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. No need for words, so she leaves him there. 

A few minutes later in the washing corner, she scrubs him from her skin with a washing cloth and a bit of cold water, washes away the sweat, blood and heat like it's been a hard day's work, until only the sense of her heart cleansed is left. She takes a sip of healing and relaxes when the worst of the burning and throbbing subside. Not too much, though, just a drop. She hasn't needed any healing in a long time, doesn't know how potent it might be.
Cleaned up and dressed, she comes round the paravent into the dining room again, lets fresh air in and pulls up her stretcher for the night. As expected, Raphael is gone, like a bad dream chased away by the dawning light. She still halts at the spot where he had knelt; and imagines the smell of brimstone and perfume in the air. Then she pulls the table back into the centre of the room, puts her plate out in the corridor, and heads to bed, without seeing him again. It's alright, though. They have both purged their demons, at least for tonight. No regret. No shame. 

Chapter Text

Avernus, House of Hope, 1486 DR. It was one of those days where nothing extraordinary happened apart from the atrocities he indulged in. Raphael self-mockingly referred to them as the "days of true crime", as they began with the most pleasurable offences of all: paperwork and bureaucracy. Contracts signed, reports completed, tedious forms filed. Only after many hours of such noble pursuits would he descend to his dungeons for the truly gratifying crimes - testing his latest instruments of torture and savouring a few souls whose terms he'd reviewed with relish. Today, the Blood War, with its tiresome campaigns and conspiracies, was a mere footnote. After all, a devil keeps a schedule, and a true crime day ended the only way he could imagine: with a personal plunge from grace.

On this evening of perpetual twilight, Raphael entered the boudoir as usual, divested and slipped into the pool. He washed every inch of himself with a dedication bordering on ritualistic, scrubbing until his skin had darkened. Then, emerging from the water, he stood as the devil himself, wings unfurled and grand as ever, stepping toward the decadent bed like a self-appointed god surveying his domain.

"You are so clean," Haarlep purred behind him, sliding forward to sniff his skin. "I can hardly wait to ruin that."

Raphael allowed the incubus's hands to roam over him for a moment, staring past him with an unreadable expression. He neither leaned in nor pulled away; after all, no need to encourage vanity in his demon servants. But his detachment only egged Haarlep on; the incubus, knowing his master's fondness for a forceful hand, pressed more boldly, even dragging sharp nails over Raphael's skin.

"Master," he breathed into the devil's ear, "what renders you so impenetrable tonight, I wonder? Is this some kind of role-play, hmm? Shall I seduce you tonight? Play the intrigued stranger?"

Raphael chose to ignore the question.

"Haarlep," he said with an undertone of disapproval, examining the dead girl splayed across the bed, "this is not what I asked for."

"Is it not?"

Creeping fingernails travelled down his belly and into the soft, still damp hair close to his crotch.

"No."

"Oh, but is her skin not sun-kissed?"

"It is."

"And is her hair not black as coal?"

"It is."

"And her mouth, is it not as red as roses?"

"It is, indeed."

Haarlep giggled triumphantly.

"But you forgot one thing, pet," Raphael replied, voice dry as a bone, "the eyes."

"The eyes?"

"They're blue."

"I see," the incubus replied with a quick and somewhat uninterested glance at the lifeless figure.

"They're the wrong colour, Haarlep."

"Ah, Raphael, my indefatigable detector of debts, defects and failing deduction, your subjects bring what they can find. Do you not like her? Then let us fetch a new female from the ever growing stock of debtors, surely there are some there who have the right shade."

"I don't bed humans, as you surely remember."

"I could prepare one for you. Remove the more ... intrusive human qualities. You know, the heartbeat."

Raphael gave an impatient growl and Haarlep withdrew his arms mindfully. With a flick of a wrist, the devil had darkened the iris of the dead creature. His chest deflated in relief.

"Uh, why even bother," Haarlep quipped, not quite under his breath, hauling the body forward so her head hung from the edge of the bed, lips parted, his own face the picture of mockery. 

"Voilà. Supper is served," he said with an inviting yet edgy smile and hooked his thumbs into his studded leather harness.

As his sire pumped his own semi into position, the imp could not resist a final snipe. "Of course, you could simply have the original, if you wished. I know for a fact that she wouldn't be averse to your unique charms."

"For the last time, Haarlep, and if you keep yapping about it I might just have to punish you with something horribly nonsexual: Never a mortal. Never a human. I don't dine that low."

"Ah-huh. So, we do the deceased instead," the red servant muttered, "this is no fun."

His master didn't pay him any mind. Its eyes - the eyes of the corpse - seemed to regard him, lifelessly. The light of life had escaped them, only broken glass left behind. It was something he could never get used to. And of course there was the body's disturbing pallor and a few traces of violence - marks and scratches - that were beginning to shine through the concealing spells.

Raphael put a claw to its cheek, held its mouth open with his thumb and began to let it swallow him. As always, he ignored the stench that rose from its maw.
The first time he had tried to imagine what the real thing would be like, and had been put off by the sweet odour of decay. But now he needed it, the smell and the emptiness and, above all, the broken gaze in its eyes. It was as if it reminded him that he was safe from her. Every corpse reaffirmed to him that he would never, ever be a slave to the weaver. It was an absurdity the devil was grateful for.

However, he still had physical needs and one of them was to paint her insides in white with everything he had to give. And to that end, some aid was required.

"Well?" he growled stiffly.

Mark her. Relieve himself.

Now.

"Alright, alright, my goodness," he heard the imp say between the wet and oily sounds of him preparing for Raphael, "aren't we tense today."

He felt Haarlep's hot hands on his spine and was soon bent over the bed. Then the incubus spread his cheeks and a long, clawed finger wormed its way into his lord's ass. A sharp, welcomed pain inside. Raphael loosened his muscle by sheer force of will.

"Carnal pleasures are supposed to be just that: pleasurable," his servant continued with his low rant, finger by finger, "yet we keep torturing ourselves with these flesh dolls."

"Hush now," Raphael murmured pressing into the dead lips, basking in the rough scrape of teeth. Each thrust down that unyielding throat, each waft of rot that rose to meet him, was like a twisted reminder - of all he could have, and all he never would. And that, he supposed, was the final comfort.

As soon as Haarlep replaced his fingers with his cock, Raphael bore down on the corpse with his full weight, hands buried deep in the sheets. The lust demon moved at a leisurely pace, each thrust an inch deeper, accompanied by obscene sighs and little chuckles that could probably thaw even the frostiest devils in the Nine Hells. Haarlep knew well how to soothe even the most disdainful creature, peppering Raphael's shoulder blades with tender kisses. Raphael let himself be driven forward, his thigh pressing into the pliant mouth of a dead woman who honestly looked nothing like Tav. He just took up a handful of long hair and began to take its mouth to task. Still, it looked nothing like her.

The incubus' first few minutes inside him usually took his breath away, filling him as though there was scarcely room left for air. He focused on the weight and the pressure and the stink, his gaze fixed on the corpse's exposed rot hole. His grip found the dead esophagus and squeezed with a force that promised bruises. Not enough. It wasn't enough. The climax built painstakingly slowly, requiring extra commitment from Haarlep, who obediently rutted into Raphael, holding nothing back now, panting, hauling himself forward on Raphael's dock like it was an infernal gym machine (Duke Hutijin loved those, especially the ones that would cut you or get heavier the slower you moved).
It was an exceptionally arduous ordeal and the devil mastered it cum laude. He even successfully ignored the strange handprints at almost exactly the same spot where he had squeezed the throat and that started to shine through.

As soon as he had given everything he had, Raphael pushed himself off and away from the bed, the dead and the demon, and fled to the water basin while his servant ejaculated on her face, cursing quietly. Two servants came in to remove the body through a secret entrance. They worked efficiently, each taking a limb with all the finesse of valet attendants, while two others followed to restore the bed.

Sometimes, he would allow Haarlep to join him in the rejuvenation pool afterward, whispering lewd, sweetly wicked things as he milked Raphael's body to gloss over the damage he'd done to himself moments ago. But that never proved satisfactory. For the lust demon's purpose springs from endless appetite: to simultaneously satiate his hunger and to subvert all hunger not his own. Among the quickly hissed fantasies there were no taboos except one, and that was what had just transpired. The incubus had once dared - only once - and was afterward strung up by his balls.
But more often than not, as on this non-evening, the events left them both unfulfilled and the mood sour. So, Haarlep stepped out onto the balcony, giving him some privacy while looking for a nice little servant to seduce. Raphael sat alone at the edge of the pool and stared into the water. An uneventful day perfectly ruined by true depravity.

When something tickled in the back of his mind - a signal from one of his warlocks. 

Moments later, a she-elf entered, bowing deeply. "The customized loom was delivered, my lord." 

"Is it as grand as I wanted it?"

"It is."

"Every arcane embellishment to my specification?"

"All present."

"And will it inspire any master weaver who touches it?"

"Only the one, my lord, as commanded."

Raphael sighed and then forced out a confident chuckle. Not all was lost, it seemed; Hope, he supposed, still remained in his House - though he'd done his level best to kill it on days like these.

"Lights down," he murmured, almost gently. The boudoir obeyed.

Chapter Text

Her morning look in the mirror had been ... mixed. While checking for any evidence of last night's ruinous passions, her gaze drifted critically over her figure's general state. For whatever reason. The hourglass shape, with the presumably passable breasts (though cousin Selena's are distinctly rounder), the impractically wide hips (and, judging by the occasional catcalling, an undeniably large backside), and her supposedly "chubby merchant legs" - Raphael's remark on them forever etched in her memory. Nothing unusual to see, everything as always.
But her scalp and neck? They bore the telltale, colorful splotches of the devil's handiwork. The drop of healing had done sod all to clear them, and the persistent ache between her thighs made every step in her breeches feel as if she'd ridden bareback up a bloody mountainside. She nearly downed a full minor health potion, the bottle poised at her lips, before stopping short. There were so many reasons to get rid of his marks, and so many reasons against it. In the end she decided to sit this one out and put a scarf on instead. Some scars she could live with, and she didn't fancy a slip-up that might wipe away all the others she wanted to keep.

Then, suddenly, she felt someting curl in her abdomen and crawl up her tube. It only took seconds and she doubled over the basin, stomach convulsing in agony as she retched. She stayed like that, naked and clutching the sides while the caustic liquid burned its way up her throat. When the last convulsion passed, she wiped her mouth with a trembling hand, her ragged breathing hitching as she sank to the floor. All the attraction she'd been so careful to ignore, and all the violence she'd experienced last night, now hit with an intensity that made her stomach twist again. She stopped trying to process it and simply stayed there, eyes half-shut, letting her clammy body rest against the wood.
Thank the god of hangovers, she didn't see the devil this morning.

The Gate has changed. That's only natural - half the city has been rebuilt after the destruction, with architecture reshaped in places that had once been rubble. But there's something else Tav can't ignore: more guards in the streets, a sense of unease settling like a dark cloud over the alleys. Criminal forces are vying to gain a foothold and rise within this ever-restless city. With Archduke Enver Gortash dead, a power vacuum has taken root in Baldur's Gate making it easier for shady enterprises. Thankfully, Grand Duke Ulder Ravengard has led local politics to an unusual stretch of peace over the last three years, and managed to push through with the crucial rebuilding. Strong voices are now calling for his son Wyll to take the Grand Duke's place - and Wyll, with his heroic deeds and popular alliances, seems like an obvious choice. His friendship with the Harpers doesn't hurt, either. But the thought of him not only inheriting his father's image but claiming rulership over a city as untamed as Baldur's Gate is still fraught with uncertainty. And, naturally, his past as a devil's warlock is the constant skeleton in the cupboard that political rivals like to bring out whenever it's convenient.

So when Tav stands on his doormat - in the coronation hall of Wyrm's Rock - the young Ravengard is not only overjoyed to see an old friend. He practically launches into his plans to pull her into his political dealings. At least he greets her with a proper hug first. His smile is so bright it could outshine the sun - even his milky-white eye glimmers with joy.

"Tav!" The warm velvet in his voice cannons her right back down memory lane, to those fireside nights filled with shared laughter. It's almost as if she can hear Jaheira muttering curses as she worked through the knots in Scratch's fur while Barth, well into his cups, would let out a loud belch - the kind he no doubt acquired along with the pilfered schnapps he was drinking. He'd then proceed to tell bawdy campfire tales that left everyone snickering - except for Wyll, who was far too much the gentleman. That was just like him: the Dutiful Warlock with the Puppy Eyes (a mild title for the Ravengard heir, she thinks, considering Barth's stories had crowned her "the World's Bravest Bad Idea.")

Tav swallows his name and the uncontrollable emotion attached to it, and just pats his back fervently. 

"My dearest, reckless, most missed friend!" Wyll laughs, his voice echoing off the austere stone walls, making other people that are present turn their heads, then releases her to get a proper look. "How long has it been? Two years? Three? Ah, far too long!"

She grins up at him, too speechless with happiness to say much, and when all she manages is an awkward laugh, he gently dabs at her cheek.

It's what she used to do: comfort young Wyll when he was in dire need of good advice against Mizora. She would pat him on the shoulder and pep-talk him out of his depression. Now they are walking around the fortress' tower outlook and enjoy the late morning sun, talking, while servants and wards greet them with their noses at their toes. How time flies.

The air up here cuts sharp and cold. Yet it's still warmer than the cavernous halls below, where even the fiercest flames can't reach the marrow-deep chill. Wyrm's Rock feels as inhospitable as ever, a place built for iron and stone rather than for breath and heartbeat. The absence of Gortash's Steel Watch hasn't softened it; if anything, the bulky bastion seems abandoned in spirit, a place biding its time until its true masters are back. 

They stop at a balustrade and gaze out over the urban panorama. Around the city walls, the forest stretches in all the fiery shades of autumn, a blazing sea of red and gold that ripples with each gust of wind. And in the heart of this painting lies Baldur's Gate, nearly returned to its former grandeur. The scars of the great battle are now little more than fading pockmarks - soon to be covered up in the ever-sprawling growth of the "pustule of a city", as Raphael once called it. The faceless masses swarm like ants through the streets below (a soul banquet for the devil?, she wonders). Not far off lies the river Chionthar, a massive steel-grey serpent curling by the harbour. For a fleeting moment, her eyes are drawn to the pier where Kar'niss had died, and she scans it as if to find him there. Tav swallows, then lets her gaze drift back to her old friend who is chatting away while she is mostly listening. 

Examining him. Three years have passed, and he's changed quite a bit, and very much for the better. He looks more refined now, having traded his cornrows for a close-cut hairstyle. He fills out his formal clothes well, shoulders and neck broader now - a bit more ham-fisted than she had remembered him. Yet even now, Wyll carries that familiar look of constant concern for the greater good, a faint furrow creasing his brow. As he surveys the panorama of his city, he appears almost regal, righteous - a true noble who understands the weight of his responsibilities. She smiles.

Of course, he tells her what she already knows from the papers, but with less of the scandalous flair that Baldur's Mouth loves to add. He repeats tales in which she herself had played a part: the arduous task of clearing out the dead elder brain, for instance, or the brief rise of river piracy due to the undying myth of "The lost Crown of Karsus" - never mind that Tav herself had fished it out of the river and he had declared the crown safely stored away. Fortune hunters and opportunists tend to be immune to the truth, it seems. A year ago, no ships so grand as these would have dared to dock here due to the pirates. Now, a small fleet lies anchored in the roads of the Chionthar.

"Tav, this is - if I dare say - perfect timing," he says when she comments on the ships, "And I do not wish to impose on you, but- Please! I hope you are going to stay a little longer. My father is holding a small celebration next week for his eightieth birthday. Half of the middle and southern Sword Coast will be there - as you see, some guests have already arrived. It would be an honour to have Baldur's Gate's own hero attend as well. Quite the spectacle: lords, ladies, and heroes at the Grand Duke's dinner table!"

Huh, a 'small celebration' with half of the Sword Coast's big players present. Funny that she never received an invitation. She is not a big player - but isn't she a close friend?

"You've become a true politician, Wyll. Thinking like one, too," she replies still in good spirits.

He laughs, not missing a beat in his attempt to sweeten the deal. "I heard Jaheira is coming, too. She mentioned bringing a friend. An epic reunion of our fellowship, don't you think?"

She'd been wondering about the old Harper. Passing her house in the Lower City today, she'd seen it had changed - the terrace plants were gone, the windows shuttered, and the place teemed with bustling gnomes. Jaheira and her children, along with all their beautiful, buzzing magic, had vanished without a word. But, to be honest, they hadn't written in a while. Hearing now that she might see her soon - along with, probably, Minsc - makes Tav's heart swell with longing, despite the pang of rejection in her heart. It's difficult to look at him, her eyes grown tired.

"I insist. But I'm not imposing. Just saying - there'll be music, dancing, and plenty of scandalous gossip, for sure." He grins, not exactly modestly. Truth be told, she's never been much for gossip; that role had always been Barth's. And Barth had gone his own way.

She musters a strained smile and lets her gaze drop absently to his shoes - fine leather, the shafts and cuffs meticulously tooled. But then something catches her attention, and she looks closer. He's had his family crest embossed into the leather. Fancy gods. Standing almost toe to toe, her own boots look like the ugly stepsister from a classic fairytale, by comparison.

"I'll try to be there and look the part," she says hesitantly, "Cannot make promises though; m'on kind of a business trip - have deadlines to meet, places to be."

The words taste bitter even as she says them. Her mood is finally darkening at the thought that Wyll hadn't initially invited her. Has she drifted so far from her friends that they've started forgetting her?

Wyll isn't usually one to pick up on emotional cues quickly, but - perhaps thanks to three years of diplomacy training and marriage - he seems to catch hers. "Well, then I'm very glad you took the time to visit me," he says softly. When she responds with only a polite nod, he lifts his arm to touch her shoulder. Tav looks up to find his gaze fixed on her old coat; he's smiling, though there's a touch of sadness in his expression, his eyes crinkling at the edges.

"You must've been busy up north, running your business on your own," he sighs. "It must've been hard after ... that first year. I want to know how you're living, Tav. What you do. Let's not become strangers again, shall we? Since I failed you by assuming you wouldn't want an invitation to the celebration, allow me to make it right. Before next summer's here, I'll come visit you. If you'll have me."

She returns his smile, nodding in agreement.

They continue walking, and chat some more feeling the limited time he has for her today running out. Wyll mentions his baby daughter, and Tav shares that she ran into Mol, who is currently pushing through puberty at full speed, she jokes. She feels torn between relief that they've slipped back into casual conversation and that there is a sharp pang when he speaks of his child. Wyll looks so happy, but somehow she can't share his joy.

'I'm a terrible person', she thinks.

Perhaps it's a blessing, then, that he finally asks about her "business trip" and grows so suspicious of her vague replies that he - somehow just sensing these things - asks if she is in trouble. Tav can't hold back and drops the R-bomb. For a brief moment, she revels in Wyll's stunned expression, the shock on his scarred face as he listens, his rapt attention to her misfortune stroking her neglected ego. Raphael alive? How could that be? Has he harmed her? She sees his sword hand twitch, dead certain the monster hunter in him is suppressing a knee-jerk reaction (probably to rush headlong into battle by her side). It's deeply satisfying to watch. Barth has left her, Jaheira has forgotten her, Kar'niss is dead ... but somehow the warlock’s famous loyalty to his friends feels like a balm, soothing her wounded heart.

If only fishing for empathy didn't come with that judgmental sting. "Tav, this is incredibly dangerous ground," Wyll gasps, "you've bound yourself to a devil. A devil! You, of all people, know what that means, don't you?"

She holds her breath. Had she missed something? Is he about to drop some dreadful revelation on her?

He raises his fists, clenching them with exaggerated urgency. "He'll chew you up, your soul and all, before you even realize you're his plaything!"

She relaxes. Oh, is that all? A flicker of guilt crosses her mind for not caring about anything else he has to say. And now Wyll is in full swing with "I thought I knew you better than this," and "You remember what I suffered under Mizora's contract?" Oh, she does - Wyll had plenty to say about it back then. A twinge of resentment begins to grow; she regrets bringing up Raphael at all.

Finally, he offers his support, urging her to let him help her. Kill Raphael, even. But Tav knows that Wyll's active support is limited. He can neither leave his duties and join her in Baator nor does he have any connections to help her to break the contract. They both understand the nature of such diabolic pacts too well. 

He then offers, though a bit half-heartedly, to kill Raphael. She refuses, shaking her head. It's not what she wants, she explains; Raphael may yet prove redeemable - or at least capable of being persuaded. As she says it it's like she can hear him snicker through the fading pain between her thighs. Making her feel dirty. Truth be told, the thought of losing him again and being the cause of it is too difficult to bear. Despicable though he may be, his death had left an aching hole in her chest - literally and figuratively (she remembers when they had tried to kill each other and he actually wanted to rip out her heart. Sometimes she wonders why the heart - why didn't he just snap her neck?).

No, he needs to be punished in a way that will make him understand her pain. How she'll accomplish that, she isn't sure yet. Tav keeps these thoughts, along with last night's encounter, to herself. However, even this half-confession is enough to lift some of the weight off her shoulders. She's so relieved to have at least touched on the topic that she throws herself forward, arms wrapped around Wyll. He's only startled for a second; kind and giving as ever, he quickly hugs her back and tells her, with a grin, that she might want to find something clean to wear.

They share one last laugh. Tav promises to keep him in the loop about the devil, and Wyll says that he'll think of a suitable job for Mol and her group of wayward brats, as she asks him to. In truth, her main goal is to free Mol from any future contracts with devils; she's less concerned if the girl remains in crime. It's likely Mol is too driven by the thrill of profit to be satisfied with a career in the city guard. Still, it's a start - a small act of defiance in her private war of independence from Raphael.

She's back in the crowd and the bustling air pulls her in almost at once. The main street from Wyrm's Rock down south throbs with bodies, though fewer are richly dressed than she remembers, and it reverberates with the raspy laughter of tavern-goers and the clatter of cheap tin goods peddled by vendors too young. The smell of freshly baked bread mingles with that of urine and too many unwashed armpits. Curious how Avernus' stink of rotten eggs has become bearable in comparison to the odour of mortal "civilization". Tav stops briefly at a stall selling waterproof shoe covers. Her own boots, she realises, won't withstand Helm's Hold's demanding weather for much longer. What she needs is a proper replacement. But these covers are far cheaper, and she lingers, turning one over in her hand.

And then, from the shadow pooling beneath the buildings, Raphael's unmistakable figure emerges. Tav freezes, the cover slipping from her fingers, forgotten as she watches his angular face glide into the light.

"Raphael," she murmurs, though her voice feels like little more than an echo.

For a few precious minutes, she'd actually banished him from her mind. He surveys the shoe covers, then meets her gaze with a polished smile that oozes pity.

"I don't think that will do."

All at once, the noise, the crowd, and the pungent blend of scents assault her senses like a swarm of angry wasps, overwhelming her. What had felt warm and inviting just moments ago now feels threatening in his presence.

"Excuse me?" she says, mostly out of reflex, barely pushing through the sensory onslaught.

"The camouflage, dear." He leans forward, extending a hand, but all she sees his soft, careful smile.

His fingers brush hers, probably because he wants to pick up the fallen cover. "These may let you shine in some squalid dump, but in my company ... I'd have you dressed in far finer things."

His finger strokes her knuckle. Tav recoils from his touch, a tiny, almost imperceptible flinch that feels far larger to her than it could possibly appear. He likely doesn't even notice (she would have to look up again to check). But Tav can't stop staring at his human hand now, still hovering over hers ... a motion that is too gentle, too not-violent. A prickling crawls over her scalp, and a ghostly ache tingles low between her thighs, its memory painfully real. She wrenches her eyes away from his not-claw and turns swiftly, needing to leave. She just needs to keep moving.

'This is actually good. It has to be this way.'

The awful memory grounds her, reminds her: 'If I felt anything else, something would be wrong.' She presses forward, navigating through the crowd.

'His touch brings only pain. Remember that, girl. Violence and disappointment - that's what he is.' Nothing more. 'Shit, this is so awkward.'

As she pushes her way through the stream of bodies, she's almost glad he failed her even in the intimacy department. Anything more would have only made things complicated. Even more complicated. In some strange way, she feels relieved.

Out of nowhere, someone jostles her from behind. She feels a quick tug, and her hand flies to her belt - where her coin pouch should be. Should be, but isn't. She's about to whirl around in fury to spot the thief when Raphael appears at her side, snapping his fingers with a swift flick. Beneath her hand, the pouch reappears, dangling from her belt. Bewildered, she examines the small bag now firmly in her grip, just as full as before, and yes, she can feel the hard press of coins through the leather. A short distance away, someone squeals in panic, shrieking, "Shar's tits, I'm on fire! F-f-f-fire!" before fleeing, their cries fading as they disappear in the teeming crowd.

Tav exhales heavily, her gaze catching the devil's, observing her intently. There's a slight twitch in his dimples, betraying his mischievous deed, yet it's wary now. Raphael lives by quid pro quo - punishing those who deserve it, with relish. Abd judging by his look he is waiting for her gratitude.

She can't bring herself to thank him. Last night still hangs between them like a heavy curtain, and the bustle around them makes any serious conversation impossible. So, she merely nods and moves on. However, it doesn't mean Raphael will leave her in peace.

"How was your visit with the Duke?" his voice slithers up behind her, and Tav curses inwardly. Of course, he's already sniffing around her business.

She keeps her eyes on the road, weighing her words. The last thing she wants right now is to talk about Wyll.

"Productive," she says shortly.

Raphael falls into step beside her. Instantly, the crowd parts as if the air between them turns toxic. Even the gang of burly orcs makes sure to keep its distance from them. Tav shoots him a sidelong glance, wondering what exactly it is that makes people steer clear like that. But it's just Raphael - same galant if unassuming presence as always. She never understood the needy attraction or fear others had for him. Only two people she knows seem similarly immune: Barth and Mol. Ironic enough, they're both criminals, tied by their tiefling heritage. However, she? She's neither of those things.

"I asked him to give Mol an honourable job," she adds just to see how he will react, "so she might lead a more decent life than the one her current employer allows."

"A life like yours, you mean?"

Raphael throws his head back and lets out a short, too forceful laugh. "How droll. Were you truly as noble as you pretend, you'd stop meddling and let the girl find her own way. Not every soul is destined for the quaint, humble life of a shopkeeper."

Her brow furrows, her patience already fraying. "Oh right, I forgot - you're the generous benefactor, just out here nurturing potential."

"I'm many things," he replies mockingly. "And yes, why not turn coal into diamonds when I've got the means? Though in your case, it's like polishing copper and expecting gold. You're not above leaning on your benefactor, after all. Speaking of which, how did yours take the news of our little arrangement? Did he scold you for abandoning virtue?"

He makes an abrupt right turn, steering Tav into a side street. Ah yes, the devil is no friend of chaos.

"Wyll is not my benefactor. And where the Hells are we going?"

"He's in a superior position, offering you his help again, or not? How loud was his sabre-rattling, be honest?"

"We didn't get much time to talk," she sort of lies, trying to keep her tone steady. "He invited me to ... a small gathering next week. I'll go - unless that interferes with your grand schemes."

Raphael doesn't answer, his standard grin sobering into an unreadable wall. Tav catches the constraint in his expression, and it makes her stomach twist. She dreads the idea that she may never get to see Wyll again. 

"Please," she says, the word scraping out before she can stop it.

She chews on the silence that follows, waiting. He gives her nothing more than a faint pull at the corner of his mouth, holding his silence. He could deny her, couldn't he? Even in the final moment, he could simply turn her hopes to dust. Not just because he'd hinted at retaliation last night, but because he has no reason to help her restore her own network. It would only work against him. A sudden unease settles in her: Raphael could try and keep her isolated, and thus cripple her defeneseless. If she finds out what his grand mission is, he won't want her to get the gang back together. She doesn't need to know anything about devils to understand that - it's simple logic.

"I can smell your fear, you know," he murmurs. Tav snaps her gaze away, lips pursed.

"Great," she mutters, "you always manage to make paranoia sound so intimate."

"We're here," he simply says, gesturing towards a shop sign she doesn't recognise.

Tav stares at him, confused. She'd planned to head to a tavern, maybe catch up with old acquaintances from Baldur's Gate - with Alfira, Yenna, maybe even Barcus. But Raphael clearly has other ideas. He holds out one of his infernal coins, heavy and gleaming in the dim light. She takes it, though hesitantly.

"You're going to outfit yourself," he says, casting her a pointed glance from head to toe. "A new wardrobe, suitable for all occasions. Don't be stingy - the shopkeeper and I have an understanding. Simply give him this coin, and he'll show you his higher-quality selection. Request attire with the highest cold and heat resistance. And I expect formal clothing for diplomatic affairs as well. Diplomatic in the infernal sense. He'll know."

She looks up at him, bewildered. "What is this? A travel wardrobe for an all-inclusive tour of the Nine Hells?"

Raphael allows the shadow of a wry smile on his lips. "You're a clever girl. I can hardly wait to introduce you to Baator's many climates."

"Well, call me Old Miss Unadventurous, but I think I'll pass on that."

"We'll be returning to Avernus this evening. Be at the apartment by sunset. The sooner I finish my business," his amusement turns into something more demanding, "the sooner you can return to your little gathering."

Tav stares, her breath catching. Did he just grant her permission to attend the Duke's party? She swallows. Fine, fuck it, she'll follow him to Nessus if that's what it takes.

It's only then that she notices the way his gaze lingers on her. He isn't finished.

"Afterward, go to the apothecary."

"For what?"

Will they need potions? Poisons to coat their weapons? Invisibility elixirs? She isn't keen on going back to Avernus or, matter of fact, any other Hell made of orange brimstone, but the thrill of it lights up her mind; the prospect of some adventure , though absurd, is hard to ignore.

"What do you want me to get?" she repeats because he keeps staring at her.

"Healing," he replies like she's mentally challenged.

"I've enough healing potions to drown a soldier. Is that all?"

Raphael's brow furrows slightly. "Then why do I still sense ..."

Just for a second, his gaze flicks to her hair and narrows. Without finishing the thought, he straightens and looks off into the distance.

"Be punctual," he repeats, and with a snap, he's gone.

Tav stares through the faint, shimmering haze where he'd vanished, then turns her gaze toward the shadowed entrance of the shop. As she steps closer, trying to make out the worn lettering above the door, her foot nudges something soft. She jumps and looks down. A scruffy cat, sluggish and hunched, slinks out of her path, pausing only to arch its bony spine as it heaves on the cobblestones. Apologizing softly, Tav steps aside, trying to avoid the sight - though she catches, just faintly, the flash of an undigested mouse tail on the ground.

Chapter Text

He had lain with her. After everything ...

Their battle.

Their falling out.

The drider's death.

Sweet Asmodeus. It is still unthinkable.

When he hears her pulling out the folding lounger, he realizes with a jolt that he can't stay. Sharing a roof with her after what transpired? Absurd. What would he do - lie in a separate room, stewing in her scent, hearing every faint rustle, pretending he wasn't a raw, fraying bundle of nerves??
His limbs ache with restless energy, his mind churns like a devilish contraption spinning out of control, and his blood - gods below - his blood is a storm. Desire, fury, shame, pride, each vying for dominance. It's chaos. Intoxicating, unbearable madness.

'You're better than this,' he tells himself, though the words feel hollow. What does he need? Sex? Violence? A war? Anything to burn off the relentless fire clawing through his veins.

He snaps himself into the deserted street, inhaling the cold air like a slap. His gaze slides upwards to her window, where firelight flickers softly. He imagines against his will her form curled by the fireplace, her skin still marked by his touch.

"Order," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. But then darker thoughts creep in. 'Discipline crumbles when the beast is provoked.'

A bitter smile tugs at his lips. 'Anyone who kicks a sleeping dog shouldn't expect it to stop at one bite.' That's not how baatezu biology works. Tonight, the woman up there tested him. She saw, for a moment, what it means to entangle with a devil. But she doesn't understand. She couldn't. This hellhound doesn't bite and retreat; it tears, devours and burns, rabid with a need she couldn't possibly fathom, too busy with her own little suppressed desires or whatever has gotten into her tonight.

Forcing his gaze from the window, he clenches his jaw. She's safe up there, ignorant. Down here, he's a mess in search of something - someone - to strike.

Raphael lowers his gaze to the road and, with the bridge behind him, sets off in search of distraction. The air reeks of the season's first frost. This plane is a padded cell wrapped in cotton wool - no challenging weather conditions, no real pain, no physical limits, just garbage and death as far as the eye can see. No wonder human skin is so delicate, no tougher than a rose petal.

His fingertips on her skin and the sheen of sweat colouring it golden in the firelight - the memory still clings to him, vivid as the blood that had pooled beneath his claws. Raphael can see it still, the artistry of his touch, red and blueish marks, his favourite colourway. The thought lingers, tantalizing, as he picks his way over the uneven pavement, dodging a few drunk tavern dwellers. Anything to avoid "accidentally" spilling someone's guts. Yet he's only waiting, just daring, some fool to try and ambush him. It's not unusual in Baldur's Gate, and it would give him a valid excuse to turn this festering cesspit of a town - even an insignificant one like Rivington - into a slaughterhouse.

Not that anyone will get in his way. His Spell of Self-Disguise is intimidating enough to make even the boldest street thugs back down. He's almost tempted to drop it, just to see someone try. Go on, one of you. Just give him a reason. 'Mephisto, where are your DEVIL-DAMNED warlocks?'

Now he's thinking in capital letters. Excellent. His pulse thunders so loudly he can barely understand his own thoughts.

'Go back, find yourself a dragonborn, and fuck your cursed horns off.' He crushes the fabric of his cloak in his hand. 'Anyone will do.' It's a thousand times better than taking a life in a fit of passion. 'Idiot. No mortals, remember? Never again.' With one exception. 'But she doesn't want you.'

As ridiculous as it sounds, she rejected him.

There's a tearing sound, and he glances down to find a piece of the cloak's lining in his hand.

'But she reached her own culmination, didn't she?'

Behind him, the hysterical cackle of some wench slices through the night, followed by the breathless whisper of her companion. The high pitch digs into Raphael's insides and whips them into a hot cocktail of emotions, ready to tear them apart. His jaw clenches, teeth grinding against the ache that lingers in his chest. Saliva floods his mouth, unwelcomed. He swallows hard, forcing down the memory of her moans, and flicks the torn fabric aside.

In a shadowed courtyard, Raphael arrives at the place he had deliberately sought - a location promising some semblance of solace, and hopefully revelation. It lies buried deep within the darkest alleys, concealed as a single unremarkable wooden door. Beyond a dark corridor, lies - finally! - the shop, open at such an ungodly hour. To be precise, open only at such an hour.

Inside, there are few to note his arrival: a drow peers around a corner, his gaze resting on Raphael just a beat too long, and farther back, the tang of cheap cologne betrays a human skulking in the shadows.

'Let's be honest,' the cambion muses irritably as he slips past the worthless debris spilling out of old cabinets: household trinkets, taxidermy grotesques, discarded weapons, and heaps of inconsequential junk boxed away like someone's half-forgotten bad buys. 'There isn't any other out there who would have been gentler than I was.'

The little mouse should count herself lucky. She bedded him - Raphael, an archdevil's scion - not some full-blooded pitfiend who would have split her in two and sent an army to waltz over the leftovers. No, she should be grateful. His perky little weaver.

He can still feel the softness of the skin between her legs. Red could have flowed there; she could have drowned in torment and ruin. Instead, what coursed was her nectar ... Tav distilled into liquid perfection. All for him, every sweet, buttery drop. A flower in full bloom, her stamen trembling in anticipation, eager and TERRIFIED, more so than in ANY fantasy he'd dared conjure, SPIRALING into fuLL ChAoS! ARGH!

He is raging.

As he passes the nosey drow, Raphael subtly flicks his wrist. The man's shadow suddenly rises into a dark figure, getting larger and larger and sprouting monstrous claws. All Raphael hears is how the man stumbles back against a stacked shelf, making it cant, while choking on a scream. 

It's still unthinkable that she had the gall to push him away. To bare her thorns so brazenly. And then- then -

Her mouth, spitting venom. "It's dreadful."

His gnarl vibrates so deep and powerfully in his chest, he is sure it could have shaken the shelves around him. He should have shown her dreadful. Shove her own filth into her mouth as he claimed her in his true form.

Dreadful.

Raphael halts in front of a bookshelf and scans the offerings under the isabelline glow of the lighting. He pulls his cloak tighter around himself and buries his face in the high collar. The filth of this establishment clings to him like a sin that not even he's ready to commit; it makes him yearn for a metal brush to scrape his devil hide clean. It is hard to believe that in just a few hours, he will have to descend even deeper into this city's rotting bowels. More moldering wood, damp stone, and - yes, unfortunately - sewer rats. Baldur's Gate is worse than the jungles of the Feywild, where organic life festers rather than thrives. Somehow, everything here is in the state of perpetual decay.

Tav's boot against his chest. He felt so alive. Oh, she had been anything but dreadful. A little stiff at first, of course. 

Tav on his tongue. He hadn't even bothered to cleanse himself after. Once upon a time, he'd never have allowed anybody to touch him without his permission - much less choke him. He would have crushed such defiance without hesitation and punished it a thousandfold.

And yet, in the end, she had ridden his face like a queen astride her throne, and he, spineless, wretched fool that he was, had done nothing but grovel at her whim.

All the mixed signals his little mouse had sent that night - the flirting, the hesitation, the rage and inexplicable mirht - had fizzled out the moment she laid hands on him. 

He had sex with Tav.

'We had -'

By the Nine, he has to do something. Anything. Retreat to Avernus, perhaps. Seal himself in his study until this maelstrom in his head quiets. Most of all, he needs a damned chair.

A shiver wracks his frame, and he grips a book spine with pinched fingers, pulling the volume free. Oh, how he'd love to snap himself directly to his archive this instant. But given his recent restraint with soul coins - a matter of self-discipline he's loath to compromise - plus the fact that he is looking for something specific, this delightful midnight kiosk will have to suffice.

The human patron, loitering one aisle over, soon finds what he was looking for. From his tense posture and the way he clutches his prize, it's clear it's nothing he'd want advertised. Raphael considers following him, shredding his claws on the man's quivering flesh, if only to take the edge off. Not his style, of course. He rarely kills for pleasure, and never on impulse. Instead, he turns away, fixing his gaze on the wall of books before him, willing it to distract him from his gnawing restlessness.

The haul is rather poor, but a good enough start to the new research project that has brought him here ... Well, it'll do. Raphael carries it to the counter with the dignity of a high priest delivering an offering. The proprietor, a rotund albino with thinning hair plastered to his forehead like a yellowed drape, beams at him, flashing a greasy grin. Remarkable, considering he is smiling at Raphael's guise as a three-something-foot-tall half-troll.

Raphael conjures a handful of copper coins. A price far too steep for the so-called "literature" he's found.

"Well, tally-ho, with a zip and a zap and a zing-zing-zing," the shopkeeper lisps, his moist, mortally acne-ringed lips peeling back into something he immediately imagines burning off with a branding iron. 

"Oh, a formidable educational piece you got there." The man takes the read and flips through, pulling the spittle back through his teeth.

Raphael's cold gaze darts to the cluttered wall of graven images behind him, just to avoid looking at his face. When he sees the figurine of a devil he realises that there's still plenty of work to do. First and foremost, he has to make sure that their little robbery doesn't fall back on him.

Instead of simply scooping up the coins, the chandler launches into some gobbledygook about the item being a "first-edition, self-published in 1446", a "rare gem in mint condition". Raphael's patience frays further as the man drones on, his tone both overly soft and deeply irritating; it is somehow a sickly sweet voice lurking under a hushed breath, reminding him of Haarlep being low-key pushy when the incubus fancied he'd caught a whiff of arousal.

"You know, we're running a special today! Buy two for one! Might I interest you in a slightly cursed ladle? It stirs soup and existential dread!" The man wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, holding up a hulking brass spoon.

"Just ring it up," Raphael growls, his last shred of restraint thinning out.

"Three copper, please - ah perfect! The extra coin would be just enough to add -"

"Spare me." 

He doesn't. "Aw, but we just have some fresh merchandise perfectly suited for your refined interests: 'The Map of Excitation: Interactive Zo'-"

"Quiet."

The lights go out. Finally, the sudden darkness in the shop is enough to shut him up. All the chandler can see now is Raphael - and Raphael makes sure to look every bit the menace he is, bathed in a wrathful glow. "Do you know what I hate most about this city?"

The idiot falters. "Er ... n-no?"

He bears his teeth. "The stench. Every corner reeks of desperation, deceit ... and creatures like you."

He snaps his fingers, and the entire wall of cheap wares behind the fool bursts into flames. It only lasts for seconds but it burns so hot that nothing's left except for ashes that scatter on the man's head.

He lets out a strangled gasp. "W-wait! That's -"

Before he can finish, Raphael slams his palms on the counter, his glamour fully dropping now. The shopkeeper stumbles back, his knees knocking together as he takes in the devil's towering figure. Red wings unfurl slightly, their shadow swallowing the space.

"Careful," Raphael growls and each syllable is like a stab with a dread dagger, "Your next breath may determine whether you leave this shop intact."

The shopkeeper babbles incoherently, his eyes grow wider as they wander up to the four horns. 'Yes, tremble before me.'

"I-I meant no offense! It's just business! Please- take whatever you want!"

Raphael lets the silence stretch, savouring the man's terror. Then he straightens, his glamour snapping back into place with a crackle of magic. "Three copper for rubbish," he muses, snatching the read from the man's trembling hand. "I'll consider it a charity."

He leaves swiftly.

Raphael steps onto the street with a groan, the cool night air sweeping away the oppressive filth of that ordeal. An ordeal, yes - but one he has endured with purpose. He feels for the piece of paper in his hand, a strange balm to his earlier fury. Necessary, he assures himself. Strategic, even.

Straightening his cape, he exhales sharply. The night has soothed him, his rage reduced to a simmer. Progress, if nothing else.

He does not bother returning to the brothel. Instead, he summons Mol and tasks her with observing the City Watch for a few days to see if any reports of theft have surfaced. It is unlikely that Biktul would file such a report or even be capable of identifying the culprits. But Zariel's lackeys have a way of unearthing even the best-concealed traces; and if she ever finds out that Raphael is on the loose and hunted by Mephistopheles' warlocks, she might connect the dots. Especially as Mephisto will soon realise that Raphael is back to consuming souls - a contractual link that he would love to sever if he could. And then he would have two archdevils to contend with. Oh no, in his current vulnerable state, Raphael has no intention of stepping onto the grand stage just yet. Fortunately, the tide is about to shift - and in a big way. 

Mol, oblivious to Raphael's illusionary disguise (though to other passersby she must resemble a fidgeting mosquito beside a growling, man-eating flesh mound) gives a dismissive wave. She yawns as she ambles off to begin her work. He lets it pass. The little outburst and the afterwards plotting have both calmed him. He sees clearer now. By the time the clock strikes once, he is back to his old self: the prime schemer, resplendent in self-appointed control. His focus sharp. His emotions withdraw into his depths, where they belong. No petty passions will betray his command. A master of pacts must also master his appetites.

On his way to the sewers near the cemetery, he considers the night's events. Not all had gone as planned - he can admit that. But even failure offers lessons worth extracting. He turns those lessons over in his mind, embedding them in his thoughts for future use. How extraordinary that, after over a millennium, a mortal could still unbalance him. Once, it had happened quite literally - he remembers slipping infront of Tav during the battle for Orpheus' hammer, her friends' magic powers clearly underestimated by ihm.

And now it has happened again, though this time it is purely mental. He had nearly forgotten what it felt like: the awkwardness, the heat, the abandon of passion for passion's sake. Yet he had stumbled into it like a virginal boy, the memory of it still burning bright and raw.

Never mind. The clock strikes one, and he can think of her without his pulse racing - another small victory. No memory sets his blood boiling anymore. It doesn't stir him as he pictures her the way she swayed above him, her dark locks curled around her covered breasts in a lovely little dance. How she moved with an urgency that spoke so plainly that she had been lonely for quite some time. Pathetic, really. She'll remember their night together for the rest of her insignificant life, he is sure. And even though his climax had been little more than foreplay - like uncorking a bottle of champagne and catching only the foam, it could be the beginning of something splendiferous. He had done right by showing her lenience, by letting her withdraw from him. Indeed.

Ah, his own instinctive wisdom sometimes surprises even him.

'Anywho, let's be honest (again)', he argues, as he magically removes a grate in the wall, 'Tav is but a mayfly, thrashing on its back. She's hardly worth the tempest she has stirred.'

True, her defiance intrigues him; she seems to possess infernal qualities that make him want to "shake her bottle" until she spills her other secrets (preferably also in the erotic department). But it's for fun only. Mere entertainment on his way into the depths of Baator.

Raphael smiles. 'Let her think she's tasted enough of my darkness. Let her believe she makes the rules in this game.'

Here, beneath the city, the true games of power and deception await - beyond her comprehension.

"She shall play queen for now," he murmurs, his voice a low echo in the tunnel's chill. "This king rules elsewhere."

Chapter Text

Shadows whisper across damp stone, the constant trickling of water just another indication of how dank the place is. The closer one moves to the canal, the more sour the stench becomes, fetid with the reek of sewer fumes. Raphael counters with a heady heart note of rich, velvety cherries, his Eau de Parfum Intense struggling against the olfactory filth around him - and losing the battle. Even the lingering taste of Tav on his tongue is drowned beneath the overpowering miasma of Baldur's Gate. The game of balance - just enough fragrance to mask the sewer without smothering - is not so different from the dance he now engages in.

Negotiation. Power. Leverage.

His tail curls intently as he leans forward, a single finger resting beneath his nose - a gesture of thoughtfulness which also, conveniently, shields him from inhaling too deeply. Before him, flickers the projection of an amorphous knot. It is as big as a child's skull and gleams like a jewel under phantom light that seems to originate from nowhere.

"Pure Netherese," he murmurs, his voice laced with quiet admiration for the artefact that bathes the glum chamber in its spectral glow. "With dark power so great, it threatens the Weave itself. I understand your need for secrecy - after all, we wouldn't want to repeat Karsus' little disaster, now would we?"

With a flick of the wrist, the tallest of the hooded Shadovar dispels the illusion, and Raphael straightens. He regards his curious business partners in spe and smiles: three Sharran shadow sorcerers - wrapped in dark, flowing robes, gimlet eyes gleaming like cold shards of glass. Their personas are as humourless as their goddess - neither of them laughs at his joke. Also, they are not very chatty. Suits him well, though, he thinks, for in this stench one best not draw to much breath on communication.

Despite their joyless posturing, he can feel it, though: the quiet slide of inevitability settling into place. The deal will go through.

"You will choose the test fields. Delivery schedules and security fall to us," the tall one says.

Now, the details.

"Ah, yes ... the schedules." He does not lift his voice, does not push the moment too quickly forward. "Now, there's where I must draw a delicate line in the damp sand, as it were."

Silence.

One of them shifts, the faintest movement, and Raphael marks him as the weak link. The other two remain statues. Why they insisted on meeting in the canalisation remains a mystery Raphael has no desire to solve but to get over with quickly.

He clears his throat with practiced nonchalance.

"First, let me commend your efficiency," he continues, placing a hand over his chest, the picture of gratitude. "There is nothing I appreciate more than business partners who deliver straight to the door. The portal to the warehouse will be ready for your use by tomorrow - Faerûn standard time."

Of course, the warehouse - Hope's empty dungeons - does not belong to him. But that is neither here nor there.

"As for the matter of when these little treasures reach my hands, well ..."

He trails off, cocking his head in an artful display of regret. Then, an exhale. Slow, as though lamenting a matter far beyond his control.

After a brief pause, understanding seems to dawn.

"You would dictate when?” The shortest one's voice is sharp, challenging. "Time is required for careful extraction. You cannot dictate the pace."

