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The breeze off the Chionthar stings your cheeks. It's not cold by any means, but after near a month in Avernus it seems your body has acclimatised to the infernal heat more than you realise. The world feels so open and light, the oppressing heat lifted from you, letting you breath and move in a way you hadn't known you've been lacking. Exactly how long you will get to enjoy this relative freedom is something you chose not to discuss with Raphael. Do a good job and maybe he'll be inclined to let out more of your leash.You sit back against a vacant mooring post and watch people bustle about their business on the wharf of Gray Harbour. If not for the scaffolding and construction in the streets it would be easy to think the battle with the Absolute never happened. There was one oddity to be found and you look at it right now. Out on the river float massive pontoons, the skeletal structures of dredging machinery atop them and working away. Their construction might well be the only reason Raphael decided to allow you a measure of freedom. Someone is looking for the Crown of Karsus. Of course the official reason given to the public is very different. Everyone you spoke to on the docks repeats some variation of the dredging being an effort to clean up the Chionthar and quell any fear of illithid contamination in the water.Sitting here, quietly watching the comings and goings, the odd wisps of fishermen singing when the breeze caught their voices. You slowly begin to realise how disconnected you feel from it all. Any hope you've held onto during the long journey to get your old life back, gone. It isn't the contract you signed, not wholly. You feel changed on so many levels, your worldview skewed in a way you are still trying to comprehend. The thought of going back to being the carefree bard you once were feels like someone else's life. You could try and force it. The offer letters were there from wealthy patriars, ridiculously lucrative offers too. You were one of the Saviours of the Gate after all, and in their eyes it means your name carries weight. Mixed amongst those letters were ones of a more intimate nature, love poems right up to actual marriage proposals. Each as hollow and self-serving as the next. You really should throw them all on the fire once you return to the tavern.A month in Avernus. A guest, not prisoner, in Raphael's House of Hope. A distinction he made clear to point out from the start. What you expected to happen as punishment for your failure, never did. For whatever reason, Raphael seemed content to let you roam as you pleased within his House. Though he painted a very vivid picture of what would happen if you chose to foolishly attempt using any of the portals in the Chamber of Egrees. Control through instilling fear rather than using chains? Maybe. But neither were you above playing the polite house guest to lull him into a false sense of security. At times it felt like the two of you had found a mutual balance, though you would never be fool enough to call, or mistake it for, trust. And if there had ever been any danger of you developing a notion of misguided sympathy for the devil, it'd been thoroughly scrubbed from your mind the fist time you wandered the House. It was the sobering reminder you needed of just who you were dealing with. Had that knowledge stopped you from sharing his bed each night? No. Had it stopped you from engaging in acts of debauchery with him and his incubus? Absolutely not. At times you felt like your own worst enemy.Being here, back in Baldur's Gate, away from the devil and his influence, it's what you need. A chance to scrub your mind clean and find out who it is you are in the wake of everything that happened. And maybe, just maybe, you can find a way out of this mess. But you know you can't do it alone.“Balduran's Bones, it's actually you!”You startle out of your thoughts and turn at Wyll's astonished voice. He's standing further down the wharf, flanked by three members of the Flaming Fist. Gone is the careworn attire from your journey together, now he wears the finery of a Grand Duke. All be it one who has postponed his swearing in until the city has recovered. When he takes a step away from his retinue, one of the Fists protest and is quietly placated. None of them look happy as Wyll strides towards you.“I saw you leave the party. To get some air, we all thought, you seemed so overwhelmed by it all. But you never came back in,” he says once he's close enough not to be overheard. “The courtyard stank of sulphur. That damned devil came for you, didn't he?”There's little point in denying it. Despite almost scrubbing your skin raw, you know you still carry the stink of the Hells on you. With anyone else you might be able to talk around it, just not with an ex-warlock. “He did.” You look away from him and back out over the water.Wyll follows your gaze. “A month in Avernus, after failing to deliver the Crown,” he says, giving a slight shake of his head. “I'm surprised you're sane, alive even. Don't get me wrong, it's good to see you, but....”“Auspicious timing,” you finish for him, lips twisting downwards. It's exactly how it seems.“It is,” he sighs, gaze narrowing. “What were you even thinking back then? You honestly didn't believe you could out-play him, did you?”This is his first question? To rehash an old argument? Maybe he just needs to work it out of his system and maybe it's past time you were honest about a few things. “I didn't think I'd have to out-play him. If anything had become glaringly obvious, it was we weren't powerful enough to stop the Netherbrain. One of us would have to evolve, become illithid. I never counted on Orpheus offering.” It feels a weak excuse to hear it aloud.“You could have stopped him,” Wyll voices the obvious rebuke.“Could?” You laugh a little. “I doubt he would have listened or trusted us with the task.” But you didn't know that for sure, and the truth was so much more muddy than that. The palpable relief you felt at his offer, the selfish fear of not wanting to lose yourself to the parasite. Not wanting to die. Of talking yourself into the delusion of placating a devil. Wyll didn't need to know the sordid details.He shakes his head and you can tell he's working himself up into a lecture. “You didn't even try. I can understand wanting to live, but what you promised Raphael goes so far beyond that, has dire consequences for every living creature. I'm aware he said he'd never use the Crown to dominate a mortal mind, but that's only because he wouldn't need to. If he ever managed to unite the Hells and end the Blood War, it would be a cataclysm of blood and fire for all other planes.”“You think I'm here to blindly make good on the contract I signed, that I'm oblivious to what it would mean? You really think that poorly of me?” The anger stirs faster than you can dampen it back down. “I'm trying to buy time, I want to find a way out of this damn mess. I don't expect anyone's sympathy, but I thought you might understand the situation better. I guess it was lucky for you I was too naive to kick you out of camp the first time Mizora showed up.” You push away from the mooring post and turn to leave, you're too angry, too caught up in your own web.“Wait.” He takes hold of your arm to stop you.You slide a glance in the direction of the Fists, but they've made no move towards either of you. “I'm not here to make things difficult for you, and I accept this is my own fault. I'm asking for help, advice, or just a friend.”Wyll lets go of your arm. “I don't know if there's any help I can give, there's a world of difference between Mizora and Raphael. The tug-of-war thrilled her, playing and twisting, clauses always open to a new interpretation depending on her whims. Raphael isn't like that. You take the deal, or you don't. He doesn't care. It's why I was so surprised to see you.” He gestures to the dredging cranes. “The Crown is out there, free from the Chosen and the Netherbrain. He doesn't need you to deliver it to him anymore, he can simply take it and claim your soul. But he hasn't. Doesn't that make you nervous?”You take a breath, rubbing at your arms. “Maybe he doesn't want to rob himself of the satisfaction of seeing me hand it over as agreed. Devil's are all about power, over people, situations.”“It could be that simple, but if it's advice you're really after, I wouldn't bet on it. On the surface, Astarion's deal with him seemed straight forward, it wasn't though, was it? All the variables, all the half-truths. How badly it could have gone if we hadn't stood with him.” He shifts his stance, frowning. “This isn't going to be easy, might not even be possible. You're staying at the Elfsong?”“Yes.” All the other rooms used by your friends had changed occupants numerous times over during your absence. Rented out with the blurb of sleeping in the same bed as the Saviours of the Gate. “Everyone left?”“Everyone except Gale. He's been holdup in Lorroakan's old tower, research, he says.” The way his gaze hardens makes it clear he's not entirely sure if he believes it. “I'm worried he still has designs on using the Crown for his own gain.”You keep your sigh internal. Of course he did. “I'll go and talk to him. Though if he really has gone back on what he said, I expect his reaction to my return to be frostier than this one.” You know you land the blow by the way his cheek gives the slightest twitch. Good.“You shame me and it's justified,” he admits. “During our adventure you helped each of us, even when there were times we gave you very little reason to trust us. You set it aside, made time. I lost count of all those others you helped along the way, whether it be a song to lift spirits or literally putting your life in mortal peril. One bad decision made under duress shouldn't wipe all of that out.” Wyll turns towards you, back straight, his hand held out to you in offering. “If you want it, I'll see rooms made up for you at Wyrm's Rock. We can discuss the situation in far more private surroundings.”And your closeness would make it easier for him to keep an eye on you, no doubt. When did I become such a cynic? “I have to see to a few matters at the tavern first, I promised to sing for my supper and board. Do you have time to meet late tomorrow afternoon? It'll give me time to try and see Gale first.”His expression turns earnest. “I'm making the time.”“Thank you, Wyll.” You take his hand and shake it firmly.~~*-*~~You choose not to head back to the Elfsong straight away, opting instead for a winding tour of the Lower City. Partly out of curiosity to see what has changed and partly to see if Wyll would send any of his Fist to keep an eye on your wanderings. He may have agreed to help in principle, but that does not equal blind trust.As the sun begins to dip behind the tallest buildings, you take a seat outside a cafe and order tea along with a sweet pastry. The simple mundanity of it is a wonder, a balm that is much needed. Exercising the full freedom to choose without worrying about the influence of the worm in your head, or the devil at your shoulder. You listen to the conversations drifting over from the other tables as you sip your tea, slowly teasing flaky pastry apart and savouring its sweetness.Some of the conversations are about the reconstruction, arguments between masons over the merits of exact restoration verses a more modernist approach. Other conversations are the trivialities of everyday life that help you to feel more grounded in your surroundings. Not once do you hear the word Absolute or anything attached to it. It's only natural people want to forget. You wished you could. The stray pitying thought makes your stomach churn and you push the remainder of the pastry away. It won't ever be over for you, not even in death. And the blame fell squarely in your own lap.Tossing a few coins onto the table you up and leave. There are a few hours yet before you need to don your performers mask and play to the crowds in the Elfsong. Maybe it would help to improve your mood, remind you of the way life used to be. Carefree and hedonistic, rolling from one party to the next. Maybe you'll take a sweet one to your bed tonight, something simple and soft and meaningless.You tell yourself the twinge of guilt your desires bring is irrational. There's nothing meaningful between Raphael and you beyond lust and an illusion of control. Another poor decision you deluded yourself into believing you wouldn't have to deal with the consequences of. He certainly has no compunction against sharing you with Haarlep that's for damn sure. Though why he continued to seek your company after that first tumble in Sharess' Caress still baffled you to an undue degree. Especially in light of the things Haarlep had whispered in your ear. True, the incubus was chaotic by nature and probably wanted to see where their stirring would lead.One revelation you still weren't sure you grabbed the full magnitude of was about Raphael's lineage, who his father is. The Arcdevil Mephistopheles, Lord of Cania, the eighth circle of Hell. According to Korrilla, cambions were usually outliers within the hierarchy of Baator, not all that powerful and with no prospects of promotion, or demotion. They could be useful when dealing with mortals, their half-human heritage making them adept at understanding and manipulating their emotions. Mephistopheles being Raphael's father changed everything, like any child born into privilege you supposed. Far more powerful, allowed to carve his own territory within Avernus. You've seen the Soul Pillars singing their laments to the damned, the power he is slowly amassing. All of that on top of being handsome, charismatic and darkly alluring. Him having the nerve to call you temptation incarnate felt like projection.The more your thoughts wander with nothing to distract them, the more you hear Wyll's words. His belief that you might be well and truly damned. All you've managed to accomplish is swapping the countdown of the tadpole for a set of barbed chains hooked into your soul and ready to sunder it.The trap of self-pity is laid out before you, all you need do is fall into it. Drink and other chemicals would numb the dread. At least until you hear the ring of small bells, steady and measured, before the devil took his due.You pause at the door of the Elfsong, resting your hands on the carved wood. You've surmounted impossible odds before, but you had your friends at your side. Now they are gone or in direct opposition to you. Change, impermanence, it's nothing new. Your life as a bard is one of revolving acquaintances, never settling anywhere for long, no meaningful attachments. All you have to do is make it to the next set of doors. Schooling your manner and finding the smile, you push open the door. One bottle of wine wasn't going to hurt.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
There's a special type of magic inherent to song and music in general. Weaving a crowd around your fingers, bringing them to tears, lifting their spirits, or making them dance. It's a skill intrinsic to the best bards, as effortless as breathing. Passion for the music, and all the emotions it lets you inspire in those captivated, is a drug all of its own. As a student of the College of Glamour, you could do so much more with the right notes, the right intonation. There's a reason people tend to be wary around such bards if they chose to be honest about their learning. Fey magic. Tricksters and manipulators. But for those who can see past the surface fears and prejudices, there is so much more to learn.For a few hours you pull the crowd from their quiet murmurings to pay attention only to you. People clap and cheer and dance. They yell requests and buy you drinks. The bar is busy and Alan more than happy to keep emptied tankards filled with ale as people forget their worries. Even you forget for a little while. At least until you see a familiar face sitting at the bar; Korrilla. Less than two days back and you were already being checked up on. Should it really surprise you?People hoot and call as you finish up singing and take a bow, some loudly demanding an encore as you step down from the small stage. You smile and offer placations, your voice needs a rest after all. As you push through the crowd a young half-elf pulls you close and whispers in your ear. Sweet promises, an offer of company. With the gold dwarf's eyes on you, your only reply is to smile demurely, eyes lingering. Let him take it as he pleases. Then you catch the warlocks gaze and tilt your head in the direction of the staircase. If there's something to be said, it can be done in private. With any luck it won't take long and you can return to the bar to enjoy those free drinks.You don't bother to close the door to your room as you enter and a few moments later Korrilla does it for you. As Raphael's primary agent you had honestly expected some hostility from her during your time at the House. She's been anything but. Amiable and more than willing to share a glass of wine while she tells you stories or answers questions. It's refreshing. Well, if any of those interactions were genuine and not a ploy to get you to lower your guard around her. It could also be bardic cynicism talking. In your experience whenever a patriar had more than one bard in residence it always resulted in backbiting and rivalry. As far as Korrilla cared, your inclusion lifted some of the work off her shoulders.“Quite a show you put on,” she says by way of hello.“Nice to have an audience who aren't a bunch of gibbering debtors.” You ignore the way she's looking about the room, more scrutiny than curiosity. There's a stack of letters propped up on the chiffonier, those residency offers and proposals. Nothing you care about or are personal, those would have ended up on the fire.She laughs a little. “No argument from me. It must be a relief to have your feet back on this plane.”“Blue skies, the cool breeze off the Chionthar.” Hells, even the stink of piss behind the tavern was better than the stench of Avernus. “Is this a social call, or?” You trail off, letting the question hang.“I won't say no to a glass of wine.” She takes a seat and looks over at the letters. “From your companions?”That simple question stings more than you want to admit. What reason did any of them have to think you'd ever return after the devil took you? “No. Some are offers of residency at one patriars estate or another,” you answer, pouring a glass for both of you. “The rest are trite proclamations of love and marriage proposals.”Korrilla chuckles lightly as she accepts the wine. “Well, you are a hero in the eyes of the people.” Her eyes are dancing with mischief.“Politically useful, nothing more,” you state as mildly and possible.“Good that the fame hasn't gone to your head,” she comments, seemingly approving.If the good people of Baldur's Gate knew who you were in bed with, that fame would quickly turn to infamy and worse. Of course, there would be plenty of others who would want to take advantage of you for having a devil's ear. “You haven't answered my question yet.”“Not in much of a mind for talking tonight? You want me gone before that fresh young half-elf knocks at your door?” Her smile is all too knowing. “I'll give you a free bit of advice because I rather like you; if you don't want to see the poor bugger flayed alive for eternity, maybe decline his offer.”You snuff out the flame of anger before it can show. Raphael might own your soul, but he didn't own your body or have any say in what you choose to do with it. “Is that all?” You ask shortly.Korrilla places down the wine glass, her expression shifting from mirth to business in an instant. “Did you manage to speak with the Grand Duke yet?”You wonder if she already knows the answer. Raphael had charged her with monitoring your journey against the Absolute and proven very adept at the task. The question angered you less than her previous comment, this, at least, you expected. “Down by the harbour. To say he was surprised to see me, well.” You sip at the cheap wine, remembering his expression. How quickly it changed from joy to caution. “He offered me rooms at the fortress, I accepted.”“To better keep an eye on you.” It's not a question.You snort softly, lips twisting with derision. “Given the dredging of the Chionthar and my associations. He'd be stupid not to be suspicious.” If he'd been of a harsher disposition, the rooms offered to you would be below the fortress. It could still turn out that way.“Seems like your friends have been quick to discard you. And after everything you did for them, sacrificed,” Korrilla shakes her head, distaste in her voice rather than mockery.It's harder to leash the anger a second time, you want to defend them. What reason did any of them have to believe you would ever walk free of the devil's claws? A knock at the door saves you from saying something stupid. Korrilla lifts an eyebrow, expression pointed. You step towards the door and open it, the half-elf doesn't miss a beat and captures your lips in a sinfully sweet kiss before you can say a word. Korrilla clears her throat behind you and he quickly pulls back, a delicate pink flush covering his cheeks.“Oh, don't mind me. I'm just leaving.” The warlock looks him up and down appraisingly. “Such a pretty one. Maybe keep in mind what I said.”You watch her go, torn between fury and lust as your guest presses in close, his lips dropping towards your neck as he walks you back into the room. You take a harsh breath and push him back out into the hallway. Muttering an apology, you close the door in his face and lock it. Bastard! But under the anger is something else, something dark and insidious and intoxicating. As horrific as Korrilla's warning is, it's what she left unsaid about what the devil might do to you for bedding another that stirs you. A wash of heat, the dark thrill of excitement. What am I becoming?Eyeing the bottle of wine, you grab it along with your glass. You step out onto the small balcony in the hope the clear night air will do the same for your mind.