Raphael smiles, but there is no kindness in it.

"Dictate? Dear, sweet Lady Shar, I would never dictate genius."

He takes a deliberate step forward, tail swaying slowly.

"But once deliveries begin," he continues, "there will be no delays. Time is precious for those of us who don't hide in the shadows but play on the larger stage."

The three exchange long, unimpressed glances - an exchange obvious even through their veils, as their turquoise, pupil-less eyes gleam unmistakably in the dim light. It is as if they are communicating telepathically, which, considering their ilk, is far from unlikely. These secretive Shadovars have devoted themselves to magical perfection. Likely, nothing about them remains natural; their forms are optimized, distorted, a culmination of endless breeding and experimentation.

And now they are considering his conditions.

Good.

Raphael takes another step closer, and the Weave thickens around him. He can feel it: the wizards carry enchanted objects - chains, perhaps rings of mind-reading (a futile attempt against him). And, ah yes, if it is not the smell of the "Hold Monster" incantation woven into their cloth! It is weak, but informative nonetheless. As the saying goes: "He who arms himself heavily fears much."

The tallest speaks again, repeating himself, as if redundancy makes his point stronger. "You would deny us time to refine the artifacts?"

Raphael does not sigh. That would be uncivilized.

Instead, he bows. "You have time. You have resources. You have my patience. But I have interests to protect. Waiting for your artistic whims to align is not an option, I'm afraid."

Shorty steps forward. "You ask for a dangerous pace, devil. This magic -"

"- is volatile, unstable, notoriously difficult to control?" Raphael lifts a brow, his tone all effortless amusement.  "I know."

A beat. A shift. He adjusts.

"Let me phrase this plainly." The humour fades. Not entirely, but enough. Enough to make the next words carry weight.

"Even if the artifacts arrive wrapped in filth, they will be stored safely. And as for testing these unrefined beauties, I ask only that you consider this -"

He lets a touch of awe creep into his voice, coaxing it to simmer with anticipation. "Test them as they are. A unique opportunity to see their limits. To push beyond caution. You are interested in breakthroughs, are you not? Go further and prove Netheril's force under the strongest duress. And should the initial test results fail to meet your exacting standards - which I doubt," he adds smoothly, his grin now almost conspiratorial, "I am more than willing to make adjustments to your satisfaction."

It lands.

He feels it land.

And then -

"BOOM, yes!" A shrill, layered voice shatters Raphael's hypnotic cadence, pulling his attention sharply to the far right corner of the room. "Magic likes MORE magic! Good boom!"

The third Shadovar, who until now has been quietly swaying in place, wrings his robes nervously and nods with frenetic enthusiasm. He lets out a choked laugh, his voice curiously childlike. 

Raphael does not react. Not externally.

Internally, however, he is reconsidering who of these three he actually needs alive by the end of this.

Amused, he turns his gaze to the other two sorcerers, who immediately draw back, their faces lowering in apparent shame.

Ah.

"Boom, indeed," Raphael agrees, his tone as smooth as velvet. "Though one does wonder what that ‘boom’ might accomplish if left entirely in hands so ... hesitant."

A pause. Just long enough.

"If you don't take my offer, others will."

Shorty's eyes gleam. "You seek power."

Raphael smiles mildly, as though his accusation were little more than a child's pouty remark. "Power? No, not quite."

Silence. Measured.

"Impact."

He watches them absorb the word. Feels it settle. And then, he delivers the final push.

"You stand on the cusp of an extraordinary breakthrough - one that could cement your names in arcanist history. I could expedite that breakthrough significantly. Or ..." His gaze drifts slowly between the two Shadovars, "I don't. And others - more famous than you - snatch the laurels from your hands. You know of whom I speak. If they succeed, not only all the awards and major industries will come knocking on their door, but also the glory of probably having restored Netheril's power. Because you hesitated." 

With a snap of his fingers, fire and smoke burst into the air, coalescing into a familiar sheet of parchment. It hovers like a ghost between them.

"All I ask is swift delivery and no delays - a fair price. And my final word. Decide now."

At last, the simmering tension in the room stills. The three exchange glances once more, their veil-obscured faces tilting in silent communication. Yet Raphael feels the shift - his indirect mentioning of the infamous Court of the Three threatening these three clowns' magic breakthrough (which was a wild guess on Raphael's part as he has no idea what the Court of the Three is up to at the moment. Probably still rebuilding the floating cities). He tastes the heady tang of ambition, thick in the air.

'Ah, sweet carrot of scientific renown,' he muses to himself, 'how many a spellcasting mule you've sent galloping.'

"Very well," the tallest Shadovar finally rasps, reaching for the hovering quill.

Goodness, how easy life can be.

"You will receive the first shipment within a Toril fortnight. After that, we will deliver at regular intervals ..."

The devil readies himself to interject when the shorter one cuts in, unmoved. "... in one form or another."

For a fraction of a second, Raphael's grin freezes. "Curious phrasing," he muses, his tone a sheathed blade behind gritted teeth.

There is more to the statement than they let on. That's fine. He won't press. He’ll uncover soon enough what hides behind it. And if he doesn't like what he learns, there will be consequences. Plenty of contractual loopholes to be exploited. For the moment, he has more immediate imperfections to scour away.

"That being said, two Toril weeks is far too late."

This time, both of his counterparts shake their heads in unison. "We cannot ship sooner. Logistically, it's impossible. However, if you cannot wait, there is word of one intact sample that was stolen and to our knowledge remains hidden somewhere in the Hells to this day. We suggest you extract this one to bridge the time." 

"Fascinating. And who might this thief of ancient artefacts have been?"

"A fiend called Rrucht'Argazz."

He has never heard of Rrucht'Argazz, but never mind, he will find out soon. Baatezu bureaucracy is unrivalled across the planes of existence. No devil, whether alive, dead, or exiled to the Abyss, escapes its records. Raphael dispels the signed contract, then bows swiftly.

Eventually, the three melt back into the shadows without words of parting. Raphael typically prefers to depart first, leaving his clients scrambling in the wake of his dramatic exit, a "ta-ta" on his lips and a flick of his fingers. But theatrics must wait. He knows neither Zariel nor Mephistopheles should be capable of detecting his minor use of magic, particularly since the magic originates from within himself. And yet, the consumption of soul coins makes him cautious.

'A shame,' he thinks, 'the feast is right under my nose, and yet I cannot dig in.' At least, not on the Prime Material Plane. The moment he's back in Avernus, he swears he'll gorge himself on souls until he is sated.

Raphael exhales slowly, his thumb playing idly with the pages of the magazine in his pocket. What a fruitful night it has been ... And what a bounty of surprises. His mind drifts to the human waiting in his loft.

"Swift and steady it is, then," he murmurs to himself, retracing the same damp path he had taken earlier.

In the future, he resolves not to leave so much of his success to luck. His plans, he understands now, need more precise execution.

'Raphael,' he tells himself, 'you must reacquaint yourself with who you are. Exorcise the feral fox and recultivate the thinking fiend.'

It's time to get back in shape.

Chapter Text

She stands in the Chamber of Egress, and - crazy as it sounds - something seems to cry out, imploring her not to step through the travel mirrors. Mephistar, Waterdeep, Neverwinter and ... where do the others lead again? Tav stands where the sadist Nubaldin once mopped intruders' blood from the floor and stares at the towering portals. Shadowy shapes ripple within: a moon here, chimneys there, and from one, icy mist spills into the room. The mirror on the far right shimmers with a violet glow, damp air carrying the scent of stone. Her gaze catches the plaque: Menzoberranzan – Jewel of the Underdark.

Kar'niss' homeland.

"Oh, are you still here? Or are you but a dream?"

Hope's ghostly voice twists through the chamber, pulling Tav out of her daze and sending a chill down her spine. Being in a room with Hope is a challenge at the best of times. On days like this, when her despair spills into every corner, it can feel beyond all bearing.

"All those portals criss-cross the planes, but they won't open to you."

Is that why everything inside her is rebelling against the idea of leaving Avernus and staying there at the same time? Tav turns to the dwarf, who looks as though she's been pacing barefoot across hot coals.

"Why not?", she demands, "This is your house. You could let me leave."

"She's just a single tear, the little wretch. His once crowning glory, now a desperate moan for Hope."

Full of mad riddles, that's what the dwarf is. Tav presses her fingers to her temple, pulling in a long, steady breath. She's made this mess herself, hasn't she? And for reasons she can't untangle, Hope refuses to help her - standing, unaccountably, on Raphael's side.

"Hope, I'm not much of a friend to anyone these days," Tav murmurs under her hand. "But please, I could use a friend myself."

"Why, you unfriended yourself?" Hope squawks, her voice jagged and incredulous. "Did you get distracted? Me too! BY THE TEETH IN MY ARTERIES!"

The housekeeper shakes her head, as though trying to force her chaotic thoughts into line. "I know, I know, I know! You want to go home - and I am home - that's so unfair! But Raphael will fetch you back the second you step through a mirror unbidden. So they stay shut, nothing in, nothing out. Everyone stays safe!"

"Hope!" Tav drops to her knees, clasping her bare hands in a gesture that feels as pitiful as it looks. She whispers her name again, her voice small, her eyes pleading. "From one prisoner to another - help me. There must be a loophole in my contract, some way to escape his hold. Maybe I could build my own portal without him noticing, and ..."

She might be imagining it, but the dwarf pauses for an unnervingly long moment. Her gaze flits between the mirrors, and something about the way her eyes shift betrays her thoughts.

"You're from Helm's Hold, aren't you?" Hope asks at last.

Tav nods vigorously. Good gods above, she already sounds as unhinged as the cleric had during her own rescue. How far she's fallen. But - is that a spark of something in those tired eyes? Could it be (she cringes about the pun) hope?

The dwarf wrings her hands, her fingers twitching in anxious little circles. She seems to realise how desperately Tav clings to her every word, as if her life hangs in the balance.

"I can't make any promises," she says, her voice high and hesitant, before sighing deeply, as though barely holding herself together. "But, ah ... let hope take root, and maybe something good will grow."

Tav collapses forward, wrapping her arms around Hope's legs, her words of gratitude muffled against the fabric of the dwarf's skirt. She feels a startled flinch but no resistance. Instead, there's the soft pat of a hand on her head.

"There are flames, monsters, and agony," Hope murmurs, her voice gentle and distant. "But this can be a lovely little house. Come, friend. My mage hand's tired, and there's still so much cleaning to do. Dry your tears and help me, will you?"

They're all mad here. That's what the cleric had once told her - and she had not meant only herself, but also all the debtors Raphael had driven insane with cruel precision. Now, only one debtor remains in this cursed place: Tav. And her only ally is an even madder former prisoner. Sniffling, she rises to her feet and lets the little woman take her hand. Her eyes linger briefly on the mirrors before drifting to Hope's ever-unkempt braid as they leave the Chamber of Egress for the archive.

None of it makes sense. Why does Hope abide him? What could he possibly have offered her to make her tolerate him, her worst tormentor? Is she trapped in some kind of post-traumatic haze, unable to see what's been done to her? Could it be that Hope has feelings for Raphael?

Tav's chest tightens, her breath hitching in disbelief.

'That's not possible,' she thinks and her mind's swaying. She wrenches her gaze away, as though she's just stumbled onto a grotesque secret.

'Unthinkable,' she argues, the words rising in panicked denial. NO ONE would EVER -

'Erase it. Erase that thought immediately.'

The longer she stays in this place, the more trapdoors seem to spring open around the subject of Raphael.

"Ouch, wee mouse," Hope's squeak interrupts her spiral. Tav glances down, startled, to find the dwarf staring up at her with watery eyes.

'Wee mouse.' Now she's even talking like him.

Tav blinks, confused, until she notices Hope's small, reddened hand twitching in her grip. Her stomach drops. The fingers look like a crushed octopus.

With a sharp curse, Tav releases her mangled captive, attempting a sheepish smile.

"No worries," her friend whispers and shakes her wrist, "I've had it much much worse."

One day she will ask her, Tav swears. When she has the strength to do so.

Chapter Text

"You're covered in freckles. I want to count them all."
And then Kar'niss began kissing each one.

Tav finds herself caught in a state she vowed never to revisit: back to being a rock in a sling, perpetually spinning and never to be released.

"Are you writing me poetry, drider?"
"I'll write you ballads, my mistress, if you'll let me. And I'll start with the sweetest one of your freckles."
His finger wandered down, trailing below her waist again, past her softest part straight to where she has not let him go before. His grin, infuriating.

Her heart is sick.

She had been so proud for having rediscovered her focus. Days filled with crafting carpet designs, acquiring clients, and being a valuable member of commerce. At night, her ritual was almost sacred: polish the urns, wish Kar'niss and the little one goodnight, extinguish the light (and then stare at the ceiling). By morning, she poured herself into her shop again, throwing her whole soul into every inch of the work. Evening fell, the urns gleamed anew, and darkness descended.

But now? Now, she is adrift, a captive of her own boredom. And that's ... dangerous.

The measure of time here is elusive. In Hell's unbroken twilight, even her internal clock has surrendered. Tav waits for sleep out of habit, chews food out of obligation, and sketches out of muscle memory. The tapestries she begins remain unfinished. At what might be evening, she speaks aloud to Kar'niss as though he might answer. Books rescued from Hope's pile of discards provide momentary distraction, but it isn't long before even they blur together into a monotony of words.

By the third repetition of this faltering routine, a new ritual emerges: weeping in the bath tub, her sobs muffled by the water.

She knew the sadness wasn't truly gone. She had always feared its resurgence. And now, without distraction, it consumes her unfiltered. Tav is back in the valley of shadows. Damn this place and damn her.

'I'm too sober to deal with it. And way too lonely.'

She craves company - preferably male with preferably strong arms to pull her under and hold her there until her heart ache subdues. Or failing that, a bottle of wine. A dark, fathomless vintage. Could Hope conjure a wine bottle with arms, by any chance?

The thought earns a damp snort, even as tears sting her eyes. Submerging herself fully, she watches as her breath escapes in bubbles, floating irreverently to the surface. With a groan, she hauls herself out of the tub, limbs dragging like lead. She snatches the first bit of fabric from her backpack. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she pauses. And scowls. Why, of all things, had she packed this? A charcoal-grey men's button-down she had swiped from Wyll's traveler's chest years ago, back when Kar'niss had shown up at the gang's keep, starkers and in his drow form. She had dressed him in this very shirt, given him trousers, belt and boots, too. She had not known the devil would allow him only that single night in a borrowed shape. They had used those hours well, Tav and Kar'niss, but morning's reversal had come ... as a shock.

A week later, she buried him. Seven months later, the child. Tragedy distilled.

With trembling hands, she wrings her damp hair over the tub, letting it twist into an inky black coil that drapes over her shoulder. It'll soak through the shirt, but here in Avernus, there's no chill. The one upside to Hell.

With Kar'niss' old shirt on, she pads to the bed, grabs the crumpled newspaper from the nightstand, and collapses onto the mattress. Sleep is the next task. If the pages can pull her under, she'll gladly drift. She grinds her butt into the dry sheet, welcoming the cool kiss of moisture seeping into it, making it wet.

The newspaper is familiar now; she knows most of it by heart. She has rationed it like a miser, afraid to finish it, as though reaching the last page might seal her fate. Cement her here, permanently. Never going home again. Her rational mind rolls its eyes and calls her ridiculous, but there is always that one part - the dark, brooding part - that's absolutely convinced she is destined to shrivel into a sulphur-scented wraith, unable to function anywhere else. That part perches at the edge of some vast, brackish lake of shadows, endlessly fishing for the gloomiest, most absurd monsters that swim there.

She had been a joyful woman once. Ah, those were the days.

She licks her finger and flips the page. She longs to savour every word, even the fluff pieces: a cat plucked from a tree, a harvest festival in some far-off town. Each story feels like a thread she might follow back to the world she knew. This could very well be the last newsprint she ever holds. Do the Hells even have journalists? Is there some grim little corner of Avernus where infernals dutifully report on their miserable goings-on? Or is this place just barren, devoid of everything, even the tiniest spark of political and societal curiosity?

How utterly, profoundly depressing.

Tav's eyes snag on page 15, a reminder of the Grand Duke's birthday, and the very last article she's kept for later - the major event of the year. She rolls onto her back, frowning. Now here's something that's news to her: there is going to be a proper street festival in honour of Ulder Ravengard. The city is expecting over a hundred guests plus entourage, 45 musical acts and performers from 15 provinces; there's going to be food and drinks for three days, provisions for the crowds outside the gates of the High Hall. While inside political ceremonies, tournaments, and fireworks at midnight would await.

The weight of the invitation begins to sink in.

"Bugger me," she mutters, absently squeezing her wet braid between her shoulder and jaw.

Good thing she went shopping. The new infernal attire should be posh enough for the occasion, even if she had not planned on waltzing in decked out in Raphael's colours. Red? Not her shade. But it's just fabric, after all, and the whole thing is really an excuse to see Wyll, Jaheira and possibly Minsc again. They would be joking about it by the end of the night.

'Right, as long as I don't have to make a speech or shake hands with some snooty ruff,' she thinks. 'Swear to gods, Wyll, if you've set me up for that, I'll strangle you with your own sash.'

But a sour thought follows close on its heels. What if Raphael doesn't let her go at all? If that happens, there will be no forgiveness.

The devil hasn't shown his face in what feels like days. Could he have forgotten? Her eyes wander the room aimlessly, lazily taking in her twitching, crossed feet and the familiar stillness of the chamber. How long has it been since her return? A week? Three? Passing time in Avernus feels like chewing tar - sticky, endless, and disgusting. Specially since she's got no interest in staying.

'What in the Nine Hells is he even doing?'

"Raphael, come on," Tav sighs, flinging the open newspaper over her face with a theatrical groan.

A sharp tug rips through her suddenly, like being hooked and yanked by some cosmic angler. Her stomach lurches, her skin prickles with energy, and she barely has time to blurt, "Oh, shit," before the room vanishes entirely.

And just like that, Tav finds herself, slightly disoriented, standing in Raphael's office. She blinks against the light streaming in through the open balcony door, accompanied by a stream of hot, brimstoney air. Outside there is a new horizon, a new terrible mountain range. The House of Hope must have relocated.

"Speak of the devil," she says stunned, scanning the room until she spots his face. Raphael, every inch the Prince of Darkness in his sweeping blood-red robe, rises from a velvet armchair so grand it seems designed to crush the spirit of anyone sitting across from him. She just stares on as the devil in disguise takes one slow, deliberate step towards her, half-smiling as usual, but stops just as quickly. With a subtle shift, he positions himself in front of his massive desk and gestures for her to approach instead.

He's such a theatre kid.

Tav snorts softly, shuffling forward, shoulders slumped, her bare feet padding against the polished floor. But as she gets closer, his empty smile falters. She can see the change clearly: First, his gaze drops - to her legs, naturally - and then his smirk follows, vanishing entirely. Something new brews in his expression, and it doesn't take much to realise that it's probably her who is causing it.

'Transparent much?,' Grimacing, she yanks the hem of her oversized shirt lower, as if that will magically restore her modesty.

"You know," she says, keeping her eyes pointedly off him, "a bit of warning would've been nice. I could've thrown on a hat or something."

"I hope I didn't interrupt anything pressing."

"I was just about to go to bed."

Of course, she won't admit she's relieved that he's pulled her out of that soul-sucking routine.

"You sleep in your daywear?" he asks, an eyebrow arching. When she only shrugs, he frowns in mild disapproval. "You didn't bother buying a nightgown in Baldur's Gate, did you?"

Oh, she had - if that flimsy red bit of nonsense the shopkeeper insisted on counts. The vendor had practically shoved it into her face, claiming it was "perfect for the Red Prince's concubine". As if she'd ever wear something so skanky. Or become his concubine, for that matter. She rolls her eyes and looks away.

That's when his attention flicks to the paper she is holding. In two smooth steps, he is in front of her, plucking it from her grasp.

"Hey -"

"What is this?"

Already retreating, he sinks back into his chair, leaving Tav standing there with her arms crossed. The scent of cherries and heavy florals drifts from behind him, a gentle contrast to the acrid stench of Avernus. She catches herself breathing it in, grateful for the brief reprieve.

Raphael takes a look at the curious paper with one ankle crossed over his other knee. His foot jiggles.

"It's the latest issue of Lords & Laws," she only grounds out when he actually sends her a questioning look.

"An aspiring paper from Baldur's Gate. Much better than Baldur's Mouth, actually. At least they bother with facts when it comes to local politics." She eyes him warily. "Speaking of local politics ... what have you been up to?"

"Or, alternatively, it's the greatest work of fiction since vows of fidelity were included in a succubus' marriage service."

Of course, he ignores her actual question. Tav's gaze drifts to the room instead. It's clear Raphael has taken some time to clean up; no stray papers clutter the floor, no sign of the earlier chaos. But that cannot be everything he has been doing. He has been so conspicuously absent these past days it has felt like he wasn't even home.

Now he has called her here, and her toes itch to tap against the floor. He could at least do her the favour of filling her in on actual news.

"Well, you can't deny that such fine newspaper is good for educating the people," she says patiently.

"Certainly not," he replies half-bored, "I just think that more could be achieved by giving them actual toilet paper."

Tav feels the grin threatening to break free and swiftly turns, pretending to study the state of his once-pristine library. She won't give him the satisfaction of seeing it. Still, what can she say? She has missed Raphael's cutting wit - especially when it's aimed at someone else.

"Well, colour me surprised," she huffs, wasting no time as her hand sweeps across the empty surface of a shelf. "I thought you'd be putting all your writings and notes back by now. But no, the shelves are bare. Too much work? Or was the concept of a ladder just too advanced for you?"

The devil doesn't respond immediately, but with an idle flick of his wrist, he tosses the folded newspaper into the bin as if it's nothing. Tav feels the sting - her precious connection to civilization, discarded like rubbish. She is already planning to fish it out the moment his back is turned. He leans back in his chair, watching her slow circuit around the room with nothing more than a noncommittal hum.

"Or," she adds, raising her voice as her gaze drifts to the empty walls, "did Hope burn your life's work after all? She was talking about it, you know. Massive bonfire, dancing around it stark naked, finishing it off with a good long piss to really exorcise the devil."

"You made that up," he replies flatly.

Tav chuckles coolly, then turns back to face him, taking a few steps closer. She watches him, waiting for a proper response, some spark. But Raphael just clasps his hands, mirroring her gaze with one of his own. Purse-lipped, moody, and entirely uncooperative.

"Fine," she says, throwing her hands up. "Keep your secrets, fiend. What do you want from me?"

Without a warning, a swarm of tiny lights appears in the air before her, delicate and strange. Tav barely has time to lean in before the cluster bursts into a fiery scroll, the sudden heat making her yelp and jump back.

"Sh-!" she exclaims, stepping away.

A glance at Raphael shows no smugness, no gloating. He just regards her with his usual neutral diplomat smile. Clearing her throat, she cautiously approaches the document, keeping a healthy distance.

"Another deal?" she asks, mistrustfully. "You really must think I'm daft."

"Read it, my snippy little sparrow," he says silkily. "Then we'll see."

Reluctantly, Tav begins to read. It doesn't take long for her eyebrows to climb as the contents come into focus.

"It's a map," she mutters, "but ... a map of what?"

Behind her, Raphael's chair groans faintly as he stands. She hears his slow, measured steps approaching.

"'The Iron Pity - no wait, Iron City of Dis'," she reads, squinting at the inefficently ornate script. "Really, your handwriting. What's the point of calligraphy if no one can read it?"

His sigh is deep and composed. Tav tilts her head, trying to decipher the drawing.

"It looks like a labyrinth," she continues, her voice slowing as her eyes trace the lines. "There's loads of crosses - locations of traps? Enemies? And at the centre ... some treasure? You want me to sneak into this Iron Pity and steal something for you? An honour."

"Did you think I kept you here purely for your sparkling personality?" he asks unbothered. "No. You are part of my plan. As said before, if you want your beloved crawler back, you will see that my venture succeeds. Which means, that you're going to retrieve what lies at the heart of this map, and bring it to me."

His bluntness makes her jaw clench.

"And to save me from more endless questions," he continues before she can get a word in, "As a devil bound to the order of Baator, there are barriers I cannot cross without violating infernal protocol. I could obliterate the hazards with a snap of my fingers, yes, but that would summon every spear and fang in Dis straight to my doorstep. No, I need a mortal who can walk the catacombs undetected. That, my dear, would be you. And of course, you will have all the tools you need to remain unseen."

"What, alone?" Tav blurts. "Why not send Mol?"

The words escape before she can think better of it. Gods forbid she'd ever send a half-grown child into something like this, but she hardly sees herself as the ideal candidate either.

"Oh, the little wildcat has her own tasks to handle." His tone is far too casual, and something in her stomach twists. The nickname feels too intimate and so wrong. "Besides, for this mission, I'd rather trust a more capable sneak than a fledgling."

Tav clicks her tongue, biting back a dozen retorts. None of them seem sharp enough to pierce the knot forming in her gut. Does he honestly think she is charmed by this nonsense? Not bloody likely.

"If she's careless enough to get caught," Raphael continues smoothly, "it would immediately trace back to me. That is why I require - first - a dependable agent and - second - someone who has no considerable association with me."

"I'd sell you out in a heartbeat," Tav fires back, deadpanned.

Not a joke. She absolutely would.

He still gives her a gratuitious smirk, enjoying this talk way too much. "How delightful. And pray, how would you manage that, when you're incapable of betraying me in any form?"

He raises a hand, pointing toward her throat. Before she can piece it together, Tav feels it - a tightness, subtle but unmistakable, around her neck. Her fingers fly up, her mouth opening as if to clear her throat, but no sound comes.

"I do so enjoy hearing my name from the lips of my admirers," Raphael says, his tone saccharine with a blade beneath it. "But for this little errand, your tongue is surplus to requirements. All you need are two hands - one to retrieve a small trinket, and the other to replace it with this."

With a flourish, he motions to a heavy, cast-iron sphere on his desk, its surface wrapped in a rough net.

"And let me stress," he continues, "do not forget to make the swap. Unless, of course, you're eager to trigger an alarm that will summon every bone devil, hellhound, and other flesh-eating evil lurking in the darkness."

Tav rubs at her throat, feeling her voice return, but she has the maddening sense that there's less space for air now. "What did you do to me?" she chokes out.

Raphael doesn't even glance her way, letting out a quiet, indulgent laugh. "Mol will see you to the tunnel entrance. From there, you are on your own. Your only lifeline is the map, and provided you follow its instructions exactly - no detours, that is - you may yet return with all your parts intact. But if you are captured, I cannot intervene. Starve down there, and that's just the way of things. However, between the map and this -" he gestures to the sphere again, barely looking at it, "- you have all the tools you'll need. You will start after your rest. I will summon you when it's time. Your gear's already in your quarters. Now go. Study the map. The better prepared you are, the faster you'll crawl back out."

He turns away, inspecting his nails with all the care of someone flicking a speck of dust.

Tav's gaze shifts to the desk. The sphere, smaller than a skull, looms atop a pile of papers and journals, its weight pressing into the delicate sheets beneath. Something about it feels overdone. Surely any old trinket of the same weight would suffice? Her eyes catch on the paper beneath, slightly warped by the pressure.

"What's that?" she asks, stepping closer. Before Raphael can answer, she snatches up a booklet from beneath the sphere.

It is thick, with a glossy cover painted in the delicate brushstrokes of a master. She squints at the image, blinking twice before recognising it: two figures entwined in an elaborate, cloud-shrouded pose - H-shaped, no less. Without hesitation, she flips it open. Inside are more intricate illustrations of the erotic kind, each paired with heavily underlined text. Her eyes widen further with every page.

Before she can take it all in, Raphael plucks the booklet from her hands in a swift motion.

"Nothing of interest," he says, his voice impossibly even as he slaps it back onto the desk, his fingers fanned possessively across the cover.

Too bad for him that Tav has already caught a glimpse of the back. Is that a bonbon between two pillows getting licked? No, wait ... Oh. The details are quite specific.

Her lips twitch, caught between horror and the involuntary urge to laugh. She clears her throat, loudly, willing her face into something resembling composure.

"You're so bloody secretive, R-" She breaks off mid-sentence, coughing as her throat seizes again.

Raphael, ever the picture of theatrical annoyance, rolls his eyes and turns away.

"You are dismissed," he says, waving her off as though she is an afterthought.

Her eyes widen. Panic flares in her chest. No. Wait! Not back to the oppressive silence, not so soon!

"I'll need more info than this map," she objects, "What kind of treasure is it? What weapons do I need? How long will I be gone? I do have somewhere to be in a few days."

"Your usual gear will suffice. The rest is of no importance."

She's staring at his broad villainous shoulder pads.

"Oh, come on, that can't be all!" she blurts, the words tumbling out before she can stop them.

Raphael barely turns his head, his expression hovering close to irritation. "It is. And if you'll excuse me, I have work to attend to."

By work he undoubtedly means tinkering with his next batch of mind-numbing contracts. Is she really so unimportant to him that he'd rather drown in paperwork than spend another second in her company?

"But - I -" she stammers, grasping for anything to say. Admit she doesn't want to be alone right now? That she needs a distraction - any distraction - to keep her thoughts at bay? Never.

"You're no fun, you know that?"

He huffs, already heading back to his seat. She's quickly on his tail.

"You might think this is funny," she says, her words tripping over themselves in her frustration, "but that's just because you don't get it. You're dull."

That makes him pause. He turns halfway, raising a single brow. "I beg your pardon?"

She takes a triumphant step closer, her tone verging on provocative.

"Yeah, dull. Everything about you - how you treat your business, the people - is cold, bland - stuffy. Even your treasure maps are loaded with traps you can't bypass because of some stupid protocol. Sounds like a feeble excuse to me! I think," she adds, waving her hand in a frustrated gesture, "you are only sending me away so you can bury yourself in more of your beloved contracts."

"And this charming tirade," he says slightly less amused, "is meant to accomplish what, exactly? Other than wasting my time."

"The point," she snaps, her voice climbing, "is that you're boring. Seriously, you're like -" she pauses, her head tilting mockingly, "the royal version of a small-minded department head of a nine-to-five post office in the middle of nowhere."

"I don't care enough to ask what that means," he replies, frost creeping into his tone, "but I assure you, I do not run a post office - I lead revolutions. An organisational skill you cannot even fathom."

"Yeah sure," she shoots back, the sarcasm curling in her voice.

He is glaring daggers at her now. "Has boredom dulled your conduct, pet, or is this the local flavour of foreplay?"

Tav barks a harsh laugh. "Foreplay! You may have fucked me, devil, and be all proud of it," she says, watching his nose wrinkle in disgust, "but in your head you are still sitting at your desk licking envelopes. Because paperwork's the only joy you truly know. Gosh, what a bureaucrat you are! How pathetic can you be?"

Her plan is kind of risky and probably in vain - trying to make him do something with her time. Not after she has rested, but now. She knows Raphael thrives on flattery, but loathes criticism. And yet, somehow, he's tolerated her jabs so far, his responses confined to piercing looks that still manage to carry the weight of a death sentence. Is he holding back? Or has he actually lost his edge?

"Oh, Tav," he drawls out her name now like it leaves an undefined exotic taste on his palate, and his noble gaze turns all-knowing, terrifying, like a god readying divine punishment.

A shiver dances across her skin. Oh, she is waiting for it.

"Thou hadst better show less pride 'gainst the might of officialdom."

"Should I now?" she shoots back, her grin crooked, her voice taking on a playful, almost flirtatious edge.

'Don’t send me away. PLEASE, don't.'

The desperation rolls through her, bare and raw, but she doesn't care if he sees it. And he does - she knows he does. He moves close into her space. His brows draw together slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studies her with pointed suspicion. 

'Just don't make me beg, or I'll have to throw myself off the balcony.'

For an undesirably long moment, he watches her. All Tav can do is cross her arms and hold his gaze, her lips curled into a defiant pout that dares him to respond.

"Indeed," Raphael finally replies, his tone wary, as if he's still piecing together her weird behaviour. "For bureaucrats like me have committed crimes so unimaginable that neither history books nor bards would dare record them. This hand ..." he flexes his long, immaculately groomed fingers, "that revels in paperwork could just as easily condemn you to death with the swipe of a quill."

"Sounds like a day at the spa, Ra -" Tav starts, but her throat closes the moment she tries to say his name. She swallows hard and finishes with, "devil. You're not bullshitting me. You've got your powers back, but you lost your bite."

She forces a smirk, though it feels hollow. If only she could figure out what spell he has woven around her voice, why it chokes her every time she tries to even think his name.

"Your efforts to provoke me are in vain, my foul-mouthed faerie pest," Raphael says, his voice a low rumble that seems to press against the air. "Your barbs? Entirely meaningless. I know well who I am, and more importantly, who you are -"

"Yeah, I know who I am too," she cuts in, her smirk hardening into a disdainful grin. "I'm the one who beat you."

He leans in close, so close she can feel the deep deep whisper on her ear. "Once," he says with a hum, obviously amused by something, "A lovely anecdote, no doubt, for your shrinking circle of admirers. But soon? Soon, little light, you'll be like all the others: burnt out, and begging not to be forgotten."

He shifts slightly, lifting his arms, and Tav's stomach lurches as she imagines his hands reaching for her - maybe her shoulders, maybe her throat. The thought punches her flight instinct into action, a twitch she barely manages to contain. But Raphael doesn't miss it. His eyes narrow, his handsome face hardening into an unreadable mask. Without a word, he steps back, mirroring the retreat she fought so hard to suppress. His eyes rake over her from head to toe, lingering on her bare knees and then, with some hesitation, back on her heated skin. Whatever he sees, it is pulling him into opposite directions.

"You wish to be entertained?" he asks and his eyes shine somehow flustered. "Then listen closely. I will tell you about a soul - a battle mage - who was stupid enough to mock my ambitions with arrogant bravado, yet proved too foolish to resist my contract. I had no interest to employ him as I so graciously do for you, nor was I inclined to devour his soul immediately upon his death."

He flexes his long fingers and the iron sphere rises from its net, drifting toward them like a lost little moon in space.

"So what did I do?" Raphael continues, his tone almost wistful, his gaze fixed on the approaching orb. "I ensnared him in a nightmare of red tape. A labyrinth of decrees so suffocatingly dense that every breath he drew would choke on formalities. Even when he pleaded for death, every word was crushed between ledgers and laws, while each of his screams would require another approval. I stretched his suffering over centuries before he truly died - it was ... meticulous. Intimate. Artful."

He pauses, turning his palm upward as though presenting an invisible masterpiece. "This 'pathetic' bureaucrat," his fingers twitch in the air, "pressed his soul into parchment, a two dimensional piece of nothing, shelved in an archive no one will ever enter. Waiting. Forgotten. That is how I bite."

He lets the orb drop suddenly, and Tav catches it with a startled gasp. The weight pulls her arms down, and she stumbles slightly. Damn, after all his shit he still manages to be charismatic - the quiet rumble of his voice sending pleasant waves straight down her spine. 

"Uff, what is this thing? Did you stuff it with all your unresolved issues?" she mumbles, trying to hide her shudder.

"Your insolence is ripe for the harvest." Raphael leans closer again, his eyes still gleaming with suspicion, though his focus shifts almost imperceptibly to her lips. His breath slows, deliberate, and she realises he's taking her in, the tension between them coiled tight. 

Right then he blinks, his composure snapping back, and with a curt snap of his fingers, Mol appears in a swirl of light and sparks. Neither Tav nor Raphael looks away from the other, though both instinctively lean back, their charged moment fractured by the tiefling's sudden presence.

"You can't scare me," she mouths knowing full well he can do other things to her.

"Oh, I can, and I will ..." he purrs, his voice low and edged with dark promise.

"Make you shiver and quiff -"

Raphael freezes. Her mouth drops open. They stare in stunned silence.

His expression flickering with something dangerously close to horror. 

"Quiver," he corrects stiffly, "and shift. In your seat."

His gaze falls, as if searching for something to anchor himself, but the damage is done. Whatever power he thought his words carried, it's shattered now. When he finally looks up again, Tav sees a burning ire in his raw umber eyes and she takes it as her cue to get the fuck out of here.

Mol, however, standing entirely too close, unabashedly stares up at the devil with an expression of undisguised glee. As the silence stretches loudly, Tav decides to turn and leave without a word, her lips twitching as she fights back laughter. Just as she steps out of the room, she hears Mol's amused voice cut through the quiet, followed by Raphael's sharp and very exhasperated "Desist!"

Chapter Text

She soldiers onward. Her feet are fine, but her left side feels like someone stabbed her and set the wound on fire.
"Shitey little hellhound," she mutters, wincing as her clothes scrape against sweat-stuck wounds. Lucky it was a young one, roaming alone. Still, it had jumped her out of nowhere, and she hadn't dodged fast enough to avoid its flames. Glowing red peeps, blazing hellfire, and a mouthful of teeth sharp enough to shred metal - a nightmare straight from a devil's kennel.

She leans briefly against the wall, taking a rationed sip of stamina potion. Dis, she's discovering, plays by its own infernal rules. In the depths of the caverns, the air had been tolerable, cool even, but now, on her way back, the heat's closing in again. Tar fumes and the stench of overworked machinery coat her tongue, every breath growing heavier. But stopping isn't an option. The urge to escape this pit far outweighs her pain. The corridors stretch like ancient scars, their walls carved from stone so timeless they seem like relics of some manic god. Most of the time, it's quiet, even on the return leg. But sometimes the air fills with the grinding of unseen ironworks, wheezing and groaning like they might die at any moment. Worse still are the claws scraping stone or the heavy breaths that seem to come from nowhere, sending ice down her spine. When Tav senses the noises getting too close, she sidles into the nearest shadowy nook and snuffs out her torch. She waits, heart thudding, until the silence returns. Then she moves on, step by step. Calm and care - her only weapons here. Whether it's experience or just a stubborn optimism, she manages to stay level-headed - and she has to. Without calm, there's no diligence, and without diligence, she'd be dead. The map had been clear: touch nothing in the tunnels unless you want a band of baatezu up your arse. Granted, "meticulous" didn't come natural to Tav. But after three years of earnest entrepreneurship, she's learned a thing or two about diligence.
Now, she moves with the rigour of a runesmith, knowing the smallest mistake could undo her completely. Had she not hidden the hellhound's corpse or reset every disabled trap, the prowling beasts of Dis would've sniffed her out ages ago. Still, when she reached the treasure vault earlier, her focus had slipped. Just for a moment. Swapping the prize for her lead sphere had probably nearly killed her - the skull pedestal had groaned and shifted, threatening to trigger whatever evil lurked nearby. It dropped several inches before, by some divine luck, catching on a lone bone.
'Saved by an eyesocket. That's my life now,' she thought, sweat pouring down her face and muscles so knotted she had to sit, right there in the gloomy chamber, and calm down. If any of her friends had been there, it would've been half as hard. Someone could have patched her arm, looked at her neck, and maybe cracked a joke to lighten the mood. But no, Raphael sent her here alone. Maybe she's the only idiot left who’ll take his jobs. And for what? A locked wooden box that feels suspiciously empty.

Now she's back at the trap that had been a massive time-sink because of its well-hidden trippet. Dropping to one knee, she scatters pixie ash over the ground, revealing a faint orange shimmer. It's subtle, like a trick of the shadows. Good thing the map had marked this with a fat red X, even if its exact location was annoyingly vague. She stands to take her last sip of fire resistance, waits for the effect to coat all of her skin and belongings with a sheen of protection, and strides into the flaming barrier. Fire bursts from invisible orifices, surrounding her in a roaring inferno. She emerges on the other side, her breath ragged, and squeezes through the rusted remains of an iron gate, not resting at all because, hey, the next half-dozen pitfalls await, equally diabolic and time consuming. She can throw pebbles to detect sonic crushers, and deflect deadly light flashes with her dagger, no problem! It isn't the traps Tav fears. It's open combat.

Peeking around the edge of the stone wall, she spots a vast hall ahead. The air reeks of acrid fumes, and the chuffing noise from the machinery is deafening. Higher up in the galleries, there are more enemies, forcing her to move in the shadows. Bone devils prowl in groups, skeletal horrors almost impossible to sneak past because of their excellent hearing. They're horrifying to look at - little more than humanoid husks, their rotting skin barely clings to their bones and muscle tissue. An ugly view. Fortunately, the stench of decay always warns Tav first. She waits until the foul creatures move on, her body tense, before she inches forward again. She has been lucky so far. So lucky, she cannot shake the feeling that she's been rolling dice with her life, the odds worsening with every try. Surely, the godly Helm himself must be shielding her. No human has this much luck. The iron devil statues she passes leer mockingly, as if they're also betting on when her streak will end.

And end it does.

A stone's throw from a passage leading to a side hall, her luck runs out. She doesn't hear them, doesn't smell them - not in this thick air. Suddenly, a pack of beasts emerges, claws and fire at the ready, their jaws horrors unto themselves. Tav freezes, her breath stuttering as the fire mephit spots her. Its bone-chilling screech alerts the rest - a bone devil and two hulking hellhounds - and every set of eyes locks onto her.

Tav doesn't wait. She drops her dagger and bolts.

She sprints up the corridor, skids around a corner, and keeps running, over crumbling stairs, across rickety bridges. Behind her, the unmistakable rumble of pursuit grows louder. She loses her bearings and drops part of her kit. 'Why the hell am I here? I make carpets.' she thinks. Her only move is to hurl grenades behind her, hoping they slow the pack. It's a desperate hope, probably in vain - given that she is in the Hells, surrounded by traps and monsters. She gasps as a green-yellow acid cloud spews from a mechanism she triggers. It disorients the chasing hounds but leaves Tav unscathed - barely. Still, she is off track, soon standing in a half-empty storage room. A dead end.

"Shit. Where am I?" she pants.

There's no going back. Her hand presses to her side, her lungs hurting. Wheezing, she scrambles up a stack of crates and into a crevice between an arch and the ceiling. From her hiding place, she waits. Below, the creatures enter, snuffling and sneezing, obviously still affected by the acidic haze. After a short while, they leave. Tav can still hear noise from around the corner, so she slumps deep into the alcove, her heart hammering, and fumbles with her belt: two potions left. The mysterious wooden box. That's it. Somewhere far off, the hellhounds howl again. She presses her forehead to her arm and mutters, "Just five minutes. I'll rest for five minutes."

Tav quickly loses all sense of time. Has it been thirty minutes, or hours? Lying on her stomach helps her endure, but her neck is cramping, and she's desperate to shift. The hellhounds, meanwhile, keep prowling the hallway, sniffing for her scent as if it's carved into the air.
'Stupid mutts,' she thinks, wincing as their guttural snarls echo through the tunnel. Hungry as they are, they sense she's nearby but can't grasp that she's wedged inside the wall. Eventually, they lumber off again, and Tav turns her head to the other side, pain slicing through her neck. She needs to get going, soon.

'Calm, Tav. Calm,' she tells herself and starts repeating Hope's breathing exercise: inhale through one nostril, expand the lungs, exhale. Nine times for each side. It's supposed to help.

At some point, she must've drifted off because she jerks awake at the shrill sound of a creature dying. She slams her head against the ceiling, biting back a curse. Below, a flaming mephit snaps up a squealing rat, swallowing it whole like a kiln feeding itself a log. She can feel its heat even from so high above, but what strikes her is the greed it radiates, hot and visceral, like an oil-fed fire. Strange how a want can feel so real, so physical. She shrinks back instinctively.
The mephit crawls away, claws scratching over the ground, tail flames snapping in the air. Sated, it seems to have forgotten what it was hunting. Tav exhales cautiously, her cracked lips sticking together. She rests her cheek on the cool stone beneath, lids closing briefly. Surely they'll give up soon. The chill, mercifully, distracts her from her thirst, though it does little for the aches in her body. She resumes the breathing exercise, trying not to think about her exhaustion. And for one strange moment, she wonders: 'If longing has a temperature, do I emit it as well? Do people feel mine?'

Warmth creeps over her like a blanket. Scratch. She hears his familiar whimper, soft and close. It is ... definitely him! Her fingers twitch, reaching for him without thinking. A fire crackles softly nearby, painting the edges of her vision in orange light. She lifts her head to see him nudging her hand, his nose cool and wet. Tav ruffles his fur. He's back. She's back. The bitter cold has melted into cosy warmth, and all her companions are sitting around the campfire - Jaheira who is murmuring something low and Minsc laughing in response. Scratch curls against her leg, snuffling in contentment. Tav leans toward the fire, feeling her shoulders relax for the first time in what feels like days. The coals glow like tiny suns, drawing her closer, the heat soothing the tension in her bones.

And then her tunic catches fire.

The heat spikes, searing, her arm burning in agony. Tav jerks awake with a gasp, the dream crumbling into harsh reality. Her sleeve grates against the wound, pain slicing through the fog of sleep. She curses, her voice hoarse and raw, and in her desperation she grabs one of her two remaining potions, draining it in thirsty little gulps. The sweet, apple-like taste hits her tongue. It was a strength potion. Absolutely useless in her situation. The exhaustion doesn't leave, but now her limbs buzz with nervous energy. The sensation is excruciating, her muscles itching to move. Bugger. Maybe she should have checked the other potion first.
Grinding her teeth and trembling, Tav listens for enemies. Hearing nothing, she crawls feet-first out of her hiding spot, unable to stay still any longer. She lands heavily on the floor, stumbling into the wall, clutching her arm. The pain is astringent, but she stays upright, checking that her whip is still on her belt before she starts moving.

After fifty metres or five hundred (she's lost track), she finally reaches a fork in the passageways she recognizes. The air here is suffocating, so hot it just might boil her insides. It's a good sign, though - she must be close to an exit. Rubbing her eyes, Tav pulls out the map one last time. Her vision swims, and when she looks up, she freezes. Wide, lifeless orbs stare back at her. Kar'niss.

No. It's just the pale, leering face of a devilish statue. She exhales shakily, swallowing the disgusting taste in her throat, and shuffles onward.

'You're close,' she tells herself. 'You'll be out soon.' The thought drives her forward. The gases of the hell-city grow stronger, metallic and acrid, carrying with them the rich scent of blood. The smell is everywhere, as fresh as at the temple of Bhaal, as intense as her own blood when she was delivering.

She quickly shuts that thought down, but strangely it doesn't hurt like it should.

'You're too busy surviving,' she tells herself.

Oh, when she gets out, she's going to celebrate. Tav swears to Wyll she'll make it to his old man's birthday. She'll wear her scandalously sheer dress and be the talk of the Gate - not just a hero, but the best damn weaver on the Sword Coast. Barth, Jaheira, Minsc - they'll toast to her victories. They'll laugh, drink, and dance until she has eradicated every nightmare from her memory.

The thought flickers as dizziness takes her. Tav drops to her knees.

"Mistress! What's the matter?"

Her breath catches.

"Lass," Barth whispers, "Shadow's breath, what's wrong with ye?"

'Nothing,' she thinks, clutching at her arm, 'It's the air. I'm fine. Don't worry about it, ok.'

Her friend grunts, seeming to accept it, as he fiddles with his fly. "Oy, one last question: is Raphael, you know, any good in bed?"

Haarlep's laughter echoes, sharp and mocking, only to twist into something cruel before it cuts off. Even Kar'niss, worried a moment ago, sneers as he speaks.

"For someone who wanted nothing to do with devils, you've gotten awfully close."

No. No, it's not real. Tav shakes her head, her sweat-soaked hair clinging to her face.

"Oh, look at her!" the incubus jeers in between. “Folding up like one of his limp dolls! You know what he does with those: on the back and mouths open."

"Iblith! UNWORTHY!"

"Kar'niss, please -"

"Now, little thief, on your back and open wide."

Tav gasps, clutching at her throat.

"Tut tut, little mouse." 

His deep voice cuts through the noise, silencing it like a wave of silk thrown over a screaming crowd.

"What are your friends yacking about?"