~~*-*~~The devil takes one measured step after another as he approaches the bed. There's a certain symmetry to the moment that isn't wasted on him and causes an indulgent quirk of his lips. Dawn is a suggestion in the sky outside the window and a soft snap of his fingers sparks a few candles into life. Flickering amber light bathes the room, casts the beds occupant in deep and shifting shadows. She's restless. The centre of her brow slightly pinched. Nightmares. He moves around the bed watching, seemingly fascinated as she struggles against the phantasms haunting her mind.She's had them near every night since taking her to his House. Sometimes nothing more than a whimper, sometimes paralysing night-terrors, or screams of such fear it's the sweetest music to his ears. Only once did she dare to pull her shaking limbs from his bed to seek one of the smaller ones that edged the pool. Haarlep promptly picked her up and carried her right back, admonishing her for being a naughty girl. It seems the incubus is as captivated as he finds himself to be. He should ask her what it is she sees in those dark dreams, what delicious horrors torment her mind.She mutters nonsensical words, frown lines deepening as he moves closer. The candlelight reflects off something jutting out from under the pillow, her fingertips resting near it. The brass pommel of a slim dagger. Was she really that concerned about unwanted visitors? She shifts, breath coming a little faster, the fearful whine she makes sounds so delicious. The devil lifts a hand to brush her hair aside so he can better see her face. There's a muffled gasp, eyes snapping wide and a flash of steel in the flickering light.~~*-*~~Burrowing. Growing. Eating. Your sense of self fading one agonising spasm after the next. It's not fast, every second is an eternity of pain, of knowing you're being devoured until there's nothing left. No, please! It doesn't listen, the worm doesn't care. It only wants to assimilate. It takes another bite and you scream.Your eyes snap open, mind panicked and breath too fast. Someone is.... Your hand closes around the daggers grip and you lunge at the shadow looming over you. The blade strikes nothing, then you hiss in pain as a hand closes around your wrist and yanks it above your head, twisting savagely until you drop the weapon. You're about to lash out at the covers with your legs when firm lips find yours and a familiar scent of cherries registers. Raphael? The feel of him helps to ground your mind, pushing back the miasma of horror left by the nightmares. It's never been the sane decision to respond to him, to urge these encounters on. But as the kiss deepens, grows in intensity, you're loathe to start listening to your misgivings.He nips at your lower lip as he draws back, not hard enough to draw blood, just enough to make you gasp. The candlelight catches his topaz eyes, drawing them more towards orange. They're bright, dilated, hungry.“What do you dream about, little mouse?” He asks in a low purr, the curve of his lips suggesting he knows exactly how prying the question is.You feel your mind clam up, the chill that suddenly creeps through you threatens to gut-out your ardour. You turn your head away from his boring gaze and he grips your chin hard to turn it right back to him. He expects an answer and won't relent until you give one. You swallow thickly. “The tadpole.”“Ar, yes. It's still in there, isn't it.” He brushes hair back from your brow, fingers lingering against the side of your skull. “Dead or inert, who can say. I know which you hope it is.”“You better hope too if you want to keep ownership of my soul.” It's a petty rebuttal. The promise of your soul means a whole lot less now the Crown is free of the Netherbrain. Still, the comment lands harder than you expect, his brow furrowing, all traces of indulgent humour gone.“No. You don't get out of this that easily, my dear,” Raphael states tersely, easing away from you. There's a moment you think he's going to walk away, instead he yanks the covers away from your body and rolls you onto your front.You manage to keep your breathing even despite the flutter of your heart, the slow injection of adrenaline into your blood. The bed dips behind you as he shifts his weight and you force your body to be still, disinclined to let him see just how much he's affecting you. There's a short humph followed by a sound that has every inch of you alert. You move quickly, pushing up when a firm hand lands between your shoulder blades and pushes you right back down.Raphael tsks, laying the flat of the dagger he just picked up against the side of your throat. “Don't you trust me?” He mocks the tone of being hurt.There's a devil holding a dagger to your throat, how different is it to his claws or those sharp fang-like teeth of his? He could kill you as easily with any of them. Slowly you let go of the tension in your arms and shoulders. You know he's playing with you, or you hope he is. Wyll's warning about the devil not needing you anymore ringing a little too loudly in your mind.“Good girl,” he praises.The flat of the blade moves back, sliding across your skin to rest against the nape of your neck. You don't realise you're holding your breath until your lungs start to burn.“I do suggest breathing, my dear. I don't want you passing out before I've even started having my fun,” he chuckles, obviously pleased with himself for eliciting such a reaction.You do, and it's a sudden and sharp intake as the blade moves and you hear it cut through the material of your shift from neck to hem. The brush of cool air ghosting over the exposed skin of your back and arse isn't all that causes you to shiver. It's the sound of rumbling approval the devil vocalises.“What to do with such a delightful prize?” Raphael muses to no one but himself. The point of the blade tapping against the curve of your arse as he contemplates. “So many tempting options.”You sense him move, more than hear it. Then your legs are being nudged apart and your heart begins to skip a little faster. He kneels between them and you can feel the too warm touch of his bare skin. Warmer hands curve around your hips, a soft caress at first before gripping tight, nails digging into skin and pulling you back onto his lap. You remain supine, but fail to stop the hushed gasp as you feel the thickness of his erection press against the growing dampness at the juncture of your legs. He let's out a deep chuckle, smug as a damn cat.“I wonder how well you can behave yourself, where is the limit to your self-control. I must admit, you've proven to be a rather impatient and tempestuous lover,” he hums dramatically.You don't offer a verbal response because your brain is too busy untangling itself after tripping over twice in a row. One, how dare he call you impatient, two, the way he unnecessarily draws out the last word. It's a ploy, a tease only meant in the loosest sense of the word, if at all. Knowing that doesn't stop your heart from stuttering a beat.“Raphael,” you whisper his name, fingertips digging into the sheets as he enters your heat with purposeful slowness.He hushes you, settling his chest flush against your back. You bite your lower lip, waiting for him to take you. But he doesn't. He remains still, not even offering the most reflexive movement of his hips. You can feel the self-satisfied grin even if you can't see it. This is what he meant? There's the briefest flutter of panicked anticipation in your chest.“Ask me sweetly enough and I may choose to indulge your wants,” he reassures like he's being perfectly reasonable.A very pretty way of saying; beg me. You're not about to give him a damn thing.There's an amused humph from him at your silence, and then you feel him sit back. A moment later the cold weight of the dagger touches your skin again. “Try not to move, sweeting.”You feel the blade turn, its razor edge a hair away from opening your soft skin. The shot of adrenaline is instinctual, making muscles tense and your heart trip. You have every reason to believe he knows what he's doing, you've heard the laments of his debtors, know that he takes personal interest in their punishments. It should be horrifying, not exciting. But you can't stop the feeling of taut anticipation as the adrenaline subsides, your senses heightened and torn between the feel of his hardness inside you and the edge of the blade moving a fraction above your skin.“You are being very good,” he praises and you hate the way it fires pleasure through your brain.The hand resting idly on your hip moves into the curve of your waist, nails digging ever so slightly deeper. You want it to push further, work under your body to where you want it most. But you know he's not going to indulge you and the frustration hits harder than you want to admit. You're barely into this game of his and you have to stamp down on the urge to give in and beg him exactly how he likes. A task made all the more difficult when he chooses that moment to lean a little further over your back. It shifts his cock inside you and there's no way to stop the sharp gasp of need.The blade passes over the curve of your shoulder, in towards your throat. One flick, that's all it would take. You hold your breath, feeling the devil's intense gaze boring into you. The point is the slightest pressure against your carotid. Raphael's next breath wavers. He's made no secret of the fact killing you would be a wise decision, that you've gotten under his infernal skin in a way he doesn't appreciate. One day, he might not pause to consider. The blade suddenly plunges down into the mattress next to your head.“Danger has its appeal, but I feel there's a far more delicious way to break you.” It's a dark and silky promise that doesn't quite cover the crack in his composure.He leans in further over you, drawing a whimper as his hard length shifts the barest fraction and nowhere near enough. You clench down around him out of spite, feel a grin pull at the corner of your mouth at his almost scandalised intake of breath. The victory is short lived the moment you feel the twin points of sharp fang-like teeth press into the flesh of your shoulder. Not enough to puncture, that's not his game. Yet.The pressure lifts but the rush of disappointment you feel is short-lived as clever and wet lips move to the side of your throat. It's an automatic response to tilt your head to one side, to offer up more to him. The want, the need, surges heat between your legs, his razor canines ghosting against the heavy throb of your pulse point. He's no vampire, but he still loves the taste of blood. Your blood especially. You feel the way his hands tighten over your hips, nails biting even if his fangs don't. He's controlling it better than you, but you know he's just as worked up. It's clear in the tautness of his body, the way you feel a reflexive throb run the length of his hard cock.You could use your arms, push up and sit in his lap proper, maybe surprise him enough to take a measure of control. You could also beg him. Just not while there's one card you have left to play, one that might just worm past his drawn taut composure and snap it. He's fascinated by you, always intently watching how you react to situations, especially how you react to him. Egotistical bastard.Stretching your body out like a cat, reaching with your fingers through the twisted sheets to fist them. Your spine pops and a breathy moan works past your curved lips, edged in naked desire. You know you have his full attention by how still he goes, wet lips and razor teeth pausing against the base of your neck. It's an awkward angle, but you manage to hook your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles behind him and squeezing. It's his turn to gasp as he's suddenly pulled deeper into your heat. You don't hold back the wanton moan even that small movement draws from you, curving your back as much as the position will allow. Firm and dextrous fingers move to the dip of your spine, pressing down as another heavy throb runs through his cock. There's a sharp nip at your ear, painful enough to draw you briefly out of the delicious sensations you're shamelessly enjoying.“Bad girl,” he chastises, but the only heat in his voice is from visceral desire. “I know you'll be the ruin of me.”You're only given a moment to wonder at the soft honesty of those words before a loud gasp is drawn from you. Fingers digging into the sheets at the sharp snap of his hips driving into you. You wait for the next hard thrust, biting your lower lip in anticipation, only for him to refuse to indulge you. He leans over your back, moulding his heated infernal skin against yours, and whispers darkly in your ear.“But I'll be taking you down with me.”The rock of his hips is purposely measured and slow, you realise with a trip of your heart that he's not going to let you win that easily. It's interminable, the feel of him. The way he sides against your tight walls, enough to feed the fire inside but never to let it rage out of control. Sex with him isn't always a frantic and selfish coupling, or even him being a lazy pillow prince as Haarlep likes to scorn. Sometimes, when you're both completely alone, he's like this. Indulgent, considered, almost playful in his own dark way. It has the dangerous side-effect of making you think you might actually mean something to him. Something beyond being a useful asset. You close your eyes, forcing out the tumbling thoughts to concentrate wholly on the way he's slowly and relentlessly chipping away at your resolve. Heart thundering, your breathing more ragged pants for air. Surrender to him and he'll give you everything you want.A wickedly pointed claw traces the line of your jaw and you turn your head to find his lips. You let him pry your mouth open, swallow the deep growling rumble he makes as the kiss deepens, frustration rises with your want to touch him, but the position won't allow it and you whine into the kiss.Raphael pulls back with a conceited chuckle. “You know the terms, my little mouse.”Why did he have to slip that possessive pronoun in front of your pet name like that. It's hard to glare at him from this angle, but you try it all the same. “Pretty please.”“Hmm, I feel your hearts not in it. Maybe I should sto ”Either he doesn't expect it, or he knows your temper too well at this point, but you get further in your rebellion than you expect. Pushing back against him and twisting, you manage to flip both of you onto your sides. From there it's a tussle, with him mostly laughing, as you try to get him onto his back. It's a lost cause from the start. Raphael wrestles you onto your back, pinning your hands above your head and your body with his weight. His bright and heavily dilated eyes watch you with unblinking intensity, like he's savouring the flush across your cheeks, the slight frustrated pinch of your brow.“Tempestuous as ever,” he murmurs and then his lips fall on yours.Your loud gasp as he re-enters you with a hard thrust is swallowed by his louder growl. The games are over. He bites at your lower lip, drawing blood, your tongue moving against his as you both lap at the crimson offering.“Don't you dare take your eyes off me,” he orders darkly.Maybe he can see his reflection in their glassy surface, maybe he gets off on the undivided attention. Whatever the reason, you obey him. There's no slow and unending build this time, he takes you at a hard pace that has your body burning up too quickly. The room fills with the sounds of your moans and his harsher rumbles, the slap of skin with every savage thrust. His grip on your wrists tightens painfully, pushing them down into the mattress. His eyes boring into yours and stripping everything back. The world crashes to darkness as climax hits and you let go of everything.~~*-*~~You stir awake, body heavy and aching in the best possible way. Light floods through the gap in the curtains, the sun high in a sky of bright and pure azure blue. It must be well past midday. You really hadn't intended to sleep so long, and that can be blamed completely on the devil lying next to you. Still asleep, you indulge in a rare opportunity to study him unobserved. His thick luxuriously soft hair, dishevelled in an almost rougish manner, the way it naturally curls about his ears and jaw. There's a curving scar through the top of his right eyebrow that persists into his infernal form. The creases of crows feet at the corners of his eyes and ludicrously long eyelashes. His strong jawline, darkened by the shadow of a beard you've never seen grow anymore prominent. You wonder if it's all purely a glamour or a genuine glimpse of his form if he were completely human. Whatever the truth, there's no denying how attractive he is even without the allure of the forbidden.You sigh quietly. Next you'll be composing verse about him, though you're sure his ego would love it. And he has the nerve to call you confounding. With one last look you slip from the bed to run a bath. It will give you time to put your thoughts in order and maybe Raphael will tell you why he's actually here.~~*-*~~For once you're drifting on warm and empty thoughts as you doze in the water, that is until you hear footsteps. You crack open an eye to see the devil leaning against the bathing rooms doorjamb, only half dressed and one of your letters in hand. You ignore the look of disgust on his face as his eyes move across the page, instead opting to admire the dusting of hair across his muscular chest, the low rise of his trousers. It's a shame the wooden tub isn't big enough for two.“I should remove the hands of the fool who penned this travesty,” he mutters, genuinely affronted. “My delicate blossom, how you sway in the breeze, would that I was that breeze to gently caress your velvet petals.”You bite down on the urge to laugh, he's not amused by the bad love poetry. He's actually starting to work himself up into a fit of pique. “Raphael, as atrocious as it is, it's not worth the effort of getting worked up about.” You've seen his anger, his real anger, once. And it's not something you ever want to witness again.His eyes don't move from the letter. “You plan on seeing Dekarios today?”That had been the plan, at least before you slept in for over half the day. Not that you were going to lament the change in plans. His question also confirms that he knows the wizard to still be in the city, you wonder if he also knows about Gale's intentions. “Tomorrow. I need to settle up accounts here and then I've an appointment to meet with Wyll.”“How did the dukeling seem yesterday?” He's still not looking at you and the dark expression on his face is starting to give you concern. Maybe you should have burnt those stupid proposals.“Suspicious. I'd be more worried if he weren't. I'm just hoping I aren't greeted by the Flaming Fist at the door.” At the very least, they're going to be very interested in keeping an eye on you. That felt like a given.The corner of his mouth finally curves slightly. “Don't concern yourself with it, I know people. But...,” he draws out the word, letting it hang.You watch as he pockets the letter and pulls a small rectangular box from the other. He saunters over to you, self-assured and watching you intently until he moves behind you. The moment you go to turn your head, he stops you.“Eyes forward, my dear,” he orders.There's a smug playfulness in his tone that has you instantly on edge and sets your heart to beating a little faster. As much anticipation as trepidation. You hear the leather creak as he opens the box and then he moves your damp hair aside.“If you wouldn't mind,” he prompts.You lift a hand to keep your hair away from your neck and shoulders. Then watch in disbelief as he drapes a chain in front of you, a small red marquise cut gem adorning it. He fastens it behind your neck and its warm weight settles across your collarbones, the gem sitting in the dip where they meet. You let your hair fall back, mind buzzing with implications and denials. Raphael slides his arms over your shoulders and leans in close to your ear.“It's enchanted. One Infernal word and it'll teleport you to the safety of my House of Hope.” His lips caress the shell of your ear as he whispers the trigger word. “Remember it.”Raphael slips a finger under your chin to guide your lips towards his. It's a kiss that deepens quickly, a hand slipping below the water to cup your breast and squeeze. You moan softly, tilting your head back and running a hand up into his hair. Wyll was just going to have to forgive your tardiness.The devil pulls back with a grumble. “You are a distraction,” he mutters with little conviction, it's also impossible to tell if he's more annoyed at you or himself. “I've appointments to keep.” His hands slip from you and the water, but not before you feel the temperature climb from tepid to warm again. He says nothing more and you hide your smile as he leaves.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The slightly stooped over Chamberlain that greets you at Wyrm's Rock Fortress isn't flanked by members of the Flaming Fist, the worst you get is a cursory once over and your narrow bladed dagger taken off you. He leads you to a private side-room and says two things; not to go wandering and that he'll return shortly. That had been over an hour ago by the ornate carriage clock on the mantle. Seeing no point in antagonising those no doubt watching the door from the outside, you pass the time nosing at the grandiose portraits of past notables and other pointless nick-knacks that always seem to populate these types of buildings. Beyond the narrow arrow-slit windows you can see the Chionthar below. The dredges are running, pluming grey smoke into the sky, long barges are moored alongside, slowly filling up with silt and all manner of debris from ships that must have sunk decades ago.Unconsciously you lift a hand and touch the high ruffled collar of your blouse, feeling for the gemstone underneath. You've already examined it in the mirror after reluctantly pulling yourself from the bath tub. A small marquise gem nestled in the dip between your collarbones, one you find impossible to identify. Definitely not a ruby, fire opal or agate. Maybe it was something only found in the Hells. The smoke blackened chain reminds you of Infernal iron, though thankfully doesn't carry the scent of it. It also doesn't have a clasp. A realisation that does not sit well with you and turns what you thought a gift into nothing more than a very decorative pet collar. You suspect if you yank at the chain, it wouldn't break no matter how hard you try. If you decide to question him, you can already imagine the placations he'll give you. A precaution against anyone trying to take it, or some such. You'd be a fool to think it was only enchanted with the one spell. Mizora had used Wyll's stone eye to keep tabs on him at all times.“What are you doing?” You quietly ask the empty room. Part of the reason you want to be back on this plane is to put distance between Raphael and you, to get out from under his powerful influence. Whatever other engagements he has, you hope they keep him busy for the foreseeable future. The door opens and you take a moment to compose yourself before turning around and seeing the Chamberlain.“Grand Duke Ravengard will see you now.” When you move to pick up your pack and lute, he shakes his head. “Your belongings will be perfectly safe here.”“I'd prefer to keep my lute.” What does he think you're going to do with it, try and beat Wyll to death with it? The Fist have already confiscated the one weapon you still own from your time fighting the Absolute.“I'm afraid that's not possible, madam.”For a moment you consider arguing, or offering the instrument up for inspection. It's not worth the fuss. Reluctantly, you leave it on the chair and force a smile onto your face, gesturing for him to lead on. The tight security really isn't a surprise given the amount of turmoil caused in the ranks of the nobility. Between losing Ulder Ravengard and then Gortash's culling of so many influential patriars, everything is in flux as those that survived make grabs for power in the vacuum left behind. It causes you to idly wonder if that is what Raphael is busy with, no doubt there are plenty of fools eager to bend his ear. Not that you are in any position to judge.The Chamberlain doesn't lead you up to the top of the fortress, where you dealt with Bane's Chosen. Instead, you find yourself in a large drawing room, the huge central table taken up by a diarama of the city, coloured flags and notes marking different locations. You tilt one of the notes towards you. Lists for requisitions, requests. Seemingly for more than just the rebuilding effort.“Ledgers are so sterile,” Wyll says by way of greeting, coming to stand next to you. “It's so much easier to visualise and direct when everything is laid out like this. Strategy of a different kind, but no less trying.”“Can't say as I envy you.” He seems relaxed enough, a half-smile lighting his face. Almost like it used to be back at camp all those months ago. “I suppose each guild and district think their need is greatest.”“You have no idea,” he laughs a little tiredly. “Sorry I had to keep you waiting, I also hope you're hungry.” Wyll draws you away from the diorama to a smaller table set out for two, food already served.A smile manages to find a way onto your lips as you recognise the rich scent. “Venison?” It also has the effect of making you realise just how hungry you are.“A hearty venison stew and ruby ale, we never did get to celebrate with it,” he laughs a little, pulling one of the chairs out for you.This isn't what you expect, his demeanor isn't what you expect. Maybe he's attempting to smooth over yesterdays chilly reunion, or he's working up to ask you something. Strange, this sort of cynical attitude never used to plague you so much. He slides in your chair and unfolds a linen napkin for you. “There was never the time. In the end, everything feels like it happened so fast. We were reacting rather than planning.”“Jumping from one crisis to the next, barely keeping ourselves together,” he nods as he sits on the other side of the table. “Feels like a lifetime ago rather than a mere month.”You pick up the silver spoon, stirring it around the thick stew. “Do you know what happened to the others?”“Gale and Lae'zel you already know about. Shadowheart left for the south, Astarion went in search of the spawn. Halsin left for Reithwin with as many orphans and refugees who wanted to follow.” Wyll's expression loses some of its warmth as his smile fades. “Karlach was laid to rest next to her parents.”You nod soberly. “I'll be sure to go and see her.”Wyll sits back from the table, his expression becoming unreadable. “I doubt the loss will ever stop stinging. But I respect and admire her courage, the integrity she upheld right till the very end. She went out on her terms and no one else's.”The knife of his words cut even if that wasn't his intention. Distracted, you fail to note how hot the stew is and the spoon burns against the cut left by Raphael's teeth. You hiss, lifting a hand to your mouth.“I noticed the nick to your lip. I hope there weren't any brawls at the tavern last night,” he attempts to joke in an effort to lighten the mood.“Honestly, I'd prefer that reason,” you say tightly. “I have a lot of nightmares.” It's not a total barefaced lie.“All things considered, it's hardly a surprise.” He reaches for the ale tankard rather than the food. “All of us carry our own scars from the fight.”You can well imagine where his mind is, the impossible decision Mizora lay smiling at his feet. “I'm sorry you can never put things right with your father. If only I'd been smarter. But let's be honest, that wasn't my proudest moment towards the end.” Your appetite has all but fled, your hand matching Wyll's in straying towards the tankard.“That wasn't totally on you, I knew Mizora better than anyone. She's at least been as good as her word. I haven't seen her since the last battle,” his lips curl in derision. “She's waiting, watching. She'll come again when my need is greatest, just like Raphael did with you.” He snorts, almost rolling his one eye. “We're not doing so well at this celebrating.”At this point it feels like you should just bull right on ahead, dispense with this failure of a dance at being pleasant. He's not going to see you as being on his side, not with a devil on your shoulder.“Why am I really here, Wyll? I'd like to believe we're old friends catching up, but there's more. What is it?” You keep your hands on the table, idly twisting the tankard.His good eye turns as hard and cold as the stone one, cementing the fear there's nothing personable here. “What have you heard about the dredging?”“Publicly, it's the ducal throne cleaning up the Chionthar. Privately, you're looking for the Crown.” You wonder if anyone within his entourage has designs on the artefacts power.Wyll snorts an ill-humoured laugh and shakes his head. “Not quite. The city has neither the manpower or resources to do it right now. The dredging is privately backed with ducal permission. Personally, I'd rather leave the damn thing down there, let time and the currents wash the fragments out to sea. My question for you is this; is Raphael puppeteering the strings from his lair?”“Do you think I'd have been allowed to leave his House of Hope if he were? You're the one who pointed out how useless I am to him now.” His hard gaze doesn't waver and you sigh. “No. It seems you want to know who's behind it as much as he does.”“I suppose it's only natural adversaries would each assume the other is guilty. But maybe we can find some mutual ground here,” his gaze turns considering.Adversaries? A very polite way of saying enemies. The anger sits in the pit of your stomach, a hair away from erupting. You should leave. He's given you a lead and there's still Gale to talk to. With any luck, you can get your room back at the Elfsong.“You're familiar with the de Lazlo's, right?”The name gives you pause. A notable patriar family in the Upper City, young and ambitious. You once spent a summer and autumn as their resident bard, performing at their grand balls and smaller private functions. Some of that time had been spent in the lord and lady's bed too. “I know them.”“They're the ones putting up the money, the public face. But I feel there's someone behind them, an individual or a group. I want y ”“Stop,” you cut in before he gets into his sales pitch. “I'm not a spy, Wyll. And I'm damn sure you've got people who can fill that role a lot better than me. I'm a bard, and that's all I'm interested in being.”“Arrangements have already been made for you to stay,” he continues like he hasn't heard a word you said. “I want you to gain their confidence, find out what you can and report back to me.”You surge to your feet, anger spilling over. “I haven't agreed to anything!”Wyll's expression is completely unmoveable. “There's a choice. You can go to the de Lazlo's estate as their resident bard and uncover the truth, or you can be escorted from here and be put under house arrest indefinitely. I won't stop you from feeding preapproved information to Raphael to keep him off your back. It's a win for everyone,” he explains with infuriating reasonableness.“You think you can play me off against him? A Gods damned devil!” This was not happening.“Do you remember when we spoke once about the cost of dealing with devils? I told you they won't take just anything, they'll take everything. I escaped Mizora because I had something precious to lose. You have nothing left to bargain with,” he spoke like he regretted the harshness of his words, but you're past hearing it.Hopeless. Worthless. At least as far as he is concerned. “Maybe those horns did more than cosmetically change you, Ravengard,” you scorn, letting the hot anger bleed into your voice.“You could have avoided all this by holding true to the noble path. I'm offering you a chance at redemption, to do the right thing,” he tells you in such a noble tone you want to scream.One Infernal word and he can no longer hold you hostage. But then you also lose any advantage going to the de Lazlo's might grant. Tread the knife edge and maybe he'll start to trust you again. Funny how little you can bring yourself to believe that. “When do I leave?”~~*-*~~The Upper City hasn't faired much better in the final fight against the Absolute, especially the districts closer to the boundary with the Lower City. The real difference lay in the response. The finest masons, carpenters, any artisan you could name. Gold thrown into the restoration with complete and obscene abandon. You haven't seen the de Lazlo's for the better part of a year and a half, though you have corresponded on occasion. They always seemed keen on welcoming you back for another stay, but back then you'd been against the idea of setting roots down anywhere. That this arrangement has come about so quickly doesn't sit well with you, it feels planned, your steps predicted and by association, Raphael's too.The devil's ambition is bound to have attracted attention, his gradual cultivation of powerful magical artefacts and souls forever bound. Haarlep has made no pretence with you as to why they are a permanent house guest, seeming almost proud of the boast. They've also whispered in your ear of an auditor sent by Zariel to keep a count of just what artefacts he has. If Raphael is making Archdevils nervous, is it too far of a push to think one might be manipulating events from the shadows? Honestly, you'd prefer a much more mundane and mortal answer. Like the zhentarim. Whatever the truth ends up being, you can already see this becoming complicated quickly, and you were going to be caught in the middle of it all.There had been a naive part of you that truly hoped Wyll would help you, that a hand would be offered. Not to fix things, the possibility of such an outcome feels all but impossible. Maybe you were selfish and deluded to want someone to offer a hand to help steady you, a voice to offer wise counsel, or maybe just a friend. Foolish romanticism, all of it. Maybe if Halsin had stayed. He'd been the only one to talk with you calmly after returning to the camp with the Hammer, the only one who listened. If you want to survive this, you need to let go of such thoughts, of hoping anyone will help you without judgement or wanting something in return. Raphael had called you ruthless, relentless. Pretty words to boost your ego, to make it appear as if he noticed and admired you. But they were traits it would be wise to adopt.The carriage slows and turns into the estate of your new patrons, stilling your dark introspection. You close your eyes, taking the last few minutes down the driveway to try and force some calm into your mind. It wouldn't do to appear so ill at ease as soon as you arrive. It's fortunate the hour has grown so late, maybe enough to excuse yourself to your rooms. Hopefully you aren't going to have to politely dissuade any amorous advances. After bathing you'd picked up the stack of letters to burn them, only to find the one Raphael fixated on to be missing. Whatever his intent, and motivation for it, is not something you want to linger on. Especially in lieu of Korrilla's warning.The carriage rocks on its springs as it comes to a stop, the horses snorting and stomping their hooves into the gravel. There's always the chance time has mellowed their taste for the libertine lifestyle. You reach for the door only for the estates head butler to beat you to it. A smile brightens your face and for once it's not forced.“Still running everything tight, Gerrad?” You greet him with more cheer than you thought yourself capable of. It's a welcome relief to talk to someone who doesn't know you beyond the bard, beyond one of those who helped save the city.“It's a pleasure to finally welcome you back, milady,” he offers a hand as you step down. “I've had your old rooms made up. Lord and Lady de Lazlo are so glad you accepted their invitation.”Invitation? Their name hadn't been amongst the letters waiting for you when you returned to the Elfsong. But that didn't mean it hadn't been there at some point. “Thank you, Gerrad.”A sense of unease beginning to fill you, you walk up the steps and through the door into the open foyer. Brightly lit and airy, it couldn't be more different from the House of Hope. White and azure blue, accents of light gold, the fresh green foliage of numerous plants. It's alive and vital in a way that instantly lifts some of the darkness from your shoulders.“Oh, my dear! I'm so glad you finally came!” Marta de Lazlo rushes towards you, blue eyes wide and bright, a healthy flush to her pale cheeks. Copper hair pinned up in a fall of delicate waves that only accentuates her almost fey-like bearing. She reaches to pull you into a fierce hug. “It really hasn't been the same since you left. All bards are not of equal skill it would seem,” she adds with a coy glance at your lips.“I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, how long ago did you send your letter? I've been away from the city,” you ask easily as you kiss cheeks.“Oh, I don't know. Maybe two weeks ago,” she answers, unconcerned. “I'm just so happy you finally replied and came back to us.”You smile tightly, forcing the anger down along with the sickness of being manipulated. It would've been easy for Wyll to find someone who could forge your handwriting. Your room at the tavern had been littered with pages of scribbled verse and half-formed ideas for compositions.“You look pale, are you unwell?” Marta asks, placing a slim hand against your forehead.“It's been a long day.” You gently take her hand from your head and hold it between your own. “May I beg your forgiveness and retire early for the night? We can spend tomorrow catching up, after I've rested well,” you add in the hope of dissuading any late night knocks at your door.Her lower lip juts a little, but she nods. “Tomorrow then. You can tell us all about your wondrous adventure, and we can start planning a lavish ball. It'll perk everyones mood up no end.”A wondrous adventure? Oh, the bliss of ignorance. “Till tomorrow then, my lady.”~~*-*~~Spinning a heroic tale of daring and death defying is a bards bread and butter. No one needs to know the pain and loss, the failures and life altering mistakes. And if you mention Balduran became a mindflayer, you best be prepared to be marched through the streets and publicly lynched. You tell the de Lazlo's what they want to hear, despicable villains, dire odds, a wild night of passion with an arch druid, and a glorious victory. The truth doesn't matter. By now there's as many versions of the final battle as there are people telling it. Every bard and scholar would put their personal flourish to it, claim theirs is the definitive version of events.If nothing else, it's a few hours of escapism, of enjoying a rapt audience. Marta asks breathless questions, while her husband Alessando watches the performance intently. He's the complete opposite of his wife in appearance, broad and square-shouldered, dark eyes and hair that is shorty cropped. You catch his intense gaze on you more than once and begin to doubt either of them has lost their appetite for sharing lovers. If you want to dodge their combined advances, it's going to take a bit of flair. Why you're even complying with Raphael's nonsensical whims is an annoyance you grudgingly accept. Though it would be so much easier to get the answers he wants if you could do as you please. Languid pillow talk often yeilds the most interesting of things.Afternoon wanes into the early evening, the teacups swapped out for wine glasses. “Last night you mentioned you're plans to host a ball to raise everyones spirits,” you prompt after glasses are refilled. They both look relaxed, happy, maybe you can get a feel for how much they're willing to talk freely.“A lavish ball,” Marta corrects, a twinkle in her blue eyes. “Everyone is so dour, what with the loss of so many notables. I just thank the Gods Aless was away on business the day it all happened.” She squeezes his hand and he drops a kiss on the top of her head.Gortash's culling of the patriars. You can still vividly recall the stink of blood and voided bowels when you returned to the fortress. “Something to allow people to forget their troubles for a little while.”“Exactly,” she enthuses. “And I want your help to plan all of the music, maybe even write something just for it.”You smile. “I can do that,” then you test how far you can push. “Is this part of the other public spirited projects you're championing? Helping to clean up the Chionthar means so much to the city. It's so much more than a mercantile foothold, trade and suchlike. It's part of the city's identity.”“Nobody wants that illithid goop in our water,” Marta huffs. “Grand Duke Ravengard was very glad to have the pressure taken off his young shoulders.”While Lady de Lazlo breezes past your words without a thought, you don't miss the sharpness in Alessando's dark eyes. Not suspicious, it struck you more as interest. Don't press it, let him broach the subject if he chooses to.“I can attest there was a lot of goop,” you nod with a dry laugh.Marta sits forward, cheeks flushed and hands clasped in front of her chest. “Do you think you could introduce us to the others you adventured with, maybe invite them to our ball? It would be such a coup to have all the city's saviours in attendance.”Alessando chuckles warmly. “Our favourite bard has hardly been back a day, my love. At least allow her some time to settle in before putting so much on her.”“I honestly don't know if it would be possible. The Grand Duke is still here, but everyone else scattered. Time away to rebuild and recover.” You also don't want to involve them in any of this, not when it's going to be more than just a ball.“Is that why you left the city?” It's Alessando who asks the question.“I had a few personal matters to see to. It's good to be back and done with it all.” You hope he takes the hint and doesn't pry further. Alessando has always been a lot more aware than his wife. “When are you planning this ball for?”“A few weeks time, a month. How long do you need to write a unique performance, a celebration of your victory?” Marta continues with all the carefree gusto you expect.If you choose to be blunt, your 'victory' isn't something that offers inspiration, the turmoil that is your head and heart is a different matter. “Does victory have to be the theme?”Marta considers and you realise she hasn't actually got any firm ideas beyond wanting to host a ball. It shouldn't surprise you, she's always been flighty and easily distracted. “What do you think, Aless?”“We want people to forget their worries, no? A masquerade could be a lot of fun, maybe with a Feywild theme, frivolous escapism,” he offers, knowing exactly what she would like.Her eyes light up. “Whimsical and mischievous!”You nod. “I can work with that. Haunting and magical music, lyres, harps and flutes.”“Oh, I can already picture it! This is going to be marvellous! You must come with me into town tomorrow. I want to look at materials to dress the ballroom and gardens with.” Her enthusiasm is infectious, the frivolity so different from the course your life has taken of late. It's refreshing and freeing in a way you sorely need.“As you wish, my lady.”~~*-*~~Your head is light from the wine when you finally retire to your rooms. There's a breif moment where you lament not making it to see Gale yet again, and tomorrow looks no better. But there's a larger part of you that selfishly doesn't care. The distraction of planning the music for Marta's Feywild ball is exactly what you need right now, a way to separate yourself from people and intrigues you want no part of. Wyll gave no time frame for reports, an oversight that was completely on him.You begin to loosen the ties on your blouse, mind wondering at the merits of a late night bath, when a knock sounds at your door. You know who it is instantly, have heard it many times in the past. They weren't going to leave you alone two nights in a row.“Come in,” you school your voice to brightness, debating the best way to let the lady of the house down easily.Marta cracks open the door only enough to slide her lithe body through. She's dressed in a gauzy shift of powder blue that leaves nothing to the imagination, nor what her intent is in coming here. Cheeks flushed, she almost skips the distance between you and places a petal soft kiss on your lips. A sigh sounds from the deepest part of her as she steps back enough to look you over.“Aless says I should let you settle in, but I just can't contain myself,” she admits with a pout. “I want to wipe away the sadness that lingers in your eyes.”The bards mask comes down firmly. “You are sweet and refreshing as spring time rain, my lady. You need not worry yourself unduly about me,” you tell her softly.The pout only deepens, eyes fit to roll. “My lady? I much prefer it when you whisper my name like a prayer to Sune.”“Marta, I ”“It's your wild arch druid, isn't it?”Her words are an unexpected lifeline. A hedonist and incurable romantic, of course she would latch on to that particular part of your story. She takes your hand and lifts it to rest between her breasts, her heartbeat clearly elevated. “Why not invite him here, to the ball, or to stay. He sounds like someone I'd very much like to meet.”“Our paths diverged quite drastically,” you reply soberly even as the thought of a night with the three of them warms your skin. “But you are right, I do miss him.” The face that immediately comes to mind isn't Halsin's though. Scarlet skin and magma eyes ablaze, a too warm touch, claws and fangs that bite into your skin. This morning is the first time you've woken cold and alone in a month, and it sat more poorly with you than you want to admit.