Tav lets her head hang, too exhausted to hold in the frustration clawing at her. 'Raphael, not now. Just tell me how to get out of here.'

"Simple: you walk."

His tone is crisp, like he's explaining the obvious to a child.

'I really hate you,' she thinks.

"You don't expect me to come and fetch you, do you?"

The memory of his voice sneers in amusement as if he's perched on her shoulder, legs swinging like some smug fey creature. Tav collapses forward onto her fists, her body shutting down.

She's reached her limit. She's going to die here.

"Tsk. No, you won't."

Yes, she will!

"That is not the Tav I know," he then says.

Wait, she has heard something like that before - on the balcony, wasn't it?

"You've also changed. I just don't know yet into what," she murmurs.

His words, dripping with sarcasm, had grated on her then. "Chin up and you may survive."

Beneath the taunt, there's a truth that steadies her. So Tav raises her head. The shifting shadows on the wall almost look like wings, but when she blinks, they're gone. She stares into the murk, desperate for clarity. All she sees is a blurry figure in the dark, crawling closer, weaving left and right like it's checking her out. Tav believes, with a horrible certainty: if it isn't him, it has to be death. A red skinned, one-eyed beast of death with flashing daggers for claws.

When the face comes into view, Tav's glare grows impossibly wide. Then she bursts out laughing - loud and unable to control her breathing.

"Huh. Looks like someone's already missing a few screws, eh?" the tiefling rogue whispers.

"Mol!" Tav croaks, her throat terribly raw, but she can't help giggling about the joke she's about to crack. "You're a bloody GODSEND."

"Godsend? Yup. Definitely missing a few."

He lets her go, and with a muffled "Oof!" she tumbles onto the bed - or what passes for a bed: a precarious mountain of mismatched mattresses drowning under a chaotic sea of blankets and pillows. A stratified landfill of substandard linens. Baldur's Gate, for all its grandeur, still hasn't mastered proper bedding.

His bedding. Rarely used, except that first night when he collapsed into it, exhausted and soul-starved, to sleep off his inadequacies. Sleep - what an abominable concept, that surrender to oblivion.

Raphael looks up at the creature in his linens. She is filthy, battered, utterly spent. And he?

Ecstatic.

Her bell-like laughter cuts through the room, radiant and triumphant, filling him with unbearable exhilaration. Despite her injured arm, she clutches a small ornate box as if it were a lifeline, her grin victorious. She looks up at him from the foot of the upholstered mountain as he looms above, inspecting her tattered state.

Her joy spills out in half-garbled exclamations between snorts and giggles. "Unbloodylievable!", "Tymora's tits, I've done it!" and "I actually did it!" Vulgarities lace every phrase like an irrepressible afterthought.

'Mol found her,' he thinks, marveling, 'and so close to the enemy.' He had guided her as best he could with his maps, but in the end, it was Tav's wit and mortal fickleness, that secured her success. Eventually, her lack of infernal essence allowed her to slip through Dispater's defenses unnoticed. Never mind the heavy cargo she was hauling, freshly dredged from Minauros' mire (many thanks to Rrucht'Argazz and his not so hard to find whereabouts).

'And now she's here, giggling.' He can hardly believe it himself, stupidly repeating her words in his thoughts. 

She did it - she placed the artifact beneath Dispater's city. And soon ... very soon ...

A burst of cheers from the streets below yanks Raphael from his reverie. The celebrations have begun. His little mouse doesn't have much time left if she still wants to get into the High Hall. He strides to the corner table, shrugging off his ruined outerwear as he moves. Tav's grime has left its mark, but it hardly matters. Rolling up his sleeves, he begins preparing a couple of restorative poitions. She's been gone three Toril days, and for all he knows, she is not only injured but also heavily dehydrated. He could heal her with a touch, of course, but she would likely bristle at that.

His hands tremble.

With a faint clink, he sets the cup on a tray and pauses, staring at them as though trying to locate the source of the tremor on his skin.

His plan is going to work.

His gaze drifts into the void.

'By the gods, the Nine, and everything the Abyss can vomit forth - the coup might actually succeed.' If the shadovar's calculations hold, in less than twenty-four hours, the artifact will collapse under its own dark Weave, consuming the city and its archdevil. Not even Dispater's iron fortress will survive.

He should be preparing for the next coup, fine-tune every detail. But the his nerves betray him, the cambion's marrow boiling with restless energy. Waiting for word from the shadow arcanists is irksome - a suspense more intoxicating than the hunt for the Crown of Karsus ever was. And this is only the beginning.

'Netheril's fall will look like a child's toppled card tower in comparison.'

Raphael clenches his fists, trying to trap the tension in his chest. If he were still lord of the House of Hope, he'd sit at his desk, write half a sentence before pacing the room again. He would visit Haarlep or torment his debtors. Perhaps he'd have brought a fine vintage to Hope's cave for a spirited chat. But Haarlep is gone. And the symphony of suffering souls that once thrilled him so holds no allure. Not tonight. Not when there is cause to celebrate.

A soft whimper. The whisper of fabric sliding against skin. Raphael casts a glance over his shoulder. She is sitting up now, stripped down to a thin singlet and trousers, inspecting her upper arm. Burns, second degree. Her breathing is steady, focused - until a faint sigh of relief escapes her lips. She has swept the singed hair to one side, exposing the long line of her neck.

And there they are: claw marks, blistered and raw. A hellhound's work, mayhaps. Or a fire mephit. He frowns slightly, though she lifts her head before the expression can deepen. Their eyes meet, and she releases her arm with a faint smile.

"It might sound strange," she murmurs, "but you were there - in my mind, that is."

His brow arches, but his silence invites her to continue.

"You just gave me your usual jibes, trying to keep me going. And I did."

For a moment, he drops his gaze, reaching for the tray. 

"How merry," he says finally. "If you'd like to be in shape for your engagement this evening, I advise you to drink this."

He places the tray on the edge of the bed with deliberate care, stepping back to clasp his hands behind his back. It wouldn't do to seem too eager. Still, there is merit in generosity - particularly for someone who may yet secure him an extraordinary victory. Chin raised, he watches Tav eye the coloured bottles with hesitation, as though expecting one of them to bite.

"What is it?"

Ah, the perennial human question. Distrust wrapped in curiosity.

"Red, for healing. Green, for mental restoration. Blue, symbiotic boosters. Yellow, a general detoxifier." He flicks his fingers, conjuring a jug into her hands. She flinches as water sloshes over the rim, her glare snapping to him. "And water - for thirst."

The faintest smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

'What a fragile thing she is. Always mending, always tending to her body's endless needs. How do mortals bear it? As a fox, I had more resilience than this frail, delicate being.'

She drinks deeply from the jug, her hands tiny around its bulk. When she lowers it, they cross glances, hers wide and brimming with gratitude - a misplaced, almost childlike expression. And then, predictably, they begin to glisten.

"Thank you for bringing me here and not to Avernus," she says. Cannot help the wobble in her voice. "I ...  wasn't sure if I'd missed the, uh, appointment."

He tilts his head slightly. "I'd have thrown you into my rejuvenation pool, but as things stand, you would only end up wet and, at best, clean. A temporary limitation I will rectify once we return. Now, bib."

She chuckles softly, her fingers hovering over the red vial before choosing the green one. Uncorking it, she drinks, then moves on to blue, then yellow. Finally, she pushes the tray aside, her shoulders slumping as the tension drains from her frame. Raphael seats himself in the armchair beside the bed, resting his chin on his hand. He watches as she rearranges the pillows with one hand, patting and fluffing them until satisfied. She settles back with a soft sigh, sinking into the sheets.

"This is your bedchamber," she says eventually, her glare fixed on the ceiling. And then she frowns. "And your bed."

"You're welcome."

"But why?" She pauses, swallows, then shakes her head. "Thank you."

He nods, an indulgent gesture of approval. Almost against her will, she smiles - a faint, private thing, as though lost in some ridiculous inner dialogue. Her hand drifts to the dusty casket lying like a forgotten toy between her feet and, far more unforgivably, on his once-pristine white sheets.

In the old days, his response would have been instinctive. Heal her wounds, cleanse her skin, and bind her in chains. He would have fed her by hand as she knelt before him, hungry and radiant, a creature of perfect, wordless devotion. She could have been the servant of a merciless, magnanimous master.

But that she is not. And he knows better than to let his thoughts wander to the delicate angles of her shoulders or the mocking curve of her lips. With a sharp turn, he pulls his gaze away. Yet his pulse stirs when her chuckle follows - breathless and unguarded. That small, disbelieving sound slips into his veins, a spark in a dry field.

"So, what's so special about the box, that you had to send me in to fetch it?"

"Nothing but an idea," he replies lightly, "one that will shake the very foundations of your world. And mine, for that matter."

He takes the casket from her hands and sets it aside. Explaining its insignificance - or worse, its probable emptiness - would unleash a flood of questions he has no desire to answer. Instead, he weaves a thick web of flattery and hopes it will distract her. "But the most valuable treasure of all? Your defiance. You've done brilliantly, my dear. Not for one moment did I doubt your tenacity or competence. No one else could have pulled this off, not Mol, nor any warlock."

"You've got more grease than a fry-up, R-" she mutters, coughing slightly. "But fine, have it your way. This beast of burden shall ask no more. Just, you know, lock up your study when I'm around, yeah?"

She is a curious creature, bold to the point of recklessness. Hasn't she learned by now that drawing attention to oneself when the devil is near is a fool's game? That to relax, to let her guard slip, is an unforgivable lapse? And yet, here she is, sprawled shamelessly into the space he's allowed her, as though it were hers by right.

Why did he ever give in that night? To prove a point? To see how far she would let him charm her? To humiliate her, silence her? Perhaps it had been curiosity. Or perhaps - just perhaps - he had lost his Hells-forsaken mind. During that one intimate encounter, he had almost forgotten that she could be anything other than bold, audacious, and beheadingly pulchitrudinous. His perfect little worshipper. And now he is back to that line of thought. He needs to pull himself together.

But gods, how he would love to kiss her when she laughs.

When he stirs, the room is steeped in twilight, and a hush has settled over the house. All of Rivington, no doubt, has headed for the city, leaving the suburbium blessedly quiet. The bed beneath the broad window glows in the hues of a dying sunset, and there she lies, bathed in soft pink, curled up amid a plush, velvety landscape of pillows and blankets. Beside her is an overturned, empty vial and the shredded remains of a bandage. Her figure reminds him, faintly and absurdly, of himself once, huddled beneath Mephistopheles' saltire. 

He's not entirely sure what led him to drift off. The strain of their mission's success, or (though unlikely) the worry for Tav's fate, must have worn on him more than he cared to admit. His brief sleep had been haunted by chaotic visions, his mind gripped with dread that the shadow arcanists would never return his missives. But now, as Raphael blinks himself awake and lifts his head from the chair's backrest, those nightmares dissolve into irrelevance. Before him is a living tableau: glowing, serene, and inexplicably captivating. For a fleeting breath, his chest knots with a foreign sensation, one he cannot name.

For now, everything simply feels right.

He can't explain the feeling, but he does know what he doesn't feel: hunger for conquest, gnawing ambition. In its place there is a strange, disconcerting stillness.

In her secret garden grows
fruit of his desire.
A flavour he admires,
Its seed as hot as fire.

'No, no, no.' He shakes the offending metre from his thoughts. Far too mainstream. Not Tav-esque enough. 

So sweet its flesh, so warm its skin
The apple gainly pulls him in
Its nectar naught but poisoning.

Raphael rises as if in a trance and steps toward her sleeping form. Her shoulders tremble. He hears her shivering exhale. Ah, he hadn't thought to warm the room for her. It's so cold that the prestage of frost has begun to creep along the edges of the windowpanes. He could cover her with another blanket, light the hearth, or cast a spell. Or he could slip in beside her and revel in the triumph of her inevitable crawl to him, seeking his warmth. It would pass the time for them both - the cursed, interminable waiting ...

With a snap of his fingers, flames leap to life in the hearth, their glow casting orange shadows across her skin. In the shifting light, she looks like she's back in Hell. He listens to the crackle of fire, expecting the air to warm instantly. Nothing happens. Of course - these flames burn nothing like Hellfire.

He steps closer, his knees brushing the mattress, and lets his hand glide over the sheet. He imagines her there, in some fevered moment - arching, straining, fingers grasping at the slippery satin in some desperate bid to anchor herself against him, against the slow ruin he'd make of her. Heat blooms beneath his fingertips, sinking into the threads, spreading. A soothing warmth rises back to him.

'There you go. All is good,' he thinks, centering himself with a deep breath. 'No need to get any closer.' Scrutinizing her curled figure. 'None at all.'

He's kept his distance. Touching her only when necessity demanded. Yet still, she recoiled - on the street, in his office, and today, when he picked her up to carry her from the portal to his room. That single, involuntary wince didn't escape him. Nothing ever does. It is a quiet betrayal, subtle to lesser eyes, but to him, it resounds like the clatter of chains. He knows it too well. The instinct to flinch, to pull away. She will never understand how much they have in common. 

He clears his throat.

"Little mouse, the evening draws near."

She grumbles, turning her face towards him, dust-covered hair spilling across her cheek.

"You should get up."

A faint purr escapes her as she burrows deeper into the mattress, ignoring him otherwise. Comfort is a formidable foe. He considers shocking her awake with a burst of ice magic. Raphael chuckles to himself. Or perhaps he could make the bed quite literally too hot to handle: adagio pianissimo iniziale with a gradual stringendo.

Without hesitation, he intensifies the heat transfer, watching in satisfaction as her legs kick the blanket away, leaving the sheet crumpled beside her.

"You should get dressed for the appointment," he murmurs, his hand already halfway to her forehead, poised to brush an unwashed strand from her brow, but then halts. The urge to push further claws at his restraint.

Not yet.

Let him savour this tease.

Her slumber must be ironclad, because she doesn't stir. Raphael leans closer, studying her face for any signs of poison or other cause for alarm. Her cheeks are flushed, her mouth relaxed. He inhales deeply, catching the scent of old sweat and adrenaline - unmistakably the ripe aroma of an adventurer. Nothing unusual.

'Our little heroine must have needed her rest,' Raphael thinks, his lips twitching at the notion.

He catches the scent of soot and scorched keratin, mingling with the pungent tang of ethanol and the medicated compresses wrapped around her limbs. Does she realize how caustic a mephit's claws are? That even as the wounds mend, its venom burrows deep, needling beneath the skin for days?
His fingertips drift over the wool of the bandage. Slowly, he lets the crisp chill of freshly fallen snow seep through the cloth. First her neck and then her arm, where the trace of burnt flesh still lingers strongly.

'See?' he addresses her silently, 'I am not always a monster.'

With a light pass along her throat, he dispels the remnants of his earlier spell, releasing her from its invisible grip. She exhales - a quiet sound of relief - and he allows himself a smile. Behold, the devil can be merciful. Whatever she accuses him of, Raphael values excellence and knows when to reward it.

He moves to warm her stiff shoulders, watching as her body relaxes, her voice a barely audible purl as she melts into the sensation.

Ah, yes. The art of generosity has its uses. He shifts his attention to her feet next. There are far crueller masters than him.

She lets out a small sound, almost like a kitten's mew, and it peaks his interest. He stares at the cause of the high-itched moan - her feet - and then, with a curious frown, sends another wave of heat. It slowly spreads through her toes, past her ankles, and glows up to her knees, where her whimper dies in a delicious vocal fry.

It distracts him. Tav is so kittish and fragile - and for some reason terribly unhappy. Yet she has a magnificent way about her. All fire and verve. All that and even more. No, he isn't a hopeless romantic. He refuses to entertain the idea. 'It is a plain, pertinent observation,' he tells himself, though it tugs at him. Tav, that mewling force of nature, has somehow blundered her way into achieving the unthinkable. She's freed the long-lost prince of Astral toads, brawled with the god of death, and even managed to unite squabbling factions under one banner - all to save the Sword Coast from mind flayers. Truly, the finest steed one could tether to his stable. A potentially formidable warlock. His most entertaining apostle. And a good cheat in lanceboard. He's imagining twining with her again. 

His perfect little distraction.

"Tav ..." His gaze follows his hand as it hovers near her. "Get up. Or do you intend to stay in my bed forever?"

What a sweet implication though highly unrealistic. His fingers linger just below her midriff, the warmth pulsing in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Beat by beat. And then, her breath quickens. Her body betraying her despite herself. Raphael notes a whiff of arousal in the air - and it's not his own. He straightens his shoulders, burying the shiver before it breathes life.

An evil idea blossoms in his mind.

"Or perhaps," he hears himself say, "you'd rather stay here and lie with the devil?"

How far can he push her before she pushes back? She claims to be good, at least in comparison to him - a delusion so wild it stirs a dry cackle from his throat.

'She betrayed this thing we had, did she not? Laughed at my demise.' Such an angel, she is. 

He will break her.

Raphael lets a chilling ripple of air skim her side, soft and bristling, satisfaction blooming as her body reacts with a shiver. Her hands begin to wander, one sliding to her ribs, the other creeping leisurely under her waistband. Her bandaged neck bows beautifully, and a soft sigh escapes her lips. She may loathe him, but her flesh tells a different story entirely.

"Go on, sweet seraph," he soliloquises lowly, his eyes fixed on her veiled knuckles, "Take what you need."

"Hnnh ..."

"Touch yourself to bliss. I'm right here if you need more."

Her hips tilt upward and her scent floods his senses. 

"If only you could see yourself," he rasps, his hand dipping lower, touching the ribbon of her breeches. "A blushing apple, begging to be eaten."

Pudency has become a foreign word as he mimics her own movements beneath the fabric. The sight draws him closer, his mental image of her fingers oscillating, dangerously vivid. He realises his mouth is hanging open and closes it with a faint click, schooling his expression back into neutrality.

Swiftly, the pull toward another wicked decision takes hold. Stringendo, after all, should be the tempo, no? She demands it: Her chest presses more insistently against her clothes, each breath deepening the strain, while a fine sheen of exertion glimmers on her skin. With a single thought, he could reduce her clothing to a cascade of embers and simply indulge in the vision. The mere temptation makes his collar feel stiflingly tight. He's aware now of the heat gathering between their bodies, palpable even at this distance.

Perhaps that explains his misstep: a brief slip, as disastrously premature as a virgin succubus cumming halfway through unbuttoning her first corset. The icebolt he sends over her skin is too keen. Tav gasps, her lashes flying open.

Her dark eyes find him.

"Raphael."

The sweetest greeting of all, though lamentably untimely.

"At your service."

Sleep must still colour her sight, for she blinks lazily up to him. The sight is adorable.

"What's going on? What -" Her voice leaps an octave. "What in all the gods' names are you doing?"

"Mmh, nothing."

"Like Hells you aren't!" she pants, trying to push herself upright. Yet her bewitched body refuses to cooperate, making her look like a bug on its back, struggling with only two legs left. He chuckles, and her face immediately hardens into a scowl - a scowl made all the more absurd by the fact that her hand remains firmly in her trousers.

"Lemme - let me g ..."

He pretends not to understand. "Pardon, my dear? Let you get off?" His smirk grows silky. "Say 'please, o master' first."

Raphael sends Tav's swollen senses on another blazing ride of thermal shocks. He glances at the fogged windowpanes while she is squirming beneath him. "I'd say we have an hour. Just enough time for a brisk tour through Baator's climate zones and back."

They don't even have a minute. He knows she is running awefully late to the gala aka "appointment". But her arousal soaks the air now, telling him that she is physically ready for him. As she attempts to roll off the mattress, Raphael reacts briskly. He slaps another wave through her core, and Tav collapses back with a defeated moan. Notably, she hasn't stopped pleasuring herself, her fingers visibly flicking with a need that makes his mouth water. Her cheeks burn a deeper crimson of probably embarrassment, though he doesn't miss the glaze in her eyes as they shift downward to the part of him that now strains impatiently for its rightful place. She gasps.

What a naughty little mouse. He smirks.

"You going to take me against my will?"

"If you want. It would finally give me something to do and feed your hatred. You want to hate me, I know. You're starving for a reason."

He laughs with well-pronounced coldness, spreading his fingers like spectral claws over her chest. She flinches again. Avoiding him again. 

"I already have one," she whispers, lashes fluttering in her struggle against her own body.

He exhales sharply through his nose, then bores his fist down beside her flushed face.  

"Pretense," he concludes. What has he ever done to earn such theatrics? Still, he keeps the barest distance between them. He respects her desire not to be touched. (Can she not see that?)

"I don't need a pretense to -" she begins.

"Ah, your grasping for excuses. It's as transparent as tissue," he sighs, irritation simmering beneath his composure. "Don't you see that every one of your reasons is flimsy at best?"

"O do tell," she mocks. But she gulps as he teases her further beneath his magic. One little hand darts to his wrist next to her, clutching him as though for anchor.

"Raphael," she chokes out.

Oh, she's so close to yielding.

"Indeed," he purrs, his voice soft venom, as he shifts to rest one knee beside her hip. "In truth, it isn't me you hate, it's yourself. Every time you let me near, you are merely punishing yourself for what you've done."

Tav snorts and glares past him, pointedly evading him. "Hmph. What is it that I've supposedly done?" she asks through her teeth. "Enlighten me ... with your parlour philosophy while - I'm mas-masturbating to it."

"If I tell you, will you toss me off the bed in some grand show of wounded virtue? Or part your thighs again and call it penance?"

He watches as she presses her forehead to his fist. His other hand slips lower, between her thighs, nudging one aside with deliberate slowness. His thumb now lies a mere breath away from her fingers as they lazily circle her clit. Tav's grip clenches around his wrist, each small motion steeped in quiet ache. Soon, very soon he will take the ache from her. All she has to do is grab him by the throat again and kiss him with the hunger that has been consuming him as well. 

Instead, she smacks her lips together and shakes her head.

"No reply, hmm?" It takes everything in him not to claim those chapped lips, to resist stripping her bare and pulling her onto him.

"I- I didn't do a bloody thing," Tav manages, her voice high, and he hums his disagreement.

"Still in denial, are we?" His knowing smile deepens as her hips press instinctively against his thumb. "Oh, dearest hero mine, how I'd savour punishing thy lying mouth."

"Shit." She inhales deeply, taking his features in. "Raphael, ugh, you are full of empty threats, it's offputting."

"And here I thought I was helping you getting you off."

A spark of clarity ignites in her features, a change rippling across it like a ghost.

"Sorry, but I find your technique rather - what's the word ..."

Just the barest twitch of her cracked lips, and with a sudden, searing certainty, he knows exactly what she's about to say, because she's giving him that second to connect the dots. 

"Dreadf-"

"Quiet."

He stops her just in time.

She almost overpronounces the first syllable, a tortured sneer twisting her lips. And in that moment, he wants to throttle her for killing the mood. Why is she like this? The devil had made her come. He had satisfied her.

Hadn't he?

Look at the harpy making him doubt himself.

Raphael only realises his thumb is pressing hard against her entrance when Tav starts wriggling away, her eyes screwed up as if in pain. She let go of his fist and is helplessly clawing for the linens, and he pulls himself up short. An inner curse slips through his thoughts as he forces his hand to withdraw, slow and measured, laying it to rest against her waistband. Frustration bites at his chest as he glares at her left breast.

"Tell me that you want me," he jests, hating the edge in his own voice.

He isn't the one her heart aches for.

"And ruin your moment? That would be mean," the mouse mocks stupidly.

"So bratty. You want to suffer. That's it."

His fist loosens, fingers digging into the mattress instead. The fabric begins to tear beneath his grip. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, fighting to keep his smile intact. It feels more like a melting grimace. She whispers some weak protest - one he barely registers before cutting her off.

"Your guilt is eating you alive, isn't it?"

"I have no guilt where you're concerned."

"Not with me, no," His lip curls, "but with him." The name catches in his throat, bile rising at the thought of the dead man who still holds her, this panting woman beneath him, in his thrall. "Oh, don't feign innocence. I know you better than you know yourself. Your obsession has nothing to do with love, oh no. It's loathing. For what you did to him. Those sweet little lies of friendship and loyalty you fed him."

Her lips press tight, her features hardening into defiance. It should matter to him not. He will tear down the delusions she has built around that spider - those fragile and wilful denials - one by one, lest her soul be condemned to the Pillar of Skulls.

"You exploited his blind adoration for the so-called 'true soul of Tav.'"

More than anything, he wants to hurt her.

"And that final act - when that eight-legged tomfool finally saw through the charade? You turned his heartbreak into your redemption arc. How poetic. How terribly convenient that his death tied everything up so neatly for you. No loose ends, no reckoning. A tragedy tailor-made to win others' empathy."

And tragedies, well, those are his bread and bloody butter.

Her breath catches, sharp and shallow, as both her hands fly to her chest. Raphael inhales the damp scent of her fingers and laughs voicelessly with a grin. He's lost the battle for seduction, so he slams that book closed with all the finality of a coffin lid and throws the rest of the truth into her face.

"I thought you a coward. But I see now - you're even better. Just an opportunist in worn-out clothes. Brava. Evil won the day." As he leans closer, his smile darkens, and with it the dying light in the room. "Go on, sweet seraph. Let them heap their religious adoration on you tonight. You deserve it more than they know."

He ends the spell and, with a strangled sound, Tav punches him in the chest, shoving him off. The devil obliges, rolling onto the bed with an almost theatrical flourish. She sits up, snatches one of the pillows to cover herself, and glares down at him. Her hair falls in dirty waves across her shoulders. Pulchritudinous, he muses with a wolfish grin. He expects fiery retaliation, a barrage of hot-blooded vitriol to match her molten glare.

But then something shifts across her flushed face. A calm settles over her, unnerving and profound enough to steal the air from his lungs. When she finally parts her lips to speak, he mirrors her, eager - starving - for the daggers she'll surely hurl.

Instead, the pillow slips from her hands, falling to the floor.

Raphael's eyes widen as he watches Tav rise, wordless, her retreat unhurried but weighted. She moves like a battered Nightsong after hard-won combat. He stares after her, brow furrowed, his chest constricted with something he refuses to name.

Still smitten. Still aching. Still hurt.

Chapter Text

Part 1 — Opening

Tav is late.

No, not late - catastrophically late.

The second portal spits her into the Upper City, and she's off, sprinting down the cobblestones with all the grace of a Steel Watch guard in a ballgown. Her lungs burn, her legs ache, and the poulaines in her bag slap against her side with every desperate step. She thought they'd make her look sharp, poised. Now they just mock her because she can't walk in them properly - mock her like he had.

Raphael ... She let him get close. Too close.

A whole hour melt between her fingers because of him. Now, the guards would shut the gates - shut her out - and she'd be stuck outside, glaring through the bars like a sodden waif. Tav, she's running late for a few things in life, for a ball, a family and her instinct of self-preservation.

Curse the devil. Curse herself. 

"Damn you dev-, damn you!" she pants.

Sucks in a breath, the corselet squeezing the life out of her, and snatches at her skirt's heavy hem before its weight slips free again. Running and swearing at the same time? Impossible. Especially when you're sprinting up the spiral stairs around the bloody Temple of Talos just to reach the Ducal Palace. 

Bugger her, this marathon is divine punishment, meted out by gods she's never knelt to - and, oh, she's earned it. May the deity of staircases collapse the next step beneath her and bring this weak flesh to its knees. How effortlessly the horned puppetmaster had pulled her strings, spinning her so fast the world blurred into some abstract painting until there was nothing left but him, her, and that infernal heat in her limbs - limbs that obeyed him. Obeyed him until she lay before him, hand caught between her thighs.

The way he pulled her strings - barely had to lift a finger, and there she was, on fire.

She can already hear him, all silk and smirk without a fault. 

'Yeah sure, 'barely touched,'' she thinks to herself.

It'd be impossible to prove that he'd held her down. Impossible to evince that she'd been under some spell. But she was under his spell. She was ...  

''Barely touched,' was it? Give me a break.'

They've crossed the forbidden threshold named intimacy - so what does he want from her? Everything's a game to him, it seems, as long he's holding the dice.

"Bastard," she growls. Legs burning as she powers up the stairs.

His threats, his posturing - it's all theatre. If anything, he owes her. Hells, he owes her for so many things she could write a book and print it with her blackest tears.

The problem is that no devil would read it.

Not that she has time to think about it now.

Tav reaches the plateau, hair whipping behind her like a battle standard. She staggers against the portcullis, gasping for breath, and launches straight into trying to charm the young gate soldier. He doesn't budge. At least he has the sense to fetch the captain of the guard, who appears chewing lazily on a piece of scorzonera root. The captain, after sizing her up with a faintly amused look, calls for the commander of the watch.

The commander - an officious man with a permanent frown - takes his time inspecting Tav. Velvet dress, worn-out boots, dishevelled hair ... His long, slow look seems to say: "You kidding me?" Eventually, he deigns to raise the portcullis and lets her come through. She's marched to the gatehouse like some common rogue then. There, she's deposited on a splintery bench, the guards standing watch as if she's liable to start flinging spells. Well, showing up armed to the Grand Duke's gala probably didn’t help.

A daring side slit in your dress only gets you so far, apparently.

She sighs and sets to work on her appearance. Replaces the boots with her poulaines and and combs her hair. Thirty minutes crawl by before the news comes: Wyll is still tied up in the ceremony, neck-deep in pleasantries he can't escape. Her escort finally returns with grudging approval to let her through. She's to join the guests inside under their watchful eyes.

So the night wasn't off to a stellar start. The captain of the watch, still chewing on her blackroot, escorts Tav to the edge of the packed reception hall.

Then, summoned back to duty, she abandons Tav there, leaving her stranded without the faintest clue where the buffet is (her stomach is eating itself at this point). Or, more pressingly, the nearest exit.

Tav tries to navigate the throng, wobbling with every step in the flimsy pair of torture devices the vendor had dared to call shoes. She dodges elaborate costumes, the kind that screamed new money, but not before getting a mouthful of feathered headdresses and a handful of stolen petals from a dislodged flower arrangement now tucked into her neckline. She steps on the trains of more than one glittering gown, earning her scathing looks that she pretends not to notice. Perfume, sweat, and, inexplicably, oil paint - she's awash, practically drowning, in a deluge of aromas. Snatches of conversation solve that mystery: the Grand Duke has hung three colossal paintings today, each large enough to double as a fortress gate. The subjects are predictably grandiose: knights on warhorses, a dragon skewered through the chest, and a Netherbrain brooding over a city bathed in Lathander’s light.

She needs a drink, clear her head.

She wedges herself near a railing, finally finding a decent view of the hall. Below, the guests of honour march in, each with their personal fan club - heralds, advisors, possibly a lover or two. They all converge on the dais to shower Ulder Ravengard with bows and gaudy birthday offerings. Wyll stands beside his father, looking infuriatingly perfect in ceremonial finery, a polished rapier hanging at his side. Tav smiles, fondness creeping in despite herself. She wishes he'd spot her, but he's too busy playing the dashing noble. His stunning companion, cradling a dark bundle, must be his wife and mother of his child. The perfect aristocratic family - so glossy you'd think they'd been lacquered.

The parade quickly gets old. Tav ducks out a side door, desperate for some air and refreshment. On the terrace, the castle garden and its walls glow under a sea of lanterns and chandeliers, their light filling the starless sky above. The air's warm - magic, no doubt - fooling every one into thinking it's a summer night.

Courtly parties without blood or blades? A nice change of pace. But the crush of people, the noise, and the stares ... overwhelming. Some gawkers are ogling her scandalous dress; others, the bandages peeking out beneath her stole. Beneath them, the infernal mark of Dis smoulders - a reminder, hot as acid, of what she's endured.

Not that these people care. They're here for the wine, not the war stories.

Tav pulls her stole tighter, muffling a cough as the sting beneath her bandages flares. She feels out of place - her dress too rich, her jewellery too poor, and her whole look too plain next to the walking artworks floating about. Some of the gowns are so precariously designed she half-expects someone's tits to make a surprise debut. It's the kind of tension that keeps you glued, like a good crime story. Of course, that won't happen - anyone dining with Ulder "the Ol' Flaming Fist" Ravengard knows proper etiquette, and where that fails, magic steps in to counteract gravity.

The headpieces are something else entirely. She swears some of these people must have fallen headfirst into a toy shop and walked out with half the inventory. Her favourite? A sparkling ship, fish leaping from painted waves, perched on a noblewoman's head. A druid, mid-curtsy, accidentally spears it with his antlers. Amid frantic apologies and a mending spell, he doesn't notice the dolphin now stuck in his crown. Tav, meanwhile, keeps it simple: hair loose, jewellery cheap, and no dolphins to worry about.

And yet, she still attracts stares. Her! After the sixth side-eye, she notices a pattern: almost all of them are tieflings. Their gazes linger on the crimson dress, then rise to her face, often coloured with confusion.

What do they expect to see?

Tav grins when one gawper nearly trips backwards over their tail.

She heads down the broad steps to enter the castle gardens. Servants flit about, conjuring pavillions and fountains of mead. Tav grabs a metal cup, dips it into a fountain, and takes greedy gulps. Drinking on an empty stomach - always a solid plan. At least the spirit dulls her pain and loosens her mood. 
The garden's winding paths and sculpted hedges offer plenty of places to get lost. She spots the entrance to a hedge maze, lit only by torchlight. Nearby, a sorcerer duo rehearses their acts, and a few actors set their costumes. Maybe even the circus is in town.

'Dribbles would've killed here,' she thinks, raising her glass in mock salute, 'probably literally.'

She drains the wine and strolls on to find one of those pretty tents all to herself.

Behind her, applause erupts, followed by the brassy march of the honour guard. Ulder must have wrapped up his speech; she hears Helm's famously loud temple bell joining the music. The castle doors sweep open, and the crowd spills forth - spilling like wine, like floodwater breaching the banks. Servants, poised and polished, extend trays of champagne and gilded goblets, their movements practiced into something almost inhumanly smooth. The murmur of conversation swells, rising in layered crescendos as nobles carve out the best corners of the garden for themselves.

Tav lingers.

She hands her empty cup to a drow servant with a no-nonsense bun and a sharper gaze.

'Efficient,' Tav muses, grinning as the woman refills the cup almost without breaking stride.

But hesitation has consequences; she has stayed still too long, and now she can feel it - eyes on her, pressing, demanding an explanation for why she is alone. The pavilion is vast but suddenly suffocating, the air thick with the unspoken rules of social gravity. You must orbit. You must belong to someone's clique.

So, she moves, tossing the shawl across her shoulders like it's camouflage and wanders off.

Looking for her friend.

Decidedly not on the prowl, though she lets herself indulge in the stray fragments of conversation she catches in passing. The Sword Coast's elite weave nonsense like gilded threads, gossip spun between sips of wine and half-hearted laughter: someone whispering about someone called Pat Goldfish pick-pocketing people in Waterdeep (she assumes it's their name, because - pfft! - they can hardly mean an actual pet goldfish, now, can they?), another commenting on the aforementioned hedge maze. "What's the point," the female mage gripes, "if it doesn't summon a minotaur or teleport you into existential dread?" Stuff like that.
At some point, Tav cannot help but overhear an elfish paladin theorizing about the mighty battle of Baldur's Gate with the casual confidence of a man who was nowhere near it. Their words set Tav's teeth on edge.  

"The incompetence!" the elf slobs into their mead cup, "Everyone knows brainmass is vulnerable to tickling. A few Mage Hand cantrips under its lobes, and the Netherbrain would have been helpless with laughter - the battle won within minutes, I tell you."

"And the damage! Think of the expenses on reconstruction that could have been prevented."

It doesn't really matter if they are joking or actually mean what they say - both repulses her. 

To them it's a fun tale, not something lived.

Not something clawed through, night after night, long after the fighting and dying had stopped. 

"Speaking of prevention, did you see Lord Bannister's codpiece? It looked like a very sad pear," the paladin continues as casually as discussing a dinner menu.

"Oh, don't start," their human partner offers, "Last week, he claimed it was enchanted."

Tav marches off, disgusted. She needs food.

Part 2 — Major Pieces

The air is still bruised with gossip when the sharp bark cuts through it. Tav stops. It's not just a bark - it's an eruption of joy, a call that thrums through her ribs before her mind can catch up. Her eyes snap across the square.

He's spotted her first - or scented her, more likely. Scratch's nose has always been a miracle. But even without it, she knows he'd find her. And now, he's a white blur against the lights and shadows, his body all motion, his soul all devotion.

"Here, boy! Heel!" calls a deep, female voice. "SCRATCH!"

Tav barely hears it. Her stomach lifts. Something inside her breaks open like a door kicked in. Scratch is barrelling towards her, a comet with ears, the ball tumbling from his mouth as his joyous barks splinter the hush of evening. She doesn't think, just throws her arms up, laughing as she stumbles toward him - behind him, the druid waves her arms in familiar exasperation.

Whoosh! Scratch is mid-leap, legs still pumping, but he's suspended mid-air now. The ball drops from his mouth as he lets out several indignant yaps.

"Tav!? Tav!"

And then she's down.

Flat-backed, winded, a warm, wriggling mass of fur and teeth that somehow escaped Jaheira's spell, pressing her into the earth. His snout is everywhere, wet and eager, drowning her in panting kisses before - ow! - an overenthusiastic nip to her chin.

"Ow - yes, Scratch! I'm thrilled - so thrilled I might die - OK!"

Jaheira's curses snap through the air as a big, towering shadow steps in, prying the overexcited dog off her and hauling Tav to her feet with a gentleness that betrays its strengh. Tav knows this grip. Even before she sees the broad, beaming face through the curtain of her long mane. Bugger her broomstick - it's Minsc!

Laughter ripples through the square, drowning out the disapproving murmurs of the onlookers. The Rashemaar dusts off her stole before handing it back.

Gods, she'd forgotten how enormous he is. Scratch whines, still wiggling against Jaheira's hold. She is - unintentionally? - coordinated with the ranger: both in dark leather, their shared earthiness making them look like some particularly militant druidic power couple. Green leaves glint in her silver braids, while Boo peeks from Minsc's collar like a tiny, watchful sentinel.

"Well," the old druid says, one brow raised in sharp amusement, "let me have a proper look at you. Wyll said you'd be here but didn't mention you'd turn up dressed like a slightly battered queen of the succubi."

Ah, the bone-dry humour, how she's missed it. Tav toasts their reunion with a breathless laugh, her joy bubbling over until a hystercal sob sneaks into her laughter. She bites her tongue to calm down - this moment is utterly overwhelming. 

"I thought bandages would go well with velvet," she quips, grin still stretched wide. But Jaheira's eyes linger - keen, knowing - on the bruised edges of her. Not just the dress. Tav's gaze drops pointedly to Jaheira's leathers. "But thanks for the compliment, mummy."

The old harper snorts. "Bold choice. Whoever crafted that dress knew how to command attention - and stir trouble, judging by some of the glances from the crowd. But then again, you've always had a knack for that, haven't you?"

Tav frowns slightly, but it's clear the question was rhetorical, as Jaheira presses on.

"Speaking of romantic escapades," she continues smoothly, "how's Bartholomeus? Last I heard, he'd set off south."

Tav's grin still lingers - but there's something behind her eyes now.

"Barth was heading to Elturgard," Tav says. "Something about a disaster there. That was two years ago. I haven't heard from him since."

"Ah, yes. Elturel. Sounds like the type to dive headfirst into what's left of the holy city. Let's hope he didn't sink with it."

"He was restless," she explains, but pauses. 'Restless.' The word feels too small. Her tongue catches on the unspoken.

Restless. As if that was all it had been.

"Helm's Hold became too small for him, I guess. After the Nautiloid and all."

Or maybe her grief had become a nuisance to him. She remembers their good-bye. The coldness in his hands. The way he hadn't even embraced her before leaving. They'd turned strangers, somewhere along the way. Once friends, pals-in-arms, later casual lovers, then ...

Never mind. That's the past. Now is the future.

"Boo's stomach rumbles like a war drum!" Minsc declares, peering into his empty cup. "Is there no feast to be had?"

Tav's own hunger echoes the sentiment, and they make their way back to the castle in search of sustenance for their "chompers," as Minsc so aptly puts it.

Inside, they discover a banquet table laden with culinary delights and Tav instantly realizes how famished she is. The fuse of potions she's had is no substitute for real food.
The selection of food is almost overwhelming: On one side, golden-crusted breads and steaming bowls of hearty soups beckon, while platters of succulent roasted meats glisten invitingly. On the other, delicate towers of pastries and desserts shimmer under the candlelight. Exotic delicacies from Calimshan and Chult add vibrant splashes of color, arranged in a fiery display - a playful nod to the mercenary guild Ravengard still favors.

Minsc eagerly piles his plate with wild boar and venison, the rich aromas of their marinades filling the air.

In the adjacent room, Ulder Ravengard dines with his closest advisors and honored guests, but Wyll is conspicuously absent.

Opting for a quieter setting, they move two rooms and a corridor away, finding a space where they won't inadvertently bump elbows. Here, they are among themselves. For a long moment, the trio wanders silently past priceless and magical relics collected by grand dukes and princes of yore, each piece guarded by spectral suits of armor. The lighting seems designed to highlight each exhibit - it leaves the rest of the long corridor in a dim, almost religious haze.

Minsc and Jaheira pause to admire a finely crafted longbow, discussing the type of wood used. As Tav continues down the corridor, savoring her meal and reading the plaques of various relics, she catches fragments of a hushed conversation from the far end. The closer she gets, the stranger the words become.

"The only way to appease my condition is to acquire a powerful magical artifact and absorb the Weave inside."

Tav instinctively slows her pace, ears pricking at the unexpected severity of the man's words, though his tone remains composed.

"It's been weeks since I last consumed an object of sufficient power. I'm weakening, Wyll. It's imperative I find and absorb potent strands of the Weave at the earliest opportunity."

"And now you're asking me to procure such an artifact for you?"

"The finding is already done. Look here, the statue of Oak - well, hello there!"

The two figures step apart, revealing themselves. Scratch, wagging his tail, is sniffing at the hem of one man's robe.

"Scratch, what on Earth are you doing here all alone?" Tav hears her old companion exclaim in surprise. "Where is -"

The pair turn toward Tav, their movements a touch too abrupt to be casual. In their midst stands Scratch, nosing the robe of a bearded man in flowing wizard's attire. Tav squares her shoulders and strides toward the duke and the unfamiliar figure. Wyll's initial alarm melts into a relieved smile, while the other man's expression - cool, perhaps even bitter - remains fixed as he appraises her approach.

"Ah, the evening's radiant star - Tav!"

Unabashed, she smiles at the Ravengard heir, discreetly swallowing the last morsel of her meal.

"Wyll, there you are. We've been looking everywhere, and who finds you? The best sniffer on the Sword Coast - maybe he's in the wrong business."

"In the company of the boldest adventurer on the Sword Coast! You've managed to slip past the guards," Wyll exclaims, as delighted as ever to see her. They exchange a warm kiss on the cheek. "Apologies for not fetching you myself."

"No, no, my fault - life's tough on latecomers," she says quickly, focusing on setting her plate on the illuminated glass case.

Tav's gaze s hifts to the guarded artifact and its plaque: 'Idol of Silvanus, excavated in 1492 by Duke Wyllem Ravengard et al.' She can't help but think that if the Archdruid of the Emerald Grove ever finds out this stolen statue is on display in the Ducal Palace, both she and Wyll will have some serious explaining to do.

'With any luck, that'll be someone else's problem in a century or two.'

As her plate touches the glass, the nearby spectral guard jolts to life, its armor clattering. It glides forward, a pike snapping to attention just inches from her nose.

"Oh dear," the man remarks with the sort of calm that suggests he's mildly entertained, "someone's upset the house ghost."

Tav snatches her plate back, and the spirit subsides. Wyll scratches the back of his neck, looking sheepish.

"Apologies," he says. "My father's tightened security protocols for tonight." He clears his throat quickly, brushing away the moment. "But where are my manners? Gale, this is Gus Tava, the adventurer I've been telling you about. Tav, meet Gale Dekarios, a friend and accomplished wizard from Waterdeep, who studied under none other than Elminster. Gale is an expert in the Weave and happens to be one of Mystra's chosen."

Tav raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. The man might as well have a scroll of valor stapled to his forehead, but for all Wyll's enthusiasm, the man looks anything but thrilled to having to share their conversation with another person. His polite smile has all the sincerity of a second-hand salesman, and she clocks it immediately.

"I've heard much about you," he says, bowing slightly. "Forgive me if I'm less than loquacious - the journey was more taxing than I anticipated."

'Loquacious, is it?' Tav thinks, watching him closely. The words are smooth, but his wavering smile and darting eyes tell another story entirely. He looks rather ill. Like he's fighting off a belly ache.

Curiously, Dekarios keeps talking, as though his manners have suddenly been jolted awake. "I see you enjoyed my deer stew this evening? An old family recipe."

"Oh, did you make it yourself?" Tav quips, her tone light and dry. "Wyll, do your guests bring their own food now?"

Before Wyll can fire back with a retort, Dekarios excuses himself, departing with a haste that Tav doesn't miss. Nor does she miss the brief, charged glance exchanged between the two men. She waits until the wizard is out of earshot before commenting.

"Seems like someone didn't like their own cooking," she says with a sardonic note. "What shady little dealings did I just interrupt?"

Wyll exhales a weary sigh, but she spares him the awkwardness by whistling for Scratch. "Relax, I won't press. Come on, have a drink with us."

They rejoin Jaheira and Minsc, finding a small spot away from the crowd. For the next hour, laughter runs easy between them, weaving through stories of battles and blunders, toasting triumphs that still feel half-imagined. When Wyll's wife stops by - a serene lady of noble blood - the conversation shifts, smoothing its edges, trimming its wilder excesses. Bawdier tales are tucked away in favour of courtly romance, of who wooed whom and who resisted longest. Cutesy stuff. Talk soon turns to their baby daughter - currently fast asleep, the Duchess assures them with a serene smile. Even in the child's absence, Jaheira has plenty of parenting advice to offer, much to everyone's amusement.

Tav seizes the moment to excuse herself, holding up her empty cup with a grin and tottering off in search of more booze and less babytalk.

The night air feels cooler now, brushing against her skin like cool linen. Festivities spill across the grounds in pools of music and voices. The staircases clog with clusters of conversation - because, naturally, people must always gather in the most inconvenient places. Tav murmurs apologies as she squeezes past, setting her sights on the wine fountain - an endless, glistening flow of red, fed by nothing but pure magic.

She takes her first sip and her gaze drifts upward, drawn to the vast, black expanse above. The sky is dominated only by a heavy silver moon. It's beautiful. Fleeting. This night, like all others, will eventually fade. And then she'll be drawn back to the burnt-orange haze of Avernus, where even the air tastes like regret. Perhaps she could stay here. Impose on Wyll and his wife, let their domestic paradise soften the sharp edges of her own. Or she could follow Jaheira and Minsc eastward, lend herself to missions of diplomacy, reconnaissance and battle.

Wouldn't that be an escape?

A true escpape from the life Raphael had so disdainfully called her "petty bourgeois bubble"?

She swirls the wine in her cup, as if the answer might rise to the surface.

'Grow up, Tav. You can't drift through life like this forever.' Her father's voice crashes through her thoughts. A familiar weight of responsiblity. How many times had she repeated those same words to herself over the past three years? Once, before the whole illithid escapade, she'd believed them. She had imagined taking a brief adventure or two, returning home unscathed - perhaps with a modest treasure or two - and settling down. But the world had carved its own designs into her. She had come back a stranger.

And yet, despite everything, she feels incomplete. As if the person she's become is only half of what she used to be.

A sudden burst of sound cuts through her reverie. Drummers. Two of them, savage and relentless, their rhythm pulling the crowd toward the terrace below. A courtier steps forward, voice rich with performance: "Behold! A mesmerising display of Bladesong!"

A troupe emerges, their mirrored bodysuits catching the glow of the flames, turning them into living constellations.

Their blades come alive first - spinning, plunging, slicing the air in perfect synchrony. Magic flames trail along the silver arcs, adding a dramatic flare that earns gasps from the crowd. It's all very pretty and spectacular, dramatic even as the drummers quicken their beat. The finale is downright ostentatious: a blazing sigil of Ravengard's crest, hanging mid-air for a breath, before the shadows swallow it whole. Applause erupts and the bladesingers bow.

Tav claps along, still lost in thought, her gaze wandering to the belvedere beyond. She spots Dekarios, deep in conversation with a female guest. Her lips purse. Ah, yes. The mage who acted so weird. She is about to move on with a huff, when the firelight catches on his companion's face.

Her stomach drops, because, by the gods and their sodding chosen, the fucking cambion's here.

But not the cambion. A woman with the same angular features, sculpted from the same insidious charm, but softer. A femme fatale with gem-covered tiefling horns that glitter like fractured starlight.

A wave of emotions washes over Tav: surprise, confusion, irritation - and, annoyingly, shame. Behind the personified culmination of all her feelings, all shapes and sounds collapse into background noise. The smell of autumn, of spilt wine, sweat and roasted meat, it all dissolves beneath the ghostly scent of sulphur and cherries.

She pushes toward the stairs, cup in her condensation slick hand, squeezing past the crowd. By the time she reaches the terrace, they're gone. A breath hisses through her teeth. Grumbling, she sets her cup down and heads for the far staircase, her pulse thudding in time with the drums.

"Vituperative, my dear Gale! Very adroit," a voice rings out behind her, dripping with smug amusement.

She spins. There "she" is, the devil in a striking blue-and-red dress standing next to -

"Dekarios!" Tav calls, voice quickly cutting through the air.

The wizard turns in surprise, his face clouded with an emotion she can't quite name - embarassment, perhaps? Followed by the shadow of a strange illness she only sees because she overheard his conversation with Wyll. But the moment is gone with the blink of an eye. With a polite nod, he gestures for her to join them, and Not-Raphael's smile gleams, eradicating every last doubt and daring her to take the bait. Tav doesn't hesitate.

"Gus Tava, your timing is impeccable," he begins, pulling Tav's focus from his infernal companion. "We were just discussing the importance of political education among the masses. My esteemed companion, the Countess of Bitterfels, Raphaela ..."

Very very creative.

"... is curious how Baldur's Gate measures up to the task. I was just mentioning a new competitor to Baldur's Mouth - a paper with a rather political bent. The name escapes me ..." He smiles, composed and assured, the earlier strain in his posture completely erased.

Wizard and devil both turn their attention to her - one curious, and one pretending to be engrossed in the whole conversation. Tav eyes the so-called countess, her misgivings barely masked. The devil's outfit is perfect, down to the last tailored fold - striking a balance between boring old pedigree and velvet-clad diplomacy, if one must probe the very fabric of its sartorial brilliance.

She snorts.

Yet as he moves, the light bends strangely around him. For a fleeting moment, she catches the outline of extra horns or the shimmer of something reptilian beneath his skin. A blink, and it's gone.

The silence stretches, and Tav clears her throat. "Ah, yes? I wouldn't know much about it. I'm a Helm's Holdian."

"Helm's Hold!" Dekarios coos politely. "A place that stands for something, though I suspect it isn't exactly a hub of the written word."

Tav barely listens, her attention locked on Raphael again, who answers her gaze with a casual smile - beyond that, his expression is as closed off as a vault with no key.

Then the other one interrupts again, asking her about Helm's Hold's magic, its academics, its cultural flavour. The pointless chatter grates on her, more so because it's obvious that the wizard's just filling time. Raphael seems equally disengaged, his half-lidded eyes betraying mild boredom.

"Do you miss it?" the wizard asks suddenly. "You seem lost in thought. Melancholic, even."

Does she know? Tav blinks, the question surprising her.

"Ah. My apologies," he says quickly, clearing his throat. "I didn’t mean to pry - I clearly overstepped."

Tav exhales slowly. A calculated breath.

"No offense taken," she says, shaping the words carefully. "And yes, I miss my home. Dearly."

She tries to lace them with longing, to infuse the phrase with tragedy that isn't there. Molds it like wet clay, pressing in the right amount of weight, the right shade of sentimentality. A homesick sigh, a soft resignation.

Not that it's true. Not about Helm's Hold, at least. But she can feel Raphael watching her. That sneering stare, peeling back layers with his insatiable hunger for omniscience. As if he could sift through her words and extract what he wanted like a jewel thief rifling through a velvet-lined box. It's so rude. So utterly invasive. But that's what he does, no? Dissect. Interpret.

Bless the hells for infernal reproductive mechanics - of all the powers they chuck at baatezu, at least they skip telepathy, so he's got no idea. No clue that the thought of home makes her stomach turn. That she doesn't miss it, not even a bit. That she would set fire to her past if she could, watch it go up in flames - cheers for the memories.

All he needs to know is that she hates her present.

So she deflects.

"Unfortunately, politically advanced journalism isn't big in Helm's Hold. We could use a bit of that Lords & Laws spirit. I assume that's the paper you meant."

Her tone is casual. Flippant.

But she knows he's still watching. Still searching.

"Yes - yes! That's the name!" Waterdeep exclaims, clapping his hands.

"Ah, Lords & Laws," comes the smooth, lilting drawl beside them, "without question my favourite newspaper: soft, strong, and thoroughly absorbent."

Dekarios blinks, caught off-guard. "You know it, then?"

Raphael flutters his lashes, tone light as air, deliberately vacuous. "Who doesn't? Marvellous!"

"Well, then you'll know the senate's plan to commission someone to write an especially rousing opener for the next issue," the wizard says, warming to the topic. "The aim is to inspire the Gate's citizens to vote for Ravengard."

The way Raphael lifts a brow in faux intrigue pricks at Tav's already thinning patience.

"I didn't realize there was any voting. Good old monarchy and dictatorship - if you catch my meaning."

Dekarios stumbles over himself. "Well, it's not quite that. It's more like cheering votes, rather than, ah, booing votes."

"So, Countess," Tav cuts in, unable to stomach another second of this, "Where exactly is this Bitterfels? Sounds volcanic."

Raphael laughs, and for a moment his true nature ripples across his features. A flicker like heat haze, of anger or excitment, hard to say because it's there and gone in an instant. But she sees it. 

"It is rather transparent, isn't it?" he says smoothly.

"No," Tav retorts. "But if you step into the light a bit ..."

The game is there, thrumming between them, neither of them breaking stride, breaking face. Before Raphael can answer, a voice rings out, breaking the moment.

Before he can answer, the courtier's voice rings out again, calling everyone's attention to the next announcement. The trio, like everyone else, turns toward the herald. A theatrical troupe from the North is set to perform scenes from Ulder Ravengard's life. Guests are urged to gather in the rear castle park shortly.

"That reminds me," Dekarios says suddenly, just as the announcement ends.

Something in his voice is off.

"I need to speak with the young Duke Ravengard."

Tav notices the shift in him: his shoulders sag, and a faint cough escapes his throat - just like earlier in the corridor. 

A pause. A moment where the air seems to thin.

Tav watches him. Watches Raphael. 

"He's still inside," she offers slowly and secretly hopes for a moment alone with Raphael.

"Perfect. I was heading there myself," chimes the devil, smoothly looping an arm around the wizard's - like they are old pals. "If you'll excuse us, we'll be off ... Enjoy your appointment!"

Tav manages a curtsey, her smile miniscule, as she watches them disappear through the doors - one drained and confused, the other as charming as a snake.  

"Devil, what are you up to?" she mutters under her breath.

For a moment, she debates following. Would he really risk facing Wyll or Jaheira? They know his face too well - would probably attack him on sight.

But what if he isn't after them? What if he's after Wyll’s father? Or someone else?

'He's probably just messing with you.' The thought comes unbidden.

Maybe.

However, Raphael doesn't strike her the dithering type. When he moves, he does it for a reason.

"Oh, bother," Tav grumbles as she abandons hesitation.

She moves, following the devil's trail, her pulse thumping a rhythm she refuses to call anticipation. Had she known tonight would involve chasing devils, she would’ve kept her boots on.

Inside, she stumbles into a weapons demonstration by the Flaming Fists. The crowd is thick, forcing her to decide: right wing, left wing, or deeper into the castle. Instead, she slips off her shoes, climbs onto a windowsill, and scans the room, ignoring the puzzled stares. From her perch, Tav can spot every showy hat and sparkling accessory - but no horns. No Dekarios.

"Son of a mong-"

---- Mouse. ----

The whisper glides along her nape like a cold fingertip. Goosebumps ripple down her spine.

---- Little mouse. ----

It's his voice, close enough to feel, turning her head like he's tugging at a silken blindfold that comes off as soon as she faces the right corridor.

And there he is. She shudders.

Raphael winks with casual triumph at her, like a master thief catching the overeager detective on the far end of a crowded room. He blows her a kiss, then vanishes down the side passage, his tail swaying lazily behind him. It isn't even an escape, it's an invitation.

Tav steps down and slides back into her stilts, her movements deliberate but hued with hesitation. She isn't giving up, not yet, but something holds her back, a tangle of nerves and questions she can't quite tease apart.

She navigates through the crowd, brushes past arms, shoulders, the occasional burst of laughter too close to her ear. A flailing hand reaches for balance - she ducks. A step to the right, and she nearly collides with a drow couple, their embrace so charged it makes fabric feel irrelevant. They don't notice her. They are lost - the kind of lost that borders on hunger, and for a fleeting second, Tav wonders what it must be like to disappear into someone that completely.

She never really had that with Kar'niss.

Tav bites the inside of her cheek. Hard. And moves on.

Her teeth worry the inside of her lip as her thoughts revolve around questions whose answers she will only find out if she follows him. The "What does he wants" and "Is it a traps" all repeating while she glides through this sea of bodies, until only one remains afloat: Does she even have a choice?

'Could just alert Wyll,' she ponders, 'or the Flaming Fists - send them to check the premises, let them deal with Raphael without making a spectacle.'

That would be the logical move.

And yet, she doesn't. The curiosity is too much, the pull too strong. How embarrassing she's playing into his hands this way ... That she's playing into his hands so easily, that he's playing her as deftly as ever. That he likely knows she enjoys it—in her own vain, self-defeating way. 

She tells herself it's about the gala. The safety of the guests.

That she follows him because something serious is at stake.

Not because he still makes her chase.

The marble echoes beneath her heels. All her questions prowl down a dark, unvisited corridor, curling into shadows, settling in the corners of her mind. They find their destination at the end of the hall -a rose red door, ajar just enough to suggest invitation. Just enough to promise a secret meant only for her.

The hush here is absolute. Removed.

No one else will come.

She hesitates - only for a breath. Then pushes it open.

Moonlight pools on the floor, soft and cold, finally stilling her thoughts. The party sounds fade to a dull murmur, swallowed by the silence. By the patio doors, a horned figure stands half turned, bathed in Selûne's lunar light. The room itself seems to discolour and quiet before the devil, like an adoring servant.

Something about his ease unsettles her.

A calm too deliberate to trust.

He's awaited her. Yet he does not turn.

Tav scans the space. They seem to be alone - the furniture shrouded in white, the walls lined with dark tapestries. She carefully moves further in, the door clicking softly shut behind her. Watching the devil lean against the doorframe, his one finger idly hooked around the curtain and his eyes fixed on something beyond the window plane. The wizard is, of course, gone - shaken off long ago.

Tav feels that rare tug of insecurity. Like stepping into a room she's walked through a hundred times, only to find the walls are suddenly closer than they should be.

She doesn't know what to do with it or how to proceed.

But then, as always, Raphael does.

"There you are," he greets into the silence. "But, alas, too late."

"Too late for what?" She steps closer still, her soles creaking against the polished floorboards. "Raphael, what did you do?" she asks again. Her question earns her a smile.

"Oh, little mouse, you lied so well," he says, his words feathering into a melancholic rhyme, his gaze fixed out the window. "Why, then, should I be compelled to tell?"

"I have no idea what you're on about."

"And yet you lie again."

Fine. Fine.

"Okay," she admits, arms folding. "Maybe I left out a few details about the time and place of my ... get-together."

From outside comes a swell of laughter and applause, some performance evidently reaching its peak. Raphael either doesn't care for it or finds her excuse more entertaining. He sighs, finally pushing off the doorframe, letting the curtain fall back into place behind him.

"Quite so," he huffs, "your absent-mindedness almost pains me more than watching you totter around in those heels. Though still not as dire as your first-aid attempts."

She halts a metre away, eyes narrowing, trying to catch a glimpse of his own footwear beneath the flowing shadows of his magnificence.

Of course, they're hidden.

"Unless you're hiding six-inch death traps under there, I'd say you're underqualified to comment," she says, lifting a leg to shake the stiff ache in her calf. "I've been one misstep away from landing in some bloke's lap. Wouldn't that make your day, Countess du Bitterfels?"

"You're being dramatic."

Two seconds later, the shoes are off, kicked unceremoniously across the floor. Tav groans in relief, toes flexing, cool wood soothing away the ache. Bending her left leg, she rubs at the offending joint through the slit in her dress.

"I'm serious. Whoever invented these things clearly hated women. Probably thought, 'What's better than a bird on her knees? A bird stuck there because she broke her bloody ankle.'"

She expects another scoff. Something. Instead his gaze catches. Holds. And brightens further as it traces the curve of her thigh before flicking away, too slow to pretend indifference. 

'Gods, get a napkin,' she thinks and let's go of her leg, biting back a smirk.

For a moment, he lowers his eyes, regaining composure, straightening his slim, feminine shoulders. When he looks up again, his burning gaze is locked on something far beyond the patio door. "My work is done, so ..." he murmurs, half to himself, "shall I stay the night, or take my flight?"

"You know, there is a saying: 'Don't send a poet to Baldur's Gate'." She tries for a playful edge to mask the suspicion clawing in her chest.

"A joke."

"But a true one." She sighs. "Alright, you got me hooked. Whose life did you ruin tonight?"

But he doesn't answer. He doesn't even throw her a scrap of context - just a quick, calculated quirk of his lips. Was it a harmless business deal? Or something larger - a political manoeuvre, a blood price for whatever grand plan he's weaving?

Her curiosity twists into something darker.

'His "work" is done. That grin. That short, scheming grin,' something screams in her head.

'He's not telling me because it matters.'

"Raphael? What did you do?"

But he only winks and snaps his fingers. The space where he stood erupts in a small, smoking flame that casts his face in devilish relief for a single, striking moment. Then he's gone, her voice hanging uselessly in the empty air.

She has barely a second to process the rather anticlimactic outcome of their meeting before catching the flash of light in the garden below. Pulling the curtain aside, she sees him - a blur of red and blue moving – hips swaying - across the lawn, heading unhurriedly for the hedge maze.

Come hither, he whispers in a language that only the hunter understands.

Tav unlocks the terrace door and follows.

'It's your moral obligation,' whispers one voice. 'And your vanity,' adds another. She steps into the moonlight, strings and all.

Part 3 — Castling

Whoever designed this hedge maze wasn't interested in confusion - it's clearly meant for cover-ups. Tav has already stumbled past too many whispered exchanges, too many half-stifled gasps and the occasional clumsy grope. She's lost count. The second she catches the sound of giggling or someone gasping like they've just run a marathon, she pivots on her heel and takes the next path.

The maze is stitched with shifting shadow, its winding corridors lit only by enchanted torches that flare to life when someone approaches. Beyond each fragile glow lies an unknowable void, the air thick with the weight of unseen things. She charges forward, her frustration mounting with every wrong turn and flicker of elusive movement just out of reach. The shadows close in.

Or maybe it's just her own damn impatience.

She is so caught in the chase that she nearly barrels straight into the next obstacle.

A rich and earthy scent slams into her first.

Patchouli.

Then, the weirdness of the scene sinks in.

A small wooden table, standing perfectly centered on the path, a lanceboard meticulously set atop it. A man seated behind it - pale, unnaturally so, his stark white hair catching the light in sharp contrast. A pipe rests lazily between his fingers, the smoke curling into elegant, languid shapes, twisting through the air as if time here moves differently. Framing it all are white rose bushes, lush and immaculate. They form a floral border that feels like a mockery of the maze's dark intent.

Tav stumbles to a halt, blinking. A second ago, this path had been shrouded in blackness. The man must have been sitting in the dark. Waiting.

He exhales slowly, sending a perfect ring of smoke spiralling upward that widens over his strange, alabaster features. The entire tableau feels wrong, out of place, and yet too deliberately arranged to be a coincidence.

And worse, he's blocking the damn path.

She clears her throat. Coughs.

"Er, pardon me. I'll just squeeze by," she says, nodding at the gap between his shoulder and the roses.

The man takes another slow drag of his pipe, his expression unreadable. Then, he nods.

Does that mean he's moving?

Another smoke ring curls into the air.

'Nope. Staying put.'

How rude.

With an exaggerated flourish, Tav wraps her scarf around her neck, fluffs her skirt, and makes a point of raising her leg provocatively as she squeezes through the narrow space between his seat and the thorny bushes.

"Care for a game?" he suddenly asks, his voice calm as he glances up at her - past her thigh, still poised mid-air.

Tav freezes, staring down at him in disbelief.

"Uh ... Now?"

He nods, looking entirely unfazed by the proximity of her bare leg, which hovers just shy of his shoulder.

'Well, at least someone here isn't losing their eyes over me today.'

"You'll find a better lanceboard partner than me, I'm sure," she says.

"Perhaps," he replies casually, "perhaps not. But hellish opponents are usually the most intriguing."

Her leg drops as she steps back, freeing her shawl from a thorn. "Hellish, huh? Bit of a vague adverb. Hellishly what? Clever? Good? Anywho, with Hell, I've got nothing to do."

"Ah," his glassy eyes briefly take in her dress, "then you have an exceptionally exotic taste in attire, my lady ..."

"Tav," she corrects sharply. "Just Tav."

"Very well, Tav. Forgive my assumption. That fabric isn't something you often see outside particular circles."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He gestures lazily with his long pipe. "Sit with me, and I'll explain."

"Sorry, but I'm, er, looking for someone - a friend. Perhaps you've seen a tiefling woman with glitzy horns?"

"Afraid not."

Her hope sinks. Raphael's probably long gone, laughing himself hoarse while she fumbles through this literal labyrinth of his making.

"Please forgive me if I've interrupted -"

"No, no, it's fine," Tav waves him off. A reflex. A habit.

Maybe she should turn back. Return to Wyll and the others, report what happened, be done with it. What was she even hoping to achieve by catching Raphael? Whatever he'd planned, he's likely already done it.

"Good. Because I am longing for a friendly chat and a heated game. Are you well-versed in lanceboard?"

Is this a flirtation? Or just aimless small talk ?

Hard to tell.

His reddish, rabbit-like eyes meet hers unflinchingly.

"Fairly well."

"Well, this is chess."

She glances at the black-and-white board. "Never heard of it."

"I promise, it's very similar to lanceboard."

'Raphael would love this,' she muses.

What Raphael wouldn't love is her abandoning her search for him to indulge in a board game.

His ego would implode.

Then again ... the sheer insult of it might actually lure him out.

No, no. That's not why she's here. She needs to figure out what he's up to.

'Raphael's long gone, lass,' she tells herself, 'and just look at this bloke - those eyes are practically begging.'

Ah, Hells.

She hesitates, foolishly.

The man offers her the smallest hint of a smile.

"Ah, do I sense a grain of curiosity?" he probes, voice light and teasing. "Please, if it doesn't delay your search too much, indulge me in a short game. I know noone here, and a little company would be such a joy. I promise to not keep you afterwards."

She gets that. Loneliness is an old, familiar thing.

"A quick round, then."

She offers a polite smile and takes the stool opposite him.

He makes the opening move, and she follows. For a minute or two, they exchange pleasantries, but the conversation soon wanes as the game absorbs his attention. Tav, meanwhile, taps her foot in the gravel, biting her lip to keep from fidgeting.

It doesn't take long to figure out his style. He's a blocker. A cautious player, locking his Elminster behind a fortress of major pieces, constructing layer after layer of defense, like someone who's spent a lifetime expecting siege.

Not ambitious. Not reckless. Not hunting victory - just denying it.

Tav seizes the centre easily but can't breach his lines without significant losses; she throws a couple of her minor and major pieces against his walls, recklessly hoping for the session to end.

'Raph would roll his eyes at this.' 

She can almost hear his disdain: What a dull little game. He's always hated blockers. Called it the most tiresome strategy in lanceboard, designed not to win, but to wear opponents down, bore them into submission and finally into self-destruction.

And wasn't it ironic that he used the same tactic on others in his little schemes?

"So it really is just lanceboard with a different title," she remarks as the pauses between moves grow longer.

"It's nearly identical," her chess partner replies happily. "Mystra and Razor's Edge are called the queen, Elminster and Cyric the king, spearmen are pawns, castle is rook and so on. You get the idea. There's a particular move, however – a one-time exchange between king and castle, here and here."

For a fleeting moment, his passive expression shifts into something more deliberate. His pinkish-red hues glint with clarity, and the unassuming air he carried is momentarily replaced by a quiet authority. A curiously foreign-looking guest, not fitting into the lavish excess of the Ravengard gala. Under other circumstances, she might have sought him out for conversation - drawn to his soothing oddness.

"We've not been properly introduced," she says slowly. "My full name is -"

"Gus Tava of Helm's Hold, Slayer of the Netherbrain and Saviour of Baldur's Gate. I know you, by name at least. You may call me Brother Phoenix."

He nods with a smile, placing his closed lips back on the porcelain pipe. Of course - a monk.

"So, Brother," Tav begins after her next move, "care to enlighten me about your oh-so-insightful comment on my outfit earlier?"

He exhales slowly, the smoke rising in a delicate ring as his gaze drifts upward in contemplation. The sweet, earthy scent lingers in the air, a mixture of aged wood and cold, fertile earth; like the ghost of a forest fire now nurturing the soil.

"I shall indulge you, as you indulged me," he replies, his eyes tracing her bodice - not with admiration, but as though inspecting fine craftsmanship. Tav doesn't take offense.

"Your clothing is nothing but gorgayse, as I mentioned. Austere gothic corsetry paired with a sweeping skirt and a slit bold enough to make even bolder statements. Uncommon in Faerûnian fashion." His tone is even, almost meditative. "More importantly, the fabric is made of infernal silk velvet, patinated with haematite scales. See how they shimmer blue under the torchlight? It must be the work of a master artisan. I don't detect any magic woven into it ... but that doesn't mean it's free from possessive intent."

Brilliant. She's been swanning about all evening in what might as well be a glowing "Property of Raphael" sign.

"And what kind of intent is that?" she asks warily.

He blows another smoke ring, watching it stretch and dissolve. "There's a fine, net-like pattern embroidered in gold. It could reference the God of Fishermen. But, considering the materials, I'd guess it speaks to a very different orison: the Hells' eternal theme of bondage and order, perhaps?"

Silence stretches between them, broken only by his expectant frown.

"Ah, but I don't mean to pry," he adds gently. "I'm merely a good observer. For a mortal, my lady, you seem to have a most generous sponsor of otherworldly wealth. Am I wrong?"

For a mortal, he says, as if excluding himself from the equation entirely.

"You've got quite the eye, monk," Tav replies instead, fixing him with a narrowing look.

His measured assessment is yet another clue that her chess partner is no ordinary monastic.

"I wasn't always a monk," he counters.

"Would it be rude to ask what scandalous life you led before?"

His lips curl faintly as he makes his move, an elegant hand plucking her knight from the board. "Not too scandalous by the standards of my former peers, yet no doubt horrendous by those of my current ones. Perspective is everything. The sinner is no more - only the penitent remains."

"Like a phoenix from the ashes," she quips, her voice honeyed as she deftly rescues her second knight. "With all that penitence, you should team up with the young duke."

"Oh?"

"Well, his days as the Blade of the Sword Coast were on everyone's lips for a while," she explains as he swiftly takes his next move. "And he was, for some time, a very diligent warlock to a devil. He did all sorts of dubious tasks in Zariel's name before we managed to trick him free of his pact."

"How clever."

"Mind you, this is no secret. Everyone knows, foes and friends."

"You've been friends long?”

"Over three years now."

"Ah," he murmurs, his focus on the board as he puffs again.

Tav takes longer with her move, while Brother Phoenix doesn't hesitate for a second, sliding his cleric -  "bishop" he calls it - forward to attack. She bites her lip as yet another piece falls to his relentless blockade.

Perhaps it's better to keep him talking - distract him the way she's currently distracting herself.

"I admit," he says after a moment, "I'm rusty at social graces, and focused on the game. But I sense you have a question, my lady."

"Maybe rusty, but not unobservant," she concedes. "Where are you from? A monastery in the East? You don't seem familiar with Wyll Ravengard's colourful past."

"Indeed. I live beyond the South-Eastern mountains. A place you wouldn't know, I'm sure. The convent life there is quiet, the weather harsh. We get few visitors, save the occasional half-frozen wanderer. No doubt the pipeweed helps warm a room full of bare-ankled monks."

Tav snorts, pressing her own bare ankles together with a smirk.

"Chess is one of the few distractions I permit myself outside my routine."

"I see," Tav shifts her focus back to him. "So how do you know the Duke?"

"I don't."

"Forgive me, I meant the Grand Duke."

"Also no. Your turn." He gestures to the board. "And I'd advise caution. Two moves, and my queen threatens your king."

Tav squints at the pieces. Her Cyric is still well-protected, boxed in between her castle and cleric. His Mystra hasn't made any serious advances yet.

"You speak in riddles," she murmurs, more to herself than him, the comment aimed as much at his cryptic chess strategy as at his answers about the Ravengards.

Her gaze returns to his ivory queen. It's strikingly different from its black counterpart - a horned, winged figure, intricate in design.

'Must be a talisman he always plays with,' she thinks, idly studying the piece he claims poses a threat. So far, he's barely moved it.

"I see my queen has finally caught your eye," he says, breaking the silence. "What do you think of her?"

"She's a looker. A good luck charm?"

"My deity."

Tav raises an eyebrow at the figurine, then looks up at him. "You've got a fiend as a god? Should I be worried you're about to nick my soul, Master Warlock?"

He shakes his head, still smiling. It soothes her nerves - until his expression shifts. For a moment, his monkish calm falters, a glimmer of quiet preeminence flashing in his leporine eyes before it disappears. It makes Tav want to grasp for control over the situation.

"You're a mystery, Brother Phoenix. You don't know the hosts, and you pray to a devil. I'm starting to think you're either fishing for souls or recruiting novices for your convent."

"Possible," he concedes gently. "But don't worry - it isn't yours I'm after. Besides, I won't be staying long."

He glances away, tilting his head as though listening for something.

"There's already another of my kind at this soiree. And two devils at one wedding are one too many."

Tav freezes. "Wait. You're a fiend."

"Don't be alarmed, Gus Tava. I'm not here for you."

She leans forward, her tone quiet but not so friendly anymore. "If you so much as lay a finger on Wyll or his father, I shall - ah, sod it - I'll rip your bloody wings off myself and watch you limp back to your mountain."

"Hmmm. Check."

"What?"

"My queen is about to capture your king," he says smoothly.

Tav stands, the chair scraping against the gravel. "Get out of here, or I'll make sure Wyll knows exactly who's skulking around their gala."

"And you're not going to save your king?"

"The game's over."

She can't help but silently curse herself for leaving her weapons behind. Her eyes range around the immediate area, searching for anything remotely usable. But there's nothing within reach - even vaguely - that could double as a weapon. The tiny stool is as good as it gets. Her gaze falls briefly to his infernal Mystra, and she startles. Somehow, without her noticing, the devilish piece has moved. Now it's in direct line with her Cyric. She stares, baffled. How did that happen? A trick of some sorts.

Brother Phoenix rises, pipe pressed to his chest.

"I do wish we'd finished our session," he says, his tone calm. "Please believe me, it wasn't my intent to alarm you. Here, take my queen as a gesture of goodwill." He takes the figurine from the board and holds it out to her.

"I'm not taking bribes from a fiend."

She doesn't miss the way his eyes graze her dress for the briefest of moments, the glint of mischief in them quickly blinked away. 

"Not a bribe," he clarifies, voice still even, "an apology. And my assurance that your king is safe from her for a little while longer. If you could only deliver a message for me."

"Do me a favour - drop the riddles and say what you mean for once," she snarls. "You'll threaten neither me nor the Ravengards!"

"It's not a threat, as I said. And the Ravengards are not who I have in my sights."

"Well, it's not my chess piece you're hunting. Who, then? Whose soul are you after?"

He bows his head slightly, concealing his face. "As I said, your king is safe - for now. Take her. Please."

Tav snatches the piece swiftly from his hand while his head remains inclined.

"Then speak," she demands.

Brother Phoenix straightens, folding his hands into his wide sleeves like some mockery of a pious monastic. "Congratulations on your Dis coup. The Iron Archdevil has fallen. But heed my advice: there may soon be witnesses far more dangerous than me if he dares to repeat the move."

A chill creeps up Tav's bare legs. A breathless "What?" spills from her lips though there's no mystery anymore about what he means - or who he refers to as king. But "Iron Archdevil"?

The fiend finally steps aside and watches her in silence.

"Leave. Now," she growls. "If I see you here again -"

Her words falter as movement behind him catches her attention. The "Countess of Bitterfels" crosses arm-in-arm with some forgettable frock the moonlit path, disappearing behind a hedge before Tav can even process it.

It sets her rage aflame. Is it all a farce to him, dragging her into this mess? Or is he, as always, several steps ahead, leaving her to stumble in his wake?

With only a grumbled word of warning, Tav shoves past the pale devil and bolts after her cambion.

She stops at a fork, eyes narrowing in the dim light. Nothing but more hedges and endless turns. It seems Raphael has lead her here on purpose, mislead her. Does he even know they are being watched?

Her stomach churns as dizziness sets in.

What exactly did Brother Phoenix mean with "Dis coup"? Did her theft have anything to do with it?

'What if I smuggled something in?'

Her hands move to her abdomen, nauseous excitement rising fast. By the bloody demons from the Abyss, what has she stumbled into?

"RAPHAEL!"

Silence answers her.

Tav heads back toward the Ducal Palace, her stride quickening when she spots Wyll, Jaheira, and Minsc lounging in a pavilion. She beelines straight for them.

"Wyll, Raphael's here. He's roaming the grounds," she announces, cutting through their conversation like a blade.

Their lighthearted conversation about some theatre performer's priceless mimicry of Enver Gortash screeches to a halt. 

"And not just that," Tav continues, ignoring their sharp inhales. "A devil is trailing him - an assassin, I'd wager."

Jaheira, unperturbed, takes a sip of her drink. "Good. Let them deal with that handle head."

"No, no, no!" Tav pants, pacing as she struggles to keep her fear in check. "Raphael killed an archdevil. An archdevil, Jaheira! And now, I think he's dragged me into whatever fresh hell he's stirred up."

Wyll springs to his feet. "Tav, are you in danger?"

She throws her hands up. "I don't know! That Phoenix bloke didn't seem interested in me, but he kept hinting at bigger things. That this wasn't over. That more eyes are watching."

She squeezes her temples as the devil's parting words echo in her mind. 

"'Your king is safe for now," he said, but 'there may be witnesses far more dangerous if he dares to repeat the incident.'"

She collapses onto a nearby stool, her friends gathering closer.

"I think Raphael is planning something again. And when he strikes, it won't stay hidden for long. Everyone will know he's back. And I'll be caught in the middle of it." Her voice falters, betraying the knot of panic building in her chest.

"You need to get out of this contract," Wyll says firmly.

Her laugh is quick and bitter. "I don't know how! Even if I try to break away, he'll just use Kar'niss against me. I can't walk away - not when his soul's still on the line."

"But involving yourself in this mess - infernal assassinations and power plays? It'll get you killed," Jaheira warns.

"No," Tav mutters, though her voice shakes, "it'll get Raphael killed."

"Would serve him right," Minsc grumbles, feeding Boo another piece of bacon.

Tav gnaws her lip, the weight of it all settling heavier on her shoulders. She barely notices Wyll stepping closer until he speaks, his voice low but insistent:

"You're in deeper than you realise, dear. And I think you're lying to yourself about why you're still at his side. You think you can redeem him, don't you? That he's worth saving somehow."

Jaheira's sharp intake of breath is followed by her accusing glare. "Is that true? If so, stop it now. Devils are shadows, child - their very nature is opposition to light. To try and change that is to invite ruin, either his or yours."

Minsc grunts his agreement. "Better to let the devil dig his own grave. Boo agrees."

Tav flinches, bristling despite herself. "I'm not trying to save him. I'm trying to survive him."

Wyll folds his arms, his expression unyielding. "Are you? Because from where I stand, he's pulling you down with him - and you're letting him. All for a soul."

For a moment, Tav feels like a thread about to snap. Then Jaheira's voice cuts through again, calm but edged with steel.

"Be your plans what they will, the risks must be curbed, cub. You already realized that Raphael's scheming is putting a target on your back. Well, now you mustn't let him manipulate you into thinking you're powerless."

Jaheira's words land like a slap, forcing Tav to take a shaky breath. Her voice cracks when she finally responds. "I don't feel powerless. I feel trapped."

The words hang in the air, stark and raw. "I have only the certainty that he won't kill me."

'No, he only wants to see you on your knees, and then some.' Ooh, they don't need to know.  

"Really?" Jaheira chuffs, her tone growing firm. "That doesn't mean he will protect you when it matters. You'll be on your own when his plan unravels."

"The plan's simple," she counters, though doubt creeps in. "He wants dominion over Baator - or at least that's one of his steps. What he failed to achieve with the Crown of Krasus, he's pushing for with brute force now. And he won't wait long to make his next move."

Her mind races. Will he march on Dis, the Iron City? Ascend its throne? Or is he aiming for something beyond that - another Hell to conquer? Surely he can't keep this up all the way to Nessus.

Her fingers slice through her hair.

'But if time's so precious, why is he wasting it at a mortal's birthday party?'

"Enough is enough. I can't, and I won't, let you face this devil alone anymore."

All eyes turn to Wyll as he steps forward, his hands firm on Tav's shoulders to pull her back on her feet. She looks up at him, frowning in confusion.

"I know I've said this before, but forgive me," he begins, his voice steady but heavy. "For not being the friend you needed me to be. But I can do something now. I will make sure you're not fighting this alone."

He exhales slowly, his tone softening. "Your contract doesn't forbid you from having guards, does it? Then I'll assign three of my finest fighters to you. They will protect you day and night. And if you can't leave or communicate, they'll keep me updated on your safety. I won't leave you undefended."

Tav drops her head, wrestling with the idea of being shadowed around the clock. "I appreciate the offer," she starts quietly, "but -"

"You'll take it," the old harper interjects. Her commanding presence fills the space as she fixes the woman with a firm gaze, ignoring the pouty look. "Take the offer. Show that devil that Gus Tava won't be trodden underfoot so easily."

Jaheira signals for Wyll to move and takes Tav's hand in hers. The harper's grip is strong, warm, and laden with unspoken care. Tav feels her resolve waver under the maternal scrutiny.

"We've been worrying about you, cub," Jaheira says softly.

Tav blinks, caught off guard. "You have?"

"Not just since tonight, but long before." The harper pauses, her golden eyes searching Tav's face. "We know things fell apart for you. You lost a friend. A loved one. And then you lost his child. You never told us - not a word. We only found out through Bartholomeus. We didn't even know you'd been expecting."

Tav opens her mouth, but the older woman presses on.

"It's been two years, but I know those wounds don't truly heal. I've lost children too - not by blood, but they were mine all the same. And I know what that kind of grief does to you. It changes you. But you don't have to carry it alone. Not all of it."

Tav exhales shakily, blowing a strand of hair from her face. "Good lords, mummy, you're really going for the heartstrings." She tugs weakly at her hand, but the druid doesn't let go.

"We are your friends," Jaheira replies, her tone unyielding. "And friends don't wait for the 'right time' to speak the hard truths. We're here for you when things get difficult. Now, and always."

Minsc, who's been uncharacteristically quiet, nods solemnly. "Jaheira knows how to make even a mighty Rashemi weep. Listen to her, little snapper. She is wise."

Jaheira softens slightly and tilts her head. "You'll take Wyll's offer, Tav. And expect me to visit soon - I want to see that tree you mentioned at the House of Hope. You said it's grown strong?"

Tav swallows the lump in her throat and nods quickly. The druid finally releases her hand but immediately pulls her into a warm, grounding hug. A second later, she feels larger arms join the embrace -Wyll's noble presence wrapping around both women.  

But then Minsc lets out a ridiculously high-pitched mew of affection, and Tav bursts into breathless laughter, her ribs shaking with it. Thank every celestial for his impeccable timing.

Wyll releases the women and gives Tav's shoulder a final squeeze.

"Now that's sorted," he says with a sigh, "shall we join the evening festivities? I hear there's dancing in the park."

His gaze flicks down to her bare feet, and he winks softly.

The group moves toward the castle garden's dance floor, where the last notes of the night drift on the warm breeze. Tav lingers a step behind, her fingers brushing the chess piece hidden in her dress pocket. Sharp edges. Solid weight.

A reminder of what she's tangled in.

But also of who walks ahead of her. Of the anchor she has, even in the storm.

Jaheira falls into step beside her, her voice low and kind. "You're still thinking, aren't you?"

She smiles faintly. "Hard not to. Feels like I'm always running. Always one step behind, and he's always pulling the strings. A right Little Mouse I am."

The harper hums thoughtfully. "Mice may run. But they also bite when they must."

It's a pleasantry, and maybe that's why it settles in her skin over her chest like a small, piercing hook.

Jaheira - probably unaware of the effect her words have just had - tilts her head toward the moon, expression distant. Tav lets her have the moment. Instead, she looks over to Wyll who is sending a couple of guards off - toward the hedge maze. So he is taking care of things.

That's comforting to know.

"When I visit, there's something I'd like to speak about. And something I'd like to try."

She sends Jaheira a curious look. "What do you mean?"

The old druid only smiles faintly, wise as ever. "In time, you'll understand. For now, enjoy the night. Let the weight rest."

Before Tav can respond, Wyll's voice cuts through the night. "Come on, you two! No devils or schemes tonight - just laughter."

He waves them over as he walks backwards -

And immediately collides with a man, who looks so mortified by the accident that he stammers out apologies to the young duke.

Jaheira nudges her, and they chuckle. "Go on. You've been running all night. Maybe it's time you danced."

Tav exhales.

Then - she lets herself be swept into the flow of people, into the heart of the celebration. A new melody rises beneath the full moon, the rhythm pulling them in.

For a moment, the weight of the Hells fades. She's not a mouse, not a pawn.

Just a woman, turning beneath the night sky.

And for now, that's enough.

Chapter Text

She tried to resist. Really. Metaphorically kicking and screaming. But in the end, it takes nothing more than a "highly thrilling assignment" promising "rare insights" into the sultry theatre of the baatezu to pull her back under his thumb.

Sure, she could lie to herself and say the only reason she agreed is because all she has to do is tag along. But truth be told, it's boredom and a shameless craving for a bit of spectacle that have her jumping through the flaming hoop. Again.

Raphael hands her the written details with that insufferable, patronising smile. They're in his study, now emptier since the freestanding shelves vanished, exposing wall racks that look even more awkwardly bare. Well, almost. A neat stack of books and journals sits suspiciously high up, like bait.

As always, she lobs a jab. As ever, he feigns deafness, herded her focus back to his agenda (ergo the job). And just like that, she's tethered. He stands too close, the scent of cherries and expensive sin thick in the air, saturating her senses until Raphael is all she can register - and any witty remark she had vanishes before it can surface. She clears her throat and unrolls the scroll. Not much else to say about the moment, other than that the mission briefing doesn't exactly soften the blow of losing another round to him.

They're off to Abriymoch, capital of Phlegethos – one of the Nine Hells of Baator. Tav's part? Dutiful servant. Her orders? Silence and obediance, surprise, surprise. Somewhere along the night's descent, she'll find and unlock a door, but that part sounds almost like a side note. He assures her that nothing dreadful will happen. As long as she gulps every potion and straps on every charm he hands her. Just one night, he says. That's all.

One night amid Phlegethos' elite - Hell's capital of hedonism - mingling with none other than Belial and Fierna, the possibly worst father-daughter act since incest became a thing in mythological literature. Honestly, it'd be less tempting if it didn't come with infernal clout, unlimited booze, and (presumably) a fireproof exit. So she tries to find the catch: What's behind this door? Why does it need opening? He corrects her without answering her question – no opening required, per se. Just unlock it. A tiny stealth gig. Practically a warm-up.

"That Phoenix devil could be there and blow my undercover," she prods.

"He must be of considerable rank to earn an audience - which I doubt he is. And if his master is present as well – all the better."

Raphael, calm as ever. Because of course he is.

"As I said, all I need is for you to sneak to the door opener at the back entrance and unlock it. No one must see you, understood? The rings you wear shall conceal and guide you. I'll keep the party suitably distracted."

"Why not Mol?" If it's that easy ...

He doesn't meet her eyes, but draws out the silence between them. His words settle over her like a weight she won't fully feel until much later, when the blood has dried, when the shaking stops. 

"I need someone with stronger nerves."

Raphael has a way of making even the darkest omens sound like a compliment. He shoves a belt of potions and two rings – one of enchantment, one of connection – into her hands and sends her off.

And then, the dreaded evening arrives. She stumbles after him, legs too skinny, feet too flat, spine off-kilter; every step's a wobble like she's seconds from landing flat on her arse or face. The guards – four hulking jocks with spiked shoulder guards and golden pikes – herd Raphael and her forward in large, heavy steps, i.e. too fast, and, again, Tav expects to faceplant at any second. She only avoids total humiliation when she accidentally discovers she can use her imp tail for balance, making the whole slog through hell marginally less hellish.

Right. She's an imp now. That little nugget still settling. The new look is ... taking some getting used to. Her senses are all skewed: worse vision and hearing, but a sense of smell so liminal it might actually drive her insane. Even her brain feels different. Like she's wading through syrup, every thought is too big for the rent-controlled space in her new skull.

Raphael strides ahead like a proper Prince of Hell – crownless, but with his wings tucked in for once, which is a rare sight. She had inched closer to him when they first stepped through the portal into the city, hoping to catch some familiar scent and steady her nerves. But there's no perfume. No essence of roses or cherries. He's infernal decadence personified now: a long black velvet coat flowing down his shoulders like a starlit river, golden devil faces for buttons, and polished boots with toes pointy enough to puncture egos. The base note? Sulfury bitter and unforgiving. His mood, even more so. He largely ignores her, save for the odd snarl urging her to keep up. Tav watches his powerful tail twitch behind him, a massive red threat she must avoid lest it send her sprawling or tempt her into sinking her teeth into it out of sheer spite.

At one point, half-exhausted from this slalom, she glances up from the sinuous tail and falters. A twisted panorama unfurls before her, hightened by her warped sight - colours bleeding into one another, too bright, too wrong. She breathes shallowly; the air tastes like it might bite back.

'Lovely. Abriymoch. Someone clearly thought, 'Hell's nice, but could use a bit more hell.''

Now she gets why Raphael insisted on potions and Bear's Endurance. She would melt without them. The heat isn't just a sensation – it's a weight pressing down on her, seeping into her skin. Every inhale feels like a fight against the city itself, as if it's forcing its way into her body like an unwanted lover. Orange tongues of flame flicker everywhere, like they're part of the city's aesthetics, while the architecture – a charming mix of molten cracks and actually burning buildings that stretch up like they're trying to escape this furnace – does little to comfort her. Above it all loom the glass twin towers: black and aciculate, casting warped reflections that dance endlessly and multiply the sea of fire around them. Tav doesn't dare take a second look, not out of fear, but from a strange mix of dread and allure. The city wants her. Wants her lost in its reflections.

Tav forces herself not to trip as Raphael murmurs beside her, almost as if he's addressing the city itself.

"A crater," he says softly. "What you see is the will of those foolish enough to believe they could tame a volcano. They scarred it, shaped it – and so Abriymoch was born. The volcano, however, was never defeated."

Oh, marvellous. Round of applause. Tav coughs.

They pass through a long corridor, boastfully called the Hall of One Thousand Sighs and Screams, where the ceilings soar so high that endless tiers spiral upwards around them. First, there's the smell. No more ash – just a cloying, overstayed honey that clings to the back of her throat. It worms into her lungs, an itch she can't scratch, the constant threat of a gag. Avernus stank. But this? This wants to kill her from the inside out.

Then, the screams. High, layered over faint strains of music drifting through the endless hall. Galleries yawn open along the walls, each one bleeding a different melody, floor upon floor. Devils crowd the balconies, cheering and partying. However, their ravenous eyes rove the space like secretly bored predators waiting for prey. They sip from crystalline glasses, gossip behind whetted fangs – and every so often, one tosses a body that's lit on fire, or a severed limb, into the void below, and a cackle of laughter swells.

The hall reeks of scorched meat, charred body fat. Horror licks at Tav's face, sinks into her soul. The dead are burning. The dying won't be for long. The memory of it stays forever.

Her vision might be weak, but she's certain some of the devils are ogling her. Others sniff, wings twitching like they smell a lie.

They see her.

Tav's lungs contract.

They'll know.

"They'll see I'm human." The words barely escape her lips.

Raphael's glances, once. Then upright, eyes ahead.

"Shush," he murmurs quietly.

Tav wonders if the atrocities around them stir anything in him, or if he's just one of them, an elegant monster with smoke for a soul. She swallows and it burns all the way down.

"Get behind your dominus."

'Asshole,' she thinks, fists clenched. But she bites down her pride and follows.

The shift is gradual. First, the arches stretch and twist, their curves warping as though something beneath the stone is pushing, straining to be born. Then the pillars swell, fissures splitting open along their surfaces. Thick beads of milky ichor seep out, slow and viscous, catching the red light in a way that makes Tav flinch at first. But the longer she walks, the more the architecture caresses, pressing against her in ways no building should.

The walls shudder. And then they breathe.

A wet moan vibrates through the space, a current snaps through her gut. It feels like the air is thickening with a new kind of danger – sandalwood laced with the sweetness of summer rot in the city. She forces herself not to cough.

'Do not gag. Do NOT react.'

And just as the tension coils tighter – they step behind a heavy curtain and into a dark, secluded salon. That's where the guards leave them. The shift is jarring. Here, thick drapes and plush carpets devour every sound, and a low ceiling, bulging ominously in places, seems to press down on them. The claustrophobia lingers, but the horrors, at least, do not. There's no screaming. No sizzling flesh. No sentries, even. Just devils sprawled across plush divans, lost in lazy drags from ornate waterpipes and murmured conversations. Goblets in hand, they pick at platters of meat.

Tav breathes properly for the first time in what feels like hours.

Soon a crowd of fiends draped in jewels and insignias gather around Raphael, wings overlapping like scaled curtains, while they're eyeing him with pointed curiosity. The room hushes, murmurs fraying into whispers. Tav can't count how many devils crowd the salon's dark corners, but they've all noticed him. Tav wills herself invisible through sheer force of determination. Needless to say, that doesn't work. But no one seems particularly hostile, and more importantly, no one seems interested in her. Taking the hint, she edges out of Raphael's immediate orbit – still the only real shield she's got – and retreats a few paces, no more than a couple of metres, because let's not get reckless. Her heart, though still tap-dancing, begins to steady.

"So, it is true then: Mephistopheles' cion yet draws breath."

The crystalline voice of a female pierces through the room like a silver needle, threading right through Tav's nerves. Cold. Intrusive. She shudders involuntarily, peering around the bulk of winged bodies to catch sight of the speaker.

"Come forth, friend, and let the masters of Abriymoch behold thee," the voice lilts, each word deliberate, precise, and dripping with a languid charm, "– our most resplendent Mount of Leaping Flames."

With a gracious nod to the left and right, Raphael obeys, stepping forward as if born for this stage. And perhaps he was.