“Aless and I are going to have to bring cheer back to your life then,” she decides firmly.You lift the back of her hand to your lips and kiss it. “You already are. Being able to create music again, to share it with others. Thank you for this opportunity.”Marta's smile deepens, shoulders swinging like the shy girl you know she most certainly isn't. “Tomorrow then, bright and early. I know I won't be able to sleep for excitement.” She steals another soft kiss before slipping from your room.You don't realise how much tension has entered your shoulders until you let it go. That bath suddenly sounds a whole lot more appealing, as does another glass of wine. As you turn you almost jump out of your skin, the words of a bardic holding spell almost leaving your lips. Korrilla sits at the table by the open balcony doors, an amused smile playing across her dark lips.“You want to be grateful it's me and not the boss,” her words are obviously teasing, but they still cause you to mentally shiver. “I picked up your message from the Elfsong, you work fast.”“No, everyone else is.” Your words have the desired effect of wiping the smirk off her face, though the dark seriousness that replaces it isn't much better.“What do you mean?”You take a seat at the table and tell her. The meeting with Wyll, all the little clues that led you to believing this had been planned before you even set foot back in Baldur's Gate. Feeling no loyalty to the Grand Duke you understood, but why were you being so honest with Korrilla? Wouldn't it be wiser to play this closer to your chest? Find out if forces are actively trying to undermine Raphael, or if it's just simple human ambition and greed. The enemy of your keeper might offer a hand to get you out of this. Though not freely, of course.“How well do you know the de Lazlo's?” Korrilla asks, you can tell by the change in her whole demeanor that she's concerned. Maybe this mess looks different from the Infernal side. It's an unsettling thought.“The last time I was here was a year and a half ago. Back then Alessando and Marta were hedonistic and passionate patrons of the arts, they still are near as I can tell. They've always been ambitious, but their passions always ended up distracting them. A lot can change in a year and a half though.” Your trials against the Absolute had spanned barely a few weeks and irrevocably changed you. “Maybe when Gortash killed half the powerful patriars in the city, they finally saw an opportunity. What any of that has to do with the Crown of Karsus.” You trail off, the front of your head beginning to throb. Wyll assumed the de Lazlo's were a front, chances could be they don't know a damn thing about what they're dredging up. Only that their public spirited help would earn them favour to reach a higher status amongst their peers.“I need to take this to Raphael,” Korrilla finally says. “Stay as you are, don't push the de Lazlo's. Let them come to you.”Do devils work any other way? You mentally deride. “Of course.” Still, it would make your job easier if you didn't need to be mindful of the devil's possessive jealousy, if that's even what it is. “Korrilla, did you tell him about those proposal letters.”She stops and stares at you as she gets up to leave. If it's a faked reaction, it's a damn good one. “No. He's a lot easier to work for when he's not in a rage. If you didn't take the hint and destroy them, that's on you.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The morning is a flurry of activity as Marta visits one fabric merchant after the next, occasionally asking for your advice on the best colour pallets and textures. Over breakfast she told you about the late night discussion she had with Alessando, their decision on the theme of the Seelie and Unseelie courts. Guests would be free to decide which court they would give their patronage to and their costumes reflect, food and drink would be different, the music too. It doubles the work for you, but it's hardly a chore. There's a knot of excitement in your stomach that has been absent from your life for too long. A buzz in your mind that wants you to head straight back to your writing desk and begin playing with the ideas you have. You can already guess the task of vetting the extra musicians will fall at your feet, and you're glad for it. You don't mind admitting you're particular, and you want everything to be right.You watch as Marta spends money with the disregard only the filthy rich have, and she has yet to consider matters such as catering, lighting, extra furnishings, staff. No doubt most of the mundanity will be left to her husband. For as carefree as she is with her coin, Marta is never rude or unreasonable with those vying for her patronage. She flows and laughs and her excitement never dims, sweeping you along with it. Not for the first time you wonder if there's a little of the fey in her ancestry. Her mannerisms at times remind you so much of the denizens of the Feywild you met while studying under your mentor.The sun is high by the time a carriage is sent back to the estate, laden with a myriad of different materials and more to follow. Marta and you retreat to the quiet terrace of a restaurant to enjoy a late lunch and relax. It's as you sip tea and pick at dainty pastries that you broach the subject of taking the rest of the afternoon off to visit the Lower City. She's naturally curious and you skirt as close to the truth as you dare, elaborate lies will always undo you in the end. You want to visit an old friend, to see how they're doing after the fall of the Absolute. Surprisingly, you aren't hit with a flurry of questions. Probably due to post mealtime tiredness and how warm the afternoon is quickly becoming. Instead she lets you go with a happy smile and the promise of asking all the questions later.The colourful domed roof of Sorcerous Sundries has seen better days. Scaffolding still covers a good quarter of it even a month later. You assumed a shop owned by wizards would have put things to rights quicker, but that obviously isn't the case. Maybe it's more complex than you think, with wizards it usually is. Like weaving wards into the individual tiles, or some other nonsense.You step into the cooler and darker interior, the fizz of magical energy dancing along the skin of your arms. You shiver and rub them. You've never much cared for this sort of magic, it's too loud, too indelicate. The subtleties of the College of Glamour, the fey, felt like it had so much more nuance. A smile finds its way onto your lips as you see a familiar face behind the central counter, a real person rather than a projected image.“Hello, Rolan.”“Ar! You finally deign to grace us with your presence,” he announces, somehow managing to look put out by the fact.You don't hold his haughtiness against him, at this point you just accept it as a trait of all wizards. “I'm expected?” Of course you are. The news is becoming less of a surprise every time you hear it.“Days ago,” Rolan states, exasperated. “Master Dekarios assures me you'll know which portal it is. Go on now.” He waves you past.Gale kept all of Lorroakan's stupid portals? Damn wizards. You take the curving steps up to the next floor, worrying if this is going to go as poorly as your reunion with Wyll. An animated set of armour keeps empty sockets on you as you check the plaque in front of the portal. You wouldn't put it past Gale to have changed them around to catch out the unwary or impatient. There's a moment of disorientation, the brush of ice, and then you're standing in the airy and vast atrium of a wizards tower. Gale's tower.“Oh, it's you.” Tara alights on a polished wooden handrail, looking at you with an expression of disinterested boredom only felines seem able to master. “Maybe you can talk some sense into the obstinate fool.”“You, are late,” Gale announces from the other side of the chamber, the acoustics making it sound like he's standing right next to you. He sits behind a desk piled with books, more on the floor. You can guess what subject matter they're all concerned with.“It's good to see you too, Gale.” You tilt your head, slowly walking and looking around the room. “Not surprised I'm still in one piece?” Given how his attitude has changed, you doubt he's given anyone a second thought.“I'm surprised it's taken Raphael this long to start looking for the fragments,” he states like a disappointed teacher.“It's not Raphael,” you correct.He laughs, wagging a finger at you. “Oh, that's a good one.” Then he sits forward to regard you with bright eyed intensity, a smile playing on his lips. “Do you want to know something truly fascinating about cambions? They are quantifiably more dangerous than a full-blooded devil, you want to know why? Ambition. That one trait they inherit from their human mother. Not all are content to abide by the hierarchical status-quo, some want to challenge it and surmount it. Raphael is one of those cambions.”“Sounds to me like the two of you should sit down and share a glass of wine.” You can see there's no point in trying to convince him Raphael isn't involved with the dredging. If Gale wants to hold onto the tunnel vision, so be it.“There was a time during our journey that I did give the thought serious consideration, then I heard all that egotistical prattle in Sharess Caress. Our ideas aren't aligned, me as the God of Ambition, him doing his Supreme Archdevil nonsense. Well, unless he became a supplicant to me.” By the way his eyes suddenly turn inwards and his smile becomes considering, he's actually entertaining the absurd possibility a devil would do that.“Have you ever heard such swollen-headed drivel?” Tara chastises, flitting past your shoulder to perch on a precarious stack of books.“Did you hit your head on something when we took a dip in the Chionthar? I thought you were resolved to see the Crown in Mystra's hands?” Gods knew you'd put the work in to get him to realise his hubris wasn't worth what it had cost him.“To what end? To see the Crown locked away just as Mephistopheles had done, or worse, the gods fight over what to do with it and cause another cataclysm?” He splutters like it's the most idiotic thing he could choose to do. “Ambition is the domain of all humans, its embodiment is the Crown of Karsus, and it should be in the hands of the right human. Me. I can use it to ascend to godhood and see its power used to forward the ambitions of all mortals,” he lectures with the sort of deluded fever that makes you feel incredibly uneasy. Is this the Gale that Mystra had tried to placate when he continually wanted to overreach, continually pressing her to grant him access to higher level magic?“A month I've had to listen to this lunacy,” Tara adds, glaring at him.Gale suddenly loses the smile and becomes coldly serious. “The Netherstones, what did you do with them? Every scrying spell I cast makes it clear they aren't in the Chionthar with the rest of the fragments.” His expression is expectant, like he assumes you'll answer him straight away.“You really think I'm going to tell you when you're acting like this?” Given all you've dealt with these last few months, you refuse to be intimidated by a wizard with a god complex. This is so much worse than seeing Wyll again. At least the ex-warlocks change in attitude made sense, even if it didn't help you. He called Raphael egotistical and yet couldn't see the same in himself.“This isn't a game, now tel ”“You're damn right it isn't!” You snap, then spit his own words right back at him. “There's aren't trivial topics! Ever since that cursed tadpole, I've been pushed and pulled, used, lied to, betrayed. Even by those I thought my friends.”“You're no innocent in this, not after the promise you made to a devil,” he warns sharply.“No, I'm not. But neither am I hiding behind a lie of benevolence!” This isn't the Gale you travelled with, but the same can probably be said of you too. Maybe the only reason he appeared humbled during that time was because of the orb, once Mystra stabilised it, he lost the fear and vulnerability it pressed on him. “We're done here.”He chuckles, genuinely amused. “You're going to have to deal with me eventually. I highly doubt Raphael knows how to reforge the Crown. I do,” he states confidently. “There's a mighty deal to be made there, or the possibility of one. Say, my knowledge for your contract.” He dangles the carrot. “Course, you'd have to deliver the Netherstones to me first. As a sign of good faith.” It's like he thinks you can't see the gapping holes in such a proposal, or that you're so desperate you'll grab onto the flimiest of hopes. “Think about it. Ta-ta.”It feels like all the air is sucked out of your lungs and suddenly you find yourself outside the shop in a heap on the ground. People pass by staring and muttering as you pick yourself up and stare back through the stores open entrance. Rolan catches your eye and shrugs. Brushing dirt off your clothes, you turn towards the Upper City and start walking. A tight and humourless smile pulls at your lips. It's a terrible indictment of your situation to suddenly feel like your only allies are a devil and his warlock.~~*-*~~An hour soaking in the hot pool that adjoins your room does little to restore your mood. The only blessing the day offers is Alessando gently cautioning his wife against her dozens of questions during a lavish evening meal. You spend an hour playing for them before excusing yourself with a headache. Thankfully they let you go without too much of a fuss, though a maid does drop in a glass of warm milk while you wait for the sunken pool to slowly come up to temperature. Praise be to the wonders of modern plumbing.Scents of camomile and vanilla at least help to ease some of the tension from the front of your head. You try to not brood on the argument with Gale, instead you run through a number of mind clearing exercises that frustratingly fail to help. The best thing to do with a day like this is end it. Hopefully the morning dawns brighter and offers some clarity.Pulling yourself from the water, your mind suddenly stills and becomes icily clear. You listen hard as your hand moves towards the dagger you always keep close. There's another soft bang from the bedroom, a grumble and pained groan. What in the Hells?Quickly slipping on your robe, you ease the door slightly ajar and peer into the room. Alessando's back is to you, he seems to be looking something over, then he dismisses two of the estates staff. Frowning, you slip the blade into your pocket and step into the room.“You gave me a fright, I thoug....” Your words trail off as you see the harp standing near the balcony doors.Alessando hums with pleasure at your reaction. “A gift, for the upcoming masquerade. You'll need one to compose the music, correct?”You walk past him and over to it, wide eyed. “It's beautiful.” You almost don't want to touch it. It's obvious by the patina of the wood it's an antique, a darkly warm lustre of mauve tones through to soft browns. You run your fingertips along the harmonic curve, up to the top of the column. The decorative turning of the wood is exquisitely done, understated and elegant so as to only add to the instruments overall beauty.“It's to your liking?” You can hear the smile in Alessando's question without looking at him. “Why don't you sit and play?”You draw your hand back. “It's been years.” The one problem with harps is the size and weight. Lyres have never been to your liking.His hands come to rest on your shoulders, a thumb caressing the base of your neck. “I don't mind.”You turn and let the flush creep over your cheeks, before dropping your gaze from his face. “I do. Call it a bards pride. Would you mind if I take tonight to familiarise myself with her? Work off the rust.”“So long as you promise to play for us tomorrow night.” The weight of his gaze carries the double meaning clearly.You nod demurely. “Thank you for this gift, my lord.”“There's really no need to be so coy, and you are welcome.” He places a lingering kiss on your lips. “Goodnight.”You let out a breath once the door closes. Dodging their expectations wasn't going to get any easier. You wouldn't be doing it at all if not for the fear of Raphael's unholy retribution. What you really should do is explain you just aren't the same hedonistic person anymore, let them believe you lost your heart to the druid. Marta seems to think as much already. You snort derisively at yourself, so much for not wanting to spin too many lies. You slip the dagger from your robe pocket and place it on the bedside table. Opening the balcony doors to the fragrant night air, the idea of an hours practice before retiring for the night might just be the medicine you need.Settling down on the stool you tilt the harp back into your shoulder and set your hands. A few plucks at individual strings brings a smile to your lips. Perfectly tuned. You take a deep centering breath and begin to play. There's no composition in mind, no rigid structure of notes. You play from the heart, the soul. An original piece that will be heard once and never again. The ghost of a touch that moves across your shoulders doesn't startle you, it's oddly welcome.“Don't stop,” Raphael whispers against your ear, then he moves away.You watch him only long enough to see him lay down on the chaise, pyramid the tips of his fingers together atop his chest, and close his eyes to listen. This isn't unusual for him. Back in his House of Hope, there's a solar set aside for you, private chambers away from everything else. Somewhere you can play and sing, experiment with compositions. Raphael visits from time-to-time, just to listen. No conversation. Only the music matters. And when the last note or word faded to silence, he would lead you to the extravagant canopied bed and make you entertain thoughts you really shouldn't. Foolish and dangerous notions, such as he cared, or that there's more depth to your rapport than he would ever willingly admit. He respects your talent as a musician, you no longer doubt that, but it's all you are certain of.Letting your eyes drift shut, you free all the doubts and worries to the night outside. Gale's arrogance, Wyll's distrust, even the de Lazlo's amours yearnings. In this one solitary aspect of your life, you are completely free, completely in control, and you let it ring through the melody.“I wish I'd known before now that you play the harp,” he says quietly, almost like it's an internal thought that wasn't meant to be vocalised.“There's a lot you don't know about me,” you don't state it as a challenge, you've no desire to antagonise him for once. It's simply the truth.“Hmm, I recall you saying so once before,” he muses. “Why not indulge me.”He asks no question, it's just an open-ended suggestion and he expects you to bite. “I learnt to play in the Feywild. My mentor took me there towards the end of my training. I'm honestly a little rusty. It's been years since I last played.” Your hands don't feel as supple as they should and you know your shoulder and back are going to ache in the morning.“What you call rusty others would laud as mastery. You truly are a savant of your art, you shouldn't be so humble,” Raphael tells you in a voice that's all smooth darkness. “Did you spend long with the fey?”The question sparks a feeling of longing that still stings all these years later. You hadn't wanted to leave. At least not when your mentor told you it was time to go, that they had nothing more to teach you. “I don't know. Time moves erratically on that plane. When I came back to Faerûn the better part of twenty years had passed here.” And you didn't grieve it for a moment.“A convenient way to disappear, to sever connections,” he notes idly.You hate how sharp he is and voice no reply, which is as good as screaming that he's right. You tell yourself it doesn't matter, he already knows you're College of Glamour and by extension would have studied with the fey. You cast a glance at him and see the conceited little smile on his lips. It ignites that curlish need to poke at his good mood.“What did you do to that bad poet?” Because something has happened, you're certain of that. There's no other reason why he took that particular letter.Raphael takes a deep and satisfied breath. “I gave him eternity amongst the blossoms.”You swallow the sudden rise of bile and force yourself to keep playing.“Lord and Lady de Lazlo are walking a very fine line with me,” he rumbles, his mood suddenly shifting. “If they weren't so useful....”You crush the violent urge to snarl that he doesn't own you, because it's a lie in more ways than you want to admit. He's just trying to bait a reaction out of you. With a force of will you stop your internal discordence from reaching the harp strings. “You'll get your answers a lot quicker if yo ”“No.” Raphael is on his feet now, moving towards you, something dark and terrible rolling off him. “You will not whore yourself out.”The next pulse of anger is impossible to leash and you meet those cold topaz eyes with equal venom. “The only person I ever sold myself to is you.”Raphael's grip is vice-like as he pulls you from the stool by your arm, causing the harp to rock alarmingly on its base. Neither of you notice. You can feel the press of him, his Infernal power, the knowledge he could kill you and chain your soul to an eternity of torment. It strangely leaves you with nothing to lose and you refuse to bend under the roiling heat of his presence.“You sold your soul. You gave me your body willingly,” he corrects, pressing in close. “Again,” his lips fall on yours in a heated and rough kiss. “And again,” he growls, punctuating with another hard kiss. “And again!” He pries your lips apart and you curse yourself for responding to him.You want to tell him he's deluded, an egotistical prick. Instead you run hands up his chest, moulding your body against his. You bite at his lower lip with every intention of making it hurt. It doesn't break the skin, but it does cause him a moment of pause. The triumph you feel at the brief expression of indignation is short lived, but so very worth it.