Before him stand two colossal figures – unmistakable even without portraits to guide her. Tav knows in an instant who they are: Belial and Fierna. Twin tyrants of not only Abriymoch, but of this entire infernal crematorium known as Phlegethos. Easily three metres or more tall, their skin a burnished shade of sun-ripened olives, they exude a terrifying beauty that makes the very air ripple and waver. Their massive wings are folded behind them, but even at rest, their presence dims the room. The whole space behind this ominous power couple seems swallowed by the shadows of damnation.

Tav finds herself leaning forward, elbows on her bony knees, staring unabashedly.

Fierna's horns, straight as a unicorn's and carved, rise from her high, noble forehead, sleek and black, streaked with faint threads of glittering dust while Belial's are as massive as a ram's horns. Beneath their long, arched brows, smouldering pupils gleam. Though Tav knows better than to make eye contact, she finds it almost impossible to look away.

Something about the pair stirs Tav's basest instincts. A libidinous hunger hums deep in her bones, wants repletion – and where the chalice overflows, these two infernal beacons wait to be worshipped.

The sensation of moisture on her hand snaps her gaze downward. Drool. She's actually drooling.

Subtly, she clamps her bitten lips shut and wills herself to get a bloody grip.

Raphael bows deep, and thank fuck their eyes are on him. Standing in their gaze must feel like a rain of lava.

"Fierna, Most Radiant Sovereign, your might could extinguish even the fiercest of fiery spires," Raphael utters with silken reverence, holding his deep bow. "Yet how merciful of you not to let us freeze from awe."

His eyes lift, lips curved into a delicate smile.

"Belial, Most Exacting Lord, your word is law – sharper than the basalt of Abriymoch. I remain, of course, ever eager to serve whatever whim you wish to indulge."

Tav fights the urge to roll her eyes at the sheer varnish in his tone. She dabs sweat from her brow and scans the room. While her dominus bends so low it's a miracle his nose hasn't grazed his boots, she sizes up the devils and servers flitting about. Absolutely noone seems to carry a weapon – which means exactly nothing when every being present could summon hellfire with a thought.

"Pray, Raphael, is it true that the Lord of Cania now covets thy head?" the Archduchess inquires, her tone like sweet, ice cold peach juice, while Belial's claws languidly trace her flawless skin.

The way the two stand draped around each other, half-clad and unapologetic, is not a line of thought Tav wishes to pursue, yet somehow she can't look away.

"What a delectable notion!" Fierna exclaims, trading an amused glance with her father. "Surely you now rest only with one eye open. I could name at least four archdevils loyal to Cania who would positively salivate for the prize of your miserable soul. Ah, I stand corrected – three. Poor Dispater!"

A ripple of snickering skitters through the room.

Raphael's smile is audible in his voice as he responds: "And I, in turn, can quite imagine why at least two others might be just as keen to ensure that fate never comes to pass."

After a perfectly timed pause, he adds, "But perhaps that tale is best saved for later."

The beautiful Fierna flashes a smile, pointy fang gleaming, and Tav could just melt then and there. With a graceful flick of her hand, the audience is dismissed. The clinking of goblets and idle chatter swells back into the room, plumes of tobacco smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. From somewhere unseen, a muffled drumming begins – more like the relentless thud of a heartbeat than any sort of music. Tav watches Raphael snap his fingers. Once. Then again.

Nothing happens.

He turns, eyes landing on her with an irritated blink.

Oh. He wants her to move.

With an awkward shuffle, Tav scurries over, but Raphael barely spares her a glance, his gaze focused on a spot beyond her like the wall behind her head is far more deserving of his attention.

"Wine."

That's all he says.

She stalls a beat too long. He turns and walks, already halfway into their next gambit before she moves. Settling where the conversation promises to be of a far more private nature. Grumbling under her breath, Tav sets off in search of the wine service.

Her main task for the evening is clear: scout the premises, find the servants' passage, reach the designated door. Raphael knows it exists, just not where. Typical.
Behind heavy curtains and columns lie more secluded, candlelit alcoves, honeycombed like a warren. At the far end waits the buffet – no stairs, no hidden access, just a dead end. Servants bustle silently, filling trays and goblets, never daring to linger out of their masters' sight. Tav scuttles between them, stealing quick glances whenever she can.

Regardless of how often Raphael barks orders – bring wine, bring snacks, bring a napkin – there's barely any time to explore.

To top it off, she has to taste everything first before serving him. Custom demands it. Her lips test each morsel, not for flavour but for death.

"Poisoning," Raphael had said before they left, "is pretty much passé. Everyone brings their own taster these days. It's more of a gesture than a necessity.” Maybe so, but her stomach disagrees, churning with bitterness not from the grapes or marinated meats, but from the seared images of the burning souls outside, their stench branded into her memory.

Her eyes keep drifting to Raphael, now lounging with Fierna and a group of fiends, trading quips over some inane topic. One wouldn't peg this lot for recreational murderers, yet here they are. Raphael, too. Her cambion fits in perfectly, like an ass on a chamber pot. Surely, this sophistication is all an act. Right?

Then again, devils love order. Blood at seven. Philosophy by nine.

"Oi, your dominus wants you," pipes a nearby imp, its grey, crumpled face sporting a few wiry whiskers that, with enough generosity, could be called a moustache.

An impatient snap of fingers commands her to get moving. She scurries forward.

Raphael has joined a group of devils and lounges in an oversized armchair of dark brocade and blackened metal, laughing softly with the other guests. She clears her throat, and he barely glances down, swirling an empty goblet between his fingers.

She reaches. He pulls it back, just to remind her who writes the script.

"The red one," he orders, his tone laced with the kind of condescending impatience that makes her want to scratch out his eyes. "The one that says DRY on it."

A sharp heel kicks out - or maybe the blonde she-devil reclining to his right simply failed to notice her and crushed Tav's flatfoot by accident. Either way, Tav's too busy rubbing her bruised shin to play the obedient servant immediately.

"What ails the wretched creature? Has it sulphur lodged in its ears?" croons a female voice Tav can't place, the enormous furniture blocking most of her view. "Truly, Raphael, thy thrall seems sluggish of mind!"

"Belial, gracious as ever, recently restocked the forges of Tymphalos with a dozen tieflings from the Pit," the blonde one chimes in, as she takes a puff on the hookah, "perhaps this languid soul would find more fitting purpose there."

"Briefly employed, no doubt!" chuckles a devil with a goatee, draped in flowing robes.

"Master Judge, I'll wager three of my finest succubi it lasts no more than three days before the fires consume it," says another with idle cruelty, jeton flipping between claws. He sits sprawled wide-legged, his doublet undone nearly to the waist, baring a leathery chest adorned with gold chains, and a rather unmissable bulge beneath his belt.

"Two days, before something else devours them," replies the first, purring like a cat. "I shall wager my verdict in thy next tribunal for that."

"A sport of it, then."

Tav catches Raphael's tapping finger; she takes it as a silent warning to get the fuck out of here.
Flushed and fuming, her shin throbbing in protest, she limps back toward the buffet. Even among higher devils, harmless conversation doesn't seem to last long. Violence and profit remain the seasoning to every exchange. And she's right in the middle of it. It makes her ears ring.

'Well, that nearly went tits up,' Tav thinks, grabbing a fresh goblet and shoving it under the wine tap with a sigh.

Just then, out of the corner of her eye, she spots a house imp slipping behind a curtain in the wall not far from the buffet. A brief, cool draft brushes past her and she looks up. A secret entrance.

Bullseye.

Before she can savour her discovery, another servant jostles her for dawdling at the wine cask. She steps aside, eyeing the steady flow of servants bustling around the buffet.

'No bloody chance I'm sneaking through that unnoticed,' she thinks. And even less chance no one would realise she's gone.

She scuttles back to Raphael's chair leg, goblet in hand, waiting for his holy gaze to fall on her once more. The conversation has drifted to something inconsequential, it seems.

"Music's enchantment lies not merely in its charm," Raphael muses, his gaze languidly sweeping past Tav and his tone just as prissy, "but in its quiet tyranny – dissolving the fetters imposed by lesser arts with effortless grace."

"Thou givest art too much credit, Raphael," scoffs the goat-bearded one. "Music's purpose is but to offer the working mind a fleeting diversion, so that it might return with doubled resolve to the state's grindstone, spinning, toiling, and enduring its lot. As it must."

Raphael's eyes lock with Tav's as she deliberately, almost theatrically, tastes the wine. Did he catch her wink? Did he see that she's found something?

When the devil with the chip hums in agreement, Raphael looks away, smiling faintly at the circle.

"Quite so," he hums, ignoring the offered glass. "Listening to music steeped in the distasteful trend of atonality - that dissonance, which might well be considered the vilest remnant of our original sin and something to be eradicated with all due fervour - is an unfortunate endeavour. A worker's mind is forced to think about what they hear, rather than simply being diverted. And what good is that, when their purpose is to return to their duties, fully rested, fully obedient?"

He pauses as he gets mumbled acknowledgment from the group. Then adds with a modest nod, "However, even the most common modulation - say, from tonic to dominant or vice versa - can feel foreign, grating, even intolerable at times. Best to do away with such discord, wouldn't you agree? Clear the path for more fitting harmonies."

"A curious contradiction, cambion," purrs a smooth voice. "Do we banish dissonance or familiarity?"

Raphael's fingers lace together, elbows resting lightly on the chair's arms. Only then does he reply, measured and soft. "Bad habit, my lady. That tedious, ceaseless refrain which never once resonated with our true nature but has long dictated ironclad diversion. That is what ought to be silenced."

Murmurs flare. Tav, still holding the goblet, watches Raphael's profile intently. He sits back, silent, letting the others debate. She catches Dispater's name, hushed and only once. Only then she realizes that they aren't talking harmonics, but hegemony. What the hell is he playing at? Why expose himself?

'He hasn't even caught on to my signals yet.'

How in all nine circles is she supposed to get his attention?

"Speaking of distractions," comes the unmistakable, honeyed voice of Archduchess Fierna, each syllable a languid caress that halts every conversation mid-sentence, "I daresay our dear cambion's mind already wanders. Shall we proceed, then, to the evening's next delectation?"

Tav holds her breath, watching Raphael rise stiffly. Has he drawn suspicion? What's the next delectation? Why is everyone leaving the room? No, no, no - he can't just leave her! Panic bubbles up, but she quickly defaults to her best dim-witted minion impression and hurriedly toddles after the group as they file through another curtain nearby. With a languid gesture, Fierna summons a servant and dismisses the rest, including all other guests except for their small group. The salon empties.

Had Raphael anticipated this change of programme?

Well then. Fantastic!

As the six of them step into the draped, black-padded chamber, clothes start hitting the floor. She freezes, horrified, as breasts, buttocks, and - oh Hells - other very upright body parts appear, making her cheeks flare with hot, mortified colour. The crimson glow mercifully conceals the more veiny specifics. She's already sweating rivers under her disguise, but now it's positively unbearable.

Fierna, gloriously bare and hairless like the rest of them, lounges on the floor, legs artfully splayed, crooking a finger with the authority of a queen expecting fealty. The first suitors crawl towards her. And just like that, the room collapses into frenzy.

Tav's seen her share of depravity, especially on the rare occasions she braved Baldur's Gate's darker corners. But Baatorian group sex earns an immediate place in her "Once and Never Again" drawer. And that drawer? Locked, double-bolted, chained to an anvil, and sunk to the bottom of the Chionthar. Sure, some of it isn't far off from what you'd find in the Gate's seedier pleasure dens - bodies tangled together, voyeurs lingering at the edges, a bit of sado, a dash of maso. But there's no tenderness here, no teasing caresses. Only violence that'll slice skin. Moans twist into shrieks, cushions darkening beneath writhing bodies. The slap of flesh turns to tearing sounds that churn her stomach.

No foreplay. Just brutality.

Tav shuts her eyes, heart pounding against the cage of her ribs. 'Send me away. Send me anywhere but here.'

But Loviatar's cruel whip must be wrapped around her soul, because something about it sticks. It creeps under her skin. She feels it, warm and unwelcome.

'Maybe I'm already dead,' she thinks. Her eyes snap open just in time to see Fierna's claws carve down a devil's face, his bloated cock still gripped in her other hand. 'Maybe this is the hell Raphael promised me. Maybe he rises from this sea of flesh and picks me next - just like in his vision.'

The thought chills her more than the scene before her.

Fierna yanks and the eye bursts free, hits the floor with a wet bounce, and rolls across the floor and behind a tangle of limbs. The devil's scream curdles the air, blood spurts from the empty socket, mingling with the room's filthy tide.

If she's not dead, then this must be a fever dream. A bad one.

Tav swallows against the coppery tang coating her throat. Devil tails lash back and forth, more frenzied with each passing moment. So much about Raphael clicks into place now: devil sex is a battle. And Raphael is no anomaly in this. She might even feel sorry for him - if the barbarism unfolding before her didn't stir something so wantonly primal.

'What the fuck is wrong with me? Why do I feel this way?'

She should be revolted. And she is. Yet ... Tav clenches her fists between her thighs, holding herself still. She steals a longing glance at the exit. Useless. The soundtrack, the stench. It crawls under her skin, curls deep in her belly, making her all velvety. Her body aches for touch, shuddering at the devils' violent pleasures. She searches for him, unseen, watching the things he does and doesn't do. Because even here, it's a vicious game of clawing and picking. She hears the biting remarks of the two she-devils who refuse to lay with him. He's "only good from behind" and no master of "gender-blended pleasures."

His "cock useless for females".

"We heard the stories!" groans one, mid-thrust doggy-style beneath Goatbeard, who's simultaneously busy pleasing Fierna with his tongue, despite missing an eye.

"Indeed, we heard the stories!" crows another, bouncing wildly atop the devil with the casino jeton, her long yellow braid whipping around her head like a deranged windmill.

At first lost in the frenzy, Raphael rises from the writhing sea of wings and limbs like a shadow demon. Tav's eyes grow wide.

His arm lifts, all muscles tense up.

And, suddenly, the swing. A blow harsh enough to hear the bones crack. 

Whatever he strikes collides with the blonde's back, sending her tumbling from her mount. Her spine locks rigid as she crashes face first into the cushiony floor, her body twists in agony. Raphael moves without haste as his hand snakes into the dark tangles of the other she-devil, fingers fisting around a horn. Tav clamps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide on his weapon.

The fire iron rises. Falls. Again. Again.

Metal pummels flesh, a rhythm that drowns out every pleasure moan. Until one final blow drives the rod clean through her gut, pinning her to the ground like a moth on a spike. Blood every where. Tav bites her knuckles to smother a squeal.

But noone cares. The male devils are dragging themselves to the archduchess, rutting like beasts.

Tav risks a glance. Raphael kneels over the motionless she-devil, shoulders heaving. One hand grips the iron, the other braced against his knee. For a moment there's nothing but this still life, blood, and him.

Then the blonde strikes, lunging from behind with a snarl, claws flashing.

He doesn't flinch.

Raphael straightens, swift and unbothered, and flings her off like she weighs nothing. She hits the floor with an oomph!, and he is on her, swinging the iron again, once, twice, ready to end her, too.

It is a pure knee-jerk reaction, when Tav jumps up with a shriek.

That's when he halts and stares right back at her. His expression hooded. She doesn't know if anybody else is paying attention but right now she needs him to stop.

'Stop.'

And he does. 

His boner long gone, interest abandoned. The fiend under him whimpers in pain. Without looking down, Raphael tosses the bent iron - viscera still clinging to it - at Tav's feet. His voice, when it comes, is rough, quiet, cutting through the din like a sabre drawn slow from its sheath.

"A bigger hook," he rasps, "and more wine."

Hard-faced. A wall of disgrace built around him, rage still simmering behind it. Tav wastes no time. No glance at the devils. Just turns and bolts.

For a while, she simply functions. Slipping unchallenged into the servant's corridor, she descents deeper into Abriymoch. Can't believe how smoothly it's going. For one, every soul not involved in the orgy has been dismissed. The buffet's been stripped, the salon scrubbed spotless. No staff in sight. Only the wine Raphael asked for remains, but that can wait until she's back.

For another, her simple imp brain just follows the call of her ring - a soft chime in her ear, growing louder as she nears the door. What Tav first mistook for a panic induced tinnitus is unmistakably magic. A beacon. She suspects now that the "connection ring" is part of a set. A matching ring. Meaning, its twin waits near the door.

These enchanted trinkets sell for good coin but they are largely useless; most end up separated, lost forever.

But a matching ring meant Raphael had another ally in play. And that meant she was about to give that ring-bearing hand access to the tower. A smuggling job in Hell. Again. Figures.

She tiptoes past kitchens and cellars, unseen as a mouse, while infernal chefs hack screaming ingredients apart and sluggish workers grunt over card games. As she descends further, the screams fade. No cries of pleasure or agony now. The air cools. Part of her wants to drag this out - anything to delay returning to the bloodbath upstairs. Preferably never go back. Sod Raphael.

Tav dares a deep breath. And feels the fist of horror clench in her gut. What she's just witnessed. What she must return to.

'How much more of this can I stand?'

What if Raphael doesn't make it? The thought hadn't even crossed her mind. What if neither of them makes it out alive? Maybe hurrying is wise after all.

'It's the air ... something's driving us all mad.'

She felt it, too. Abriymoch is a madhouse where even the sane go bonkers.

At the tunnel's end stands her cursed destination: just a plain wooden door, the kind you'd find in any dungeon - clammy, heavy wood and an iron latch. She slides it open. It clicks. Then clicks again and finally RA-TA-TATT, as if an entire clockwork mechanism has been set in motion. The lock's off now. Her ring thrums. Whoever's waiting is RIGHT BEHIND that bloody door. Of course, Tav knocks.

No chance in the Hells she's opening it, though. A meek "Hello?" through the wood will do.

Silence. And that damn magic ringing in her ear, bound to give her real tinnitus soon enough.

Nope. She doesn't need to know what's on the other side. Doesn't need to meet the assassin or walking plague destined to take out Belial and Fierna. Heart pounding, she sprints back, counting the seconds. How long has she been away?

She forgets the fire iron, but grabs a carafe at the buffet stand, slops in the wine and hurries toward the hellpit.
Just as slick-blooded Fierna and her lord father stumble out of the boudoir - tongues locked, giggling as they leave the salon. Tav barely manages to keep her face from contorting. Even Orin, mad as she was, had standards.

She bows deeply as they pass, grateful for her quick-witted alibi in liquid form. They don't pay her no mind anyway.

Inside, the scene has shifted. Something almost like silence only disturbed by a quiet sucking sound. Goatbeard lies still, his face buried in the gaping wound of the devil he impaled, her claws hooked deep into his horns even in death. The blonde devil sprawls nearby, motionless, her body slack with exhaustion, or worse.

As Tav sneaks in, Raphael grabs Casino, the last active participant, by the throat and shoves him away. Casino scrambles up, snatches the carafe with a snarl, splashing wine over her in the process. The punch of blood, piss, and sweat hits hard. She stifles a gag, throat aching, every instinct screaming at her to flee. It doesn't matter if Raphael had anticipated this massacre or if it's standard baatezu procedure. Only thanks to a foreign, impish stupor, she steps forward into this picture of a slaughterhouse.

Her eyes catch Raphael's from across the room. A quick nod his way: "Let's go. Clean up, get dressed, and get out."

His infernal skin glistens, the fluids indistinguishable in the dim light. Claws rake through his hair as he rises. Tav blinks, all fuzzy and dumb. There it is again - that unsettling echo of the devil from her vision. That flaming stare, impersonal and dark. But now, there's a crack in the mask - something raw and reckless, teetering on the edge of losing control. He saw her signal. He still hesitates.

'Come on, old man.' Her tail taps impatiently. 'Wrap it up. Time to trot off.'

His snort is almost amused. Almost. Just then, the bitterness leaves his expression, followed by disbelief, and then - something completely different. Hope. Hope! Fragile and wondrous, wide-eyed and utterly unguarded. Tav feels her cheeks redden. Damn him. She still thinks there's nothing more magnificent than the cambion looking genuinely surprised. And for a moment, Tav dares to hope, too. Mission accomplished.

But no. Raphael stomps forward, seizes the blonde who's still sprawled belly-down in post-coital oblivion, and, slumping down, positions himself between her legs. He's panting. (Why the fuck is he panting?) His hand dips to his crotch. (What the hell is he doing?) Promptly, he slicks his half-mast with the blood seeping from a gash in her thigh, then locks eyes with Tav as he sinks in, smooth and shameless.

A thief's parting gift to the house he's robbing blind.

Heartbeat up again, Tav looks around - for intruders, for approaching danger, for the exit - and when all that moves are Raphael's hips and the she-devil's buttcheeks, she gulps. Agony. This is agony. She should recoil, should rage. But in this pit, what's one more violation? She stares, resigned, waiting for him to finish. Whatever he's planning tonight must be monumental if this is how he chooses to gloat. But she can't help but feel a faint burn in her chest.

'That's how you get laid these days, huh?' She pours all of her energy in to make him see the contempt on her face. 'Unconscious or not at all?'

He thrusts instead, and she almost sneers at the sheer audacity.

'Fine. Whatever.' As long as it makes him stop murdering people.

But then she hears it. A low gurgling from beneath him, a pleased sigh rising through the thick air. Tav freezes. It's not her imagination. Her eyes snap to Raphael. He leans forward, claw on the ground.

"How do you want it?" he purrs, eyes locking onto hers, the molten ring in them daring her.

He's still riding his high, his every movement slow, a torment, all for her. Draws fresh tension, his need, his darkness, aimed squarely at her.

"Like this?"

Tav rips her gaze away. She won't give him the satisfaction. He bows his head with a long, shaky exhale.

"It'll happen again, you know it will," he whispers. "So why not make sure this useless thing works?"

Her face glows at the confusing blend of arrogance and self-irony. There are cracks in this new Raphael that surprise her, but they still come thickly wrapped in bravado. It's weird and bewildering and pathetic in a way. Yet her eyes drift back, drawn inescapably to him. He tilts his head. Their eyes meet. His wide and searching. The sudden intimacy crashes over her, warm and suffocating. It leaves her weightless and untethered.
He's waiting. For her. For a command she never thought she would have the power to give. But if it gets them out, if it frees her from this place that shifts between Abriymoch's monstrous grin and the sweet rot of temptation - (with Raphael always the worm in the apple's core) -

'Fine.' She dives headfirst into the abyss. He wants to ruin her. She might let him.

Tav crouches, raises a hand in a terse signal: "Stroke her."

She doesn't expect him to listen. Devils don't do tenderness.

'Ignore me. Mock me. Please. Like always. Don't give me what I ask for while you're ...'

But after three quick heartbeats, he does. And whatever relief she felt fades instantly. His pace drags. Claws slide over skin, trace the spine, then fist the braid. With a slow pull, he wrenches the devil's head back, arching her limp body, until her wings droop like that of a dead bat. His hand closes around the throat. A grip that could be a verdict. Raphael's gaze finds Tav over the devil's shoulder, watching how her eyes jump to his rolling hips, to the obscene bulge warping her belly as if something inside is about to tear free.

"Like this?"

A shiver. Her lashes flutter. A hoarse, impish "Fingers."

The she-devil drops unceremoniously to the floor. Raphael's hands hover, poised to slash.

A sound escapes Tav, sharp and involuntary. She shakes her head. "No, not like that."

He pauses. Eyes slit toward her. His grin spreads slow, predatory - that loathed grin she's weak for. His claws click in the air, tough as steel nails. A low chuckle rolls from his throat, barely caged if you don't know him. A leathery twist. Claws retract, their shape blunting into human fingers. Tav exhales, unaware she held the breath at all. Raphael scoffs at her relief, then drags the devil back to him, slipping those human fingers inside her with practiced ease. Even now, he watches Tav. As if he studies every expression, the colour of her cheeks. It obviously amuses him, darkening his smile for a fleeting moment before he tilts his head with wolfish curiosity: "Better?"

She's just holding on to herself. Kneading her hands, resisting that spot where a swarm of excited little tingles is buzzying through her depths.

The way he moves. He could move like that with her. She nods, too eagerly.

His free hand slides lower, sinking between firm cheeks, slicking itself in the mingled grime pooling there, and then pushes in. Deep. It's filthy. It's repulsive. But with Raphael, disgust always tangles with something more complex. Of course he's into anal. She bites her tongue, intrigued despite herself. Wonders how it feels, how he makes it feel, as his thumb goes deeper and the she-devil moans - a low, drawn-out sound she can't unhear. His touch grows impatient.

Then there's a motion at the edge of her vision. Raphael's eyes shift, widen. Tav feels it too: the heat of infernal talons scratching against her throat. The ground yanks away. A jolt. A scream. Just like that, she's airborne, legs kicking uselessly as she dangles. There's a face inches from hers, slick with sweat.

Ah. Casino. She'd forgotten him entirely. His offensive odour hits her face and claws into her sinuses.

"May I, cambion?" he growls with a feral grin. "I'm famished."

Jaws gape wide, a black cavern ready to devour her whole. Fangs level with her belly. He doesn't wait for Raphael's answer. He's going to eat her. Right here. Right now. But Raphael promised. He promised nothing would happen to her, and Tav clings to that promise like a lifeline, suffocating, heart pounding. Because the devil keeps his promises.

She hears more than she sees.

"Fool." His voice cuts through the haze.

Then, heat, a flaming mage hand, slamming into Casino's side before gripping his tail. Tav drops, wheezing. Raphael reels him in and, quick as a serpent, rips out his throat. Blood sprays hot and fast.

"All scream, no scheme," he concludes, mouth wet and crimson - and keeps fucking. Casino, on the other hand, sinks to the ground, shredded; It takes a minute or two until the blood from his artery slows to a trickle and, finally, ceases. Stillness.

"Imp," Raphael splutters roughly. "Eyes on me."

Dazed and wide-eyed, she finds him. Her dominus, still buried inside that godsdamned body, driving slow and deep. But his eyes are on her - only on her.

She's acutely aware of the chit's quickening whines (so much for her jibes about his prowess). Damp strands cling to his brow, dripping dark as he leans in, fingers trailing between slick thighs. His burning gaze never strays from Tav, tail tense and stiff in the air. He's close - she recognises that look. That ring of fire in his eyes. That determined "watch me win" look of a runner at the finish line, victory within reach.

Tav arches a brow, glances at the female beneath him, and shakes her head: "Not good enough."

Raphael groans and stops in his hasty dance. "Fuck you." 

She can basically see it written on his forehead. That death threat in his eyes. And yet, he stays still, trembling, tension threading through every muscle, barely held in check. Presses his nose to the chit's shoulder, breath ragged and fast. His working hand is rutting frantically into her now, and Tav's just waiting for his wrist to finally snap.

The she-devil jerks, twisting beneath him. His eyes latch onto hers, bright, unblinking. "Witness me."

"Come on," he snarls, voice fraying.

"Come - on. Give it to me."

Teeth sinking into her flesh with a ragged sound, more frustration than pleasure. The she-devil spasms violently. Comatose or not, climax hits. There. Hopefully, it won't wake her up. He pushes himself up into a straight position and exhales, chest huffing, wings flapping, and Tav imagines how that infernal body must be clenching around him right now. He looks back at her and wipes the sweat and blood from his face.  

Wanting.

Clear and raw. He begs without a word.

Only then does she realize, she's gawking, slack-jawed like a dimwitted creature. She swallows, straightens and gives the smallest nod.

It's all he needs. His grip bruises the hips beneath him as his own snap forward. Fast and technical. One strangled gasp - and he ruptures, spilling with a hiss between his teeth. A few final thrusts, a long exhale - then he withdraws. The room hums with nothing but his labouring lungs, and, gods help her, her own faint whimper. Tav clamps her lips shut to silence the pathetic noise in her throat.

"Imp."

A snap of his fingers yanks her from her stupor. He cleans himself off, conjures his clothes, and signals for their departure.

As they leave Abriymoch behind, Raphael is covered head to toe in blood, gore, and fluids best left unnamed. Even his freshly donned clothes can't hide the stench. He doesn't speak. He never looks back.

They step through the portal, and as they reach Hope's threshold, Tav tears off the ring of enchantment and turns fully human again. Even now, he doesn't spare her a single glance. Just strides down the long, echoing corridor with Tav trailing beside him, following him to the boudoir. She's tethered to him, unable to let go. Not after what she witnessed in Phlegethos. The guards Wyll assigned to her are instantly there, too, but they're irrelevant. Useless. They might protect her in the event of an attack, but they can do nothing to protect her from the filth clouding her mind. The overwhelming, undeniable proof that she wanted him while he did those heinous things to an unconscious person.

"Why not Mol?"

"I need someone with stronger nerves."

As if hearing her thoughts, Raphael finally glances her way. No towering giant now, not like in Phlegethos, but still two heads taller. She peers up at him. And sees something familiar in his face. A wall taller than any in the world. Unscalable. Built for survival. Her own.

His smirk is just a flicker. Her deadpan glare, a shadow.

A moment of pretense. Then gone.

Chapter Text

The clothes in the room are far and scattered - her dreadful rags he'd very much preferred gone the minute they entered the boudoir. She still wears her own stuff around him. It is beyond him why anyone would treat their body with such disregard. Now, at least, she looks as she should. Sprawled between his legs. Belly down. Sucking him off.

They'd returned to Avernus both hot an bothered. At first, the stench clinging to his own skin had drowned out everything else. But the moment Tav shed her disguise, her scent reached him in waves, heady and overpronounced, like a courtesan's perfume applied too liberally. With the only difference that it's neither artificial, nor foreign. It's hers. The want. His gaze had found the bruises darkening along her throat, the shape of another devil's hands still fresh against her skin. It seemed to be smarting, because she was rubbing it constantly. His brave little mouse.

She had looked back at him. Triggering a little possessive tweak in his guts.

She'd waited, like his shadow, as he dismissed Hope, who had greeted them upon their return, swiftly ensuring that everything was in place for Mol's return. When he headed toward the boudoir, she'd followed him just as silently. But he heard her wordless plea nonetheless. Claws of an internalized scream that scratched at the back of his neck. Tav was still under Abriymoch's harrowing spell.

They hadn't spoken on the way. There'd been nothing to say in front of her new entourage; a paladin, a ranger, a swordsman. Ravengard's pathetic provocation, as if three mortal hench(wo)men in his house could be anything more than an insult.
They'd reached the threshold of the boudoir, where the magic wards denied them entry. There had been muttering - an annoyed protest from the leader of her little pack. Then, at last, she said: "Relax. I'll be back soon." A mother soothing whinging brats she was about to leave infront of a shop. He'd smirked as he shed his clothes and slipped into the pool, ready to drown out the murmurs nad the ever-playing magic dulcimer. Longing for the embrace of the quiet. For a second of nothing in weightless suspension.
Then, from the depths, Abriymoch surged back. Muffled at first, then swelling quickly. Death screams, male, female and the likes. Woven through with the exhausting prattle of the elite that droned on about art and order while, outside, breathing flesh burned.

Raphael surfaced with a sharp gasp, bursting water from his nostrils as he exhaled. Pink mist billowed around him before the basin drank it down, as it did with all filth. Even the worst stains did not linger here. Soon, neither would Phlegethos' flaming capital pit of hedonists. Provided Mol placed the artifact correctly. He simply needed to ignore the screams. The death.

Behind him, movement. A sigh, a rustle. Tav. He ran a hand through the water - manicured fingers breaking the surface. Ah, he'd forgotten about his still mixed shape. Beneath his human nails, dark crescents of dried blood, stubborn. Like the images in his head, the voices, the smell of death.

'It never used to bother you.'

He'd done what needed to be done. And everything else, the filth, the echoes, the copper beneath his nails, would wash away.

Chapter Text

The next day, he asks about the urns. Whose ashes they hold. Her parents'? The drider's? Of all things to fixate on, he chooses this.

On her winding path to Hope's alchemy lab - down below, near the dungeons, where the cleric's never seen and the air hums with something ghastly - she tries to slip away from the ravenguards Wyll assigned to her for her own safety. It's a wasted effort, though, because suddenly, the house's former master manifests before her with a jet of light, hands neatly clasped behind his back. Before she can entertain the idea of turning on her heel, the metallic clatter of her three ever-diligent minders closes in behind her. So much for slipping away unnoticed.

For some reason, Raphael seems displeased - his regal eyebrows carved into an angry angle as if he's just caught Tav rifling through his desk. Really, the cambion speaks a language of scowling that's universally understood but mastered by few. In a patronisingly sweet tone, he asks where she's headed and she mutters something vague about having lost her way. He gives her a wolfish smile and, with a step into her stride, he offers to accompany her. The decision is his, not hers.

They pass a series of heavy doors, their iron-bound wood hardened with age. One of them, she thinks to recall, leads to the cavern where she and the gang fought the two beholders. What a fun fight that had been. For the briefest moment, she considers detouring, stepping through if only to see if the place is still as she remembers it. But the silence between them is so oppressive it pulls Tav away from the thought. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches the faint movement of his jaw working - a small, unconscious stress response. Which is odd, isn't it? They're only walking down a hallway, moving through the deep buzz of some machine below that grows thicker with every step downward. Raphael must've fed the turbines the soul coins. That's why the fortress is moving.

Is that why he's here? Doing maintenance on the boiler room?

Then, as though reaching a decision, he breaks the silence.

The way he does it is strange, misplaced. She could do without it. And, of course, he picks a subject she has no interest in discussing. Least of all in front of an audience. Perhaps he doesn't care, or perhaps this, too, is deliberate.

"So why the other urn?" he asks again.

Tav hadn't reacted at first. She could keep feigning distraction, pretend to be deeply invested in the change from marble to coarse stone underneath the soles of her shoes and let the question pass unanswered. She could even act as if last night had never happened. But Raphael isn't one to let go once he's got his pedicured claws in.

"I can hazard a guess about the first," he muses. The corridor yawns open into a vast, windowless hall, the kind designed to either scare unwanted visitors away or, more likely, to imprison them; the green glow of magic flames burns in spiked iron chandeliers, their light casting long, restless shadows across the flagstones. It'd be the perfect workplace for someone disturbingly ambitious as the Moonrise's alchemist Araj Oblodra.

"The drider, surely. So new, so pristine. You must have polished it every day, didn't you? Dwelling on the ashes of the dead, mourning in that obsessive mortal way." He tilts his head as if considering. "That much is obvious. But the second one ..." A pause, a deliberate gap in his cruel words. "That one's mysterious."

Oh, lovely. A guided tour through the wreckage of her personal life. Just what she was in the mood for.

"It's for all the poor souls we watched burn alive." It should be for the last bit of honour that died that night, now that she thinks about it: Hadn't saved anyone. Instead, she took part in a tasteless sex orgy that bordered on noncon.

The shame. The SHAME.

He sighs.

Tav veers sharply as she finally spots the small side chamber where the natural materials are stored. Piles of leather in various cuts and finishes stack up inside, and thankfully there's barely enough room for two people. The ravenguards stay posted at the entrance. Only Raphael's still right on her heels. While Tav busies herself inspecting the goods, he leans against the worktable, arms crossed, watching her with idle amusement.

"Starting a new hobby?"

"Picking up an old one."

"Mhmh," he hums, half-engaged, and then, as if he were merely indulging a passing thought, "I couldn't help but notice you went through the trouble of keeping both urns out of my sight. Someone of significance, then. Another pet, perhaps? The urn looks remarkably new, too."

She exhales sharply, the irritation audible, and she can hear how it tickles his amusement. 

"Why so sullen? Am I not the one wounded by thy secrecy?"

He looks positively hurt. "To think you'd dare withhold from your ever-devoted confidant. Such treachery."

Raphael shakes his head in mock theatrics. But he only reaps an eye-roll of exasperation, so he drops the silly act. "My guess was not meant to provoke. Quite the opposite. You've always had a fondness for the animalistic. It is, after all, why you invited the fox into your home in the first place."

"Invited," She lets out an indignant gasp.

"You let me in, did you not?"

She scoffs, dragging her fingers over the hides to test the grain, the thickness, the flexibility. But her hand moves too roughly between she layers, distracted by Raphael's voice prodding and prying at her thoughts.

"Be that as it may, I do wonder - has there been another curious little creature since the defunct spider menace? Another beast tucked away in this charmingly sentimental mortal fashion you seem so fond of? Or was it, perhaps, one of your guardians?"

He doesn't find it charming, he finds it pathetic. She can tell. It makes her defensive.

"I love my parents," she says, then, quieter, "not that you'd understand the concept."

She lifts a promising skin onto the lab table for closer inspection. Cowhide, thin yet supple - perfectly prepared. But before she can study it properly, the surface in front of her darkens. Raphael's shadow unfurls over half the table.

She doesn't need to look up to know he's watching, tracking the way her fingers skim the leather, measuring something unseen.

"Love," he echoes, voice dropping low. "Tell me, when was the last time you paid your father a visit? Before you came to Avernus, I mean. Do you even know if the old man's still well?"

And then, just as she registers it - just as it dawns on her with wakening outrage, that the fiend has likely been watching her for far longer than she ever realized, he adds "Mouse, when I ask a question, I expect an answer."

Tav's gaze locks onto nothing, trying to parse the shift in his tone. There's a weight to it now, something that nearly borders on a threat. And all this - just a single sleep cycle after Abriymoch, after he'd made her forget so sweetly.

"I don't," she admits at last, hoping he'll let it drop. "I haven't seen him in over a month."

There. He probably knew already, but that doesn't stop the evil inquisitor from savouring her confession - hells, relishing it. 

She can hear the smirk in his silence.

"And you?" she counters. "How's your father?"

"You'll have to try much harder than that," he sneers. "I'm not the one pretending to love his guardians."

Tav lifts her head to look at him, and naturally, he doesn't retreat. Naturally, he remains standing too close, forcing her to lean sideways against the table's edge to keep the necessary distance while meeting that freshly shaven face.

Shadows linger in the hollows of his still-gaunt cheeks, settle beneath his eyes.

"Figures," she remarks, letting the word hang for a moment before adding, "You've got the look of a runaway, not a son."

His smile falters, curdling into something else for a second. Something dark and manic.

Suddenly, she's glad the guards are near.

On this not-evening, after rolling up the leather she'd found and tucking it away, after drawing the thick brocade curtains and sinking the room into its usual twilight state, Tav lies sprawled in her grandiose bed, staring at the ceiling. Her fingers slip beneath the hem of her shirt and skim over her skin. Despite her bath, she still feels sticky, the grime clinging in places she can't quite scrub away. In the dip of her navel, she can feel the fine grit of it; hell sticks to her like a barnacle, no matter how long she stays under the water.

She idly traces the puckered spot beneath, the way she sometimes does, while her thoughts churn through the day's events. Phlegethos. The burning people. That moment of surrender, when she was in his arms. The rush of it, the heady pleasure of watching his desperation unfurl the second she denied him. And, just as persistently, today's conversation loops in her head like a trapped fly under glass. She sees it now: Raphael's disdain for mortal rites isn't scorn so much as sheer alienation. He may be the child of a mortal woman, but he has no concept of impermanence. Maybe he's never had to let go of anything in his life. Never buried a little birdy, never lost something that wouldn't come back. 

He's an Prince Immortal among a world of princely immortals, and even when someone in his orbit is reduced to a lemure, well, they're still there - in some form, in some festering hellscape. Reunion's always an option. Maybe loss, for a fiend, is just an inconvenience: loss of rank, wealth, a stronghold here, a strip of land there ... And perhaps that's why the baatezu don't feel empathy. Tav is no scholar of infernal culture, but her first and second impressions have held up well enough: they don't care because they've got nothing to lose. They are just tired of each other. Same old devils, same old tricks. 

Her fingertips graze the long scar. Sixteen centimetres, left to right, and she traces the full length of it - unhurried, with the same deliberate precision as his voice that collects in her thoughts.

And really, why would Raphael ever need to hurry? He's got eternity. His hell isn't going anywhere. Neither are his grudges.

Chapter Text

It won't take much for the brickwork to give in, to give up. The walls to tumble, the roof to come down. All the plaster and dust will go spinning, worm their way into his lungs. Unbelievable, really, how his master keeps whoring him out for meetings like this. The air smells of mould, piss, and that metallic-sour trace of hunger - like the kind you find near sickbeds, just before sepsis sets in.

But more than anything, it's fucking cold. There is a hole yawning in the wall, and the only thing that keeps the chill outside is a torn curtain that flaps in the wind like a ghost caught in the door. Haarlep wraps the coat round his belly and digs in his pocket for a tobacco stick. The three-legged stool he's perched on makes his arse ache. Everything in this one-room ruin reeks of mortal misery. Just sitting is suffering.

"Didn't even spring for a bloody door, did you?" he mutters, and after a few pulls, gets the smoke lit. He exhales in the direction of the deceased house owner who's rotting on the straw mat. Less than half a tail away. Looks like the body's been there a while, nothing left but leathery skin stretched over bones. He grumbles, looks away from the mummy, and eyes the pot now steaming on the table.

Huh. That wasn't there before.

"I saw the heavens spew forth their children. None did weep."

Haarlep's gaze snaps to the corner. There, crouched like a moulded idol, sits a grey figure with short ivory curls and eyes as bright as arterial red. Glaring at him, finger nails clacking. Goosebumps run across his skin - from draft or dread, or perhaps both. Sweet Asmodeus, how did that get in here? 

"When the angels fell, the flies sang first," it murmurs.

He clears his throat, straightens a little. Throws the corpse a sideways glance.

"Looks like no one could afford a doorbell, either," he mutters, pulse still thudding in his ears. He brings the tobacco stick back to his lips.

The not quiet fiendish not quite angelic figure rises slowly, its forehead almost brushing the ceiling and stretches its wings. As much as it can. The scarlet feathers cover the "doorway" and the only window in the room, and so the space they're in turns to blood and shadow. Sulphur is in the air. The stench makes Haarlep's left eye twitch. A feather lands on his nose. It burns like damned Avernus.

"I greet thee, tanar'ri," says the stranger, fingers pressed into an inverted triangle before his chest. "My mistress, the Lady Zariel, expresses gratitude to thy wondrous dominus."

Haarlep shrugs. "The Lord of Cania has sent his statement clearing him of the archdevils' murder. What more do you want?"

"Forgiveness for the suspicion cast upon him. Zariel understands - she dreamed again." You don't say, he thinks. But as the herald bows, and the wall of feathers behind him shifts with the movement, the rest of the sentence follows. " ... of a garden filled with molars of misdeeds."

Always with the riddles, these Erinyes. Haarlep shivers under his tarp, but forces a somewhat crooked grin. "Is that so."

The figure lifts a hand, long grey claws flicking once - and the pot on the table starts to bubble. Haarlep leans forward, stool creaking. The broth is full of teeth. Most bounce at the bottom. Three float on the frothy surface, gold but corroded. He frowns. They watch in silence for a second or two.

"My mistress seeks the source of all this ache," the messenger finally sings softly, "that which glitters was once found only on thrones. Who knows whose tooth shall next be drawn."

"Bit of a crown crisis, huh?"

The smoke's out, but he still brings it to his mouth. The envoy lowers his hand, returns his fingers to that stupid triangle.

"She shall investigate. Lord Mephistopheles is bidden to join. His wisdom in the Dark Weave would be ... invaluable."

"I'll pass it on," Haarlep chuckles. As if Mephistopheles would chase leads for Goldilocks.

Heavy silence follows. The herald stares him down from above, while Haarlep just offers a lewd grin, almost like an offer (he's too cold to flirt, though). Eventually, the red-feathered fiend relents; it steps back, folds into the corner again, wings close to its body. A shadow spreads over it, and only it. The room brightens slightly, light leaking back through the dirty window. The black hole in the sky outside comes back into view.

"Shouldst thou ever seek another master, lust demon," the now faceless voice says and it seems the whole space is still listening with bated breath, while Haarlep already knows what's coming, "Zariel forgives loyalty, if it ends in her hands."

"Not on offer, sorry," Haarlep drawls, chewing the end of the dead roll-up. Yearning to get out of here.

"But thy head. That may soon belong to another."

All that's left in the corner now is a shadow. It could be a burn mark, if it didn't look so solid. "Wait ... did Zariel see something? Am I in danger?"

He doesn't blink. Doesn't even twitch. But the herald's gone.

Just soot on the wall. And silence. Only the low, hungry rumble of the Abyss remains.

Chapter Text

0. Sleep

Strange, how she still manages to go to bed with a semblance of routine, even when she doesn't feel remotely tired. Stranger still that her internal rhythm seems to have synced with Hope's watering schedule. Whenever that magical pulse washes over the greenery- trees, ivy, potted things - Tav, too, is ready to turn in. Practically automatic. You could say the plants and Tav have become girlfriends with synchronised cycles; the only difference is that Tav's actual period has been absent for weeks now. But really, no need to panic. There's been the stress, the infernal time zone nonsense, and it's entirely possible she just miscounted. Lots of plausible reasons. None of them particularly alarming.
By her own rough estimate, based on her time in the Avernian lowlands, she only needs to rest once every Torilian week, and even then only for half the usual span. Then again, these are all guesswork figures. Especially when Jaheira's RSVP arrived two full sleep cycles after the Ravengard Gala. Makes her wonder if she's either miscalculated or if the clocks have been sprinting while she wasn't looking. Time in Avernus doesn't move. It dwadles.

Which brings her to a rather economic aspect of it all: she really should've handed that cowhide to someone in Faerûn, not to one of Hope's leatherworker contacts. The leather straps for her new whip would've been done by now.

'Damn it. Hope the shop's still standing. And solvent.'

"Taa-haaav."

She groans. Gods, that voice again. Just the kind of purr that pulls her straight out of a thought spiral, that's been puncturing her sleep. When Raphael calls her name with that hint of sultry menace, it doesn't take much to make her bend over for a punishing slap. At least in her dreams. But before that particular fantasy can gather momentum, the dream-boudoir peels away in a wash of fire and smoke and replaced by the grand inferno of the foyer. The soul pillars are still standing. There he is, in the centre, the radiant bastard. And there she is, kneeling before him, a whip around her throat.

It's exactly how it was back when she beat him. Only now their roles are reversed. This time, Tav lost. Her companions are dead. Kar'niss' contract vanishes with a snap of his fingers, sliding neatly back into one of Raphael's filing systems. The devil, glowing-eyed and horned to the rafters, grins wide and holds the whip taut.

"I caught you," he declares, triumphant, weaving a net with the other hand.

'Go on then, let me hang! Show me what you're really made of,' she snaps, using what breath she has left, though each inhale feels thinner than the last.

His face begins to shift strangely. Not into a monstrous shape, but into something human. She catches fragments: Wyll's white eye, Jaheira's brows, Minsc's grin, Hope's tears.

Then she's hanging.

The whip curls around her joints, binds her torso, suspends her mid-air. And it wouldn't be the worst sensation, really, floating like this, but for the figure below: a hybrid of friend and fiend, smiling up at her exposed form with far too much recognition.

She's starkers.

Oh, no.

They'll see it.

She can't name what it is, but dammit, they'll definitely see now that she's not wearing the trousers.

"Hold still," his murmured command traces her nape. Claws settle around her waist, long, careful, perfectly capable of cutting her if the mood takes him.

And beneath her, the scene plays out. The one she's tried to forget all these years. Only now, she watches from above, not from the shadowed doorway of the boudoir where she once stood, unnoticed, frozen.

Nothing is hidden. Flesh strikes flesh. The rhythm hollow. And above it, the unmistakable sound of Haarlep's moaning - louder, somehow, than her own strained pleas.

"No, let me go!"

This time she can't shut her eyes. Something makes her look. Second after second. The devil defiles the dead woman again, pushes in like a machine, the veinous, C-curved penis slotting into a slack throat that twitches only from the force. Behind him, dressed in black and studs, the incubus rocks himself forward and back along Raphael's tail.

No no no no! NO!!!

She shakes her head, furiously, but her eyes won't move. They stay locked on the corpse. Which is no longer a woman b ut a tiefling, faceless, burning.

At her ear, his disappointed sigh: " You just can't keep still."

And then -

Tav wakes up.

1. Waking

Jaheira's first reaction, upon spotting the devil deep in conversation with the dwarven cleric, is something between a freeze-frame and a battlefield tableau: charged, poised, and thoroughly coloured in stormclouds.

Her elven eyes instantly fix on the pair emerging from another room form the other side of the corridor, the sight of them so averagely civilised, that it seems to rattle her more than any display of open hostility. She must've known what she was walking into at the House of Hope, and yet the perfect image of mutual coexistence clearly stuns her. Both hands go to her staff at once. 

Tav steps in quickly.

"This way, please," she murmurs, placing a hand on the druid's shoulder, guiding her out of Raphael's stare-zone before anything can spark.

He notices the newcomer mid-stride and falters ever so slightly. Sends her a miniscule, formal nod. While Hope waves a "HEY, FRIEND!" with a suppressed squeak. Jaheira simply looks one second away from hexing Raphael on the spot.

Tav steers her into one of the tea rooms they keep for exactly this kind of visit, neutral ground, upholstered respectability, though not before an unspoken standoff of glares passes between them. Simultaneously, she can't help but register Hope's posture, the angle of her body turned just slightly toward the devil. Reading things into it again.

Before the Harper can peck out the fox's eyes, the door is closed, and Raphael is shut out. Physically, at least. Only then does Tav realise she's out of breath. She tears her gaze from the door and turns to face the room. Magic chandeliers flare to life, as they always do as soon one enters a room in the house. For a moment, the old druid stands there like a statue in the spotlight, staring into the baroque emptiness, gloved hands clenched around her weapon. Not a word.

She'd been there for the battle, three years ago. She’d dragged Hope out of Raphael's clutches, fought him and his baatezu army, witnessed the full horror of his threats and that grotesque confession he made to Tav. Together, they'd defeated him. Killed him. Burned him down to bones. To now see him alive - walking, talking, entirely unmarred by scars (though Tav knows better) or chains or even so much as a muzzle - must be a shock. That, and the far more disturbing fact that two of his former main targets, Tav and Hope, seem to orbit him like moths to a flame. She wouldn't blame her if she turned on her heel and left Avernus right then and there. For a moment, it looks as though she might.

While Tav rushes to the little bar to prepare tea and a plate of biscuits, there's a clatter behind her. By the time she turns around with the enchanted teapot, water already boiling, she sees the Harper drop her staff loudly onto the tea table, expression darkened to a thunder as she starts unlacing the leather bracers on her forearms.

"So. It's true, then," Jaheira says, almost jovial, slapping the long gloves down across the staff.

"That he's alive?"

"That you let him live."

"Hope's deal is her own business. And you've heard my story already," Tav replies, setting the tray down and beginning to pour.

Jaheira waves off the tea and sinks into the nearest chair. Every movement she makes is laced with matriarchal indignation.

"Leaf water? Bring me something stronger."

Tav glances at the drinks cabinet. "We have wine."

Jaheira follows her gaze, then lets out a grim laugh. "Of course you do."

One thing's certain: she's not going to make this easy. Tav lowers herself into the chair beside her, eyes on the metallic staff, and tries to shift the conversation onto safer ground. With a cleared throat, she asks how Minsc's doing. Whether this is just a short visit or if she plans to stay a while.

Jaheira visibly reins herself in, frowning. She answers with professional reserve, explaining that she intends to study the local flora for a few days before heading back again. Setting up a base in Hope's abode would be convenient. Provided there's room, of course. Her tone is clipped, her shoulders stiff.

Then it's her turn to prod. She inquires about Tav's personal guard detail. Tav explains they've been dismissed for the day, so she could meet with Jaheira uninterrupted.

"Sounds to me like they're useless."

"On the contrary,” Tav says, "they've managed to keep the hallway chit-chat with Raphael to a tolerable minimum. Other than that, there's not much need for bodyguards in the house. I only take extra blades when I head out alone on one of Raphael's missions."

"And when does he send you out again?"

"Today, tomorrow, the day after," Tav sighs, shrugging as her finger runs along Jaheira's bracer. Worn, but the leather's still stiff as oak and well-greased. Ah, not the ideal thickness a whip requires, though.

"No one knows. Probably not even Raphael."

"That sounds utterly arbitrary. He punishes you on a whim."

She purses her lips. Yes? No? "I don't think the missions are meant as punishment. But I do think he genuinely has no masterplan when it comes to me."

And yet, the thought gnaws at her. What if she's wrong and she's literally the lamb being led to slaughter? What if all of this - every order, every silence, every glance - is a test?

"Sure, there's a plan: a "swift and brutal" goal, he said as much," she thinks out loud. "But the things he sends me to do? Too random. My guess? He's hauling me along on his road to victory because everyone else bailed, not because I'm part of some grand design. Certainly not because I matter."

"If he were truly without direction," Jaheira cuts in, "truly without purpose regarding you, don't you think you'd have noticed by now? Listen to yourself. You're floundering. You're about as focused as a broom under a novice enchantment."

"A weird comparison, but admittedly ... Maybe I am."

Her gaze drops to the worn, scratched staff on the table. Gods only know how many years of service it's given its stalwart owner. Countless battles, some waged in secret, others in broad daylight.

"I don't run a post office - I lead revolutions." It had been the second time the cambion had used that word. Revolutions. What kind? Overt? Covert? The sort that end with archdevils exploding into ash?

Jaheira clicks her tongue and shakes her head, eyes down briefly, clearly taking a moment to digest. Then, with a sharp inhale, she drags Tav out of her thoughts. "You know the saying - where a devil's true power lies: not in his pacts ..." Her sharp elven eyes lock with Tav's. "Look. All that he has - it is in your power; only you don't dare stretch out your hand against him."

"It's complicated."

"Try me."

"I don't know what's wrong with him."

"What's wrong with him?" the druid snaps. "What are you now, his mother? Try finding out what he's planning instead."

"He's different now."

That gets a sardonic laugh from her. "He still strikes me as the same conniving brat he always was."

"Outwardly, yes. But ..." Tav leans in, lowering her voice a touch. "Jaheira, if you spent more time around him, you'd notice it too. It's like -" Her eyes wander the room, unfocused, and in that moment of hesitation, they catch on the orange filter that seems to hang over everything in Avernus. It stains the light, muddies every colour: the blue of the seat cushions, the green of the pastoral painting above the fireplace. "It's like daylight slipping behind your back while you're reading. At first, you don't notice. But then you feel the absence creeping in. And the more you strain to make out the words, the more they blur."

She shakes her head, knowing she sounds ridiculous.

Well, it can't be helped.

"It's all in the details, you see. But the closer I look, the fuzzier he gets."

Jaheira is unmoved by the metaphor. "And why should we bother?" she asks.

A fair question.

"If it weren't so deeply tied to the core of who he is, I wouldn't, believe me," Tav begins. "If I didn't know him, I might not even notice. But I do. Raphael and I, we go back. And while he covers everything with his usual flair, I see it, more and more: the mask doesn't fit like it used to. He's lost the bravado, grown bitter. And the so-called plan, whatever it is, feels half-baked at best. Not clever enough, not, er, elegant, I guess. He's drumming through the world like the consequences don't apply to him. It's chaos. Carelessness."

"A careless devil would be a dead devil," Jaheira interjects. "Raphael didn't claw his way up to power by whimsy and foolish gambits."

"He's got no power. No leverage," Tav says, and while so a new thought forms in her mind, "Most of Baator's archdukes think he's dead - I know that for a fact. Mephistopheles apparently kept it hush-hush that his son made it out of Cania alive."

A strategic advantage, squandered the moment they entered Phlegethos. Tav shakes her head.

'How many fiends saw his face?' she thinks grimly. 'How many heard that little not-so-subtle murder confession?' All that's left now is for him to drag her name into it.

"Look at us," she adds, voice dropping. "He doesn't even care that I'm sitting here discussing him with you. He's too busy prancing around at some audience full of fiends, none of them remotely trustworthy. If he carries on like this, whoever's after him won't need a map. They'll stroll right through the front door." She fills the silence with a shake of her head. "It's almost as if he wants to get caught."

"You don't say."

"That, and ..." Tav holds back for a second. Rubs the back of her neck.

"Other things. He's acting different with me too. Used to be all either lanceboard tactics or world domination talk - strategizing only, no mix-up, all posture and professionalism. Now he indulges. But it's all over the place: hot one moment, glacial the next. I mean, yeah, I know he's always had that fixation with me, but -"

"Hot?"

Tav blinks. "I meant amiable. You know. Less murdery."

Jaheira's hawkish stare narrows. "So, not his enemy anymore? And what does that make you? His court jester?"

Tav lets out a dry laugh. Raphael had called her something like that once, hadn't he?

"Pffft. Yeah. That's a word."

She's starting to feel like the dumbest person in the room. Just like back then, when they stood toe to toe, arguing over the fine print of her gilded leash:

"If the whole point is to punish me, what could I possibly do to make this pleasant for myself?" she'd fumed.

"You know full well the wide array of meanings ‘punishment’ can take," he'd cooed.

That look he gave her - positively searing, as though he wanted to ravage her right there and then. The same quiet violence that had surfaced when her hand lingered on his throat. When he vanished between her thighs. She can taunt him all she wants. Call him dull, depraved, over-seasoned with ego. It never matters. Not when he decides to pull. That look always tips the world, tips Tav, sideways. And, Gods, hasn't she already fallen off the edge? He's fucking caught her. He dares call her a traitor and opportunist and she still fucking stays. Raphael would insist it was the other way around, surely.

Tav bites the inside of her cheek. Tastes blood.

"Say it, Tav."

She shifts uncomfortably, but she's hint-goaded the elf too much already. Her hand clasps Tav's wrist, her gaze heavy with that same impossibly patient yet wholly unforgiving look she always wears when interrogating extracting the truth. 

"If not an enemy, then what?"

"I thought you a coward. But I see now - you're even better. Just an opportunist."

Tav yanks her hand out of Jaheira’s grip with a sharp shake of the head, leaning back in her chair. She'd rather study the armrest than meet the druid's gaze. It's well done.

"He tried to seduce you, am I right?"

The answer fractures before it forms. Did he? Not quite. Raphael doesn't seduce; he simply removes obstacles. Language, clothing, rationale.

Her ears are so warm.

"He - he did - we ..."

"You what?" Jaheira's eyes widen, and suddenly the dirt under Tav's fingernails is infinitely more interesting than the look on the elf's face.

"Tav. You didn't. You did not -"

"Tymora's tits, don't make me say it. You know."

"No, no, I don't, you silly girl, and I won't unless you spit it out."

"Pfft! He and I ..."

She sighs, dragging her gaze up to meet Jaheira’s like it physically pains her.

"We had, uh, relations."

A pause. Long enough for her to see her friend doing the mental math.

"It was a night back in the Gate, ok? We'd accomplished a mission, we were high on it - adrenaline, battle glow, bit of wine. Probably too much wine."

She waves a hand. "Look, the mood was stupid and wired and one thing lead to another. Alright?"

That lie won't send her to the hells. She's already there.

"You slept with him."

Tav tilts her head, lips pressed into a line for a second. "Not so much 'slept' as, uh ..."

"Silvanus preserve me."

"I know. I know. This is a very vulnerable moment for me, and I'm so glad I get to share it, free of judgment, with my friend."

"Judgment-free? You bedded a devil! Child, the contractual implications of this union!"

Jaheira practically gasps for air, and Tav catches herself wondering whether Raphael's dribbled climax on his own chest even qualifies as "union".

"Legally speaking, there are none."

"He's got you wrapped around his little finger!"

'Or I've got him,' a voice whispers.

'Don't question it,' another adds.

"That's why you're defending him. You are just as maniacal as Raphael," the Harper groans, her face twisted with revulsion. "He's brainwashed you - put a chain on your vulva!"

'Nice. That's in my head now.'

"Well, how disappointing, Tav. Very disappointing."

"Did you even listen? Raphael is changing. Something's happening to him."

"What! Are you seriously telling me you believe in the goodness of his heart? Have you completely lost your senses? He's an emissary of evil. Corruption runs through his veins hotter than wyvern blood. You CANNOT. CHANGE. THAT."

"I don't want to change him. I don't even like him. And I'm certainly not maniacal."

"Then why would you sleep with him?"

"Because wine, success, his strong jaw line -" Godsdamnit, the stutter. "Ok? I am just human, for bloody sake. Can we please not fight? It happened. It's over."

'Until it wasn't.' Sex drive, nature's own court jester that must always blurt out truth when the axe is already swinging. Ah, she is so confused. Tav's ears must be glowing like two lampions now. She flattens her hair over them and clears her throat, long and exhasperated, less at Jaheira's grilling than at her own inner debate.

"Anyway, whatever's happening to him, it'll bleed into his grand plans. I need to watch him."

"So you're going to continue ... your relations?"

"I have to."

"But why? Why do you have to?" Jaheira's voice falters with her question, "I understand you still feel obliged to Kar'niss, even if that's grown more than a little obsessive, if you ask me. But Raphael? Why must you solve this puzzle?" She presses her palms against her forehead, as if the whole thing is giving her a headache. "Why does it matter what he's doing here? It's not our concern. Why?"

"Because ..."

Tav catches her own reflection in her friend's eyes - wide-eyed, caught mid-response. She looks young. Naive, needy. And she hates it.

"Because he owes me. He owes me."

Hot one second, cold the next. One moment he's flicking compliments at her, the next, pretending she's beneath notice. For some reason he thinks he has a right to punish her. Not for killing him, oh no. That would be easier to stomach. No. It's for bruising something less vital. His image.

"Oh, Tav ..." Jaheira's heavy-accented voice is quieter now, softer, and that softness is somehow worse than anger. "I know losing the child still hurts, love. But as little as I care to defend that cockroach, have you ever considered that maybe the stillbirth wasn't his fault? Awful things happen. Even without the devil involved."

Tav doesn't respond at first. Hardly listens, either. Just keeps her eyes nailed to the table, jaw tight enough to pop.

Then, through clenched teeth: "He claims I made a show of it. That I paraded my win."

A beat.

"I didn't." Her throat works around a knot that tastes disgustingly bitter. She wants to spit it out.

"I did what I had to - I survived. That's all. Even cried for the bastard."

"What?"

"Nothing.” Her voice goes quiet, flat. "He just wants payback for his poor bruised, overblown ego. Poor little princeling, licking his wounds."

There's never been space for her version. Never a pause wide enough to wedge it in or demand so much as a word of basic decency. And gods help her, maybe she should go to him. She should say it. Line it all up, ugly and precise. Every cut he made. Every one she took and never returned. How she wept like a fool when she thought he was gone, even knowing what he was. How she buried something of herself along with him.

She feels Jaheira's eyes on her. That quiet, terrible patience of hers. Tav crosses her arms, clamps her mouth shut, and gives a short, scornful grunt as she turns away.

"I'm only just realising," she hears the older woman say after a beat, "you and the cambion might know each other better than you and I ever did. How did it start?"

She shrugs, short and brittle and angry. "Long time ago." A flick of her hand and her trying to dismiss her anger through it. "I'm not in the mood to rake through the ashes."

Bitter ashes.

"This familiarity between you -"

"I didn't brag! Where the hells does he even get that from?"

The words rip out of her. She whirls, jabs a finger into the wood hard enough to hurt.

"He lost it, not me! He nearly tore my heart out - literally. You saw it! His finger in my chest - there were witnesses, for gods' sake. And Kar'niss - he knew. Raphael knew about us. And he still led him straight to his doom. It wasn't part of a grand plan. It was resentment."

The words come faster now, tripping over themselves like they're trying to catch up with her past.

"And that's just the tip of the abyss. He didn't even have the decency to greet me properly. Vanishes for six years, then reappears out of nowhere dangling that sodden hammer in my face - no questions, no "How've you been, mouse? Miss me?" Just business. Cold business, like we were nothing more than strangers who played a lanceboard game or two. And then the mess with the corpse - let's not revisit THAT crime scene. If anyone owes an apology in this whole fucking farce, it's him to me."

She stops. Panting. Cheeks hot. She's half out of her chair, shoulders locked in rage and aching with the weight of everything she hasn't said for years.

Jaheira hasn't moved. She's just staring. Still as stone. The expression on her face is unreadable - but not blank. Not empty. It's too full. Like something's just dropped into place. Like she's seeing an entire constellation Tav herself hasn't noticed.

"What?" Tav asks, sharp. Defensive.

'What did I say now?'

Gods, what did she say?

No reply. Just that maddening stillness. Her pulse is in her teeth now. Tav curls her fists. She aches to jump up and smash something that matters to him. Shatter it.

Then, firmly, her friend speaks: "Come."

No gentle coaxing. No room for protest.

Tav blinks, momentarily off-balance. The world hasn't caught up yet. Her ire's still spinning. 

"I need air," the druid adds, already standing. "Fresh air, if that's even a thing in this hellhole."

Tav stares up at her, stunned. Her forearms hit the table with a thud like they've given up on carrying the rest of her.

"Now?" she croaks, "Seriously?"

"Yes, little bird." And there it is - a touch of her steely calmness returning. Best not to question the orders of a half-elf pushing one-fifty. "Come. Show me something you actually like about Avernus."

Tav exhales. And just like that, the infernal storm inside her falls still. Silent. The entire plain, within and without, suddenly quiet. She pushes back her chair. Doesn't speak. Just follows.

Only one surprisingly soothing walk later, they're seated beneath that monumental tree in the archive. Its crown broader than ever, since Tav last laid eyes on it (weeks ago, or was it longer?). She's perched astride one of the gnarled roots like it's a huge beast. The bark spreads out in thick tendrils, feeding not on water or soil but the magic that hums through this whole blasted place. Jaheira leans against a neighbouring root, arms crossed, telling a story - something about her son, Jord, who had turned her study into a swampy green disaster.

"When he first came to me, he was a menace," she says, almost fond. "Eight years old, fists up at the world, no clue how to speak without shouting. He didn't let anyone close. And look at him now: a druid with a greener thumb than his green-arsed manners."

Tav smirks. That's Jaheira's kind of affection: thorny, backhanded, dry. Her kids must be used to disappointment - fostered by a woman whose work is always somewhere else. She swallows the comment, though because no one likes a hypocrite. How long would she have stayed still for her own child?

She glances up. The conjured mage hands float past, filing spellbooks and ledgers like ghosts with a job to do. And then it blooms - that thought, bright and sour.

"I thought it'd become better," she says. It slips out. Her mouth acts before her brain can stop it. She clamps it shut as Jaheira turns to look.

Tav drops her gaze, fingers pressing against the rough bark. It feels invincible under her touch. Unbothered by anything human.

"There were days I didn't think of them until nightfall. That was progress. But since I came back to this place ... everything I built just cracks. Every day, it's worse. Every day I wonder how I'm supposed to get through the next one, and still deal with Raphael's shit on top of it."

She chuckles. "Funny, isn't it? The world keeps spinning and I - I'm still on that cot. Drenched in potions and sweat. Crushing that nurse's hand. Mumbling the same thing again and again: "She's strong, she's safe, she's strong, she's safe". Like a mad woman. And then I wake, and my belly's hollow. They say time makes it easier. But all it's done is carry her further downriver. I keep pulling, but the current wins. I'm so tired of this. Of grieving. Of pretending I'm not still bleeding out somewhere inside."

Tav pauses. A fist clings plainfully to the back of her throat and she needs to talk if she doesn't want to choke on it.

"I want to honour her, Jaheira. Gods, I want to. Build her a shrine, weave her face into a banner. Let the world know her, this little creature that was almost mine. But every time I try ... it just falls apart. The threads don't sit right. The words go wrong. I start, and then I freeze."

She falters. Breath hitches. Remembers silver strands of hair on a tiny, bloody head. "I keep thinking about him. When I sit down to think of her, he's there too. Just ... right there, behind it. And maybe it's not even about her. Not all of it. Sometimes I think - I mean, back then when the gang was together - there were so many right moments to tell him. And I knew it was my responsibility. I knew. But I waited anyway."

A pause. She swallows, hard. "I shouldn't have. Waited, I mean. Or hesitated. I don't even know which bit was the mistake. Just that one of them was. Or all of it. And - and then she came after. And she was ... gods, she was new. She was a second chance."

Eyes sting. She blinks fast. "It didn't last. Obviously."

She wants to laugh again, but it twists too close to the bone. So she raises a trembling hand instead, fearing those empty words of condolences already. "I heard what you said about how ... sometimes things just happen. No one's fault. But I - I can't help myself. I'm, uh, I'm not okay."

And the fist in her throat just seems to grow.

"Everything feels wrong. I can't even start the day right. I wake up and I don't know how to get out of bed. I eat my breakfast holding a spoon and don't know if it's the right one. Which sock goes on first? What's funny, what's outrageous? I mean, fuck, I need someone to teach me how to fall asleep. Because I can't even do that right. I lie there like a doll on a shelf. And I am, quite literally, in hell."

No clue how long she's been babbling but, eventually, it crashes into her. That old and sudden sadness that doesn't knock but simply kicks in the door. She'd felt it at the base of her spine, for so long, but simply mistook it for the absence of joy. Now it's flooding her senses. She can't hold back anymore.
Jaheira is there (When did she move? Just now, wasn't it?). She hadn't noticed, but there she is, next to her, solid and warm, and Tav just folds. Her head drops onto the druid's shoulder, and she cries. Not pretty tears. Just messy, exhausted sobbing. The kind that makes your nose run and your throat hurt and your dignity shuffle awkwardly out the back door.

They sit like that for a long time. Alone but not. The archive buzzes quietly around them, mage hands gliding over shelves with mindless diligence, as if they respected the hush. Jaheira says nothing, just blows gently against Tav's hair and offers nothing but a "Ssht. I know, I know."

There's no magic in the words. Or maybe there is, but, surely, it must be the old kind that's passed from mother to child in a dark room, meant to hold pieces together just long enough to get through the night.

"There now, child."

The comfort is cruel. Kindness always is, when it sneaks up on you. It breaks her faster than an Orthon's hammer.

Once the tears dry, and Tav is just a sore-eyed shell with a heartbeat again, Jaheira taps her gently between the shoulder blades - a quiet signal to lift her head. She brushes a strand from Tav's puffy face with a long elven finger, then pats her cheek.

"While I cannot stay forever and always sit by your side," she says, "I didn't come unprepared."

Tav blinks through the blurry veil of tears, meeting her gaze.

"You are cloaked in sorrow. Let me help you unseam it, and reuse the threads for something better."

Tav exhales a deep sigh. The tears on her cheeks have almost dried to salt. "You speak in riddles," she says hoarsely.

"Aye," the druid with a meaningful nod. "But every riddle is a doorway. And I think you're ready to walk through.”

2. In Between

Jaheira speaks of the Uthgardt shamans - particularly those of the Griffon Tribe from the Northwest - who sit butt-naked in sweat tents and endure the scalding dark, all in the name of communion with ancestral spirits. Tav is relieved Jaheira owns no such tent and isn't trying to talk her out of her trousers. Even so, the small, chapel-like room the druid has prepared turns sweltering within minutes. Tav pulls at her collar.

She hadn't exactly pictured a sauna within Hell when the old Harper spoke of a "path to healing."

She also doesn't even remember this little prayer space being here. But perhaps she was too distracted - by Raphael's tongue, by Haarlep's silken voice, to notice a doorway nestled just beyond the bed of the boudoir. Easy to miss, if one isn't looking for rest. Small. Stone-walled. Candlelit. Steam rises from shallow bowls filled with water, curling into thick spirals that fog the air until the outside world vanishes. The haze is dense, the fragrance sweet as honey and sage. Nothing's happened yet and Tav feels ready for a spiritual connection to the otherworld. Sweat beads between her breasts and trails downward, soaking into her tunic. She sits cross-legged before Jaheira, who kneels like a pilgrim in a temple, her hands raised as she murmurs a low invocation. The incantation hums in an foreign language Tav doesn't know, though something about its cadence makes her want to close her eyes and listen forever. The ritual will be gentle, the old elf had promised. A sanctum of reflection. Calling the "threads of remembrance", she says.

Little jittering flakes fizz upward like champagne bubbles, casting playful, shifting shadows across the stone walls. In the centre, a bowl of water sits partially wrapped in woollen threads - silver, green, and crimson - as if the elements themselves had been coaxed into reverence. Beneath the delicate lattice floats a small, intricately carved wooden figure shaped like a child.

Hands raised, prayer-chanting, perhaps to call upon her god, or the spirits of nature, or maybe the ancestors ... While Tav doesn't ask. She just watches the figurine, softly haloed by the glowing water around it, the way morning light frames the edge of a cloud. Golden. It's beautiful. It makes the flakes shimmer like shards of opal. A hush settles in Tav's chest. It's strange. Not unpleasant.

Then Jaheira reaches into the bowl, sprinkles the water gently over Tav's arms, her forehead. Some droplets fall on the figure too.

"This is to prepare you," she says, "for the release of grief. It is not forgetting. It is cleansing."

She runs a fingertip lightly across the woollen cords, naming each.

"Silver for the spirit world. Green for life. Crimson for love and pain," she adds. "Each one holds a memory, a feeling."

Tav swallows. Her hands hover uncertainly over the threads.

"Go on," she says, a little lower now. "Unwrap them. And you shall weave them anew into something that is yours."

Her movements are slow, almost reverent, as she begins to loosen the first strand.

"Keep unravelling, for the child's body is the garment of the soul, woven by the mother in the innermost place of the world."

The silver threads are cool against her fingertips, the green ones pulse (a quiet insistence) and the crimson strand resist her touch with a burning tingling. At first, her fingers stumble, but old habit wins, and the weaver's hands soon move swiftly. Across from her, the elf starts to hum a lullaby Tav recognises, though she hasn't thought of it in years. It coils through the dense air, softening the cold echos. Once the threads are tied into a simple braid, Jaheira places both hands over the loose ends and her eyes fall shut. A few words slip through her lips. Light seeps from her palms and the braid takes on a quiet shimmer. Its colours deepen. The threads lift gently at the ends, curling upward, weightless, attentive.

Then warmth creeps into Tav's palms, a presence. A pressure, gentle but deliberate, begins to climb her arms. It doesn't rush, takes its time, almost timidly. Tav feels tears rise. Not from sorrow, not directly. It's a different kind of ache, the kind that comes when a truth unborn reaches up to grab you. She knows it well. Has known it before; A child moves in the womb and no one else is watching. A kick. Then another. Then it stops forever.

It's different this time. The silver, green, and crimson fibres thrum beneath her knuckles with the same quiet certainty as a heartbeat. 

"Beautiful," Jaheira says, voice low. "Can you feel it? Each thread will find its place in time."

Tav doesn't speak. She's still listening to the pulse, waiting for it to end.

"They'll guide you," the druid adds. "As you shape them into what comes next."

With wonder, Tav looks down at the colourful stirring in her lap.

"Is that my child?"

"It is your love. Your hope. Your grief."

The space grows heavy. As if the air was thickening with an unspoken tension. The braid resting in her lap quivers, stretches its tiny feet. Jaheira's expression reveals nothing, but Tav doesn't miss the way her hawk eyes search the room.

"Do you feel that, too?"

Tav wants to explain the strange pull in the air, but then the braid begins to writhe. The silver dims. The crimson deepens - nearly black. The green thread trembles violently, releasing a faint, keening hum that vibrates through the room.

"They sense something ..." the druid hisses, her yellow eyes drawn toward the chapel entrance.

A creaking door slices through the breathless silence. Tav whirls around on her knees. The shimmering flakes that had danced above her freeze, then shatter all at once, the tiny shards disappearing at once. Suddenly, only the candlelight remains. At the far end of the chapel, the shadows deepen unnaturally, swallowing the gentle warmth of the ritual whole.

She smells him before she sees him. Rot and roses. The devil's back and he brought Avernus with him. Both sour the honeyed air in an instant. The misty shadows gather, coil - and then tighten into Raphael's shape. His shadow stretches long and wrong behind him, unnaturally tall, winged though he wears his human guise. But his golden eyes betray it: their glow spills across his high-boned face and the bridge of his nose, casting him in a dusk no mortal skin should reflect.

Suddenly, the crimson threads snap upright, taut as a bowstring, and the entire braid twists violently, contorting like a malformed thing in pain. Its loose ends shoot out, pointing straight at Raphael like an accusatory finger.

Tav gasps.

She clutches the wool, as if it might leap from her hands. The hum from her hands rises sharply - a grating crescendo that digs straight into her chest.

Raphael halts mid-step. His half-smirk dies, eyes locking onto the braid. Crimson light flickers across his face as the threads pulse frantically. His fingers twitch, as though tempted to reach out, but he hesitates.

"What's this?" he says, his voice unusually low, almost hoarse. She can practically feel the blistering contempt in the air.

The threads react as if in answer, almost snapping out of Tav's hands and toward him like a feral creature, forcing him to step back. The braid is alive, and it knows him.

Her breath stutters. Jaheira's half a blur in her periphery. Raphael fills her vision like a wound. The crimson thread jerks toward him again - and, oh, it's pointing. Her stomach knots. The ache in her chest coils into lead, of grief and a strange verdict. Throat burning with a child's scream she won't let out.

"What have you done?" she asks, her voice shaking as she stares up at the cambion who sneers back at her.

Jaheira steps between them, staff in her hands and glowing with ready magic. Raphael's acid gaze drops to it.

"If it isn't the iron maiden," he drawls, "Let's hope your manners have improved since our last encounter."

The druid lifts the staff and hundred of glittering shards of burst light - the remnants of the ritual - rise from nowhere, and start to spiral around her and Tav in a golden shield. The effect is dazzling. Tav forces her eyes on Raphael's outline, steadying herself against the confusing spin of light and motion. For a moment, even the cambion seems transfixed.

"Stay back, devil," the older woman commands. "You have no place in this healing."

Raphael, recovering his composure, lets his smirk return, though it lacks its usual arrogance.

"Healing?" he retorts almost softly, if not a little constrainedly. "Whatever binds her to those threads binds me, too, it seems. Perhaps some wounds aren't meant to close."

His eyes rest on Tav a fraction too long, his gaze unreadable, before he fades back into the shadows, silent as an dream. A door slams, echoing through the gloom. Silence.

Tav exhales and, instantly, the pressure in the room lifts and the braid in her lap gos still. Its glow has dimmed, but not faded.

"Jaheira," she rasps, finally squeezing the name through her dry throat, "what was that?"

With a sigh, the half-elf kneels beside her. Tav just wishes it didn't sound quite so burdened.

"Tav, whatever this bond is, it's powerful," she says as they're both watching the strings. "I can't explain it. I can hardly understand it either. But you are stronger. Remember that."

Tav nods slowly, eyes still fixed on the red cords. They pulse slower now as though still echoing her heartbeat.

"What happens now?" 

She hears a sharp inhale, bearings to be caught. Seems she wasn't the only one overwhelmed.

"Now?" she hears the elder woman's accent-heavy voice. "Now the real work begins. That part, I can't help you with. Now you reweave the threads into something real."

"Wait - you mean now now?"

A flicker of confidence plays at the corner of Jaheira's mouth. "As soon as you're ready. Into whatever shape you see fit."

"And if I can't finish it?"

"Then you're done."

Tav's blinking eyes wander across the bowl, the candles, and finally settle on the steady and serious elven face before her.

"Thank you."

The words come hushed, but they land. Her friend nods, reassured, and visibly tired from the ritual, and Tav rolls her shoulders back clearing her throat.

"C-can I ask you one more thing?"

"Anything you need, deary," Jaheira replies without hesitation.

Tav's gaze drops to the floor - somewhere near the general direction of her flattened pride and abandoned logic.

This is going to be a quick talk of shame.

Best to just get it over with, quick.

One, two, three.

"I need a pregnancy test."

She doesn't need to see Jaheira's smile fall - she can hear it. Later, what she'll remember most is the sudden gust of wind ... and the muttered curse that slipped past disgruntled elven lips.

Chapter Text

They stand before the two mirrors, and Hope allows herself to feel it. A sense of pride. Please notice it's not the noisy kind. Not the kind that needs a corrective hello from Loviatar's cat o' nine tails. This one's quiet as a mouse. And steady. And becoming familiar. She's done a lot of things right lately. Small steps, uphill. Never light, noch no. But this, this is clean. Two perfect travel mirrors. Perfettissimo, as the cambion cassowary next to her would say. Her design. Her work. Her victory. 

Oh, yes, and what's even more marvelous: He's standing here with her. Of all people. Her. Him. Together. Honestly, it's so absurd she could just about collapse into hysterical laughter. Probably shouldn't. Definitely wants to.

"Yes," he says.

Just that. One word. But heavy enough to pass for praise in his tongue. Hope swallows the giggle forming in her throat (a glittery little itch with teeth) and manages to keep it down. The devil has been stingy with gold and grandiloquence for a while now, so she won't feel offended. Maybe he lost it in Mephistar's dungeons. Or payed off a debt.

Not that she'd ever need praise from her former jailor and torture connoisseur, but the portal really is bloody gorgeous, even a blind man would say so. Stable, bidirectional, portkeyless. Premium steel frames, humming with layered runes. Glass, woven from purest Weave. Nothing like this had existed before. Now it does.

"Damn right," she murmurs, moved in spite of herself.

Gods, someone is going to absolutely lose their MIND over this. Flip like pixies high on fairy dust. Now all they need is to get one of the mirrors to Helm's Hold. But that's the cambion's problem, not hers.

"The frame," he says.

"The frame?" she echoes, when he fails to elaborate.

"It's a little eccentric, isn't it?"

She frowns at the insulted object. The dwarven artificers from the Frosthills call it titan ore - a pale metal that shimmers like polished ivory and holds a steady temperature for the Weave caught within. It looks timeless, like a sculpted marble egg. It took days to carve even with advanced spellwork. Eccentric? No. Extraordinary.

"Gold would be better, no?" he says then.

Of course he wants gold. He's a pitfiend, he has no taste for innovation. Just tacky as a magpie and twice as shrill. Hope practically gasps at the mental image of that gilded monstrosity. It's an insult to good design, to decency, to her.

"We could gild it," she grits out, though the very thought makes her want to eat her own words.

"Just gilded? Will that suff-"

"YES. YES!"

His eyes flick to her, and for a moment, just long enough for her to regret almost everything, he studies her like she's a scroll that bites back. Then, with a sigh, he nods. Grumbling, Hope straightens her waistcoat and puffs out her cheeks in exasperation. She’ll have to haul the mirrors back herself. Again. At least as far as the lift.

"Right, then. Back to the forge," she sighs, flinging the protective cloth over exposed mirror with expressive dramatic flourish. "I'll have to do it by hand, by hand!, because otherwise the Weave will snap like a bowstring. And we don't want that NO NO. Ah ..." Another exhale, heavier this time. The list is growing. She will have to find gold leaf. "But it's a piece of cake. Hope'll be eating it for the next two weeks."

"Are you telling me in third person you can't finish it?" he says, all smooth and princely. "I have confidence in your ability to hire someone to do it. All I ask for is top quality. Can you manage that, Hope?"

"Oh. You have confidence? HOW GRAND OF YOU!" Her voice spikes, a bit shriller than she meant it to. "But I don't need a fancy-schmantz artisan to replace me. I need hands. Actual workers. I've better things to do than squeeze in another one of your 'minor' favours. And in case it's slipped your mind - you're just a tenant here. So maybe ease up on the tone, yeah?"

He lifts his hands to a small, appeasing gesture. She doesn't need to look to know his facial expression hasn't changed, though. She breathes in through her nose, settles her stance. 

"You shall have your workers."

Her eyes snatch back to him. A twitch - there. At the corner of his mouth.

"I don't want your debtors."

"They won't be my debtors."

"Good! Because once they're done, they go. Fly, little birdie, FLY! No one - absolutely no one! - gets tethered to this house. Not to it, and not to anyone in it. Spit and shake on it."

He sighs. Then nods. That'll do. Enough said.

Hope shakes her head, still feeling the rumbling storm inside, but swiftly calls up a pair of blueish mage hands that had been busy in the archive. She positions them carefully beneath the mirrors. The Weave is sensitive; any sudden movement could pull at the whole structure. She rolls back her shoulders. Breathes. And frowns.

He's still there. Normally, he would've vanished by now. Puffed into smoke and gone before the final word has even settled in the room. But he's watching, arms folded. Hope just spares a glance but she can immediately see that something about him seems suspended.

"What do you know of healing rituals?" he asks, lightly and out of the blue.

She wills her simmering annoyance with the devil back into submission. "You mean the one the elf druid performed?"

He pauses a fraction too long. "That very one. I wonder about its purpose; it clearly had meaning. So bright, so jarring.”

There's strain in the words, but blast Mephisto if she cares.

"It surely was a good steer for me to finally go see a druid myself," she mutters under her breath.

"So it wasn't merely for knitting flesh and bones," he presses smoothly. "What was it for?"

"That's private," she says. "And none of your business."

"But you know."

"Nope."

"Lying to me now, are we?"

She turns to face him, defiance flaring up again. "I don't have to. It helped ease the pain. That's enough."

She closes her eyes for a second and softens her voice like she used to when - back in chains - she told secrets to the inside of her skull. This time, though, it's like it was Tav's fragile voice. "It's working, though. I can feel it - warm and golden and buzzing like wings. She's doing it, she's actually doing it. She's not hiding, not flinching, just staring right into its face and saying, 'probably not today!' Can you imagine?! She's so brave. Doing what most of us wouldn't dare."

He says nothing.

"Leave her pain be, Raphael. It's hers."

She notices it in his defensive side-eye: He's objecting. 

"Don't try to know everyone and everything all the time. You'll only cause more pain," she presses. And then softly: "More suffering." 

That gets his eyes back on her, but Hope's patience for playing the sympathetic listener has worn thin. The mirrors need to be moved, today, not tomorrow, and sweet Selune's buttocks, they're heavier than they look. It's not just the steel, it's the Weave. Magic, thick and weighty and bloated with potential. She braces herself and pushes with all her clerical might. Controlling two mage hands at once is like playing violin with two left arms - doable, but, good lords, something's bound to snap.

She doesn't expect help. Because why would she? He's a devil, a being curséd down to the marrow, that's what they say. So when a huge red mage hand erupts beside her with a crackle of fire, she lets out an high-pitched and quite undignified "Eek!" and reels back. Sparks shower across the marble as the magmatic palm slaps her own construct into oblivion, catching the second mirror with unbothered elegance. Without fuss and comment. And, surprisingly, without scorching the linen.

Hope blinks at it, then at Raphael. 

"... Thanks."

As if he'd nothing to do with the spell at all, his expression stays blank and devoid of effort and involvement. Or - wait, not blank. Just closed off. That's the better word. But there's a tension and she only notices because it's dropping somewhere between collar and wrist. Her eyes are keen: His face softens a fraction. That smirky shadow he wears per default looks, for once, not entirely counterfeit. 

Hope clears her throat and dusts her hands against her skirt. A pointless gesture, really, but anywho, she gestures ahead, and together they start down the corridor. The portals flicker under the fabric and cast a blue light on the shiney floor.

"You did well, Hope," he says at last.

He walks just behind her, slightly off to the side. His hands are still folded and he holds his chest with that usual princely lift. 

"Yup," she replies. Of course she did.

She hears him draw breath, and her shoulders stiffen in anticipation. He has a way of using compliments like glass shards in her porridge: always that one little jab tucked inside, just enough to cut her gullet. This time, however, it doesn't come right away.

One heartbeat. Two, three.

Then -

"Is it enough for you? Will it - suffice?"

She halts, waits for him to catch up. Raphael is no longer staring into the distance, but looking at her. Strangely quiet so. The mirrors snore behind them, dreaming.

She doesn't answer. She could react with all sorts of counter-questions, couldn't she? Make some cryptic retort. Or pretend she's daft. Instead, she reaches to smooth the linen over the nearest mirror. Not because she'd need the distraction or because pulling at creases would change anything. Let him figure it out on his own.

Her fingers pause at a wrinkle that just won't straighten out. So she drops her hand. 

As they walk down the corridor, she notices how empty it is - spotless, but dead quiet. Since Raphael's been back, each and every surface in her home has become so spick and span clean, it almost hurts the eye. Whoof, just look at the polished marble! Too much. Too perfect.

The only thing that looks somewhat grubby is a statue in a shallow alcove - some old devil molten from pure gold, arms crossed, fat lips drawn in a faint, unreadable expression. Serene, she thinks, the original was probably dreaming of tax evasion at the moment this portrayal was made. She didn't have the heart to dismantle it, not sure why. Maybe because it seems like it's trying so damn hard to pass for a man.

They stop near the elevator door and Hope turns toward Raphael.

"Thing is," she says, voice even, "she'll never accept you. Not like this."

He stares at the brand new brass door.

"Not with you lying."

"I'm not lying."

She tilts her head. "Alright, then. You're economical with the truth."

Taking in his thin leer. Understanding dawns.

"She doesn't even know the mirrors were your idea, does she?"

"She asked for your help, not mine. Let's not overcomplicate things."

"And you're fine with that? Hiding like some secret admirer?"

"Admirer? Don't be ridiculous," He exhales, soft, but there's a raw edge to it, and it's just frayed enough to betray that he might finally be losing patience with her impudence. "I've no interest in sainthood. She wants liberty. This merely leaves the latch undone."

Hope watches him for a moment. And finally sighs. He sounds like Korrilla in her moment of defeat: regretful, sort of, but without real penitence. Just once Hope wishes the world worked like those schmaltzy detective novellas she gorged on for a while. 'Case closed, justice wins, everyone has tea together.' That phase had hit shortly after she'd slunk back to Avernus to rebuild what was broken. Right after Korrilla vanished: no warning no goodbye, just - poof! - gone like a dropped illusion. And that's when it hit Hope. Not the pain. Not the betrayal. But the loneliness. A new breed of discruciament, ultimate and forever-ever. Worse than the dungeon. Because at least in chains, you always knew someone was watching.

"You know," she starts, "when things got bad - I mean not pit-in-the-belly, teeth-on-iron bad as it'd been when your guests came to play ..." The fabric twists in her grip. That helps, yes. She can crumple the memory up, make it small, shove it away. "Anyways, when life felt downhill, I read anything I could get my hands on. Spellbooks, cheap romance novels, the lists of side effects of hag brews."

A small shrug. "I think I was looking for comfort, really. And once, I found this line. Said, 'Mercy isn't earned, and virtue is no key.' And I think it meant ... that you don't have to be good to receive forgiveness. Just - you can choose something a bit kinder than what came before. That line stuck with me. I whispered it to myself for days while I waited for Korrilla's apology. Weeks. Maybe longer. Then one day I forgot where I'd read it, silly me. Like the book never existed. Or maybe I made it up."

A pause.

"But I don't think I did."

Raphael halts her there with a small, dry cough. "Hope, you do realize where we are, don't you? Good. Because, dear one, this isn't literature. This is life. And the odd thing about living is that time tends to drag. Like now, for instance."

"You can't fool me!" she interjects with a giggle. "You've grown generous towards someone without necessity. Life CAN be beautiful! Especially for those handed a flame in the middle of the abyss."

She is hopeful things will turn out better than ever before. That Tav will shine. That her golden smile can light up the whole house, if he allows it. Imagine how bright the sun could shine, if everyone was actually happy. Even Raphael.

"You err - again," he mutters darkly. "There's no generosity, not in your sense at least. I just know what it looks like when someone's morale starts to sink so deep it turns rancid. It's unseemly."

His eyes wander to the mirrors, then narrow in annoyance. "And devils forbid she suffer a crisis of conscience because her new way home smells faintly of brimstone."

"Well," she says, as soft and neutral as she can, because she's known him long enough to understand when something will rub him the wrong way, "if her suffering is so insufferable, maybe you should think about having a proper chat with her. Lend her your ear. Could be the best bargain either of you ever made - no parchment, no performance, just a bit of honest-to-goodness talk."

Raphael chooses not to respond; he just lifts a hand. A dismissive flick, slight irritation. Snap - a closing line. Then he turns to leave. Hope doesn't follow. The mirrors stay put as she waits for the obedient lift doors to open. And just before the snap of his fingers takes him - his shoulders sag.

Chapter Text

A hot wind shrieks across the plains, desert-born and furious. Not the best day, one might say, for a botanical stroll through the wastelands. In fact, it might be the worst. The weather, this malicious, mean-spirited thing, has it out for every living creature. Bird, human, dragon. It pounds everything flat with dust and rage. Not a breath of clean air to draw, not a foot of firm ground to trust. Just a great snarling thing that masquerades as a landscape, as if the land itself had reared up on hind legs and bared its teeth at the sky, screaming. And still, gods or hells or whatever help her, it's glorious. Awful, yes, but undeniably physical. It makes her feel real in the way only extremes can. Tav bears it all. Takes the sand like a deity's blessing. It scours her skin, nicks and cuts, gets into her nostrils, and she lets it, because there's a peace in it, a kind of surrender, even. Like a broken family you've returned home to after a long journey to the heart. Today, she closed her eyes, and somewhere between the sting and the roaring winds, she finally felt the old recklessness, the familiar lightness.

She guesses it's true what they say - physical pain is only the other face of clarity.

By the time they stumble back into the House of Hope - Jaheira, Tav, and the trio of bodyguards - they resemble sandy golems brought to weary life. One after the other, they come coughing and clattering through the portal, and with every new pair of boots that touches the floor the ochre haze grows thicker in the room. Tav pulls the scarf from her face and inhales the relatively clean air greedily. Indoors, the temperature is merely infernal, not actively homicidal. What a small mercy.

She laughs. The whip at her side is no more (devoured by a giant sand beetle somewhere between Point A and "Oh, blast."). Only the hilt remains, a souvenir she could probably rework into a new lash. Gunja, the elven guard, grumbles over his shattered sabre, which has been yet another offering to the beetle's unfussy appetite. Golon, the second of Wyll's hired muscle, orange-bearded and built like a siege engine, was the one who finally turned the tide with his "widow maker" (Tav had tried lifting it. She failed, spectacularly). He pats Gunja's sand-caked shoulder with big-brotherly cheer and offers the name of a reliable smith in Baldur's Gate, which seems to mollify the elf. Zress, the dark-skinned ranger with raptor eyes, muffles through her veil that she's overdue for fresh bodkin arrows. And like that, they're talking weaponry and alloys, mundane things, and how life continues even when one's been nearly decapitated by chitin.

Tav lets their chatter roll over her for a moment, then sends the trio off to wash up. Their conversation still echos faintly as they vanish down the corridor.

"Did you hear how Golon praised me?" she tosses a smug glance at her companion.

Jaheira is too busy to bother with prideful gloating. "Yes. He called you a scorpion," she replies gruffly, counting flasks on her belt, "after you accidently lashed his face mid-fight."

'Damn right,' Tav thinks, nonchalant, lifting one shoulder in a shrug.

"And right before the beetle ate your whip," the druid adds.

"Go ahead, mock the Scorpion - you're lucky she's in a good mood."

And indeed she is. The mission itself? Surprisingly fruitful. Sample gathering: successful. Combat: vigorous. Discoveries: multiple. And now she has a reason to craft a new whip, perhaps an even better one. Who knows when they'll march out again to fend off more beetles, mephits, or worse! Ah, the glories of the minor hero are such an uncomplicated delight.

Jaheira, having concluded her tally, shoots Tav a dry look. Her brow furrows beneath its dust-mask like a weathered line carved into red rock.

"Without a doubt," she says, "I haven't seen you this animated since we fought with Duke Enver Gortash."

She pauses. "Well. Since any fight, really."

Ah, those were days. Higher stakes, of course. Bloodier dances. But today was good, too. Today has left Tav's blood pumping. That peculiar elation still hums, and it's laced with a heat, a hunger and a trace of something that vaguely tastes of the olden days.

"You remind me of Scratch on his morning walk."