“Your foolish desire to play with fire.” He tears the flimsy silken robe from your body. “Why must you tempt me so?”Your back hits the bed and you bring him down with you. Teeth bump hard and you hiss in pain, tasting blood. It's a struggle to breath when he kisses you like this, utterly selfish and demanding. You try to wrestle for a better position and quickly find he's in no mood to indulge you. When Raphael finally let's your lips go, you suck in a heaving breath, the front of your head feeling a little dizzy. Not that it stops you from sliding your hands down the taut planes of his body. He knocks them away with a vicious snarl, warning you against any further antics. It wakes the first stirrings of apprehension, of realising just how angry he truly is.Raphael pushes a knee up under your leg, spreading you wider and your heart thunders with anticipation. His hands are in your hair, moving down to caress the front of your neck as he drives himself into you. Your breath hitches, heart thudding as he takes you with a savagery you've yet to experience from him. It coils your core tight quicker than you want it to and you close your eyes to try and push back the intoxicating rush of pleasure. Then sheer blind panic seizes you.The hand caressing your throat clamps down tight, his other joining it. Your eyes snap open to look up into the cold fire of those magma orbs and you know fear. This isn't the usual push and pull of sex between you, it's so much darker. You try to suck in a breath and can't, your hands clawing at the back of his, trying to find enough purchase to pry his fingers back. The front of your head throbs, your eyes feeling like they're bulging wide. You give up on trying to loosen his grip and flounder a hand towards the bedside table and the dagger lying atop it. Raphael sees your intent and shifts you bodily away from it.You try to snarl and nothing comes out. You punch at his chest, claw at his arms, but it's no use. Your vision is blackening around the edges, your head and ears ringing. He's really..., this isn't. You can't even cry out in pain when you finally break the skin on his arm and magma hot blood scorches you. And behind it all is the thruming pulse of arousal, the feel of every thrust as he takes his pleasure. Your heart feels like it's about to explode, your vision speckled black and red and darkening. Consuming darkness sucks you under with your climax.You never hear the words that fall from his lips.~~*-*~~It takes a long time for consciousness to return. For you to realise you aren't cold and dead, another twisted soul in the devil's House of Hope. You lie on the bed where he left you. Your neck hurts, but you're breathing. You swallow, testing, and lift a hand to the tender skin. There are going to be bruises. It takes longer than it should for your brain to register the soft notes of the harp. That you aren't alone. Dread hollows out your stomach, why couldn't he have just left? Arrogant, temperamental, arsehole. Was it supposed to be an object lesson, a punishment? Or had he really wanted to kill you? Learn the lesson, you tell yourself coldly. Stop trying to make a devil out to be something he's not. Never can be.You stare at the ceiling, eyes tracing the curls of decorative bas-reliefs, and any other fixtures, anything to stop you from looking at him. “Gale asked me for the Netherstones.” Business, that's all this needed to be between you. All it should ever have been.The soft melody continues to flow. “And?” Clipped. Cold.You take the sting of the single word, remind yourself this is what you need. This is what you need to see and hear. Feel. This isn't a game. Not some darkly erotic fantasy to indulge in. He's a devil and a narcissist. He's told you countless times you're a distraction, a fascination. Not a person. “He says you'll have to deal with him eventually. That he knows how to reforge the Crown.”“You believe him?”Why is he even asking your opinion? “The man carries a fragment of the Karsite Weave inside him, has an obsession with what Karsus tried to do. It could be a bluff right now, but I wouldn't bet against him figuring it out. Maybe the two of you should share a glass of wine.” See who has the biggest ego. Report given, you roll onto your side away from him.The harp music lulls you, the melody is familiar and yet not, a twist on something, a paring? You give up on trying to figure it out. His technique is masterful, probably the best you've ever heard over the years. You must drift off at some point because when your eyes open again the room is dark and silent. Instead of trying to unpack the way it makes you feel, you fidget around enough to pull the cover over your chilled body and fail at trying to fall back to sleep.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The next week passes with a level of normality you've grown unused to feeling in recent months. It leaves you firm friends with a sense of trepidation that's impossible to shake. The only solace offered is loosing yourself in the planning for Marta's masquerade ball and entertaining visitors to the estate. Maybe you could settle to this new life if not for your keepers whims regarding your autonomy. The balancing act between him and your patrons is becoming more precarious by the day. As you played the harp for them last night, they all but started making love in front of you. A subtle weaving of magic into the melody saw them eased into a blissful slumber. It felt awful to do, but the alternative was far worse. The devil that plagues your thoughts hasn't paid anymore visits, neither has Korrilla. You've stubbornly refused to pen a report to Wyll, and Gale will wait out your silence confident he has the upper hand.You look at your reflection in the bathrooms tilted mirror as you pull on a crisp white blouse. Dark circles are starting to become more prominent under your eyes, your brow seeming to be permanently set in a frown. You pause in fastening up the ruffled collar, fingertips lingering over the faded violet blooms left by the devil's hands. Then they touch the necklace with its blood red gem. You destroyed an expensive pair of jewellers pliers trying to pull the links apart a few days ago. As expected as the outcome was, it still infuriated you. The next time a devil offers a gift, maybe question it instead of blindly accepting it. They never do or say anything that doesn't carry a deeper reason. Worse than the gullibility is the gnawing feeling of missing his presence. Of almost feeling like a jilted lover. Your cheeks burn with the thought. He's completely undeserving of it all.Quickly fastening up the collar, you turn away from the mirror. Marta is entertaining a new noble to the city this morning and you need to get your head in order. According to Alessando, there has been a number coming in from estates outside the city in recent weeks. Wealthy families are jockeying for higher positions in the vacuum and the de Lazlo's are interested in backing any that will align with their own power grab. It's one of the things you hate most about moving in patriar circles, why you never stay overlong with one particular family. There are plenty of stories about bards who got themselves embroied in spying and politicking. It rarely ended well. A knife in the back or a poisoned glass of wine, that was the best they could hope for. The worst isn't worth lingering on.Stepping back into your room, you pick up a richly embroidered corset off the bed and ease into it, pulling the tightening laces. A gift from Marta, the panels decorated with vines and flowers in a myriad of soft pastel colours. Hair pulled into a loose and messy bun, you pause before picking the lute up off its stand. A gift from Raphael. Your old one, the one your mentor gifted you, the one that saw you through years of performances and defying a Netherbrain. It now lies in a thousand pieces at the bottom of the Chionthar, along with all of your other problems. Maybe it will go someway to improving your mood to buy your own, or ask your patrons for one. They won't deny you anything.You walk down the open and airy hallways to the sunroom at the back of the house, exchanging greetings with staff as you pass by. Everywhere is slowly starting to be decorated for the ball. Colour pallets chosen, gardeners and carpenters brought in to turn the gardens into an approximation of the Feywild, or what most assumed it looks like. The music is coming along better than you anticipated given the tumultuous state of your mind. Marta's specific request is taking shape too. Ethereal, mysterious, a hint of loss and longing. It feels cathartic in some ways, especially given you're still yet to finish the song that began to take form during your trials against the Absolute.You're about to knock on the frosted glass of the sunrooms doors when you hear a deep laugh that stills your heart for a beat. Raphael? He's the new noble in town? Well, you had been waiting for something unexpected to drop and now it has. A dozen questions assail you all at once, along with the annoyance that neither he nor Korrilla bothered to inform you about this. Straightening your shoulders, you take a breath, ease the mask into place and knock.“Come in,” Marta near sing-songs.One more steadying breath and you open the door. Bright sunlight streams into the room through large picture windows, bouncing off copper waves like a halo around Marta's head, while it sinks into Raphael's dark hair. It's a striking image. She sits on the edge of the chaise almost as if she's captivated by whatever they are talking about. The devil by contrast lounges back, legs crossed at the ankles, an arm draped across the back of the sofa, the other poised as if he's expressing a point. He looks at you, eyes considering, the barest play of a smile on his lips. He looks every inch the rake.You flourish a bow to them, stubbornly avoiding his gaze. “My Lady de Lazlo.”Marta hums happily. “This is Raphael, recently returned from Cormyr. He's looking into buying Privitera's deceased estate.” Her gaze turns thoughtful. “Didn't you play for him on a few occasions?”“You recall correctly, my lady.” You turn towards him only as much as courtesy dictates. “My lord.” You ignore the way the creases at the corners of his eyes deepen slightly. Smug bastard.“This is my sweet bard,” Marta says, turning back to the devil. “She's exceptional. I can't wait for you to hear her play.”“I don't doubt it, Marta. Your taste thus far has been impeccable.” His deep caramel smooth voice is like a caress. Ghosts of memories moving over your skin.“Your wish, my lady?” You ask, studiously ignoring him.“Oh, something light and whimsy while we talk,” she says over her shoulder, attention solely back on her guest.“Of course.” You're more than happy to move away from them, taking a stool at a respectable distance and out of their direct line of sight.As you begin to play you're torn between wanting to listen to their talk and wanting to ignore everything said. If he wants your insight or assistance, he should have damn well let you know about this. It's spiteful and curlish and.... Breathe. You force your mind back to what you're doing before your anger gets the best of you and bleeds through into the slow tempo. A week of having a somewhat calmer mind and as soon as you see him, those intense eyes, the easy half-smile, you can't think straight. You want him and hate him for it. Concentrate! You let muscle memory take over as you slowly begin to ease your thoughts out of their toxic spiral. Marta isn't looking your way in concern or confusion, so the music hasn't strayed notably. Stop thinking of everything in terms of him and start thinking about yourself!Slowly you ease your mind back into the music, the one part of your life you still have complete control over. The one part no one can take from you. Your fingers loosen, the flow of music as natural as it should be. They're laughing, Raphael's voice a luxurious and sultry spell that commands Marta's full attention. She's rapt to his words, eyes glistening and almost vacant. She hangs onto everything he says. Strange, you can't recall him ever talking to you in such a beguiling manner, or maybe you just don't remember.He's asking about the masquerade, the guest list specifically. She lists the names without consideration and you mentally check them off against the ones you know. Only two are unknown to you, and you know where the devil's mind is going with this. You get the impression he's about to ask more pointed questions when the doors open and Alessando enters, followed by a maid wheeling in a trolley laden with refreshments.You remain as unobtrusive as any other piece of furniture. Watching with half an eye as Marta greets her husband with her usual enthusiasm. Alessando shakes Raphael's hand, welcoming him to the city and their home. Wine is poured and a light luncheon served. You notice that the devil reels in the charm a little, but remains warm and open, relaxed. The ploy is as natural to him as music is to you, and within the space of a glass of wine Alessando is as warm to him as his wife. So much so the couple are looking at him with eyes you know very well, ones that are far more interested in retiring somewhere private.Your brow knits a little tighter, the ugly sting of jealousy not something you want to feel, or admit to feeling. Was he doing this on purpose, to prove a point? Then your brain trips over the thought, your fingers almost following. He's jealous? The thought is so absurd you have to press your lips tight so the laugh doesn't slip past. More like an entitled brat who doesn't want to share his toys.A knock sounds at the door and you see Gerrad step inside with a pointed look at the de Lazlo's. Alessando excuses himself and walks over to exchange a few brief words, then the butler bows and quietly leaves.“My apologies Raphael, but I'm going to have to leave you in the company of my wife,” he says with a sigh of regret as he walks back.Marta pouts. “Must you? I feel like everything is warming up so wonderfully.”“Urgent business, I wish I could put it off.” He holds his hand out to Marta. “A quick word with you, my love. I hope you can forgive us.”“Think nothing of it,” Raphael tells them easily. “To be left in the company of such exquisite music is a gift.”The devil waits for the de Lazlo's to leave before he stands and walks towards the large picture windows. You watch as he examines his nails before turning his attention to the gardens outside. His face is stern in profile, the harsh sunlight washing out the imperfections in his skin and turning the eye you can see almost amber. There's no trace of the charming devil he was a moment ago.“You covered those mistakes quite well, though it's not like you to make them in the first place,” he critiques coolly. “Is there something bothering you?”Why does he even ask such questions? He's not interested beyond gleaming new information with which to better manipulate you. With an effort you manage to keep the notes from the lute sweet, complex and whimsical. “Two of the names Marta listed aren't patriars of The Gate. Knowing her, she'd invite their backers out of propriety even if they're likely to decline. It might not be what you're looking for, but it's worth ruling out.” You watch the side of his cheek twitch, his brow pinching. He does not appreciate you ignoring his question.“Have I been so unreasonable with you?” He asks with a low rumble of warning, anger simmering.You grit your teeth, about to snap that there is nothing reasonable about what he did. He choked you into unconsciousness and, for all you know, didn't intend on stopping there either. Given the rage he was in, you can't fathom what had stayed his hand. A week to think back without a lust soaked perspective painted a very chilling and sobering picture. You poked and demeaned the devil despite all his crystal clear warnings regarding the flimsiness of your continued existence. Unless, of course, this conflicted state of mind you find yourself in was his goal. In which case, bravo. Before either of you can speak into the lengthening silence, Marta slips back into the room.“Would you like to tour the gardens?” She asks, completely oblivious to the crackling tension. “It's too beautiful an afternoon to be indoors.”The mask of the devilish charmer slides back into place and forces you to look twice. “Of course, dear.” He offers his arm to Marta who delicately rests her hand on it. She chatters brightly, leading him away. But not before he casts one last dark look back at you. This isn't the end of your conversation.Your fingers idly spin the music for a little while longer before you decide to stop. Whenever he's done enwebbing Marta, maybe he'll deign to tell you what's going on. The doors open again and you expect it to be Alessando, instead Gerrad smiles at you.“I'm glad I caught you.” He walks over briskly with a letter. “This just came for you. The boy said it was quite urgent.” Handing it over he turns and leaves.You break the wax seal marked with the ducal insignia and read the sparse contents. It seems Wyll has finally had enough of your silence.~~*-*~~The late afternoon sun is warm, pleasantly so, and you choose not to rush to the destination mentioned in the letter. You can't see Wyll being anymore pleased with your lack of progress than Raphael is. Stalling them was never going to work indefinitely and you're no closer to finding any sort of resolution. If anything, your situation has only grown more fraught. At least between Raphael and you.During your stay at his House of Hope it began to feel like the two of you found a mutual understanding. One subject to fits of temper from both sides, a push and pull of power, but never to the point of anything destructive. If anything, you both seem to thrive on it. Since setting foot back on Faerûn, something between you has shifted. His obsessive desire to attain the Crown, the threat that others are trying to undermine him. The fact you are not totally in his control anymore. Maybe they all count to some degree. You know he despises the chaos of this plane, its inefficiency and fluid structure.The suave, controlled and supremely confident devil you met outside the Emerald Grove is the same one you watched talk to Marta and Alessando. The easy charm and humour, enticement wielded with precision. It took seeing that mask again to make you realise he doesn't act like that with you anymore. Maybe he knows he doesn't need to waste the effort, his claws are firmly in your soul after all. As the situation stands, he wins everything. It's one more dangerous pit you really shouldn't spend too much time looking into. The dark will show you all manner of illusions if you stare into it long enough.“This area is off limits, citizen.”The curt voice jars you out of your thoughts and you blink dumbly at the Flaming Fist, her expression growing less patient by the second. You look past her at the scaffolding covering parts of the High Hall. “I have an appointment.” You hand over the letter for inspection, not that it improves her mood.“Check your weapons here, you can have them back when you leave,” she orders, handing back the letter.You place your dagger on the table next to her and hold out your arms as her partner pats you down. It all feels completely unnecessary to your mind, it's plainly obvious you're no warrior or rouge. Then again, maybe some have taken exception to the future Grand Duke sporting a pair of devil horns.“Up the stairs, second door on your right. And don't get it in your head to go wandering.” She stands aside to allow you past the checkpoint.You make your way past stonemasons and carpenters, painters and more than one argument between artisans. You've never been invited to play at the High Hall, for many bards who call the Sword Coast home, it's the one goal they dream of. For you it's never been one you've given much thought to, mainly because an invitation here comes with a lot of politicking behind it. All you care about is music, not which patriars you call friend.The directions lead you to a quieter part of the building, a familiar one. Reminding me of my responsibilities, eh Wyll? You knock on the door and wait for permission to enter. To your surprise, it's Florrick who opens the door. She regards you with obvious caution before stepping aside and allowing you to pass. The room is much as you remember it before the final push to the Netherbrain. There's no fire in the hearth, but the table is laden with food and wine, loosely rolled scrolls. Rows of expensive spirits line the shelves behind the bar, green and brown glass still covered with ash and plaster dust.“I'm glad you could come at such short notice,” Wyll says once the door closes.As though you have any choice in the matter. There's a momentary ringing in your ears as Florrick casts a silence spell. That seems a little excessive for a meeting like this, but if that's how they want to play. You say nothing and pull a stool out from the bar to perch on. It lets you keep an eye on both of them and stops either of them moving behind you.“You've been lax in sending any sort of updates.” There's a look in his good eye you don't care for, his tone is too mild.“There's been nothing worth troubling you with.” It's no lie because you've made no conscious effort to pry into the de Lazlo's affairs. Your days have been consumed by the needs of your patrons and writing the music for their upcoming masquerade.Wyll's smile is tight, disappointed. “Nothing, you say. So, I'm to believe it's mere coincidence that Raphael turns up at the de Lazlo's the same day a fragment of the Crown is recovered?”A knot of dread tightens in your gut. Everything you've been stubbornly avoiding suddenly crowding in on you. “What? When?”“Early this morning.” He's completely unmoved by your shock.Was this the business that called Alessando away from talking with Raphael? Is it the reason the devil chose today to call in on them? No, no. That doesn't work. Marta told you about the visit last night, the fragment wasn't found until this morning. At least if Wyll is telling you the truth. It's all a very unpleasant coincidence as far as you see it. They aren't going to believe your claim though.“All they talked about is music and art, the masquerade ball Marta is planning.” You really should have considered Wyll would have the estate watched. Hopefully whoever his little spy is isn't on the de Lazlo's staff. If they are, why in the Hells did he send you there at all? To keep you busy? To be monitored without knowing it? Your mind is spinning and you need to take back control of it before this gets out of hand.“I need to know where your loyalties lie.” It's an ultimatum, his disappointment palpable. In his eyes you're already a traitor to The Gate.This is moving too fast. It's almost as though Wyll and Florrick have discussed all the possibilities and decided your guilt in absentia. If you plead innocence, they'll laugh. If you try to negotiate, you're as manipulative as the devil who holds your soul. Florrick moves further to your right, making it harder to keep them both in sight. You curse yourself for not anticipating something like this, spending the walk here obsessing over your dynamic with Raphael instead.