Tav snorts and a plume of powdered brimstone bursts forth in answer.

"You take Scratch on walkies?"

Now it's Jaheira's turn to shrug. "Only when we're in the city. I can't let him roam free, you know how urban folk are," she says. "Unfortunately, that beast has the breath of an otyugh and the flatulence of a corpse flower. Three days indoors with him and we'd be dead of a toxic shock."

"Maybe you should change his diet?" the younger woman offers, voice pitched somewhere between helpful and - intentionally - unhelpfully amused. "Fewer raw eggs. More greens."

Jaheira grimaces. "Most of all, I should get going," she says, eyeing her gore-streaked garments with pragmatic dislike. "I smell like victory. And also like fermented eggs, for that matter. One of those needs fixing."

Tav agrees. They share one last, phlegmatic cough. Then, with a wordless agreement and a vague promise to reconvene over dinner, they part ways.

The house exhales around her. The silence settles again. Today, for all its dust and carnage, had been a good day.

She enters whistling, the door clicking shut behind her with a satisfying finality. And notices, immediately, that something's off.

The bed is made. That's new.
Her clothes - strewn in a hectic sprawl across the floor only this morning - are folded now. Washed. Stacked with careful precision atop her vanity. Her underwear appears to have been ironed. But it's the round table near the window that stops her mid-step. She approaches slowly, careful not to scatter the Avernian grime still clinging to her leathers. Beside the familiar bundle of glowing wool (her most recent excuse for insomnia), lies a brand-new sketchbook. Wax crayons. A small mountain of them, vibrant and waxy and wholly out of place in this hell. There's a note, scrawled in delightfully chaotic loops:

"For your sketches. May it aid you in your task. – Hopeydope"

Tav's fingers drift across the paper. She studies the gift, and smiles.

Hope. Of course it's Hope.

She hadn't been involved in her healing procedure, and yet, somehow, the dwarf knows. Picked up on something - Jaheira's covert little therapy mission and Tav's quietly growing need to restore something damaged. Without a word or spectacle, she'd cleaned the room, tidied the chaos, and left a blessing in the form of crayons and cardstock.

Hope's the house's guardian spirit. Always bustling, never complaining.

"Only thing missing now are needles and stramine," Tav murmurs as her eyes already drift inevitably toward the pulsing light.

'Maybe Hope knows a merchant around here. Maybe she can get me the stuff from my shop.' Or ... maybe Raphael would allow her a short visit. Just a quick detour to Helm's Hold. Long enough to fetch her tools, check in ...

The thought hooks into her insides. A dull, squirming pull that begins low and painful, and climbs viciously up her gut.

Her stomach lurches. Tav throws a hand out to brace against the table. And nearly retches. By some miracle, nothing escapes her mouth and lands on the book. But, gods, she's producing so much saliva right now she feels like a rabid dog. She swallows with difficulty and forces herself to read the note again, willing the words to distract her from whatever the fuck this is. The light flares again at the edge of her vision, fluttering like a feather brushing her soft palate and thus making her only want to gag more. Any kind of flickering would've had the same effect. The words, on the other hand, don't really help ward off the sick sensation.
So, Tav pushes off the table with a gasp and turns away too quickly, fists clenched. Her gaze flickers wildly around the room. Looking for something else to latch onto. Anything. She lands on the folded clothes. That neat little pyramid of domestic goodwill. And nearly gags all over again. It's that bloody squirming wrongness in her gut twists that shows up again. Making her sick. Like she's guilty of some crime and should know better.

"What the bleeding bits is wrong with you?"

The shock in her own voice snaps her back like a slap. Everything's off. Her. The gift. This bloody house - this charming little prison dressed up as a friendly sanctuary.

'Damn, Jaheira is right. I am assimilating at record speed.' Just look at their bizarro community - Raphael, clinging to control like it's oxygen. Hope's a masochist in denial. And Tav - gods, let's not start with her. Tav, the reluctant opportunist. Playing the willing hostage. Or pretending that she's playing. Whatever, she's lost track.

A sharp knock jars her out of the spiral. Urgent and growing louder. In five long strides, she's at the door and rips it open. It's Gunja the elf. Still dusty, but the dirt isn't what makes her stomach drop - it's his face that's hard with stress.

"My lady, you need to come," he says, skipping pleasantries, breath short. "Now."

"What happened?" She's already pulling the door shut behind her.

"There's been an incident. Quick. It could escalate any second."

With her hand on the dagger at her side, she follows him to Ravengard trio's quarters, a place she's never been to although it is quite close to her corridor. She hears raised voices before they even breach the little, unadorned hall that leads to their shared apartment. 

Inside, it's weapons drawn.

Tav halts with a muttered curse to take in the scene. Golon and Zress stand taut, blade and arrows at the ready, pointing at a blue-skinned, unicorn-horned tiefling crumpled in the lap of a similarly crumpled looking, older woman who's sitting on the wooden floor. Her arms are wrapped around him protectively while his hands are pressed to his face and he peeks through his fingers. Both frozen, the're staring at the arrow trained on them.

"Zress, freeze!" Gunja calls out, flinging up his arms and seemingly one breath short of accidentally provoking a very armed, very irritable comrade. The ranger doesn't even blink. Her drow eyes are ablaze, locked on the two strangers. The muscles between her brows a carved line of fury.

"What's going on?" Tav calls out in confusion, one hand already on her blade. "Who are these people?"

"Caught 'em red-handed," Golon grunts from behind his comrade, and there's something unsettling about the fact that this one, of all people, isn't keeping her usual distance. Her arrow's practically brushing their noses.

"They're thieves."

The accused squawk in protest, but one move from Zress' drawn bow hushes them into silence again. They're dressed in nothing but rags. Blood smears the man's nose. Golon casts him a glance that might qualify as disapproval, though it borders on disgust.

"We noticed some of the furniture and gear had been shifted out in the hallway, so we crept the rest of the way in," he says, "Then we saw how the boy tried to pocket Zress' bracer."

The coveted metal object glints a few feet away on the floor, a pair of crimson drops beside it. Well, that solves the mystery of the mangled nose. What remains unclear is how the tieflings got in to begin with.

"And her?" Golon jerks his chin towards the tiefling woman. "Useless lookout. Blind as a bat."

"We're not thieves," the elder woman bursts out, seemingly summoning just enough courage to pretend the arrowhead pointed at her face isn't there. One slip of that taut bowstring, and one of them is about to become tiefling stew à la drow. "We just clean here. My nephew - he admired the metal hand, that's all. He never meant to take it."

"Liar," Zress spits. And indeed, if not a lie, then at the very least suspicious.

"It's hard to believe you work here," Tav remarks. "Hope doesn't employ mortal servants, least of all impoverished looking cleaning crews."

The woman's pale, frosty-grey eyes dart toward the door. There, almost too neat to be noticed, sits a cleaning cart: bucket, mop, rags.

"But the master of the house sent us. He - he said - "

So. Raphael's spies. Fan-bloody-tastic. The female tiefling is stumbling over her own words.

"I'll say it again," Tav warns her. "The actual master of the house doesn't have staff. And she'd never tolerate the devil's debtors under her roof. So you better tell us what you know - fast."

Shit. They must've been in her room too: the made bed, the ironed clothes. A perfect little alibi. Hope will toss the snotty Prince of Brimstone out on his horns the second she hears about it.

Which begs the question: What does that mean for Tav?

The older tiefling sighs heavily and then shakes her head. "We're from -"

"Filthy thieving gutterrats, the lot of ya," the ranger snarls, stringing more words in her curious dialect together than usual. 

Suddenly the tension is high. For second it looks like she is about to shoot.

"I've had enough of this fugee shit-show."

"Whoa, whoa - easy, mate."

Tav steps in, her voice cutting through the tieflings' frightened gasps.

"Who said anything about refugees? Who are they? Zress, put that thing down. They're surrounded and unarmed. I think their nerves are closer to snapping than yours."

"Unarmed, she says," Golon mutters, grip still on the haft of his greatblade. "The one-horned one tried to hex us. Nearly singed my beard off."

"He was scared - what do you think!" the woman cries. Only now does Tav take her face really in and halts for a seconds: scars, old and cruel, tear across one side. Her pain is stitched into every wrinkle.

The young tiefling wriggles out of the embrace and scrambles to his feet.

"Auntie, I take it back," he grits out. "That glove's not worth a penny. Wouldn't steal it even if it came off a prince, much less a rotten darky."

The moment freezes. Oh golly. One drowish smile. The kind of smile that says the ranger's done waiting. And judging by the way her shoulders square, it looks like she's already passed the death sentence.

"Funny thing bout a fat lip -" Zress' fingers pull back the string. "- Swells real nice when there's an arrow stickin through it."

"Stop!"

She doesn't.

So, Tav lunges. She collides with the drow just as the bow jerks. The arrow shoots - Floop! - straight into the ceiling, accompanied by its owner's angry yell. Golon - praise be to his sturdy reflexes - grabs his partner by the collar and yanks her away from Tav, who's now wheezing on the floor breathing through the pain of Zress' heavy boot.

Gunja, in the meanwhile, catches the young tiefling before he can bolt.

"Right. Thank you," Tav snarls, dragging herself upright with a groan and a scowl, "you guys better leash your itchy-fingered murder pixie before she ends up on a one-way trip back to Faerûn." She rubs her smarting shin with gritted teeth. "Preferably, in a crate."

She shakes her head. Ouch. Hit that one, too. "And could someone - anyone - kindly answer my DAMN question? Preferably before the next attempted murder, yeah? I mean, come on. It's not that hard."

Heavy silence follows.

"They're escaped labourers," the elf sighs at last, while Golon keeps a firm grip on the writhing, growling Zress. "Showed up a few sleep cycles ago. Just a handful of them. Claimed to be from the Fourth Layer of Hell.”

That'd be Phlegethos. Tav blinks, slowly piecing it all together. Well, not all ... Her noggin's still hurting.

"They've been creeping around ever since, quiet as a murder in the night."

"Not quiet enough," the archer grumbles.

She watches the - indeed murderous - sparks flare in the tiefling's eyes.

"The dwarf tolerates them," Gunja adds, now edging a step away from the trembling man, "but they're not here on her orders. We don't know their purpose, but ..." his voice lowers slightly, "we suspect the cambion's hand in it."

"We're just cleaners!"
"We're just handymen!" the tieflings shout unisono.

"Runts on the run, that's what you are. You think you can crawl in here, nick our gear, piss on our floor and call it cleanin?" Zress barks but wears that grin again, goading, knowing exactly, that her words sting deep. "I oughta pin that soft blueberry skull to the fuckin wall."

She narrows her eyes and focuses on her aim with her trigger finger. "Make myself a nice fuckin trophy." 

And suddenly - the boy moves. A lunge. A flash. Straight for the cleaning cart. A second later, and Gunja has his sabre drawn back, and Tav sees a heavy wooden bucket hurtling toward her, spinning with an ill-fated leftward curve, all in slow motion.

What happens next is difficult to describe without the following disclaimer: This was not a good day.

Not a good day. But, miraculously, not a lethal one either. And that, considering the sudden bolt of lightning ricocheting through the room, is something of a miracle. Everyone not born of hell gets a proper jolt. And someone's hair catches fire. Specifically: Zress'. The rest of her veil goes up in flames, revealing, for the first time, a snarling silverhaired drow woman underneath. Who would have guessed. Though now there isn't much left of it. Thank Hope for her enchanted wards, because they trigger the alarm just in time - and moments later, the dwarf appears in a flurry of exasperated light and restorative magic. Only she manages to calm the storm.

Turns out, the tieflings were telling the truth. They are just cleaners. And also: no, Lord Raphael is not the master of this house. That honour belongs to the now-furious cleric trying to scold and soothe at the same time while ushering the two flustered and deeply impressed tieflings away to wherever. Tav is too rattled to ask questions. Zress sulks off without a word, mutters something bitter about refugees, tieflings, or whatever else made her blacklist this week, and slumps into a corner to poke at what's left of her scorched hair.

The rest? A spot of a mess. And a bitter taste in Tav's mouth that no amount of lightning can burn away.

The door falls shut behind her, and Tav stands still for a moment, staring at the floor. The footprints are still there, hers, fine dust prints from less than an hour ago. How fitting that she has something new to contribute: some mud, and for whoever feels inclined to touch her, a faint trace of static charge. She shrugs off her coat and dagger belt and tosses them onto the vanity - cleaned spick and span, she remembers, by the same people who were nearly shot for it.

"Filthy gutterrats, huh?" she mutters, recalling the ranger's hateful words.

Drow prejudice is nothing new. Or any kind of prejudice, for that matter. Along the Sword Coast, it's common currency - mistrust of tieflings, suspicion of the displaced. It's rotten luck for those who are both.

She's ready to fall dead to the world. First a bath, if she has the strength for it, and then straight into bed with no further commentary from the universe. Enough. The day has taken what it came for. Passing the mirror, she catches sight of herself. To the toxic dust across her face, a layer of mop water has now been added. Grimy streaks frame a hairline that smells faintly of singe and sticks up at odd angles. She looks positively insane.

Something shifts in the corner of her vision. The knot sits on the table, exactly where she left it. Still pulsing. Still glowing. Calling.

And the question rises again, for the second time now: Why the heck would Raphael take in refugees from Phlegethos? He told her himself there was no saving them. These must be different people than the ones that awful circle in Abriymoch went on about - because none of it adds up.

Ach, she needs a wash. A nice, cooling, restorative wash.

Tav reaches for a chair to unlace her boots, but the tenth jolt hits her the moment her fingers graze the backrest. It hits like a hiccup turned inward, snaps through her whole body. With a growl of needling frustration, she tears off the boot and throws it across the room.

Dendar damn that tiefling. If she's still twitching like this at the dinner table, she'll skin someone. There's a current in her skin that won't settle, and depending on what she touches, her hair, a sodden chair, it's either a strange little stir in the bones or a biting whip that sends her muscles jerking in protest. The idea of climbing into bathwater while still charged like a spell scroll is enough to flatten her resolve completely. Tav tiredly strips off the day in layers, down to vest and shirt, and collapses backward onto the bed.

The sound she makes is comical - something between a yelp and a breathless moan. Slams her lips shut and a hand to her arse. The moment her bare skin hits the blanket, sparks are shooting up the backs of her legs and curling right into her gut. What's stranger is the path it takes, though: straight through the centre of her lower pelvis. A sensation she hadn't been expecting.

Tav leans further into the mattress. The tickle returns whenever she moves, lowly against a knot of nerves that lights up wickedly.

Interesting.

Shame it doesn't last.

Almost without meaning to, Tav touches the back of her neck—and there it is again. That buzz. Even her own hands set it off. The skin tingles under her fingertips, alive and electric. Not exactly seductive in the classical sense buuut ... if it means what she thinks it might ...

She glances down at herself, lashes fluttering.

'You're disgusting,' she thinks, and sighs - half annoyed, half amused, fully doomed.

She feels gross, knackered. But there's heat rising through her now like someone just whispered a spell down her spine, and that's the worst possible combination ever: To be so wound tight but too filthy to relax.

This cursed lightening spell provokes some stress reliefing ideas, alright.

She can't seriously consider doing anything in this state, though.

Can she?

Lie down and ruin her freshly cleaned sheets just to shake this off? That's a terrible idea.

Tav watches the drawn curtains as if they'd hold the answer, or at least a distraction. The red-green shimmer of the magic knot ghosts across the heavy fabric; it's barely noticeable at first, but the longer she sits there, the brighter the reflection twists, the more it crawls at the ragged edges of her focus. It feels like a child tugging on her sleeve, over and over, asking for something she can’t give. Huh, that's a shit distraction.

Her vest hits the table. The light vanishes.

She draws in a long breath, presses her bare thighs together, and allows herself to feel it, the thrill that dances indecently close to her soft parts.

'Just a teensy bit. A little -' She bites her lip 'tease. Just until the effect fades.'

Might be over in no time. She's not getting in the bath like this anyway, gods forbid. That much she learned from a bucket of water and a lightning spell.

Tav shifts against the rough bedcover, lets the friction meet her half-way. Her body - or rather, what lies between her legs - has seen its fair share of attention lately. And still, somehow, it feels like she hasn't touched herself in years. How eager she is now. Must be Raphael's magic fingers. Or that silver tongue of his.

She feels her face heat up. It's wrong, in a way: to twist a poor tiefling's magic defense into something like this. Then again, this isn't going to bring her anywhere near real relief. For that, she'd have to get handsy.

'Raphael almost managed to do it without,' a voice whispers in her head. 'With nothing more than a bit of warmth and his thumb resting right ... there.' 

Her eyes drift shut. If a western sun were glowing red-hot against cool stone walls, she could pretend she was back at Sharess' Caress. Barely touched. And this time - with nothing to fear.

Yes. Just like that.

The memory slides between the folds of her mind and swells swiftly, taking up the space in one go. Already, a disobedient hand moves down her sternum, where the skin feels paper-thin and every nerve is bare to the lightest touch. Pulse stuttering from the tiny neural shocks.

"Not bad."

Throat parched, neck drenched. She swallows hard.

'I can still feel this. I can still burn in a healthy way.' Despite her unlucky situation she can remain a woman who holds the reins to uh blahbla and so on. (She shudders in pleasure). After all, it's not pretense that drives her actions, as the cambion had whispered so callously. (His voice ...). She's just shedding. Making room. New skin. It's obliteration.
And yes, maybe a little lightning helps. And her imagination.

She exhales shakily; the thought of his voice creeps in under her starved skin. She grumbles and, as her thigh pushes the shirt out of the way, aims for the hunger where it lives. Quick. Just a finger, there. Press down. Rest afterwards.

'You're bad. You're a bad bad girl.'

And bites her lip.

'Oh, shut it.'

Finally, annoyance immediately replaced by the delicious sensation under her finger tips; Tav goes all in. Zipping need wide open, she excitedly stirs and circles the wet area in a rather nervous ellipse.
In the sex department, she's always been a rather straight forward specimen, less about self-flagellation (wagging ex-lover tongues might call her impatient, when, really, it's efficiency oriented); so she opens the old mental gallery - her trusted vault of erotica - to whip this spontaneous interlude to a swift and glorious conclusion. Within seconds, scenarios fly past, light up, don't stick for long: Many hands on her. Then many mouths. Sweaty passion. Then consentually dubious rope-y scenes. Kisses then fangs. Weird masters and even weirder servants.
Tav's jumping from one stage to the next until she's stuck on that which stokes her fire the most because it's vivid and true and close to home. She seeks more of it. More of a certain devil's intensity. More of him. And she's aflame. Raphael's eyes on her - those deep, umber eyes that haunt her dreams. A tongue that licks those lips. Taloned hands twitching, waiting for her sign.

A bumbling lover, he is. Unpolished and needy. And always so hard for her.  

"Tell me that you want me."

Woof. 

She should be worried, yes yes, alright (she buries her face in one hand and shudders under the shock it gives her), she should be scared. But, blimey, Raphael's desire is tinder to anyone's blazing ego. The fact that he lets her go. Every time. When most men with half his power would've taken more than they were owed. That alone gives Tav pause.

She could tame him.

She could break him.

Gods, and then she would teach him how to fuck her properly.

Just imagine.

'Let's see how quakeproof your obsession really is.'

Raphael - her personal fuckboy. Unfailingly ready. Constantly available. And then, endless, brain-evacuating orgasms on tap.

Sounds like too much admin to get there.

Tav lets out a chuckle.

"Something funny?"

The shirt's down over her thighs in what might be a personal best.

"Oh, please, don't stop on my account." Raphael says from the table, studying the sketchbook.

'Why not get over here, you bastard, and fucking help me -' Her mouth twists. 'Wait. Why in the sweet Hells -?'

"How'd you get in here?" she shouts from the bed, then immediately winces. A dumb and panicked question. It's not the matter of transport she wants answered. Not really. And of course, he knows that. Doesn't even turn. Just flares his nostrils, slow and deliberate, as though he's standing in a field of flowers.

"I can smell you."

Unbelievable. He knows every time she -

Is that ... normal?

Her fingers (very damp and traitorous) slip under the blanket in a motion she hopes reads casual. He smiles in closed-mouthed amusement. It's absolutely insufferable.

Tav bolts upright. Barefoot, half-dressed, cheeks burning. She stalks toward him, trying to ignore heart and humiliation thudding together between her legs.

"So?" she says, "Do doors mean nothing in Baator, or is this just your personal hobby?"

She stops short, just far enough. The cambion has already caught her desire, there's no reason he needs to catalogue the rest.

"What, do you expect me to knock?"

The snort escapes before she can stop it. "Out."

Instead, he glances around idly. "Your taste in orderliness has improved," he notes, before his eyes land on her, actually twinkling with mirth. It makes her cheeks flame up even more. "Your hairdo ... less so."

"Don't deflect. Get out of my room."

"Technically, this is a chamber in a rented wing of a fortress warded by halfwits - currently off-duty as it seems," he corrects her. "Claiming ownership is a tad aspirational."

"And that makes it yours to break into?"

"It makes it accessible. Mortals draw such funny little lines whereever they want and then get upset when someone steps over them."

"My gods," she barks, feeling the mental exhaustion pancaking her embarrassment, "do you have any grasp of what a boundary is?"

"Possibly. Or you could just call it having a sense of inordinate disinterest in your case. Speaking of inordinate."

He lets the sketchbook drop like a wet rag, turns and laces his pedicured fingers. His gaze settles heavily on her.

"I'm going to ignore what you were so enthusiastically doing in that bed," he says, his eyes flicking heavenward with theatrical restraint, "and the fact that you're not wearing any underwear. Because that's not why I'm here."

Well, great, the humiliation is back. Full on.

If that isn't bad enough, somewhere in Tav's mental limbo, a crowd boos. Something a bit lower down registers a firmer objection to Raphael's apparent mission - and it's hard to ignore: arousal and fatigue still pulse through her limbs. The solution to both stands before her, powdered and polished like he's on his way to a formal audience with the Archduke of Hell Number Whatsit. She can smell him. That sweet perfume of his, recently applied, so recent it still bites.

Tav swallows it all down. "I'm listening."

"How was your outing?" he asks instead, tone all friendly, formal function. "Find any arcane trinkets? Slay a dragon?"

She folds her arms with a tense shrug and eyes him warily. Asmodeus help him if he's here to bring bad news. Asmodeus help her if it's something about Jaheira - if he's sending her away. She's too horny and unrested for bad tidings.

"A beetle. What do you want?"

"Brava. Well then -" Raphael brushes right past her answer. Topic change. Chitchat over. "As trivial as it may sound, I've come to address a matter of great import. You've summoned something. Something potent enough to make the very bones of this house creak. Enough to tangle the natural order itself.”

His dark eyes flicker, just for a second, to the crumpled vest on the table.

"I sense its pull even beyond these walls," he says, and his stagey words make her roll her eyes, "It's calling, calling for release."

"I'm positively tearing up over your natural order."

She watches him flinch, subtly, like something's unpleasant snagged in the folds of his mind. He straightens with an uneasy little cough.

"I do not jest. You may not hear the screams as I do, dear mouse, not with such ... clarity of pitch. But you'll feel the disquiet. Something is awry."

He pauses, for dramatic effect.

"Don't deny it. Even the druid said a force has bound itself to you."

With a huff and another eye roll, Tav pulls the vest off the braid and watches his reaction. To the untrained eye, Raphael hasn't moved an inch: his breath, his face, all perfectly composed. But Tav knows better. Has learned which muscles give him away. When his gaze locks onto the now erratically pulsing knot, a string in his neck twitches prominently. Fat, tense, and deeply unhappy. 

"It's binding us both. That's all you're going to get out of me," she declares, watching his lit face like it's an enigma that'll only reveal itself to her if she provokes it. "So better start talking, or I'm just going to stand here being deeply unhelpful."

He exhales abruptly. "If I knew, I'd tell you - though the act of confessing ignorance in my own dominion wounds me more deeply than you might imagine." He pauses. Eyes narrow. "As to whether it poses a threat, I cannot say. It feels like a soul, but not the spiderboy's. No."

He clicks his tongue, thoughtful.

"Congratulations," she snarks. "You cracked that one."

But inwardly, she finds herself wondering. How in all the bleeding planes can he sense that?

"It's actually ..." she begins.

And trails off. He turns and their eyes lock. Both frowning, both for different reasons.

'Does Raphael really not know?' she wonders.

Does he deserve to?

"Yes?" he prompts and steps forward.

And with the sweep of his whole persona, a new scent washes over her. Undeniably his. Intensely attractive. It's neither sulphur nor cherries, she notices. He's not even wearing any perfume right now. No, this one is his own body scent. One that triggers the memory when she'd been close as skin to it; his body warm against hers. Pleasure. Safety. She won't dare call it a scent by human standards, but she recognizes it, and it exists because it's imprinted intimately into at least three of her senses. Her instincts sing with it, low and certain. 

Tav sways forward before she catches herself. Enough for the devil to hear it, feel it, read it in her pulse. His clever eyes are already on her, and she's certain with a panic that he not only smells her, he hears the roar of her bloodstream. She takes a long breath and quickly steps back again, hand on a cheek to hide what's undoubtedly written all over her face. Clearing her throat, she eyes the braid like it's a rope out of this sensoric mess.

"What is it?" he asks again, but Tav avoids his gaze now.

"Nothing you need to ruffle your princely curls over."

She drops her hand, grimacing. Warmth? Safety? What in the fester 

"Little mouse. That attitude is not only unwarranted, it's - how shall I put this - deeply unwise."

"It's still none of your business."

"Didn't we just establish it is?"

She's probably lucky he doesn't scold her outright. In her current wound-up state, Raphael's deep, chiding voice would hit far too deep.

"I'll correct myself," she says to the floor, and she is astonished how cut clean and cold she sounds even to her own standards. "It's nothing you could fix."

'And I'll find out on my own how you're involved, devil ... If that even matters,' she adds frostily in her mind. 'Maybe it's just my child's soul gagging on your personality.'

"This baseless theory I shall leave uncommented," he says smoothly, "and get to the point at last."

About time.

"You've been entrusted with an offering, as I understand it. And judging by the object -" He nods toward the braid, "- and the source, it's evident what sort of blood it hungers for. You're meant to rework this item. Atonement, perhaps. A healing of something old, yes?"

She presses her lips together. But silence, for him, is as good as a confession. He clasps his hands together and bows unexpectedly.

"I offer you my assistance in completing your offering. Free of charge."

Well. Isn't that a surprise.

"Say you require tools - loom, cloth, needles, whatever the method calls for - you shall have it. With my compliments, no less."

Her eyes go wide, dripping with mockery. "How generous."

"I've been known for it," he says with a nod.

"Thanks but no thanks."

What does he take her for? That she'd be stupid enough to accept anything from him again? No, no. She'll ask Hope. Or bargain with an imp vendor. Naked, if necessary.

"I repeat," repeats Sir Generosity, "you have nothing to lose. You could begin immediately. Finish what you were given, faster."

"And the more you push, the dodgier it sounds."

"It's not dodgy," he says smoothly. "I'm simply showing a friendly gesture."

"Forgive me if I don't take such honeyed words at face value anymore."

Raphael breathes in, slowly and audibly, eyes on her for a long moment with something between calculation and resignation. What will his next move be? Something absurd, hopefully. She could use a laugh.

"Believe it or not, mouse, this comes from a place of goodwill," he says at last, still gently but with a grain of gruff in his voice.

Ah, there it is. Tav cackles, loud and shameless.

"Goodwill!" she howls.

Unbelievable. The balls on this one. So many grand words starting with 'G' - and not one of them true. She clutches her stomach, laughing even harder. The devil, for his part, is less amused (she notices through watery eyes). He listens to her laughter in silence, and when he finally speaks, it's in a tone that has grown noticeably colder.

"It fascinates me that you choose contempt over the simple solution I offer. Wouldn't it be better to just take it?"

"Probably. But if I took it seriously, I'd only end up annoyed with myself," Tav says, still grinning as she massages her sore belly. "So I'd rather laugh."

She shrugs. "Also, I happen to enjoy being a thorn in your side. You're getting smug again. It's obnoxious."

"Tav." Just her name - but the way he says it, it's more a sour growl than a warning.

Raphael's mood dips. She sees it in the small, feathering vein at his otherwise perfectly moisturized temple. Somehow, the sight pulls her back down to (the sulphurous) earth.

"Free of charge, yeah?" she says. "Oh, come on. You? Helping out of the goodness of your infernal heart? Please. If you ever help someone, it's either on accident or because you smell profit."

"At present, I assure you, I gain nothing at all," he replies, clipped, and for once, there's tension under the surface. His tone is more irritable than usual. Maybe the knot's curse wears him down in some way. How practical. "Quite the contrary: I am bothered by your aggravatingly irrational behaviour."

Tav would like to throw his botheration back in his face.

"You mean my thoroughly earned suspicion!" she laughs again, despite feeling nettled. "What do I get from your help, aside from the pleasure of refusing and watching you pout?" Which, in fairness, has its charm. His sulky lip is quite the entertainment.

She lifts a finger to her nose, interrupting the fiend just as he draws breath to answer.

"Aha. How about this?" She leans in slightly. "You take my 'no' as a cue to finally hold up your end of our contract. And in return, I'll review your generous gesture."

It's like watching a lock click back into place - his old, clever smugness sliding home with a quiet snap. For a moment, Tav has no idea what that means and how he'll respond to her.

"My dear, deluded little sparrow of a few supple summer seaons," Raphael begins with soft-spoken scorn. She feels her annoyance spike again. "This haggling with the devil - how quaint. But you might consider abandoning it until you locate a legitimate position from which to bargain. Which, clearly, you lack - if you were rummaging for it somewhere between your legs."

He steps a little closer and Tav has to lean her head back to hold the eye contact.

"Really now. This childish insistence on bartering at every turn ..." He looks down at her. "It's becoming embarrassingly pedestrian, even for a carpetmonger of your modest tier."

Her lips press into a hard line before she even realises it. Wow, what a low blow.

"I know perfectly well what that artefact wants from you," he continues with a bored expression - but she sees him ignoring the cold fury in her eyes on purpose. "What you shouldn't be doing is dithering. The longer you hesitate, the more foul the magic becomes. But don't take it from me; take it from a baatezu with a few centuries of spellwork under his belt, dearest."

"First of all: bite me," she says, mindfully skipping the "you cretin". "And second: I feel fine. No idea what fantasy you're spinning now."

"Liar."

He crinkles his nose. Classic disapproval of her foul little mortal mouth.

"But very well," he drawls, "ignore the lesson staring you in the face. Waste time. Make me watch. But mark this: eventually, you'll come crawling back to accept what I offered so freely at first. And when that day comes, Tav, your humiliation will be sweet ambrosia to me."

"You keep telling yourself that, maybe one day you'll even believe it."

She makes a motion at the door with a "Now kindly fuck off" attitude. And with that, she turns her back to him, arms crossed, waiting for him to leave. Angry, exhausted. Bemused.

Immediately, a clawed hand is at her waist, breath warm against her scalp, and Tav can tell with absolute certainty that Raphael has shifted form. He jerks slightly from what might've been an electric shock. She smirks. Doesn't stop him, though. His thumb glides along her side. 

Goosebumps. A shiver. Her eyelids grow heavy.

"Tav, I could -"

Something squeaks on the other side of the room, and the door swings open.

"Oi, boss. I knocked, but no one answered," Mol calls, already halfway in. "So I figured - bugger, maybe you're dead. Or busy. Or both."

Tav startles. Of course they look too close - again. She turns fast, like that'll fix the visual. If Mol hadn't already suspected something, she sure as hells does now. Then again, maybe that's the bloody point ...

Raphael moves, turning away, grumbling low in frustration as he steps off.

"Undoubtedly."

"Anyway, urgent stuff."

Tav, ears burning, barely catches the mention of a "message from Mephistar" before snap - just like that - the girl's gone, mid-sentence.

"Business waits for no one," Raphael starts, casual again. But doing exactly that - waiting.

Waiting for Tav to turn. A glance. A word.

"Consider -" he starts.

"Don't think I will," she cuts in.

Finally, she hears his heel grind against the floor, and she could be mistaken, but it sounds like he is gritting his teeth, too.

"Then forget about visiting Faerûn for a long -" He pauses, all cruel intention, " - very long time."

"Don't care, asshole." She spins, ready to glare him out of her room.

But the devil has his hand already raised and is giving her a stormy look.

"That's what you get for listening to others," he says in that flat, frozen tone that reminds her of his first declaration of war back in the House of Hope.

Then, in a burst of searing flame, he's gone.

Chapter Text

It'd been a long time since his last visit to Malbolge - he doesn't know how many hundreds of years - and longer still since he had flown across its storm-scoured plateaus. Through the drifting tatters of smoke that rise from Malagard's charred remains, the scape unravels before him: a gargantuan tumble of black stone blocks, angular, and each one larger than a city. Flat. Inhospitable. As barren and lifeless as any place he's ever laid claim to.

But of course, that's a lie. Malbolge only pretends to be empty. Ruined, yes. Lonely, undoubtedly. But underneath its silent stone, it crawls. It writhes. It mutters and watches and waits. One need only look. Or slip. Dare to step into a crater. Wade into a deceptively placid mud pool. Let the eyes linger too long on the negative space between cliffs - something always stares back. In stark contast, the skies above are busy with shredwings, swarms of them giant bats that are dressed for eternal war. Occasionally, an erinyes zips past, straight-backed and hurrying, clearly at the behest of their Lady Glasya, Archduchess of Malbolge.

No one bothers to glance down at the figures on the plateau.

Raphael lowers his gaze to the plain before him. There, crouched beside a limbless thorn-tree, sits his likeness. A clever simulacrum, yet darker and miserable. The mane ist raven. The leathers, silky black. Boots and bracers the same: the whole ensemble lined with small gemstones, glittering faintly, their colour sapped by this sickened land that doesn't permit pigment and dulls shine. The smoke parts and only now he takes notice of the full costume: the demon's wearing nipple piercings set into its flesh like a torture device. Chains hang from every limb, even the wings - iron staples, punched into inflamed skin with the indifference of one well-practised in cruelty. The creature is a walking declaration of ownership. Property of the Lord of Cania.

The sight is loathsome and surely made to insult him. It also makes Raphael want to enshroud himself deeper in his cloak and shrink away like a weak mortal. Instead, he merely presses his lips together and fixes his gaze on this picture. It's obvious that every inch is a message to him. But so, too, is the choice of messenger. Whoelse would Mephistopheles have sent than a lust-demon - such a deliberate, cheap and vile thing, whose very flesh recalls excess, even in this posture of slavish obedience. It squats now on the rock, chained and bent, but no less profane for its submission. It probably does not even understand what it is. That is what makes it useful. Mephistopheles, on the other hand, knows exactly where to press.

The chains clink softly. A twitch runs through the tip of Haarlep's tail.

Chapter Text

"They're not bound to him by contract," Hope said.

"He brought them here," Tav replied flatly.

"And I can send them right back!" Hope's hands flailed, marionette-like, tugged by too many thoughts at once. "Really! Just say the magic word - 'please' - and SNAP goes the portal, off they pop, out of the frying pan and into ... well, probably another frying pan. But still! Choice!"

Nice. So anyone can leave, while she ...

"Then why don't they? Why stay and work for nothing like - like slaves?"

"Because they're safe. They've got a roof. A reason. A room without a barbed bed. That's the dream. The dream with slightly less death." She gave a jaunty shrug. "I mean, not paradise, obviously. But you'd be amazed what folk settle for when the alternative is a spiky death and no pudding."

She paused. Looked at Tav. "Ah. Bother."

Her non-chalant attitude faltered, as she scratched the back of her head.

"I forgot. You can't leave. That's, um. Whoopsie?"

"Hope -" Tav started, but the sentence curled up and died somewhere under her ribs. A stabbing cramp bloomed in her gut. She glanced down, brow furrowed.

"You're absolutely certain he's not using them?" she continued with some irritation. "No devil's game beneath it?"

Hope's eyes flicked nervously. She shook her head hard, like the motion might chase the thought away.

"Gods damn it, I don't get you." Tav rubbed her temple. "Doesn't any of this strike you as fucked up?"

The cleric shrugged again, smaller this time. Shrinking. Tav didn't press. No use shaking a simping puppet who's already tangled in her own strings. But the idea that Raphael, of all people, had brought a clutch of survivors to Avernus out of nothing but goodwill? It was laughable. And yet the absurdity of it kept her awake. Could that sulphur-slick bastard actually have a heart? Was he truly changing?

Back in her room, she handled what couldn’t wait. Blood on her fingertips, but this time it came as a blessing. She murmured a quiet thank you to the gods she didn’t believe in, fetched Jaheira’s satchel with its herbal pads, drank something sharp and druidic, and crawled into bed with no intention of getting out for the rest of the day. As for Raphael, she reached no verdict. Curled in warmth, head on pillow, she was left with two facts: One, that she didn’t know enough, and until she did, she’d have to keep watching, keep collecting scraps of his grand design. Two, that sleep claimed her before the first of those thoughts could settle into something whole.

Tav awakens, dishevelled and confused, well in advance of the appointed hour. She barely has time to wipe the damp curls from her forehead before the bed begins to spin - and with it, the room. Her head throbs.

And suddenly, she's not in her bed anymore. She's in his. Haarlep's old silk-drenched, sin-scented boudoir. The air is thick, syrupy. Somewhere in the mist, a string instrument plucks away. The drapes are drawn, the pool veiled in steam, but she hears the erratic splashes and sees a silhouette shifting behind the gauzy fabric. Tav rises, ready to give the bathing devil a piece of her mind. Her heart beats somewhere between groggy irritation and - thanks to Hope's insistent words - a tentative calm.

"Raphael?"

She pulls the curtain aside and steps through. The cambion sits with his back to her in the water, arms resting on his knees, wings spread in a lazy arc. He doesn't react.

He does exhale, though. A long, cavernous breath. Is he dozing? She sighs, rubs the last grit from her eyes, and tilts her neck till it cracks.

"Tally bally ho, old goat. Yer called?"

She's privately pleased. Her tone is breezy, bright - neutral with a hint of vermouth. A white flag, sort of, after their last heated exchange (one she doesn't exactly regret, but wouldn't call her finest hour either).

"Your favourite 'third-rate carpet seller' is back and ready to serve."

She just can't help herself.

She hears the snap of fingers more than she sees it. Suddenly, a rose quartz box whirls through the air and lands in her hands with a thud that nearly makes her drop it.

"You can start with my wings."

"Huh?"

He stretches his back, vans spreading further. Water cascades down their impressive curve in a slow rush. The devil's streaked with something that leaves no room for guessing - its metallic scent is unmistakable. She's back in Phlegethos, whether she likes it or not. That night. Taut deltoid. And shoulder blades that could crack a nut. Blood like camouflage paint.

Something clenches in her gut.

"Are you hurt?"

He huffs and she can't tell if it's out of pain or amusement. She glances down at the box in her hands and frowns. In a temple of Ilmater or any place remotely medical she'd expect gauze, disinfectant, maybe some thread and a pair of surgical scissors. What she finds instead is a pedicure set; perfumed oil, mesh-wrapped soaps and a knobbly glove. 

"You want me to ... bathe you?" Tav croaks. "You're joking."

He is absolutely not joking. She knows it not from his silence, but from the tectonic rumble of a warning that escapes his chest. Torm himself could be rattling in that ribcage. With a sigh, Tav drops to her knees and sets the kit down. Pondering over her next move. Her eyes linger on his filth crusted shoulders.

"Surely, you could do it yourself."

He's got a whole host of minions now. A magic pool. Aromatherapeutic lighting. Gold-plated soap trays. What does he need her for?

'Probably angling for a happy end.'

She nearly groans. Would she say 'no' to more? Probably not. But as long as Jaheira's around with the moral compass, that idea would be ... inadvisable. Maybe he senses that. Maybe that's why he's being such a prick.

"Get on with it," said prick scoffs and wrinkles his nose as if she's some kind of irritating insect.

A lesser creature would've obeyed. Tav just sneers back. "My, what a model of politeness you are."

A jet of flame snaps to life before his face and she stiffens.

"Better don't test me today," Raphael snaps. "Difficult as that may be for you."

And just like that, silence returns.

He's not wrong; it does tempt her to defy him. Always has. That playful back-and-forth had been part of their dynamic from the start, even back when their entire relationship consisted of one endless lanceboard session. But right now, a jab would be too predictable. And he, cranky as he is, would likely just zap her back to her room to get her out of his sight. He's probably counting on it. So Tav behaves. Plants her ass on the tiled floor and dips the massage glove into the water. She wrings it out right at the root of his wings and watches the crusted blood dissolve into thin light ribbons.

No visible wounds yet. Which means exactly nothing. He could've healed himself after the fight. Could've been ambushed and defended himself in the most brutal and bloody way. There's no doubt that he could take such a loss of blood in stride - or that some of it might not be his at all. She remembers his strength, remembers it in her bones. He'd been one of the toughest foes she'd ever faced: fast, brutal, and frustratingly resourceful. It had taken five of them to bring him down during their "Rescue Hope" fiasco, and even then it had been a slog.

So whoever did this must've been stupidly powerful. Or come in numbers.

Tav reaches for the sachet, pulls out a piece of soap, and rubs it into the glove. A soft, fragrant lather begins to foam, fresh and green. Verbena, probably. Of course it's verbena.

She's supposed to rub this into his skin. Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth. The back before her is ... exceptional. Tone, texture, firmness, breadth. Somehow, Raphael has bulked up since she last saw his back. The wiry edge is gone. In this soft light, his cherry-red skin stretches over thickened muscle and a new layer of healthy fat. A body fit for a crown of horns. Tav flushes. Embarrassment blooms low and stupid. She's touched him before, had her boot on his chest. But now, somehow, he feels unattainable. Not sacred, but mythic. As if she had to give a god a sponge bath.
Her uterus chooses this moment to contract. She swears she feels the blood flow quicken.

Raphael turns his head. The sidelong glance skims past her, but the warning lands all the same: stop stalling. Tav exhales, moves. Foam meets skin. He twitches. Gooseflesh tight. He's as solid as marble.

She clears her throat.

"You woke me," she says, hand sliding under his wing joint.

There's no blood, no injury there, but he shudders at her touch. She does it again. Another breath - low, weighty. Another sensitive spot. She's good at finding those.

"Was it a nice dream?" he asks as she re-lathers the glove, fighting the - no, not flutter, the cramp in her belly. "I bet it was."

There's a rasp in his voice.

"I stabbed you," she replies after a pause. "So yes."

"Now, now."

Silence stretches between them and it does so long enough for Tav to lose herself in her handiwork. She focuses on his left wing now, gently scrubbing the red landscape where well meets barrow and things live underneath. It's the first time she's touched a baatezu's wing. The sensation is chilling. The upper limb is not more than flesh strung over bone; shaped like a human arm but monstrously so. There's hair - a fine, golden coat - scattered across it. Even the membrane between the wing's long fingers is dusted with it, catching the light. And beneath that: a delicate map of red veins, thin as spider silk. Moles. Old scars. A history written in skin.

It's alien. And, again, horribly private.

Her fingers drift over his scarry landmarks and she thinks she'll never finish reading. Centuries - millennia, maybe - etched into him. Strange how the pool hadn't graced him with perfection. It's just as strange as the faint scars near his groin. Silently she watches the way the joint flexes with each small shift of the wing. She wonders (not for the first time) if tieflings were denied wings because usefulness would've been mercy. Horns, tails - ornaments of punishment. Wings? Wings were escape.

"My mate Barth courted a gnome once. Hands like a saint. Said she could read people through touch. Didn't matter the person. One massage and she knew who you were that day."

A pause so long it walks the room and comes back aged.

"Why massage," he finally mutters, "when there are easier ways to pluck truth from bone."

"She was listening. Not interrogating."

Another sniff. Might be contempt. Might be contemplation.

"She told me there are truths that don't come through words and gestures. Just through muscle. Especially when touched right."

"A business built on flesh, still."

Tav sighs softly. Her fingertips trail the hollow of his collarbone, slower now, lighter.

"Well yes. Especially when the business was personal."

"I'm flattered, then," he drawls, "that you would try the same on me, pet. Harder."

She jabs her thumb into the muscle where neck and shoulder meet. He doesn't flinch. 

Then, half a beat too late, she huffs softly. "As if I had a choice. But I suppose I'm beginning to see how it works. Reading someone through their tension. Even you. You're practically giving a monologue."

He flicks water in her direction. From her angle, she sees his mouth twitch into a scowl.

He takes his time before replying. "Don't waste the air. I didn't ask for commentary."

Chapter Text

She haunts his study, the dining hall, corridors nearest his usual quarters. Chewing her lips raw. Wherever he might wander, Tav conveniently appears first, a spectre of poorly masked coincidence. Watching. Studying. Noting the way he rubs at his brow when he thinks himself unseen. Jaheira's gone, so there's no reason left to pretend she's fine. No reason not to acknowledge the itch in her skull -the unshakable unrest, the maddening sense that by doing nothing, she's tormenting something sacred and irretrievable.

But Tav won't ask. Courage fails her. Patience deserts her, too - no chance she'll wait on Hope or Gunja to return from their rare shopping sprees with something useful. And she sure as all Nine doesn't have the humility to ask him. So she stands with cheery waves to Jaheira's departing form, acting perfectly sane, thank you very much, and postpones her problem. Distracts herself with her so-called masterplan investigation. Because accepting a cure from a hand so historically generous with poison is simply ludicrous. Tav prefers to sift through the devil's desk, torturing herself with journals designed for boredom, noteworthy only for their bland evasions and increasingly frenetic penmanship. Questions the tieflings which yield pitifully little, except perhaps reassurance that Raphael's housekeeping remains suspiciously bereft of the carnage one might anticipate of a baatezu. She dutifully reminds herself: further entanglements with him constitute nothing short of masochism. And yet. She knows she won't be able to resist as long as that damned knot keeps gnawing at her.

The first time, she stands before those barren shelves, glaring at an absurdly high stack of pamphlets and volumes on the top of the shelf like some forbidden fruit on a stripped tree. Before she can properly muse on their undoubtedly nefarious contents, Raphael appears behind her with spectacularly ill-timed flair, close enough to scare the seams off her knickers. He cracks a "jab", she throws one back, both crap, followed by awkward silence. She manages a pretense, something about being bored (which is fair). She shrugs. He blinks. She leaves. The scene repeats itself a couple of times within hours until the sensation of his gaze is imprinted on her retreating spine.

He doesn't explicitly addresses her weird behaviour, yet, never asks "what ails her". But on the third pass, he offers her something unexpected. Ever painfully prim: "Would a journey home be agreeable?"

The only thing missing is that he speaks in rhyme. His oldfashionedness prompts an involuntary smirk. No idea why - it used to weird out young Tav, irritate Illithid Tav. And presently it ... Well. Catching his sideways glance at her mouth, she swiftly licks the grin off her lips and looks away. Neither comments on it, which suits her just fine - her attention is still pretty much hijacked by her internal coward's kicking at her ribs. Because gods, yes. Yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes. She wants Faerûn badly, and he bloody well knows it. Longing to see Wyll, hear Minsc rant about ham, maybe even humour Scratch with a ball or two. An innocent little homecoming. She needs get to inspect her shop. Check if her father still exists. Most of all, she needs her tools. Because the magic braid is drilling madness into her spine, and it won't shut up until she stitches something proper.

"You forbade me to leave Avernus," she murmurs accusingly, "or did you forget?"

Raphael dismisses it with an airy wave, as casual as if discussing a trip to the local bakery rather than her imprisonment. She doesn't let it slide. "You threatened me. I take that seriously, even if I don't always look like it."

"If you promise me two things," he says, "you can go."

Her fingers tap irritably on the wood of his desk, newly shifted to face the terrace halfway, not the door, for some reason. When no clarification follows, she presses, "Those being?"

"First, accept my offer of technical support."

Offer. "Whatever the method calls for - you shall have it," he'd said. Her lip suffers a fresh round of nervous nibbling. Of course she remembers - it haunts her relentlessly, growing sweeter with every passing hour.

"And the second?" she asks without protest.

He all but purrs. "Take Mol with you."

"Our contract expressly forbids -"

He interrupts smoothly: "That none of my agents tail you while you live? Quite. But Mol won't be tailing. She will escort you. And besides, that clause doesn't activate until we've both upheld our ends. Which I haven't."

He steps closer, hands elegantly clasped behind his back, that irritating crease above his left brow deeper than usual. Still on edge, despite their recent détente.

"Let Mol accompany you," he insists softly, somehow leaning forward without looking weird. "She will neither hinder nor spy - merely guard, nothing more."

"I have guards."

"None who can snap you back to me if something goes awry." He sighs. "Bring your mutts, if you must. But Mol goes. Those are my terms."

"Your terms," she echoes. "Ugh."

She will not ink her name anywhere, but privately vows that any treachery from that little weasel will meet swift and smackingly loud retribution, childlike cheek be damned.

"Unreasonable?"

She notices he's waiting for her decision. "Depends. If I agree, will you twist it against me later?"

Without hesitation he shakes his head and there is nothing theatrical about it. If he were Mizora - or even simpler than that, some slick merchant in Baldur's Gate, Tav would demand more than that. But the new austerity in him speaks of a weight. It unnerves her more than any grin ever could. Tack tack tack - her nails are still drumming against the wood, while defiance softens beneath her anxious fingertips. What can she say when all she craves is reliability without shackles, trust without signatures? 

It's better than nothing. So she withdraws her arm from the desk, steps forward boldly, brashly, as if to strike him, shove him, embrace him, whatever, and instead offers a hand. A handshake. Of all things. Raphael stares at it like it might explode. He practically recoils. As sudden as she moves, as swiftly he presses his hands to his chest and leans back like he needs armour. He named the deal, and now that she accepts, is the one who hesitates.

What a weirdo.

Tav tosses a flat "Fine then" at his boots. She's in. In return, she demands the bare minimum of decency: that they shake hands like civilised people. When he finally reaches out and accepts the invisible grenade, he offers her a wary smile. 

"I look forward to working together," he murmurs with a guarded nod.

"This isn't a pact," she reminds him sharply and pulls her hand back.

Somehow, his half-smile broadens and it makes her want to recoil in turn. She eyes his posture with a derisive little huff.

"Anywho. How's that tension?" she asks then, clearing her throat. "Still crampy?"

These days, Hope only needs two mage hands to multitask through the house and get the urgent legwork done. Or rather the "handiwork". Heh. It's an improvement. As she strolls through the corridors, the conjured rain gently waters every plant it passes, while the twin hands float off with a watering can, reaching into hidden corners and nourishing even the smallest shrubs. The whole mansion smells like soaked summer stone. Like the long-lost days in Faerûn, back when it was just the two of them, labouring under some adipose minor lord. The memories could be lovely, could, but more often than not, there's a spot on every petal. She could skip the triggers, cast the whole task from afar with a flick of her wrist and avoid the slide into the past. But she doesn't want to. Some things deserve slowness. Even the crackiest mind thrives best in quiet routine. But who is she telling? No one but herself - and she already knows. Hahahaha.

Suddenly, quick steps behind her - splash splash splash through the puddles - and then past her: a tiefling kid, in a dash. Boyo mumbles a hurried bow and scuttles off, blue hands cradling a goblin skull. Hope swears she's seen it before. From the Hall of Greeting, no doubt. Raphael keeps all his travel shinies there. But why would a child need a skull?

Hope follows. Unwittingly, she finds herself at the archway of one of the larger loges near the centre of the house, a spot made for lingering and quiet conversations, with a balustrade that overlooks the bridge connecting the foyer with the rest. Before she can see what the boy's doing, she stops at a respectable distance. Listens. There are voices. More than one. She tiptoes closer and ducks behind one of the massive potted plants. She doesn't need a full view to know who's staging a little rendezvous inside.

"I could have conjured us something more practical," Raphael's voice grates.

"But this (...) funnier," a woman teases a bit more hard to understand - undoubtedly the weaver's voice. "Now take the doublet off."

"No."

"I can't reach (...) that way. Please, strip."

Hope holds her breath. Tilts her head past two drooping leaves to catch more.

"Still no."

"Seriously, old man," Tav retorts, all tender, though. "You're being difficult."

"The insolence."

"Come on. I just know the attention whore's in there somewhere. Let your hair down, flash a bit of chest - might get noticed for something other than trying for world domination."

"Now, mouse, you're calling me vain? That's bold," Somehow he doesn't sound entirely offended, "coming from such a famously modest little thing that, of course, has never used humility as a weapon."

"I am very humble about things."

"Oh, humble," he echoes, and there's a suspicious rustle of clothes. "That must be why you're trying to undress me with such conviction."

Wait - he's actually taking off his waistcoat? The devil? That quixotic relic with the permanent stick up his spine? Stripping IN FRONT OF TAV? Tav and the devil. Oh. Oh! Hope feels the panic-giggle boil up her throat. It's hot and ridiculous. She tugs at the collar of her robes, rocks slightly on her heels, trying desperately to choke it down. Of course there's something between them. It's been stalking the corridors long before she caught them mid-doublet. But this? Watching the devil shed his costume for a woman who once tried to kill him - it's better than any romance novel she's read. Hope's halfway strangling herself with her own hem to stop from exploding into laughter. Quiet. Breathe.

"Your fans probably wouldn't mind either," the weaver teases with enough bite in her voice to reveal that she's being ironic. "Right, kid?"

A tiny squeak and a cough from off to the side. Oh, right. The tiefling's still in there. Watching all of this in first row. 

Nothing makes sense anymore.

"This is not going to work," Tav finally sighs. "If you won't lose at least a layer of brocade, I'm going to need to borrow Golon's war hammer and bloody tenderise the knot out of you."

"I shall have faith in you just this once," he replies unbothered and, apparently, still fully dressed.

"Funny."

"I wasn't joking."

An exaggerated sound of suprise. "Oh, shocker. Figures."

"I see no reason I should." A pause. "Humour is for distraction and pain relief. I require neither. Nor do I see a need to distract or soothe another person."

"Sure. Oy, what do you think, kid? A boss that doesn't pay, but hey, at least he's not funny either. Can't say the devil lacks consistency."

"I never said I lacked humour. Intellectually, I'm very much familiar with the concept of jocularity, and if I wanted I could make proficient use of it."

"Really ... Prove it then. Tell us a joke. An actual one, this time."

"I shall not."

"Because you can't."

A huff. "It is not ancient Netherese calculus."

"But you can't."

"Yes, I can."

"You can't."

"Why was the Lurker Above demoted to the Hells?"

For a second, Hope only hears the droplets of rain water trickle down the foliage and walls. 

"Because it couldn't keep its trap shut."

"What's a lurker?"

"A self-camouflaging pit trap. Really, ever heard of the Underdark?"

"So why would it get demoted?"

"It's a wordplay, Tav."

"I don't get it."

Still confused about so much - though less like she might hyperventilate herself into a coma - Hope exhales and leans back, fingers plucking at the brittle yellow edges of the plant before her. Her attention, reluctantly, drifts from the awkward chitchat to the uncooperative greenery trying to die under her care. She checks the soil in the oversized terracotta pot. It's damp. Perfect, actually. The rubber tree's from the southern Sword Coast, a lush and sturdy plant, until she brought it here. It's been sulking since cycle one. Maybe it's the Avernian air. Maybe it misses sun that isn't faked by crystal. Or the salt-hum of the sea. She doesn't know. She's tried everything. Imports a new one every few weeks. Coaxes it with light spells, whispers a breeze over the leaves, and still none of them last. Not a single one survives a full month in this place.

Every piece of the Sword Coast that withers here echoes like an empty space in her blood. Strange, how it stings. Maybe it's the prison years sounding hollow. Or maybe it's just the way dwarves are wired: pick a thing, commit to it, and let it break you when it dies. She's going mad over a rubber tree. A rubber tree.

She mists the suicidal plant with a fine, steady spray. For the third time. Then crouches, gently shifting the thick leaves aside to check the trunk. Her fingers trace it carefully - a twine of two narrow stems, one still green, the other dry and brown, already dead. A breath catches.

From inside the lounge: Tav's voice, sharp and sardonic. Laughter follows. Then Raphael, murmuring something low.

"Thanks for the skull, kid. You can go now," the weaver says. "Run along, before your your sister realises you're gone."

Hope closes her fist around the stem. Quietly. Suddenly it makes her want to weep an ocean.

Chapter Text

After the druid's departure, it takes approximately a door and a tumble for them to end up back in bed, which Raphael considers an admirable new record. Astonishingly, they accomplish it without the usual drama - no shouting matches, no choking him. Instead, it unfolds naturally, a conversational slide from sofa to frantic boudoir embrace, her weight draped against him, his hands beneath her backside. He should be the dominant one, yet it's Tav who takes and takes, even as she continues to shun kissing him on the mouth. He doesn't press; It's one inch further in the endless trench warfare that is Gus Tava. For now, he refuses to consider why or question her motives. Neither the debacle in Malbolge nor his infernal mission will be allowed headspace tonight. Instead, he intends to spend this precious interlude wallowing in vice, ideally without interruptions from either Tav's morality or Mol's uncalled visits, for that matter. As a result, the first climax of the day arrives almost indecently swiftly.

Raphael drifts through the lazy afterglow, his limbs heavy, heartbeat dragging slow. A flick of his wrist summons a hovering wineglass; another snap conjures a second vessel for the blackhaired mortal lounging beside him. And then, pourquoi pas, he manifests a feast that not even an army of trolls could finish before it goes bad. After all, liberation from Mephistar's pledge ought to have some compensations.
'No reason to be frugal now,' he decides, 'I got soul coins to spend.'

Tav startles charmingly at the banquet's sudden materialisation and makes a softly bemused noise as a candlelit table and two chairs appear at the foot of the bed. Over the rim of his glass, Raphael watches her gaze linger on the crimson beef carpaccio marinated in vino di sangue, and then on the roasted griffon heart nestled on jewel-bright berries (each one contains a lost memory, one specifically hers. Would she recognise it, he wonders idly, savouring his own cleverness). Eventually, Tav's attention shifts back to the cambion, examining him with frank curiosity. He lowers the glass with a satisfied smile; relishes her unguarded perusal from face to chest, down his abdomen, finally pausing thoughtfully on his manhood. Her lashes shadow her gaze, so Raphael entertains himself imagining she's appraising him as though he's one of those magnificent statues he once arranged in the corridors to please his royal guests. Those pieces had their admirers - well, frightened debtors, really - and he detested all of them. Every single ridiculous idol toppled, save one.

Every time he passes the atrocity, he doesn't look at it (but his teeth do).

Raphael is drawn from his dark thought when he feels Tav's fingertips upon his skin. Shy and uncertain, as though bridging a distance infinitely greater than the hand-span between them, she moves just a breath lower, and it's enough to make the devil shiver with pleasure. Immediately, he anticipates round two of their amorous activities, preferably one involving actual penetration. He stretches languidly, presenting himself in unabashed nakedness. Shoots her a winner's smile while he toys with his foreskin. Earlier, she had brushed him only with her nose - so perhaps this time she'll honour him with a more prominent orifice. They've worked exceptionally hard to establish their tentative new peace; surely it merits more than a little petting.

His eyes flutter shut briefly, delight on his lips as he feels himself swell in his hand. When he opens them again, he glances down at Tav expectantly. Her hair lies in loose chaos, tiny beads of well-earned sweat on those bold, sculpted brows. Beneath that border her gaze remains veiled, but there's that tension in her again, a heavy glumness on her lashes. As so often. He knows that look. How many lost souls in the barren planes has he lured who wore the same expression? Skeletons that hung from the thorn trees, smelling of grey dust. Her thumb ghosts across his torso like it's one of them, circling his navel once, stopping, repeating the gesture. It tickles like the pointy end of a blade. 

"So many marks," she murmurs.

She isn't even looking, staring straight past her own hand. Raphael lifts his head from the pillow, arching an eyebrow. It's as though she's not truly here.

"Pay it no heed," he says.

"Hmm?"

"That pesky call of the knot - ignore it."

It breaks her reverie, causing Tav to fix him with mild confusion. 

"No idea what you're on about," she mutters and buries her face deeper in the pillow, leaving him confronted by nothing but a curtain of hair.

Maybe she's lying. Maybe - and he's thought about the possibility of that - she genuinely doesn't hear the laments. Right now, it hardly matters. The real insult is that he has to stare at this wall. More insulting yet, Tav does it again: She runs her fingers over him like he's a housepet, and it grates. Truth is, he could shred her limb from limb, crush her. Yet here he is, practising patience like a mortal fool, still hoping she might finally deign to grant him a shag.

Tav grazes the lumpy seam near his loins, the one which marks the unfortunate incident that involved the loss of his leg, and Raphael feels an uneasiness blossom sharply beneath his ribs.

"It's so smooth," she lisps.

He tenses. Tries to unclench. Curse this mortal-like flesh and its inconvenient betrayals. Curse his own negligence for not glamouring his scars properly.

"Another thing we share," she adds.

Raphael clears his throat and shoves himself upright against the headboard. Her thumb's now on his inner thigh instead of the old cut. Tav glances up, prompting him to muster his most disarming grin.

"If you're after something a little rougher, darling ..."

He guides her hand to his semi, dragging her palm lower, pressing it against the hot weight of his sack. Clicking his tongue mischieviously, he earns an eye-roll that he's certain conceals genuine affection. Yet as soon as he loosens his grip, her stubborn little feelers drift back to the scar.

"This. What happened here?"

He swallows hard. Her fingertips are still infuriatingly soft, full of faux significance (must be). His skin - too tight. Shrinking with every heartbeat, and it's getting difficult to breathe.

"Mouse -" His voice emerges strangled.

Enough. Raphael seizes Tav perhaps too roughly (he sees only a blur of flying hair that swishes across his face) and grips her by her jaw and cheek. He holds her still just long enough to glimpse startled onyx eyes. Mushy-brained dullness staring back. So he plunges them both into his abyss.

Stone walls of abstracted red, noise tuned down, not the copper and smoke and the screams of slaughter - not like Abriymoch, never again like Abriymoch. But chains rattle, blood rushes beneath skin, and somewhere flesh slaps against flesh, rhythmically like a mallet striking a dulcimer. Raphael wastes not another moment and positions the weaver exactly as his imagination desires: dangling helplessly on her back, fully immobilized. His true, monstrous form revealed, poised behind her, ready to take and slay. The unbearable tenderness of her touch is etched into his mind. He stares at the hooks she's hanging from. Her little fists - he wants to destroy them. He grabs her arm, about to cut, when she cries out, wails. Smoke arises from between her thrashing legs, where his limbs are brushing hers. Smoke from underneath his grip. 

His name on her lips and he falters.

Only then does Raphael realise what he nearly did, blinking as sanity returns. He steps back abruptly. Stares at the burn marks on Tav's shaking form. Smells her blackened scent - and the flames vanish. His towering shadow shrinks back into his winged cambion form. Extinguishes the fire, razes his vengeance. He shudders, claws drifting over her, healing what he hurt, soothing where he scorched. Her screams taper to a hoarse whimper, then a breath, then a sigh that's caught between resistance and relief. Steadily, he pours pulse after pulse of magic-soaked comfort into her flesh, numbing ache, fuzzing the edges. And there it is, a mewl. Unwilling, yes, but real. Increasing.

Sliding into her this carefully is torture. And yet he demands gentleness through gritted teeth, nearly killing himself with courtesy. Murmurs something half-apologetic - how it was meant to be a harmless, little terrorist act; Tender in its way; Nothing to worry about, dearest little mouse. He looks away. Tav, still dangling, is visibly overwhelmed but caught in the mess of a vision he nearly lost control of. Even so, he holds her steady now.

All is good and fair.

Just focus on the good bits.

He leans in and licks across the punctures in her back. A choked sob amidst the quiet clang of her restraints.

"Obey me. Do as I say," the devil whispers and slowly pulls out. "And you shall have anything you desire."

Her moan is a remedy against the horrendous wails of the knot that's lying somewhere in this house.

"Is that a yes?" he asks, slips her back onto his cock harder now, gliding between those squishy, wet nerves that make her tremble for probably multiple reasons, not all of them bad. He knows the sensations she's experiencing are naught but illusion - yet she fills in the gaps so eagerly, moaning for more, incapable of keeping reality and fantasy separate.

"Sounds like a yes."

She sways perforce, unable to free herself, yet each withdrawal feels like her muscles are begging him to stay.

"Like that," he grunts as she clamps around him, realising belatedly he's spoken aloud. He releases her hips and, tongue between his teeth, enjoys how her weight swings forth and back onto him. "Just like that. Don't hold back. Take me whole."

"Guh," Tav hickups on her next bounce.

"You always make the loveliest sounds," he says, "even when dreaming."

Without any warning, they're back. Raphael watches closely as the weaver returns to consciousness. Flushed, eyes full of stunned fury. He answers her rapid blinking with a cheeky wink. She curses him vividly, pushing him away, checking frantically for injuries. Of course, nothing's there, nothing but her thick, irresistible scent. From his place on the bed, he watches with amusement as her long curls cascade down a flawless back.

"You are a fucking sicko," she hisses over her shoulder. "And I've had it with your bloody fucking nightmares. Don't ever do that again. Ever!"

He sighs. It's a beautiful back. Strong and feminine. All that's missing are the steel rings for his hooks.

"It's not always about seduction. Sometimes it's just about having a simple fucking conversation," she vents, spinning around with the force of her anger - only for the blanket to slip and reveal two breasts that, by cambion standards, are almost palm-sized. Her lickable nipples erect. And very counter-productive in this situation. "Can you do that? Huh? Godsdammit - eyes up here! Are you even capable of that?"

He obeys, but her yacking goes unacknowledged, because he sees her blush come alive, the fury, the tremor that passes through her supple bust and, oh!, he catches a whiff of Tav's musk. She's here, body and mind. Whatever her tongue's trying to get across - the rest of her body speaks a more honest language: She wants it, despite his brief loss in control. She's as starved for him as he is for her, and the image of what might happen if he tangled his hand in her hair, cupped her head, and shut that tongue up leaves him dizzy for a moment. Yet he won't cross that particular boundary. Deep down, he secretly agrees with her - he feels absurdly debilitated, desperate for something yet unable to put a name to it. After all, the extent of his expertise revolves strictly around clauses and agony. His knowledge of the female libido is mostly theoretical, gleaned mostly from literature where it claims that "what women want" is "a paramour who loves like a poet but lusts like a beast."

So, for want of a better idea, Raphael seizes her by the leg.

Tav lets out a indignant protest, but faceplants into the bedding. Without wasting a second, he rips the blanket away and begins sniffing, nipping, and kissing wherever he doesn't risk a black eye. He does this so she won't feel obliged to touch him back, not out of guilt or some tiresome hidden agenda. He does it to spare them both the burden of yet another bloody deal. He does it so they don't have to utter another tedious word. It's not always about seduction, she says. Sometimes all she wants is "a simple fucking conversation."

"Too late," he mutters against the mole under her left breast. "I'm already seduced."

"For fuck's sake."

Yes. Don't expect too much mental performance from him right now. He's capable of exactly one coherent action, and nothing else. Besides, Tav doesn't just want to talk either - a sensory deprived imp could smell that; Her half-hearted kicks fade faster than her verbal protests ("Don't touch me, I'm angry." - "Too angry for oral?" - "Hmpf."), and after a short, amusing struggle, he parts her legs like the doors to a treasure trove. It's just as in his vision, except now she's unharmed and on her back, panting, and Raphael is halfway lying on her bent knees, holding her firmly against the mattress for a good, appreciative look beneath the dark curls down there. 

She's swollen again (he wonders exactly which element from their little hallucinatory trip caused that - the penetration, the hooks, his brilliant tongue?), and it's practically charity work on his part when he dips down. Fingernails dig into her thighs. She gasps, he revels. This is how she forgets her melancholy, how she remembers he's the most important thing in the room. How touching stays safe.

Raphael takes her hips and pulls her hard against his mouth. She tastes purest from the source. A hint of ripeness and iron, and he vaguely remembers something about human biology and fertility blood. He growls with heady excitement when he sees that Tav is worrying her bottom lip, eyelashes flattering. He's winning this battle. But he's falling, too.

He's falling hard as he watches.

He aches to pinch that bottom lip between his teeth, to test the swell. To feel the little mouse go pliant in his arms.

She's his addiction.

A purr slips from her, an unconscious sound, and he redoubles his efforts to please her. Eases a finger inside, stroking leisurely, deeply, loving the precious squirm that's burying itself deeper and deeper in her body, until she cannot hold still and is writhing against him. He's drooling. But what can he say - it's her fault. Raphael greedily laps up his salival from her folds and chuckles when Tav jerks away with an alarmed squeak. She arches off the bed, and - Hells, yes - the squeeze around his finger nearly short-circuits his senses. Spine tingling, balls tightening. He doesn't stop. Couldn't stop if he tried.

Tav comes with a hitched, hyperventilating "Oh", shuddering violently, and something warm splashes onto his chin. Raphael freezes, staring at the wet spot beneath him, completely perplexed. Snuffles. It smells like wheat after rain, sweet and saline. Pulling back just enough, he wipes his face, and there's fluid on his fingers. Curiosity swiftly overrides any sense of fastidiousness, and he cautiously sucks it into his mouth. Salt and Tav musk. His entire face is soaked, even the air's saturated with it. Astonishment rapidly transforms into fascination, and Raphael eagerly seizes her hips again, focusing with scholarly intensity on this wondrous new discovery - this place medics have so appealingly termed vulva.

Sounds almost like velvet. Volcano. Wonder. 

What else can she give him?

"Again," he demands, his fingers already enthusiastically back at work. 

Tav twitches and complains about oversensitivity.

"Sssh," He hearkens to the moist sounds. "Let me handle this. Just lie back and let me -" He presses an open kiss to her thigh, "savour you again -" Another kiss, moving lower as he lifts her leg teasingly, "right here ..."

But he doesn't mean there at all, instead shoving his nose beneath her labia, mouth dangerously close to an entirely different spot. Tav yelps, jumping dramatically. Raphael pauses, blowing hot air deliberately against her waiting flesh, stroking her thigh with his knuckle. And little by little works downward again. When he's reasonably certain she won't kick him squarely in the face, he tongues her rim with shameless profanity - exactly as a certain incubus once so expertly demonstrated - while simultaneously knuckle-deep in her spasming velvet volcanic wonder.

From pulp to pedicel, he's tasted her everywhere now. Practically written treatises on the subject.

This time, Tav doesn't touch him. Clearly, some divine intervention is required, so Raphael takes matters into his own hand and jerks himself off while he pleasures her in this new way. He knows her now - fully, extensively - and that thought alone sends him spilling into the sheets below her, more satisfied than he'd care to admit.

She basically belongs to him now, whether she realises it or not.

Chapter Text

It feels like dusk, but it isn't. There's a heaviness in the air - and he yawns right into it, stretching his limbs. Tiredness, that most democratic of ailments, weighs heavily upon Raphael, who, though no friend to mortal frailty, finds in this moment a curious yearning for surrender. The soft bed draws him in, and gods help him, he wants to let it. Wants to sink into this obscene little indulgence of cushions and company, velvet and easy, and not rise until the planes collapse.

She's still beside him. And close: her shoulder brushing his, her leg thrown over his hips. Every shared inch of skin dulls the dark and jittery hum between them, soothes him dangerously close to contentment. But the cruelty of happiness is its brevity: it's just torment masked by tenderness and ever-anxious of its imminent end. He knows he cannot linger. Duty beckons. They've idled too long in this perfumed trap. Perhaps they'll resume later, perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps again and again. Eternal bliss.

"So, why does your leg look so odd?"

Or not. Hells beneath, he thinks sourly, must she? His eyes flick disdainfully towards the ugly lump of flesh. She's fixated, he can tell, and avoiding the matter is hopeless. He sighs, long-suffering.

"I lost it," Raphael says, lingering theatrically over each syllable. "My attempt at magicking it back together was, regrettably, subpar."

"Hm," she breathes, fingertip tracing the raised line of scar tissue. He twitches despite himself. The unwanted annoyance flashing through him as she hesitates.

"Hm what?" He forces himself to remain still, fighting the impulse to regain distance. "Disappointed? What was that "Hm" for?"

His voice betrays him, too quick to defend, too eager to justify. Damn her for making him feel inadequate. He has no need for her approval, not after everything. Had she bothered to free him from the dungeon, he might've escaped with dignity intact. Wouldn't have crawled through filth, half-dead, scraping survival from the foulness of Mephistar's gutters and nearly frozen to death by the city walls. She has no right to judge.

"Oh nothing," Tav responds, slow and considered, her finger suspended menacingly just above his skin. It's making him nervous. "I just didn't know you lot could grow limbs back. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised anymore. How'd you manage it, anyway? Knock back a barrel of healing potion? Chew a soul coin?"

"Neither," he murmurs. "Pure, innate talent."

"Not just a soul-catcher, but a wiz, too, huh?"

That smile again, Hells help him. Coy, roguish, hauntingly reminiscent of their third encounter, back when she'd been little more than a loud-mouthed tavern laundress, critiquing everyone's lanceboard strategy. Raphael remembers, vividly, how he - disguised as a merchant - had humoured her youthful arrogance, invited her to a game, and thoroughly trounced the nineteen year old. Yet now that same irrepressible curiosity glitters in her eyes, making him ache in a way. Must be the nostalgia.

"Not a wiz, dear, a sorcerer," he corrects crisply. But he notices from her raised brow that his answer falls short. With a resigned sigh, he presses her palm flat against his stomach, making her feel the slow rhythm of his breathing. "It's part of me - objects or souls can amplify it, but the power's always been mine. Back then, my focus wasn't at its best, hence the less than ideal result."

"A flawed masterpiece, then. It suits you."

Raphael pulls his hand back and fixes her with a withering glare, eyebrows arching sceptically. "Is my magical ineptitude making me endearing now? Because you sound like an overbearing mage-mother consoling her incompetent spawn." He's barely gratified by the snort of laughter she emits. No apology from her side.

"Well, thank you for the compliment, backhanded as it was," he finally says, "Though the mark could use a bit of improvement."

Her chuckle still soft. Her touch infuriatingly gentle. Both stoking something shamefully primal beneath his skin. Almost making him want to return the favour non-violently. 

"I could take care of it," he finds himself saying then, voice dropping into treacherously husky territory. Her presence has infiltrated him completely, unsettling his polished defences. "Remove it entirely."

"What, just like that?" She runs a finger provocatively down his loins. "Even the nasty deep ones?"

"No, those are permanent - dark magic's souvenir," he counters, "I mean yours."

He reaches forward, mirroring her action, fingers lightly brushing over her stomach. Scars often tell such wonderful stories; he thinks hers might be truly exquisite. But Tav recoils as though bitten, retreating swiftly beneath the sheets. The sudden distance stabs unexpectedly at his chest.

"It's old," she says, rather defensive now, gripping the fabric. "It's doing nobody harm."

Wary. Her entire posture.

"No need to be ashamed, pet," he offers smoothly and without missing a beat drops his gaze to her covered belly, "A simple blade cut, I assume? Such trifling imperfections are easily remedied - even years later."

He means it as a compliment, an olive branch offered with sincerity. It is his trademark after all. Instead, Tav sits up abruptly, spine rigid, eyes flashing down at him.

"Just because you think it's ugly it doesn't mean you get to magic it away. It's my body."

He scrutinises her closely. "Have I offended you, somehow?" he asks silkily. "Care to share the story how you got the scar?"

"Not right now," she bites out.

She gives him a visual audit so cold it could turn a spitting volcano into a glacier. Raphael returns it with practiced ease, though he's painfully aware he's stepped into another pitfall, not sure how, though. One cannot win with her.

He reaches for her arm. "You might feel better if -"

Before he finishes, she's upon him, fingers webbed around his throat. Always the damned throat. Raphael struggles briefly before forcing himself into surrender, arms stretched out and even with a small (yet probably tense) smile on his lips.

"I said," she whispers as she stares him down, "not now."

He sees it clearly in her eyes: the punishment. Tav isn't here because she desires, at least it's not the sole reason; she's here to wound him - or herself. There's something raw and desperate beneath her coldness, a woman who's fighting to stay afloat a black sea. And for reasons he can't quite fathom, she's latched onto this, onto him, like he's the only driftwood in sight. Raphael isn't certain if it's revenge, need or both, and he doubts she'd tell him even if she knew. But he feels it too: the dark ecstasy. It's an addiction. There's no denying now. She's already corrupted him beyond redemption.

He blinks, she blinks back. A grimace.

"Tav."

"Stop."

Yes, he thinks, punishment it certainly is - for her loss, for all Raphael has supposedly done. The moment she learns the truth about what happened to her beloved spider, any fragile tolerance for the devil will surely shatter. But soon enough, it won't matter. By the time Tav finds out, he'll have reached his goal. And once that happens, she can go straight to heaven for all he cares - a fitting hell, as far as he's concerned.

The walls shudder violently, mourning, and it seems they are echoing his inner dread. She gets off him - he quickly turns away with one hand on his throat. But soon he feels her shift behind him. Reluctantly, Raphael looks back, waiting to see what fresh torment the mouse will deliver next. But she just sits there, face in her palm.

He props himself up on one elbow. She senses his eyes on her, heavy with unspoken questions.

"Do you enjoy it?" Raphael asks abruptly.

There it is. Voice oddly restrained.

"Do you even like what we're doing?"

Tav lets out a tired sigh, swinging herself to her feet without a word, and gathers her clothes strewn across the floor. The buffet has long gone cold, its once-artful piles now sagging into one another. It's definitely time to leave, whispers a little, mean voice in her head. Meanwhile, his gaze feels like a blade at her back and the sudden stillness behind her makes her want to, paradoxically, look back and flee at the same time.

Something tells her she's not gonna wiggle her way out so easily this time.

"Well," she finally drawls, offering him a shameless view as she picks up her smalls from beside a crushed tomato - one of many squishy remnants of their recent excesses. "I'm pretty sure you noticed that climax earlier wasn't exactly consensual. You threatened me in that vision of yours, said you'd do gods-know-what unless I played along."

'Liar,' whispers an irritating inner voice. 'Also, you barely put up a fight.'

'He intimidated me - practically overwhelmed me!' she snaps back silently.

Raphael remains unfazed, still sprawled obscenely on top of the sheets. "A slip-up I'm fully aware of," he counters with that familiar sharp calm that merely means that he's whetting the blade, "But you're fibbing, dear. Your arousal was obvious long before I laid a finger on you. Still is, judging by your scent. Not that it answers my question."

Tav resists the urge to shrink away from his way too adamant gaze.

"Do I please you?" he repeats, more pointedly.

She could laugh, bitterly. Does he really expect her to bare her soul in this game? 

"Depends," she says curtly.

"On what, precisely?"

"On how much you'd be pleased about being raped."

His expression slips for a split second, only visible for a second as she yanks her tunic roughly over her head, obscuring him behind the linen. The quiet that follows is deafening.

"You're dodging," he finally states, coolly.

A pang of guilt in her heart, but it's swiftly squashed.

"Rich, coming from the man who flinches at nearly every touch," she fires back. "What's up with that anyway?"

"Don't change the subject."

Big frown, sullen expression. He resembles a prince scandalously denied his morning cocoa. With an eye-roll she adds her sandals to the bundle of clothing in her arms. Enough of this nonsense.

"I shan't, my o noble lord," she says mockingly, and o so hopes it'll make him stop with whatever he's trying to coax out of her.

"Mouse," he says gently.

She lets out an impatient groan. "Don't fret, it's fun, I'm fine. I've learned to live with it. Just ..." She waves her hand at him, grasping for words, "crack on with whatever infernal to-do list you've got, as long as you leave my scars out of it. They're not yours to fix, or to pity."

She rolls her shoulders. Tav is in control of this, the situation, the clothes bundled in her arms. Of everything except her dignity, currently drying among the sheets. And the illogical, soft thing that stirs in her chest.

"Right. I've got a carpet to weave. Don't get up. I'll let myself out."

She waits for a spiteful retort, another dark threat involving Kar'niss' soul, a reminder to emphasise who holds the leash. Yet nothing comes. After a painfully silent moment, she turns her head. The bed is empty, and Raphael has vanished into thin air.

Chapter Text

He circles his desk for what feels like the millionth time, ignoring the papers his coat swept to the floor. Tav's rejection gnaws at him with all the subtlety of a bloody barghest. Tooth pressed to tooth. Heart folded into a fist. His happiness - flung beneath parquet and shoe sole, as if it's worth no more than dirt. And now, like a damned comet, he orbits not work, not mission, but her.

Her.

Her. 

Nothing but her.

That blazing singularity of contradiction and contempt. According to her, he's the villain of the piece. The fiend with the script already written. Of course, she is nothing if not innocent.

Hypocrite.

Ugh. He shouldn't have let his guard down. His bleeding honesty ...

He grimaces.

Honesty. Once, he wore it like armour, used it as a sword, a shield, as his winning hand in every deal. But he would never overshare, not until ... Blast. Now it's just like a soft spot to be kicked. How a good person doesn't become a cynic in this world, is beyond him.

Mumbling angrily, he halts behind the desk and plants both fists upon it. His eyes skim the scattered plans: maps of Grenpoli and Malagard, portal schematics, and a blueprint of Baalzebul's latest urban project. One end of the blueprint is pinned beneath a bottle of cabernet, the other curling under a goblet's spill. It's a floating construction site, six hundred something metres in the air. He doesn't need prophecy to guess how that project will end.

He should punish her for this. He will cancel her little trip to Faerûn. Let her sit with that choice. Have her know that it's her fault.

'You miserable hook in my gut,' he thinks bitterly, 'get out and leave me in peace.'

He takes a deep, centering breath. Forces his pulse down to moderato. Anchors his focus, just enough to keep the Tav-shaped poltergeist in the wings. For now. Then puts his claw to page and spins a silver thread from Suspension Cable IX to Node 37, Northeast Yoke A. One line. And just the faintest tremor in his hand.

"The ninth cable snaps first ..." he mutters, pressing his fingers to his brow. "At a 0.78 load ratio, and once the resonance tips past threshold - nothing left to counteract. No damping, no stabilisers."

He is no architect, but the builder hadn't lied. Not to him. Not with a cambion's death threat hanging over his head.

"Here -" he sketches a little fox ear above the number. "Here's where the fall begins."

And with it, the collapse of Baator's slimiest duke. No wonder the other archdevils had bunkered down after the blast at Abriymoch. Closed their gates, locked their skies, bolted every hole shut. All except Baalzebul, who keeps stacking towers in his sandbox as usual. He hides in Gorloron, everyone knows it. The real question is: how well? The captured builder claimed the construction site was barely staffed. No real fortification. No spells to speak of. He doesn't believe in the might of gods, but if the Fates happened to be watching and were feeling generous, then yes, this half-built city will serve.

Baalzebul's grave.

And no, she's not getting involved. She'd start wailing about "the innocent", and then it's all ethics this, conscience that, and no one gets blown up.

Raphael's shoulders go taut. No exercise will loosen them. No massage will chase the strain. Not until this milestone is passed - and he has to pass it with the weakest artefact so far AND coeval with another mission in a completely different plane.

If he succeeds, he just might become the Fates' newest apostle.

He lifts his gaze to the ceiling and creaks his shoulder joints. Of course he's tired, tired from all the planning. He's been playing lanceboard across five boards and against six hands, and it's like he has to watch all the pieces at once. Sometimes he wishes Haarlep were here. He'd bend Raphael over this desk and just fuck his brains back in order. 

His eyes crawl sideways to the books that are stacked like silent familiars in the shelves above. He's read them all. Once for technique. Twice for wisdom. And still, if he's honest (hah!), he feels dumber now than when he started. Raphael glares at the fraying "The Map of Excitation: Interactive Zones of the Human Female and Their Tactile Response" with the two dozen bookmarks sticking out, underneath it the bloated "Ergonomics of Stimulation", "Dialectics of Dominance", "Decoding the Goddess" (overrated nonsense), and the large-format "Vulva Compendium of the Common Annis Hag - including life-size illustrations", which, in his defence, he picked up by accident. The incubus is gone. The replacement only irates him with her scars and secrets.

What did he do wrong?

No, if he wants to find distraction, he'll have to bloody well distract himself.

'Fine', he thinks agitatedly. 'Let's reenact a day of true crime. To the torture chamber.'

And that's where he goes.

Raphael throws the maps to the wind and leaves his office. On foot, of course, no teleportation. The landlady can smell foreign magic in her home, so whenever he visits the dungeons, he walks the long way. No need for Hope to catch the scent. She may have emptied the caverns (good for her), but the place is not as hollow as she thinks.

He permits himself a smidgen of glee; the careful planning has served him exceptionally well thus far. No one suspects a thing.

Well, almost no one. Tav had mentioned an observer. This Phoenix. If that name is real at all. Probably something she made up just to rattle his bones. A petty way of psychological warfare. Still. He'll watch for it. Will draw this Phoenix out. He has the means now, the funds, the freedom, and - Lolth suck him dry and throw him into the spider pit - the fucking focus.

He grins to himself, teeth clenched. It's astonishing, really, how narrow the baatezu think. Always cluching at slices of power, hoarding their crumbs and crowns jealously. But he's not here for a slice. He's here to flip the whole damned table. No need for a crown, for allies. No devil will see this Raphael coming.

The devil virtually sashays toward the stairwell, relishing the moment he'll get to press the golden brass buttons. He rather likes the elevating cabins the dwarf cleric installed. So much more civilised than snapping your fingers. Very art nouveau. There's even music.

But just as he glides past the infamous statue, his mood sours. Mephistopheles. Bane of his existence. Looming in full heroic nudity in the hallway just across the lift.

Hope left it there on purpose, of course.

As Raphael gets in the cabin and waits for the brass doors to close - they take too long - he glares back at the sculpture, and hates it. Hates him. If roles were reversed, if it were his statue in the hall and Mephisto trudging past it, the old bastard would've flayed the dwarf where she stood, and probably while reciting scripture. And once, Raphael might've done the same. Now he gives in to his desires and flicks his wrist - and a crack slashes across the golden grimace.

There. That thick skull's split now.

He smirks back at it as the doors grind shut. They really were quite similar, weren't they?

Humming to himself, he watches the brass indicator above the door slide downward. Glances at his less than perfect nails and blinks them into a polished state.

Correction after correction.

He sighs. Arms fall limp. He could scrub and preen until his skin peeled, but some similarities between them just persist. The passion, the rage. Escorted by that particular flavour of humiliation you only get from family. No wonder the resentment runs so deep. Which is a dangerous thing. Even though the Hells are full of it, hate counts as a chaotic emotion, and that's not a good look for an archdevil, not when expressed with such ... vibrancy.
Ironic, isn't it?, he thinks not for the first time. The Lord of the Eighth had never gotten over his hate for Raphael's flamboyant ways and Raphael, in turn, never got over all the humiliation because of it. He's just not as murderous as golden daughter Antilia. Not as moronically loyal as brother Burning Soul. No. He's just too ...

He doesn't finish the thought at first. His sire has compared him to his mother often enough, and the ugly word follows him everywhere. Like a tick.

Human.

The statue isn't even on the same level anymore, but the sting lingers. The mood ruined. Stupid dwarf.

Not that it was all that good to begin with.

Finally, the elevator chimes, doors open, and he steps into the damp cold. The floor's empty and silent save for the underlying vroom of the engines. His weak leg twitches - Hells, again - but Raphael ignores it. Turns left. Marches toward the last few stairs. Tries not to sneeze this time.

Everything's changed, and nothing has. Since his return his world has shifted underfoot, while the Hells don't even care (well, not outside two certain half-destroyed domains, anyway). Devils find the stasis comforting. They do. "There are no beginnings," an infernal philosopher wrote about their society once, "only new cycles." The last time the thrones were swapped, it was all the same faces in different seats. The only thing that changed after the Reckoning was how fast their empires rotted. Same faces, same sins. There is no failure. No real victory. No dead. No future. Just a perpetual rotation of promotion and demotion, and the very rare case of a true death.

That's why he envies the Prime Material Plane. You can murder someone in Baldur's Gate, move to Helm's Hold, and run a rug shop. No one remembers (or cares). There, reinvention is practically a currency. Here, it's unthinkable. Sure, he could technically rise. A cambion can dethrone his superior, at least in theory. But the stain sticks. Always will. Too human. Too much of a freak. He still feels the chains around his wrists. Never mind that it was also the first time in centuries - maybe a millennium - that his father had touched him. It'd nearly stopped his heart.

Sentiment. 

Best not think about it. Ignore the fresh claw-marks in his palms. Life's far too grand for despair, and as a saintly cleric feels the blesséd kiss of their god, Raphael is absolutely certain now that he can break the wheel. He can change Baator the way it needs to be changed. Raphael the Softblood may still feel too much. But Raphael the Survivor? He knows no fear.

At the foot of the lowest stair, he draws a long breath of the lingering Sharran musk - old, mouldy. He throws the dungeon doors open like a storm kicks windows, and the sound booms down the cold, dark stone. He savours it. The chill hits him instantly. Goosebumps bloom. He steps in. Or perhaps ... steps out. It feels like outside in here, a separate world without stars. The caverns smell like freedom. Like secrets. He finally sneezes. Damn it.

The fiend wipes his nose and lifts up his chin. He walks like he owns it. Which he once did. Yes, he's ready. No, not to visit the dungeons - he's rady to carve something new out of this rotting world. A true beginning. Make room for the young. A mortal notion, perhaps, but one Raphael has grown increasingly fond of: If the ancients won't leave the stage, well. Then it's time to cue the trapdoor. He'll use all his cunning and worldly knowledge (and a bit of sweet torment to keep him safe from the hollowness that licks his neck at night).
He hears it now. Inhales the clarity like the clear cavern air. The venom that was fed to him for centuries still pulses in his veins. But now it tastes different. He knows now. He sees it for what it is. A legacy of well-dressed decay. And he's going to cut it out. All of it. Starting with himself. No more fear. No more inherited shame. No more father's voice behind his eyes.

He is untouchable now. Impervious.

Bless this immunity, the blood sings.

BLESS IT.

"Exhale. Expel. Recast," he mutters - last line of the last page in his journal. A little poetic kiss-off to daddy dearest, before the place comes down around them all.

He steps onto the platform. It’s occupied.

Not Hope this time, but a mage in chains, his legs spread to absorb the drag of iron shackles. Overhead, the dark garments of two Shadovar guards ripple, as if they float not in air, but underwater.

"Gale Dekarios. Awake, I see," Raphael sings, and instantly grimaces. His voice comes out too tight. He clears his throat.

"My regrets I couldn't visit sooner," he says with a bit more charm this time. "But allow me to say what a pleasure it is to finally host a Waterdhavian mage in my house. Such refinement. And such hunger. I must say, you devouring my Helldusk Helmet the other day - it came as a surprise. But, ah -"

It's a shame, really. "Bon appetit, I guess."

The wizard grinds his teeth and thrashes his head, clearly struggling to speak. But the chains do more than bind his limbs. They mute him, too.

"I have been to Waterdeep, once," Raphael adds casually. "What a quaint little town. Excellent pies. Horrendous cheese."

He circles slowly. "I heard rumours about Mystra's Chosen there. Odd rumours. Imagine the curiosity. What does a man like you have to do to get a goddess that fond of you to shove an unstable bomb in your chest?"

He clucks his tongue.

"You carry a Netherese artefact, Dekarios. One of such ungoverned power that you must consume high-tier spells just to keep it from going off. That thing could flatten cities. Whole regions. You are Karsus' Folly reborn."

His gaze drops to the mage's exposed chest where the tunic's skewed. Thick hair. A tangle of ink. A man in his prime, if only the eyes and the sloping shoulders didn't betray the toll. But the frame ... well. Not bad for a bookworm.

"You are suffering," Raphael states.

For a moment, the man lowers his head, as if the mere mention of it overwhelms him. But almost instantly, he stiffens again, shoulders iron-straight, gaze defiant. Raphael watches calmly. He doesn't feign empathy. But he does admire a spine when he sees one.

"But not for much longer. I bring news," he says, somewhat indecisive whether he should feel regret or anticipation regarding this man. "Your burden will be lifted when I use it in my attack on Mephistar."

The mage scowls in confusion and a greasy strand of hair slides from his brow.

"And - good news again - it'll serve the downfall of the hells' biggest bastard. A noble cause."

The mage's brows pinch further. Then realisation hits. Eyes widen. From confusion to horror in a heartbeat. The mage's face cycles through all three like a flip book. Raphael glances up at the two Shadovar. They don't react. Never react. Rude as usual.

He lifts his chin, eyes still on the agents. "The only issue is timing. It's difficult to commit when the delivery man keeps running late. Still a lot to do. So, you know. Sit tight. It might take a minute. Sorry, what was that?"

A flick of his hand, and the muting spell dissolves.

"Y- you can't do this," the mage rasps. "It's too strong, too unstable. Extracting the orb would -"

"I never said I was extracting it."

He used to torment Hope like this.

"But -"

Panicky, this one.

With a flick of his fingers, silence returns.

"You're sacrificing yourself for the greater good, Dekarios," Raphael growls as he steps forward. "Take pride." 

He doesn't want the begging. His heart is already pounding - not with doubt. Never with doubt. With grim, exquisite expectation.

Maybe it was a bad idea coming here.

A statement. Now.

He lets the heat ripple through his body. The claws come first. Bones lengthen. Shadow unfurling in all directions like ink spilled in water.

"You'll shake the worlds," he says with closed eyes, and, oh he can barely contain the flames he feels inside. "Yours. Mine."

He raises his arms like a conductor and lifts his gaze to the agents again.

"Until all of it burns."

With that, the wings snap open, and the mage's jaw drops in terror.

Ah. He does love a good exit. It's the thing his clients will remember most about him - not his clever contracts, but the moment when he came in and dropped a bomb on them.

Hah. Bomb. 

Who said he wasn't funny?

In another realm, beneath another sun ...

When she opens her eyes, there's nothing, all quiet except for the wind and the soft hiss of falling rubble. A peaceful silence, one might say, if not for the acidic heat that's crawling across her skin. Tav takes a moment to figure out where she is. What happened. Why she's covered in a fine layer of grey dust that burns like spider venom. 

And then she sees the sky. That strange, wrong-coloured sky, and the memory punches its way back in. The white light. That bizarre giant mushroom. The wall of black clouds, rushing at them. The shockwave must have flung them to the ground. Would explain the pounding skull and the nausea.

She coughs, hauls herself upright, wiping her face. Miserably slow going - her bones feel as heavy as lead. She peers toward the horizon where, a moment ago, the world had blinked out in a single flash. And sees it.

No. Sees what isn't.

She's literally rubbing her eyes just to be sure they aren't deceiving her.

"Mol?" she croaks. "What the fuck happened?"

The crater happened. That much is obvious. She can rub all the reason she likes into her eyes - it won't change the sight. The godsdamn crater is real. Nothing left. Not a tree. Not a stone on another. The tiefling outpost - gone. The vast construction site - gone. Swallowed whole by a hole in the earth that stretches from one edge of her vision to the other.

Compared to this, the destruction of Baldur's Gate had been a beauty spot.

"W–what could even do this?"

There's a rustle behind her, fabric shifting, a body gathering itself up and dustying their clothes off.

"Haven't been to Dis or Abriymoch lately, huh?" Mol coughs her way up beside her and surveys the wreck like a architect satisfied with the result. "Well. Congrats. Yer made it into the know-too-much crowd."

Tav turns and stares at her. The girl sighs heavily and dust trickles from her hair.

"Argh, shite," she groans suddenly. "Raph's gonna kill me."