“Nothing has changed from when I first spoke to you, Wyll. I told you I'm no spy and the de Lazlo's have offered nothing for me to use. Maybe they'll invite their backers to the masquerade,” you're rambling, offering placations. You take a breath to try and compose yourself. “We aren't friends anymore, are we? There was never any intention on your part to try and help me figure out a loophole in the mess I made.” It needs to be said aloud, you need to hear the truth.“Our situations, the consequences of the deals we made, are so far apart they might as well be on different planes of existence. You had the chance to die a hero, instead you let another take the sacrifice. In effect condemning every creature on the material plane,” he tells you coldly.“You realise the Gith would have become as much of a threat to all the planes if Orpheus had lived? Their mandate is total conquest, same as the Grand Design or a united Hells free of the Blood War. There was no right answer beyond buying time. But I'm the only one left alive to take the culpability.” Keep the anger in check, you can talk your way out of this.Wyll nods, smile wry. “The devil's move is the only one left on the board. Convenient for Raphael. I can't trust you, not with this. I wanted to, gods know. But the security of the city, the Sword Coast and beyond, that is my charge.” He takes a breath, as if stealing himself. “I'd rather you submit quietly, there's no way out of here.”A chill runs down your back and you don't doubt the warning. Wyll hasn't drawn his sword, but that doesn't make him any less of a threat and you're no brawler. With the silence bubble in place, Florrick can't cast. And neither can you. Raphael's gift is useless, unless. You look over your shoulder at the stocked bar. Buy time.“You're not going to demand I hand over the Netherstones?” Keep them talking, stay relaxed. You've dealt with hostile audiences before.“I doubt you have them,” he dismisses too readily. “After you were taken to Avernus, we checked your room and they weren't there. Either Raphael took them, or you gave them to him.” The downturn of his lips makes it clear which he thinks it is. And he's right.You dip your head, looking at your hands and twisting the one ring you wear. Then you nod behind you. “Mind if I have a last drink before you clap me in irons?” If they have any sense, they'll kill you rather than opting for incarceration.You don't wait for permission, you slip from the stool and move around behind the bar. Mindful to keep your hands in plain view and your movements fluid. Wiping away ash and dust, you find an appropriate spirit. “You remember the last time we were here?” You ask conversationally, finding three shot glasses and placing everything on the bar. There's a too loud pop as you pull loose the aged cork. Neither of them have moved closer and Wyll hasn't latched onto your banter. Okay, try another angle. “What will you tell the others?”“Nothing. They need not know you ever came back from Avernus,” he tells you sombrely.The ice up your spine begins to crystalise. “And Gale?”A short snort of a laugh. “I dare say it's not something that will even register for him.”Your lips twist with derision. “It's almost starting to sound like you have no intention of arresting me.” Steady your nerve, you can do this. “May I remove my keychain? There's a key on it to a safety deposit box at the Counting House. You'll find the stones inside.”“Liar,” Florrick breaths, stepping closer.You shake your head, expression grim as you fill each of the shot glasses with a steady hand. “You think I'd give up the one ace I have? The Netherstones are the only thing I have to negotiate with. Take the key, find them, then decide my fate.” Florrick's expression makes it clear she doesn't believe a word of it, but it's not her you need to convince.Wyll nods. “Slowly.”You lower your hand to the chain attached to your trousers and slide free the T-bar. Florrick takes another step towards you and you're only getting the one shot at this. An old bard trick, a way to create a spark, fire, from seemingly nothing. The small striking rod on the chain hits the roughened stone set into your ring, sparking above a full shot glass of liquor. Time slows as you fling it towards Florrick, the ignited alcohol hitting her robes. The moment you feel the silence bubble pop, a single Infernal word drops from your lips and searing heat engulfs you.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The world lurches sideways alarmingly, your equilibrium taking too long to catch up with you. Vision blurry, you make a blind grab for something, anything, but it's the floor that brings everything to a blessed stop. Gritting your teeth against the sharp pain of hitting unforgiving marble, you sit and wait for everything to settle. Using teleportation magic in the material realm never knocked you like this, maybe the extra kick came from crossing planes. Eventually your ears stop ringing and you hear the gentle sound of trickling water, and smell the less pleasant odour of Avernus.“Well, this is an unusual way for you to return to me.”You look up as a shadow moves over you accompanied by the creak of leather and the jangle of shifting chains, Haarlep. A mischievous smile plays across sensual lips as they consider you. Then the sting from your hand finally reaches your brain and you look down at it.“Mmm, that looks painful,” the incubus notes with interest. “Why don't you let me take care of that.”“It's just a flash burn,” you tell them, but not before the incubus has bent over to bring your hand to their lips and licks across the reddened and broken skin. It's like a jolt of lightening through your body and you bite back a moan. Damned incubus saliva. “I need to leave.” You try to take your hand back and find that you can't.“Leave?” Haarlep chuckles, well aware of their effect. “You only just came back and I so want to hear all the delicious stories of what you've been up to.”No, you need to leave. Only you have no idea if Raphael's Outer Portals will even allow you to pass or smite you on the spot. The shake your head, looking up at the incubus as they take two of your fingers into their mouth and....“What happened?” Raphael's voice is a lash against the arousal stirring through you.“The little mouse hurt her hand,” Haarlep supplies like they're cooing at an injured pet.Thankfully they stop doing unspeakable things to your fingers in favour of helping you up from the floor. You look across at the devil, anger blazes from his eyes. At least it's not directed at you this time. With Haarlep's touch gone, it's easier for your mind to clear and the consequences of what you just did to sink in. If there had been any lingering doubt in Wyll's mind about your allegiances, your actions have shattered them all. The High Hall will stink of Infernal magic.“Wyll finally decided he doesn't trust me and I took exception to being removed from the board.” As much as you don't want to believe he would have killed you, it's just old alliances and vain hope talking. Raphael's eyes have dropped to your hand, narrowing. “It's just a flash burn,” you repeat. It could happen if you weren't careful and you needed to make sure the alcohol ignited.“Why now?” The question is a dark rumble, brow furrowing with more than just anger.So he really doesn't know? Haarlep decides to step into the pause in conversation and moulds themselves up against your back, arms circling your waist. You wonder if they're purposely trying to provoke their master or distract him.“A piece of the Crown has been recovered, early this morning according to Wyll. When you turned up at the estate a little later, Wyll and Florrick didn't care for the coincidence. A message was sent to me, I assumed it a check in because I haven't been and,” you trail off.“So you set the dukeling on fire, how wonderful,” Haarlep laughs next to your ear.“I set Florrick on fire. She put up a silence bubble and I needed a way to break her concentration.” You can see the cogs turning behind Raphael's hard magma eyes, how he's mentally shuffling the pieces on the board with this new information.“You're both so tense,” Haarlep sighs with exaggerated concern. “You should both come to bed and forget about all this nonsense for a little while.”You're about to speak when the incubus tilts your head towards theirs and kisses you. The same jolt shoots through you, only more intense this time as they slide their tongue deep into your mouth. You can't and don't want to stop the moan, liquid heat pooling between your legs, your thoughts dissolving to nothing more than wanting to feel pleasure.Haarlep may look like a younger, more perfect, version of their master, but that's where the similarities begin and end. The incubus prefers the slow stripping of your clothes over the convenience of magic, treating every inch of newly exposed flesh to the same maddening attention. You're a panting and writhing mess by the time they have you naked, so much so it only takes a single pass of their tongue against your clitoris to send you spiralling into ecstasy. They laugh with delight as climax rolls through your drawn taut body, and they have absolutely no intention of letting you ride it out without their continued assistance.Your head rolls to the side as you feel their tongue press deep into your wetness. Raphael sits in an opulent high-backed chair a short distance from the side of the bed, magma eyes watching and unblinking, bright and intense. He seems relaxed, lounging back, one ankle resting atop the opposite knee. But you watch his hands, the unconscious way his fingertips move against the gilt armrests. Maybe it's like watching a flesh and blood mirror, a facsimile of himself indulging in your body. Maybe he feels what Haarlep does. You know it's within the incubus' power when they use the form of another.You don't look away as you slide a hand down into Haarlep's hair, letting your fingertips press into their scalp. The incubus needs no direction or urging from you, that long serpentine tongue of theirs doing utterly debauched things between your legs. You wander your fingers through their thick and dark hair, circling the base of hardened bone where their great horns begin. You cover your grin of satisfaction with a breathy moan when you note the way Raphael's fingers stop moving, the way they press hard into the armrests. He can feel it. Just like that night at Sharess Caress when you dared to touch them, there's the barest lowering of his eyelids as you explore the ridges and dips. It's surprising he has any sensitive spot, and you definitely aren't above abusing it.You let your hands wander as they please, caressing, tugging. Never once letting your eyes drift from the devil's. It's a delight to see the slow chipping away of his composure, and he knows that you know, you're certain. The rigid set of his jaw, the slight pinching of his brow, burning eyes that promise retribution in a thousand creative and painful ways. It twists the fire that Haarlep stokes with every lap and thrust of their firm tongue.Your back arches slightly, hands curling tight around ridged and hardened bone, eyes drifting from the devil you carelessly tease to look up into the mirror above you. The erotic tableau sends a sharp thrill through you, Haarlep between your legs, the sinuous way their body moves as they pleasure you. Your moaning pants for air fill the boudoir as you curl your legs over their shoulders, pull at their horns. Raphael has never indulged you like this, so why not take everything from his incubus and torment him with it at the same time. You don't hold back the cry of ecstasy, revelling in the mindlessness the incubus' aura of bliss envelopes you in.“Haarlep,” Raphael commands.The incubus grumbles with annoyance against your overly sensitive and still throbbing clitoris, making you gasp and your body jerk. With a sigh, they unhook your hands and legs to move up your body in a trail of languid and sucking kisses. They don't stop until they're close to your ear and whisper a compliment for being a very naughty girl. Then they draw back fully to look at the devil.“Would the Master of the House like more of a show?” Haarlep asks with all the innocence of a chaste paladin.The Master of the House doesn't deem either of you worthy of a verbal reply, there's a sharp snap of his fingers and then he indicates the side of the bed closest to him.“Courtesan performers,” Haarlep laments with complete disregard as they help you to sit up. Then they lean in close to your ear. “Though this is the most adventurous I've seen him in..., ever,” snide drips from their voice.The incubus has made no secret of their feelings towards their master, how sexually unsatisfied they are. Honestly though, it fit a pattern you've seen with the sorts of individual punishments Raphael chooses for his debtors. What better cruelty than to inflict an eternity of sexual dissatisfaction on a creature that thrives on the giving and receiving of physical pleasure. It's a stray thought that threatens to extinguish the simmering lust inside you. Wyll claimed you have nothing left to sell to the devil, you know exactly what he would take if he were ever of a mind to. Either as recompense for your soul, or punishment for your failure. Music. Your voice, your hands. Both.“Shh, little mouse,” Haarlep murmurs by your ear as if sensing your internal shift. Their lips move to yours, kissing you in a slow and painfully sensual way, their tongue slipping into your mouth and quickly turning you into a mess of sensations that overrides your anxiety. They shift you to kneel on the bed facing Raphael and move behind you, pulling you back into their lap. The choice of position isn't wasted on you, it's the way the devil took you while reflected in the mirror. Only now it's Raphael who is the mirrors eyes. You find yourself wanting to see what he does as Haarlep lifts you and sits you down on their hard length, wraps an arm tight about your waist to pull you flush against them.“What I wouldn't give to play with you all alone,” the incubus breaths hotly into your ear. “To take you apart slowly, to find every point of pleasure, to uncover every dark fantasy you keep hidden.” Every enticing word is underwritten by the slow rock of their hips up into your tight heat. “I want to know everything about you.”You indulge in the illusion they create, a devoted and considerate lover, enthralled with a desire to please only you. It's safe so long as you remember it's all a lie. You turn your focus away from the incubus to Raphael, watching as the devil tracks your hands as they move behind you and around Haarlep's head and neck. They oblige your direction, clever lips moving across your shoulder, against the side of your throat. You purposely stay away from their horns this time, skirting close, but always shy of touching them. Your lips curve into a knowing smile, while Raphael's expression remains stoic, even as he moves a finger across his lips in consideration. It makes your pulse flutter to notice his eyes never stray from yours, not even for the mirror image of himself.“Stay with me, not him,” honeyed words worm into your mind. “Forever.”There's something in your mind that's slipping, a dreamy sensation that's like only being half-awake. The way they make love to you, the soft kisses that spark bliss in a way no one has ever made you feel. Would forever like this be so bad? Then the sensation is snapped away from your mind, the only thing stopping you from swaying like a drunk being Haarlep's arm around your body.Raphael is on the bed, a clawed hand around the incubus' throat. What?“It's just a little fun,” Haarlep pouts. “The little mouse likes the attention,” there's absolutely nothing repentant in their tone.“Be more mindful,” is all Raphael says tersely.Then the bed dips further behind you and you're unceremoniously brought onto all fours. Haarlep groans and the whole dynamic shifts in an instant, languid rocking changing to something firmer and sharper. Raphael dictates the pace and you moan, wishing for a mirror in front of you so you can see them both. Your arms give out under the harder pace and you sink down to rest your shoulders against the bed. Haarlep presses a hand to your back, urging you to curve your spine more, tilting your hips so they can drive deeper. You can hear them kissing, rough, breathless, your imagination awash with what they must look like. You don't hold back your gasping pants, the tightness building inside you, the frustration that you can't see them, touch them. Climax hits suddenly, robbing you of the ability to think and breath and you let it take you.~~*-*~~You don't know how long you sleep, or what time it is. Avernus has no day and night cycle, the sky constantly hues of red occasionally scrubbed by threatening clouds of dark grey. Staying in the Feywild gave you the same dislocation with time, the realm in a perpetual state of twilight or dawn depending on where you are. As always, thoughts of the fey bring with it a sense of longing you've grown used to ignoring. With everything as it is now, the thought of ever going back seems further away than ever.It's not the easiest task to extract yourself from so many limbs, but you manage it with only a grumble from Haarlep. If Raphael notices, there's no indication of it. You pull a silken robe of slate grey, accented in maroon and trimmed in gold braid, from the wardrobe and leave the boudoir. Every time your mind starts to wander over the events of the last..., day? It feels so much longer. You take a breath and force your mind to disregard it. Ending up back in Avernus so soon after winning a measure of freedom is not something that sits well with you. And now you can't help but wonder if you'll ever see it again.Muttering debtors pass you by, every one a reminder of what awaits you. With the duke now an enemy, and the Fist with him, you truly are useless to the devil as an asset. At least in Baldur's Gate. Where the Crown is. You slowly climb the curving staircase to the top most floor, to the one room that's a solace in this house of madness. The door doesn't need a key, it only opens to your touch and the touch of its master. You move about the music room, everything looking the same as when you left it, though you doubt it's untouched. Raphael will have looked through your work, looking for anything he can use. You stop at the writing desk, littered with a collection of half-finished songs and scribbled notations done in the moment. Nothing that offers an insight into your mind per se, but still personal to you.You pull the chair out with its wooden carvings of devils in flight and sit down, clearing a space and pulling fresh sheets of paper from one of the draws. Rather than let your mind spin around a thousand things you have no control over, you dip the quill into the inkwell and begin to write. Time flows and the candles slowly burn down, the first few attempts at writing anything ending up discarded on the floor around your feet. Until you stop writing what you think you should and let your heart take the lead. The quill doesn't pause even when you hear the door open and close. A snap of fingers and fire ignites in the bare hearth next to you.Raphael comes to stand behind your chair, his hand resting on your shoulder. It's the first time he's touched you since the night he flew into a rage and it's an effort to force the tension out of your body. “A song,” he notes, then. “A duet, no less.”For a moment you don't want to indulge him in conversation, but there's nowhere you can run. “It's about a girl who's the captive of a dragon. She needs to steal a key to unlock the way out. She manages it, but the dragon finds out and stops her. The duet is about the confrontation between them, their... conflicted feelings.”Raphael leans over to pluck the quill from your fingers. He crosses out the word key and changes it to hammer, then he strikes through the dragon and writes the word devil. “You have regrets.” It's not a question.You stare down at the words, heart thundering. “I... don't know.” You've lost so much, friends, respect, the illusion others would help you as you helped them.Raphael's hand slowly moves to the side of your throat and your pulse ticks up a notch. “Do you hate me?” His voice is full of forced control.You exhale a harsh laugh of abject loss and confusion. “I wish I could define what I feel so clearly when it comes to you. I can't. It's like a storm. As powerful in its allure as it is terrifying.”He remains quiet, his thumb caressing just behind your ear, fingers curling around the front of your throat. There's no pressure under his touch, just a hair-trigger temper much the same as your own.“There are so many cautionary tales to warn against bargaining with a devil.” You don't know if you're rambling to fill the heavy silence or finally letting a dark secret slide from the depths of you. “The truth is, you might have given me the rope to hang myself, but I'm the one that kicked the chair.” I could have taken the sacrifice, I could have sided with the Emperor.“Why look at it in terms of defeat or loss?” He asks smoothly. “You've shed the weight of false allies, the self-inflicted deceit of the mind. Now you can become something greater.” His fingers move away from your throat, drifting across the back of your neck and making you shiver.“How black is my soul at this point?” You deride.A low knowing chuckle brushes past you. “It's not. Selfishness in and of itself is not a diabolical sin.” He tips the chair back onto one leg and easily spins it to face him. Raphael looms over you, all Infernal skin, burning eyes and ridged horns. One blackened claw tip slides under your chin, forcing you to look up at him and he bends to kiss you, pausing just before he does. “But once that selfishness starts to come with a death toll in the tens of thousands. Well....” His lips are firm, the kiss languid and self-assured. “You can reveal in it, or let it destroy you.”“I know which you'd prefer.” It's the same as mine.Raphael's lips quirk, amused. “Do you.”You hold the burning magma of his eyes. “The third option.”His chuckle is deep, edged in smug indulgence. “This is exactly why you fascinate me so.” The kiss is harder this time, hungry and laced with impatience. When he pulls back there's something dark in his eyes as he looks you over, his diabolical presence enveloping you. Claws move across kiss swollen lips as he crowds in closer. “Desire me. Fear me. Worship me,” he purrs each demand darkly, one kiss after the next.“What if I'm the one wants to be worshipped?” You dare to challenge, words breathless. The intensity of him, the weight of his presence, makes your heart and mind skitter.“As though I can deny my sweet tempest anything,” he breaths the admission in such a way it blows all rational thoughts from your mind.The moment he eases down onto his knees in front of you feels utterly surreal, leaving you to stare wide eyed as he loosens the knot in the front of your robe and opens it. The silken material slides down off your shoulders, everything laid bare to his hungry gaze. You take a shaky breath, about to ask what he's doing when his lips drop to your breast. The heat of his firm hands curving over your hips and pulling you towards the edge of the chair. You grasp his shoulders, expecting to be pulled right onto his lap, but he doesn't. Instead he trails wet and biting kisses down over your stomach, until.... Oh, Hells.Your knee ends up over his shoulder, the other over the arm of the chair as he goes down on you. He's never indulged you like this, his attitude to sex is aligned to his own selfish pleasure. It hits in a way no verbal confession could, or you would want to hear. You gasp as that firm tongue passes over your clitoris, still so sensitive from the incubus' attentions, then lower, pressing right where you need it most.“Raphael.” Your hand cards through his hair, for once resisting the urge to pull at it.He rumbles and your body jerks, fingertips pressing into his scalp, massaging, encouraging. Your back arches away from the chair, your other hand wrapping around the carved wooden uprights of twisting devils behind you. It's different from Haarlep in all the ways you want it to be, firm, demanding, single-minded. You skirt fingertips around his horns on purpose, making him shift restlessly. It must just be an arousal to him personally, that one 'weak' point. As much as you want to test him, you also don't want him to lose his patience. Who knows if this will ever happen again and you want to selfishly enjoy every moment. So you indulge him instead of teasing, running firm fingers over the ridges and dips, feeling every concentric layer. His snarl is muffled with his face buried in the juncture of your legs and sends a sharp jolt of pleasure through your core.Every deep thrust of that sinuous tongue, the firm licks that make your mind fuzz and your insides tighten. Your hand lets go of the chair back to join the other pulling at and caressing his horns, the leg over his shoulder curling around the back of his neck. You aren't going to last and you don't care. Because the moment you rush over the edge, he's going to pull you from the chair, into his lap and, and....The tip of his tongue laps at your clitoris, sharp teeth nipping before he sucks. You feel yourself unravel, hands gripping his horns tight enough you can feel the sharp edges cut into your palms. Laughing like a drunk, he validates your prediction and pulls you from the chair with a rumbling growl. You land in his lap as he lays back in front of the roaring fire and you follow him down. Lips finding his, your tongue licking across the glistening surface to taste yourself. The points of claws dig into your arse as he lifts you enough to drive his solid cock into your wet heat. He swallows your sharp gasp with a dark rumble of his own, your walls still tight and throbbing from your climax. Then he roughly pushes you away from him, eyes hungry and expectant.Sitting back, you groan as his hardness slides deeper and you purposefully squeeze him and bite at your lower lip, enjoying how good he feels inside you. Fire light reflects off the wet surface of his diabolical eyes, dances across crimson skin and its strange snake-like texture in a way you find almost hypnotising. Raphael's lips curl subtly as he enjoys your obvious appraisal, then he bucks his hips, making your eyes flutter half closed. Well, he has been uncharacteristically generous.Blackened nails dig into your thighs as you ride him, his breath starting to come faster. He never blinks, never looks away as you unashamedly lose yourself in the feel of him, the look, the way heat and darkness roll off him. You know it's power he lets you have, but that doesn't make it any less intoxicating to have a devil under you. Supine, falsely submissive. Every gasp of air sears your lungs, your nails raking down his chest, digging into the firm muscles underneath.“What do you see?” You ask breathlessly, mirroring the question he asked of you that night you signed his damned contract.“My doom.” A tease, the truth. It's impossible to tell.A deep laugh bubbles past your lips, so alien sounding it's hard to believe it's you at all. You lean over him, cupping the sides of his face, your harsh panting breath mixing with his. “Better kill me first then.”Raphael rumbles dangerously before fisting your hair tight and pulling you into a savage kiss. Blood fills your mouth as your tongue catches the sharp edge of a fang in your ardour, and you suddenly find yourself on your back. Leathery wings stretch out, flexing and stirring the fire in the hearth higher before almost shrouding around you. Every drive of his hips is deep and brutal, every kiss deep and consuming. Your heart feels like it's beating too loud and too fast. You claw at him, legs tightening around his waist. His name leaves your lips as a desperate cry and then fire burns everything away.~~*-*~~You watch the embers in the hearth slowly ripple with reds and oranges, pulses of gentle heat moving over your skin that matches the heat radiating off Raphael's. The steady beat of his heart under your ear lulling you in and out of sleep. You pretend not to notice the way his claws draw idle shapes over your lower back. As much as you might want to simply lay here and bask in this moment, you know it won't last. It would be easy to accept defeat in this, let matters in Baldur's Gate play out however they will. But you can't quite let it go. Not yet.“I want to go back,” you murmur against his chest.“Why?”Instead of questioning his curiosity, you decide to accept it. “To finish the job.”“What do you think you can accomplish as a wanted woman?” There's nothing derisive in his tone, he's wondering where your mind is going with this.Your fingertips move over ridges, feeling their shapes. “There's no saying I am, and it'd be easy enough to check with your connections. Wyll won't send any Fists to knock on the de Lazlo's door to arrest me either. He'll want to know who all their associates are, cleanse the board of Infernal influence. That gives us room.” You prop yourself up to look down at him and you're glad to see there's actual serious consideration on his face rather than amusement. That might all change with your next words. “But I'm going to need your help.”“Ar, so finally we reach the point of negotiation,” he smirks, a dark chuckle rumbling through his body and into yours.You snort, managing to hold your nerve. “It's simple, we prompt the de Lazlo's to talk. A request for a bards tale from their newest guest. Something secret that no one else knows.” Like just what the Crown of Karsus is.Raphael laughs loudly, voice echoing in the vaulted ceiling. “You are a devious delight.”“So?”He regards you with indolence. “Mm, in a few hours.”
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Warm sun on your skin, a gentle breeze stirring the loose tendrils of your hair. You bask in the physical sensations, the feelings such simple pleasures evoke. If nothing else, the short stay back in Avernus has blessed you with a greater appreciation for the little things Faerûn offers. A few pointed questions in the ranks of the Flaming Fist confirmed your hope Wyll hasn't issued a warrant for your arrest. What Wyll has done is order every private vault in the Counting House open. An edict that has not gone down well with management or their patriar customers. You doubt he believes your lie about the Netherstones location, it's more a case of not discounting the possibility. Marta, for her part, didn't bat an eye at your overnight absence. Bards and their ways, she smiled knowingly, making you promise to tell her the tale of whose bed it was you had warmed.As for Raphael's stipulations for allowing you to return, he wants you to avoid leaving the estate. It isn't as restrictive as it sounds. With the masquerade fast approaching, there's plenty for you to do. Interviewing other bards and perfecting the list of music to suit the Seelie and Unseelie sides of the ball. There's a special performance that needs your attention too.One other matter you tried to find an answer to is who's watching the estate on behalf of the ducal throne. A few careful questions to Gerrad made it clear no new staff have been employed in or around the time the dredging started. You're not about to let the whole experience slide by with no lessons learnt, however. Before leaving the House of Hope, Korrilla gave you a simple warding ring. The counterspell charge woven into it is a one and done deal, but that's all you need if anyone tries a repeat of what happened at High Hall.“You seem so far away,” Marta hums the observation as she lifts a small teacup to her pink lips. She sits under a lace parasol that you don't imagine does much against the high afternoon sun.“Sorry, my lady. I'm just mentally running through the timings for the masquerade,” you lie easily.“This is how I know the music is in good hands,” she beams at you. “You won't let it be anything but perfect.”“I appreciate your complete trust,” you reply, playing a few experimental notes on your lute. Not quite right, maybe.... You try a tremolo on the lower range, something measured and rhythmic, almost martial sounding. Maybe on a different instrument. 2/4 or 4/4 time signature. Double bass, or maybe a piano?“Is this a piece you're planning for the ball?” She continues to question into the intermittent silence.A smile pulls at your lips despite you not wanting it to. “A show piece, something very different. Maybe I shouldn't be spoiling you,” you add with a note of playfulness.“Oh, please do,” she returns, pale cheeks a little flushed and eyes wide. “I won't share it with anyone. You also haven't told me what colours you want your dress to be. Will you join the Summer Queen, or the Queen of Air and Darkness?” There's mischief dancing in her blue eyes.“As a third party, maybe I shouldn't declare. A bard is a neutral observer who documents, and embellishes, events,” you tease.A deeper chuckle rumbles from the other side of the garden table. “Not too much, I hope.”“But that's where the fun is.” You don't miss a beat as your gaze lifts to the third member of Marta's impromptu afternoon tea party. Raphael's topaz eyes glint with mirth, he's enjoying this little deception. “No one would believe half the stories I could tell, so why not,” you trail off, unconcerned.“Such as?” He prompts.“Oh yes, do tell us a good one,” Marta joins in. “One with a handsome hero and their beautiful consort, perils and daring.”You hum thoughtfully. “Well, I could make one up. Or would you prefer something about the Absolute near no one else knows about?” You hang the carrot.Raphael sits forward a little, eyes narrowed in question. “Wait, is that actually true? Dear Marta did say you had a role in that debacle, but I wasn't sure whether to believe her.”“And now you know you should have.” She smiles in victory.The devil holds up a hand to forestall her triumph. “Nothing has been proven yet.”Marta huffs, looking at you imploringly. “Tell him, won't you?”You sigh and stop testing different notes and rhythms on your lute. They're both looking at you expectantly and you sit forward a little to create a feeling of secrecy. In a lowered voice, you ask. “How do you imagine someone goes about leashing a creature as powerful as an Elder Brain?”Marta sips her tea, considering. “Magic, one would assume.”“Correct you are, my lady. Ancient magic, in fact.” Her face lights up in pleasure at your praise. “Have you ever heard the tale of Karsus' Folly?” She shakes her head, but otherwise gives no indication of a nerve being struck. It could well be that she has no idea of the Crowns origin. It would be a wise move on the part of those behind the de Lazlo's to keep them ignorant.“The man who would be a god,” Raphael jeers. “Instead, he doomed himself and the entire Netherese empire.”“That's right,” you nod, playing off him. “He was an archwizard who crafted an immensely powerful artefact called the Crown of Karsus. He used it to challenge Mystral and steal her domain as the deity of magic, he failed catastrophically. The Crown was thought lost until a group of ambitious mortals found its resting place and stole it from the lair of a diabolical evil.”Marta leans forward, enthralled. “Could mortals really do such a thing?”“Why not?” You shrug, amused at Raphael's sour expression. “Mortals killed the Chosen of the Dead Three, ended the tyranny of a Netherbrain, one of the most feared and powerful creatures in existence, I might add.”“I'm sure they had quite the benefactor helping them along,” he smiles with utter conceit, examining his nails.You ignore him. “The Chosen of the Dead Three used the Crown of Karsus to subjugate the brain, I saw it for myself. But in the final battle, high above the city, the Crown shattered. I don't know how or why. After that,” you strum a few discordant notes. “Those pieces could be anywhere, a thousand fragments lost forever in the Chionthar. Given the tragedy associated with its use, maybe it's for the best.”“Are you certain it was a crown you saw?” Marta asks. Her complextion makes it difficult to know if she's paled, but there's a noted dip in her exuberance.“Yes. I got closer to that monstrosity than I ever wanted to.” You shudder for the effect.“It's remarkable to consider,” Raphael says with a hint of wonder. “What do you even suppose their goal was?”“The same as it ever is with all such types, domination of all the planes,” you announce in a deeper and menacing voice. “Countless tales of evil doers and not an original idea amongst them,” you sigh dramatically. “But that's what bardic interpretation is for, to spice up the trite repetition.”“And what would you do?” He asks the question politely enough, but you know he doesn't care for your flagrant opinion.“I'd sit on it,” you say, smiling innocently.“Hells save me from archivists,” he snorts contemptuosly.You don't pay his tone any mind. “Think about it though, who's going to test your authority? You're sitting on a wealth of power great enough to finger snap someone out of existence, it's a fine deterrent against anyone wanting to cross you,” you muse idly, not really giving much thought to it, you're just trying to unnerve Marta.“Compliance through fear alone? It's a blunt tactic. One prone to fostering resentment rather than respect or dependency,” he tells you like a cross teacher.Marta delicately coughs. “That wasn't a very inspiring or heroic tale. I feel thoroughly glum.”“I suppose it was more idle fantasy,” Raphael agrees, seemingly unimpressed.“See, no one believes you when you tell the truth.” You play a jaunty little tune and hum along with it, unmoved by their disappointment.“It's gotten so hot out here,” Marta laments, using a heavy linen napkin to fan herself. “I think I'm going to lie somewhere cooler until the heat passes.”You get to your feet as Marta stands. “Do you wish me to play this evening, my lady?”She seems lost in thought and then gives a small nod. “I would like that. I'll have Gerrad bring the harp down. I feel like something magical and soothing tonight.”“I'll be sure she's perfectly tuned.” You don't sit down again until she disappears back inside the house.“And now she flies to her husband to ask of him a few pointed questions,” Raphael chuckles lowly. “I wouldn't mind being privy to that conversation.”“I feel sorry for her, she obviously doesn't know.” Marta isn't the devious sort, bluntly honest with her desires and her love of the arts. No doubt that's what made her an easy target. Alessando is more of a closed book, though no less of a hedonist towards life.“Pleading ignorance when you chose to forgo reading the fine print of a contract, is not an excuse,” he predictably dismisses. “Or in mortal cases, not asking the appropriate questions of your business associates.”You watch out of the corner of your eye as he relaxes back in the garden chair and crosses his legs. He's looking at you, chin resting on his fist, considering something. Instead of prompting him you test a few more different time signatures for a more staccato rhythm. Maybe under the melody.“Were you tempted in the moment?” Raphael asks, the mildness of his tone not fooling you for an instant.“By?”“To take the Crown for yourself. To make all your problems....” He snaps his fingers.“I'm surprised you think a mortal could harness its power,” you mock rather than answering the question.“I don't. It would have torn you apart.” He smiles like the vision of such a demise is a delight to him. “So, were you?”He's not going to leave it alone until you give him an answer. “It's difficult to recall anything I was thinking in those last few moments. It's just a lot of noise and bright lights.” Platforms disintegrating under you, scrambling in the madness of the Netherbrains psionic shockwaves. You shouldn't have survived, not the fight, not the fall. At times it feels like it all happened to someone else, and maybe there's some truth to that. You certainly aren't the carefree bard of six months ago. With an effort you shake free of the memories to find Raphael watching you with an almost fascinated expression. No doubt the conflict you feel appeals to him as much, if not more, than actually succeeding in corrupting your soul. It's a thought that makes you wonder.“What happens to my soul once the Crown is yours?” Would it still sink to the depths of Baator to become a lemure on your mortal death? Your debt would be paid, yes. But like the devil told you, that one simple act of placing the Crown on his head comes with a heavy future cost.“That, my dear, is a conversation for another time.” He smiles like the confident predator he is.A negotiation for a new contract, no doubt. Much like he did with Yurgir. Though you can't imagine what he would even offer you, what you could want so badly that it's worth damning your soul a second time.“I have the distinct feeling there's going to be an opportunity to indulge in some very lucrative business here,” the devil muses, the half smile on his lips smugly self-assured. “Especially if the de Lazlo's are as in over their pretty little heads as it seems.”You press your lips into a bloodless line rather than voice the warning to leave Marta alone. Of course he's angling for useful souls in this scheme and by the arch of his brow, he knows he's struck a hit on you.“Will you be staying for the evening?” You ask instead, dismissing the line of conversation.“I'm afraid not. I trust you can handle any questions that might arise. You can tell me all about it when I return, I'll bring wine.” He disappears with a wink and a drifting of fiery embers.~~*-*~~Soft music drifts through the drawing room, the large balcony doors open to the warm night outside. The heady fragrance of night blooming flowers feels like the perfect counterpoint to the harp music. Marta and Alessando sit at the table a little way from you, writing out the invitations to their masquerade ball. They sit close together, talking too quietly for you to hear anything. It's obvious enough from how subdued Marta is that something is wrong, she should be a bundle of barely contained enthusiasm, chatting brightly. Alessando's eyes keep straying from his work to watch her, dark with concern.You ignore it, instead letting the soothing music flow from the harp strings. It's strange how much you've missed playing this particular instrument. Maybe it's the memories associated with it. Of being in the Feywild with your mentor, visiting the strangest places and meeting all manner of creatures. For as beautiful and dreamlike as the Feywild is, it's a dangerous place without a guide or for the ignorant. Rules of etiquette, the numerous ways you could end up bound in servitude without knowing. Everything is exaggerated, slightly twisted, casual cruelty and trickery. Maybe it's down to the time you spent there that makes dealing with Raphael less intimidating than he might like. You understand the danger he represents, have a healthy respect for it rather than being afraid to the point of impotence or violence.You play for maybe the better part of an hour before Alessando gets to his feet and closes the balcony doors, then he turns to you.“Would you like me to play something different, my lord?” You ask.“Actually, we would like you to join us for a drink,” he says smoothly.Normally a request like that would have your heart fluttering with anticipation, but they aren't at ease lounging on rich sofas and plush cushions. You still your fingers and draw them back, letting the notes finish ringing out. “Of course.”Marta's already pouring the wine as you sit down across from them, her face is void of its usual playful smile. You debate leading in with a concerned question, either about the music or her health, and decide against it. Let them broach the issue, if that's even what's playing on their minds.“Marta says you were telling an interesting story over afternoon tea,” Alessando begins, seemingly perfectly relaxed.You allow your lips the faintest of smiles. “A poor one by all accounts. I apologise for souring your mood, it was never my intention, my lady.”She quickly reaches across the table to pat the back of your hand, managing a nervous smile. “It's not...,” she tries to say, only for her husband to quieten her with a concerned look.“What do you know about this Crown of Karsus?” He asks, bluntly.You look at him, brow furrowed in confusion. “Little enough, aside from what I told Lady Marta. It was another in the group I travelled with who recognised it, all I know came from him,” you explain easily.“But it's as powerful as you say?” Alessando presses. “That wasn't bardic flair?”You drop your gaze, playing into the moment and considering. “I fear it might be more powerful. On our journey to bring down the Absolute, it was an Elder Brain the Chosen controlled when we first encountered them. By the time we got to the final confrontation, what we faced was a Netherbrain. Apparently the power from the Crown allowed it to evolve into a near godlike being. But,” you add quickly, holding up your hand, “this is all information I was told by others. I don't have any personal knowledge or understanding of such artefacts.”“This companion, the one who told you these things, are they still in the city?” Marta asks almost desperately.“As far as I know. His name is Gale of Waterdeep, an archwizard,” you answer a little hesitantly.“Would he come to our ball if you invited him?” She asks, shifting anxiously in her chair.“I honestly don't know,” you let your words flounder, unsure. “It's not really something he'd be interested in.”“But he knows a lot about Karsus?” Alessando joins in, his dark eyes intense.“It seemed that way when we spoke, yes.” You press your lips together, looking at them as though you're both concerned and slightly uncomfortable. “I know it's not my place to ask, but is everything well with you both? You seem....” You let the query drift into silence.Neither answer right away, Marta slipping her hand into her husbands and looking at him pleadingly. So, it is as Raphael said, they are in over their heads. If you don't help them, the devil will.“Tell him we might know what happened to the Crown,” Alessando says quietly.You sit in stunned silence, starring at them both. “But I saw it shatter in the fight, he did too.”“The dredging,” Marta sounds on the verge of tears.Alessando squeezes her hand. “Shattered, yes. Lost? No. We ”“I'm not sure I want to know,” you cut across him gently. “That artefact is, well, it'd be better if it stays buried under tonnes of water. I'll ask him, but he also might laugh me out of his tower.” You wonder where the found fragment is, in the safe keeping of the Flaming Fist or handed over to the de Lazlo's. As far as you know, a single piece isn't much use to anyone.“After everything you've been through, I understand you not wanting to be drawn back into such affairs,” Alessando says. “We're asking for your aid though. We thought this crown nothing more than a trinket, a treasure. We had no idea it came with such a horrifying legacy, that it's so powerful.”You almost let out an inappropriate laugh. Help? Understanding? Those virtues nobody wants to extend to you when it matters most? A few months ago you would nod amiably and vow to do whatever you could for those important to you. Only you aren't that naive anymore, not as selfless or generous.“If it's a question of money,” Marta blurts into the lengthening silence.No amount of money would help you. “Gold won't appeal to Gale.” You choose to interpret her outburst in a way that suits you. “Wizards crave the power of knowledge, not material wealth. He'll want to know how you knew where to look for the Crown, even if you didn't know its true value. Like I said this afternoon, some details only those of us who fought the Netherbrain know.” Who sits behind them, who tempted them?The reluctant answer Alessandro gives isn't one you're ready to hear.
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Forcing your mind into unthinking stillness is a skill you're becoming increasingly adept at. To stop the downward spinning spiral, the conflict and anxiety. What it fails to help with is the immediate problems facing you, or staying one step ahead of the machinations intent on drawing you in. It no longer matters that you want no part of any of it, you're embroiled up to your neck and in danger of being overwhelmed.You open your eyes and stare up at the bathing rooms mosaic tiled ceiling, wild animals and luscious plants partially obscured by plumes of steam rising from the sunken pool you lounge in. Marta and Alessando are so far out of their depth it's little wonder the facade is starting to show cracks. Humans and their selfish ambitions. Of all the paths they could have taken towards gaining greater influence, why did they have to choose such a dangerous one?There's the double crystal clink of wine glasses being placed on the tiles close to your head, then water ripples against your body as Raphael steps down into the pool. His lips trail across the damp skin of your throat as he pulls you from the submerged ledge to sit astride his lap. It's a real shame you're going to drastically alter his mood before the night is over.You slide your arms over his shoulders and around behind him, sighing as his lips work over your collarbone. It won't change anything if you don't immediately enlighten him about the de Lazlo's folly. Why not enjoy yourself a little first. Running your fingers through his hair, you close your fist and give it a firm tug. Lifting his devilish lips from your skin so you can claim them with your own. He rumbles a warning of disapproval, but that's all. He even indulges the deep and languid kiss you offer. Wonders. When you pull back, the pupils of his topaz eyes are enlarged, his easy smile oozing hunger.“I trust you have more than that to offer me,” Raphael says coolly, arching his brow in question.If only he knew. You reach for one of the crystal glasses and take a sip of the red wine, it's rich and viscous, coating your tongue as it goes down. Dark fruits, a hint of something mellow and behind it all, the slightest hint of copper that gives you pause. The way he's watching you makes it hard to doubt the first thought that comes to mind. He's waiting for your reaction and you stubbornly refuse to give him one. Instead you choose to play into the moment a different way.“That depends on what my lord would like,” you ask, idly swirling the contents of the glass and acting the role of a frivolous companion. “Mayhap the contents of my mind, or a taste of my body.” Maybe he's happy to continue with your little charade from earlier.Raphael's eyes narrow, considering. Maybe the posed question, or exclusively the reasons behind it. You're curious to see which comes out on top, if he'll play along. “Do I sense some erosion of your usual geniality?”You inwardly grumble. He's too sharp, too used to what makes you tick. It's always so much easier to manipulate a situation when you tell the truth, or a version of it. It's no wonder devils are happy enough to use the ploy. “No more role-play, I suppose,” you say by way of moving past it. “They cracked.” Raphael's hard gaze doesn't waver from yours, he knows there's something off with your mood. If only devils were as easy to fool as mortals.“And?” He draws out the word, making it implicit that he expects a full explanation.“They asked for my advice. My help,” you bite a little too hard at the word. “I played reluctant, told them Gale knows far more than I do. They want to talk to him, for me to facilitate a meeting.” It's a partial explanation, the rest you're working up to while simultaneously hoping to avoid it altogether.“And you will do exactly that,” Raphael tells you. “Korrilla can see to a disguise self spell so it's not known you have left the estate.”That's not the reply you expected from him. Gale's whole attitude isn't going to help, and granting him knowledge that one third of the Crown has been found? Honestly, you can see it only adding more chaos to the situation, more desperation. Then it hits you. “You want them desperate enough to strike a bargain.”His smile is perfectly charming, his expression benevolent. “To lift the burden from their shoulders,” he corrects.Your blood chills. “At what cost?”Raphael chuckles, brushing damp hair back from your face. “I don't discuss contracts, my dear.”If you don't tell him now, if you choose to withhold the rest of what you know, everything you're working so carefully towards will be for nothing. You need him to trust you, to gain his confidence. The conflict must be evident on your face because he's lost the liars smile.“Would it ease the loyalty you feel towards them if I recited a litany of the de Lazlo's questionable deeds?” There's a glint in his eyes that makes it clear he'd enjoy doing it too.The devil has misinterpreted the source of your unease, unintentionally offering you a believable way out of explaining any further. You weigh the temptation. For all his manipulations, he's been true to his word, extended more generosity than might be considered necessary.You take a breath and resign yourself to ruining a pleasant evening of sparing. “You're too late. Someone beat you to it.”Cold fire ignites behind his eyes. “Explain!” He snarls the demand.It would be very wise to forgo adding any bardic flourishes to the tale Alessando told you. “They brought a statue from the backroom of an antique shop, one the owner claimed to be of diabolical origin. They were given a name to use with it and they did.” You have no idea when it comes to the particulars of summoning a devil and requesting aid, at least not outside of the gruesome tales some like to tell. “A deal was struck. In return for seeing them elevated above rival patriars, they would finance the dredging for the fragments and pass them on as payment.”“Did they tell you the name?” You nod and Raphael beckons you closer with a crooked figure. “Whisper it.”You lean in right next to his ear and speak it as quietly as you dare. The fey taught you enough about true names to not take such an utterance lightly. You don't ask if he knows it because you don't want to know. Something is off with all of this. There's no way Alessando should have been able to speak so freely with you about the details of their bargain. Your lips are bound about the one you have with Raphael, just as Wyll's were by Mizora. You've never caught the smell of the Infernal about the estate or on the de Lazlo's, but maybe you're also becoming nose-blind given your own associations.“Can you sense if someone is already bound by Infernal contract?” It feels something of a bizarre concept that devils have what they might consider their own territory for harvesting contracts and souls.Raphael doesn't answer, maybe such information is not for mortal ears. It wouldn't surprise you. As the silence stretches, you become increasingly aware of the heat radiating from his body, the tautness in his muscles. He's angry, absolutely furious. As much as you're curious to know if the source is the name or the simple fact he's been beaten to a lucrative contract, it's better not to shake the pot of bubbling lava when you're sitting on it. Instead you sit back, waiting for him to mentally finish sorting through whatever plans, or violent fantasies, his mind is forging.“Go to Dekarios. Make sure he comes here and accept no excuse from him,” his tone makes it clear he won't accept any excuse from you either.You wince at the bright flash of Infernal light and suddenly you're alone. You don't suppress the shiver despite how warm the water is, red and orange embers sizzling as they hit the surface. The devil's reaction leaves you with a growing unease that the stakes have just escalated more than you want to consider. The danger suddenly encompassing far more than mortal concerns. Maybe you need to start sleeping with more than a knife under your pillow.~~*-*~~Tiredness pulls at your mind as you sit to breakfast, ill rested and what little sleep you did get was plagued by new nightmares. You don't taste the rich buttery pastry as you pick at it, the tea sitting next to your plate long grown cold. You stubbornly ignore the way Korrilla watches you, her own breakfast finished before you even began. A dozen questions buzz through your mind, but every time you take a breath to ask one, you think better of it. It's not pleasant how much you suddenly feel like an outsider. What do you know about Infernal politics? Their laws and hierarchy? Is Raphael risking stepping on the toes of peers if he continues to pursue the Crown.“Is he still in a rage?” One of the questions finally slips out as you absently lift the cold tea to your lips and immediately regret it.Her darkened lips curl slightly in amusement at your disgust. “Nothing a few hours of creativity can't smooth over.”The answer makes you feel nauseous, she's not talking about the creativity of music or art. Once again, it's a hard reminder of just what type of dangerous creature you're courting. “Did he tell you?” It's only after you ask the question you wonder if you should be so open.Korrilla sits back, canting her head as if studying you. “We always considered Infernal interference a possibility. The boss has been making a number of archdevils nervous for centuries now. Though it's highly doubtful any would make a move unless provoked, maybe not even then. Infernal politics are... convoluted. Let Raphael and I handle that side of matters, you need to be focused up here.”For as much as you are. Effectively under house arrest, watched from all sides. You could hardly be blamed if you start developing a sense of paranoia. “Gale's going to be more immovable than Raphael thinks.” And your Feywild magic isn't going to cut it against an archwizard.“So use your guile, lie. Failing that, appeal to his ego,” she suggests with a smile.Well, there's no shortage of that to latch onto. “So, how am I getting out of here without one of Wyll's spies knowing about it?”“Have you ever dreamed of being an elf, a dragonborn, maybe an orc? I won't judge.”~~*-*~~It was a disconcerting sensation, looking in the mirror and watching your entire body morph into a new shape. It's not a real physical change, it's pure glamour. The elf you see isn't literally you. Korrilla left with the warning that the spell won't fool a wizard of Gale's proficiency. You don't need it to, you just need it to stay in place long enough to make it to Sorcerous Sundries unchallenged. You add a small woven basket to the glamour, place your dagger inside and a cloth over the top. To any casual onlooker, you'll appear as nothing more than another elf off to market. None of it completely allevates the feeling of eyes on your back.You step inside the stores darker interior, feeling the familiar brush of magic. Rolan's attention is taken up by the gold dwarf at the reception desk and you slip past and up the stairs. Still, you're willing to bet all the money in the Counting House that Gale knows you're coming. The moment you step through the portal, you get your answer.“I knew you'd be back,” Gale states with such an outburst of exuberant victory you half expect him to leap over the book laden desk. “The glamour really doesn't suit you though.” A wave of his hand, a muttered word, and you feel the magic snap loose. “You can also leave the knife over there.”“It's for my protection, not to gut you.” It says a lot that he even thinks you would try. Still, you place the basket down by the portal and look around. “Tara not here?”“Hunting pigeons, I expect. Which is perfect because it means we can talk without her constant interruptions.” He closes the book and laces his fingers together atop it.“It's only because she cares about you, worries,” you tell him, knowing he'll dismiss it out of hand.“So, what are Raphael's terms, hmm? I'm rather interested in what he thinks he can possibly use as leverage. Also,” he holds up his hand, his face losing its good humour, “I want to make it clear I'm a tad bit miffed he's sending you to negotiate rather than coming himself. It's rather rude of him, frankly.”“I'm not here on Raphael's behalf,” you tell him, trying not to roll your eyes. You step further into the tower, keeping a respectful distance from him. Not that it matters where magic is concerned, you suppose. Suddenly you're very grateful for the counterspell ring. “The de Lazlo's sent me. They are ”“I know who they are,” he interrupts. “I also know a fragment of the Crown has been recovered and that it's currently being kept under very tight security at Wyrm's Rock.” Gale chuckles with more than a little contempt. “Well, what they think is tight security. It's not. I'm under the impression it's a lure. Bait. I can wait.”Well, that saves you a whole lot of explaining. You turn towards one of the towers many open archways, starring out at the endless blue sky over the city. What else does he know? “Have you spoken to Wyll?”“Not much no, should I?” Gale asks even though he doesn't seem the least bit interested in your answer.“I think it's a safe bet to say we aren't friends anymore. He has the same tunnel vision as you do about the devil on my shoulder. Though he took his paranoia to the extreme of trying to kill me.” You let your eyes harden, arms crossing your chest tightly. It's not hard to find the hurt, maybe even hate.“But you escaped thanks to that little trinket around your neck,” he chuckles, not seeming the least bit concerned by the news. “It also explains why you were glamoured up with the disguise spell.”Of course he doesn't care, why would you think otherwise. It's another shard of hurt you place in a dark box with all the others. “Sadly, that only leaves me with you to turn to,” you let your tone clearly convey what you think of that outcome. “Were you being genuine the last time we spoke, about making a deal to get my soul back? Because it honestly didn't seem that way.” You turn to look at him and his expression has turned to mild consideration. An improvement, if there's anything genuine behind it.“What do the de Lazlo's want?” Gale asks, ignoring your question.“To talk about the Crown.”“And why would I do that?”“Because I'm asking you to. What's an hour out of your day?” You suggest like the answer is obvious, eyes sharp with anger. “You prattle on about ambition, being the god of it. If you're too conceited to meet with supplicants, ones who can give you access to what you want most, I might add. What use are you to anyone filled with the virtue you want to embody? Even devils know this basic truth. Which is probably why they get more done than any god. If Mystra had her way, we'd all be conveniently dead. All ambition wiped clean. The Crown destroyed.” You take a shuddering breath, forcing control back over yourself and offering a brittle smile. “Failing that, they have one of the best wine cellars in the Upper City.”Gale hums, eyes dancing. “Not lost that whip of a temper, have you. And I will concede this one time that they could ease my way into collecting the fragments and avoid ruffling the Flaming Fist. I can offer to study the pieces, advise them of its true value. They are patrons of the arts, correct?”You nod cautiously. “Music, art. Ancient magical artefacts isn't their usual area of expertise.”“Which will make them pliant.” His eyes turn hard and serious. “Why do this? Doesn't helping me get closer to the Crown violate your contract with Raphael.”“I'm taking a chance on believing you'll help me. And, to be clear, I'm not helping you, I'm making a suggestion of who to talk to. Just as I suggested to the de Lazlo's you are the person to talk to about their acquisition,” you correct pointedly, then dip your gaze. “I'm sure we can agree that this conversation never happened.”“Quite the sneaky way of keeping your hands clean,” he laughs, wagging a finger at you.“Not wanting to end up a lemure is quite the motivation,” you try to laugh with him and fail, rubbing your arms.“A justifiable enough concern,” he sits forward. “Tomorrow sometime. Or maybe the day after. I'll let them know.”~~*-*~~You sleep fitfully. Running through darkness. Flashes of red lightning strike the ground around you, illuminating snapshots of a grey and barren landscape that stretches into infinity. You don't know what it is that chases you, don't see it or hear it. You feel it. Deep in your soul, something so powerful and all-encompassing it'll shatter you into non-existance if it ever catches you. Run! Lungs burning, heart pounding in your ears, your legs feel on the verge of collapse. Don't stop! You stumble, feeling the flesh on your knees and elbows tear as you hit the rough ground hard. Somehow you scramble back up onto your feet, you can feel blood running down your arms and legs. In the next flash of lightning you see the edge of the crevasse too late and suddenly you're in freefall through superheated air. You scream.Eyes wide. A hand over your mouth. You lash out, fighting against the sheets as much as whoever is restraining you.“Hush, my little tempest.”Candles spark to life, casting shifting amber highlights and deepening shadows. You lie still, heart racing, your bady damp with sweat. The deep breath you take as Raphael lifts his hand is laced with the scent of cherries. Flickering candlelight reflects back off his topaz eyes, giving his noble guise a distinctly more diabolical air. They watch you, wide and fascinated, his breathing shallow and quick as if he's excited.You take a few shuddering breaths. “Do my nightmares stir you that much?” Even speaking softly, your voice sounds too loud.“Yes.” Raphael traces two of his fingers across your bottom lip, staining them bright red with your blood. He lifts them to his mouth and licks the crimson off them. “Tell me.”“It's dark,” you whisper, like it's a secret only for the two of you. “Complete abyssal darkness. I'm running.”Raphael pulls the sheets away from your naked body, his tongue licking through the beads of perspiration between your breasts. “From who?”“Not who..., I don't think. What.” You thread a hand up through the back of his dark hair, eyes drifting half closed. “Something beyond understanding. Terrifying in scale.” You hiss a sharp breath as he nips at your collarbone. “I can't get away, can't outrun it. Red lightning, a pit. I fall, I ”The devil's mouth hushes you, kissing you deeply. You respond with equal ardour, wanting to burn away the bone deep chill left by your nightmares. He draws back to lick hungrily at your bloodied lower lip before roughly pulling you back in with a rumbling growl. You kick the sheets free from your legs, running greedy hands down the heated skin of his back, over the curve of his arse. You grind up against him, restless, wanting to feel him deep inside you.He pushes your legs further apart, just as impatient. Hands gripping behind your knees to hook them over his shoulders, he presses down, near folding you in two. You moan, breath coming faster as he purposely grinds the hard length of his cock against your soaked clitoris. Your fingernails dig into his arse, desperate to feel him. Raphael chuckles against your lips, pulling your hands away and pinning them down above your head.You test his grip and his eyes spark with dark desire, the smugly superior curve of his lips goading you into trying again. Even knowing his grip won't break, you still try, drinking in the hitch of his breathing, the tautness in his body as he presses more of his weight down on you. You try to push up, try to nip at his lips, only to be denied. He moves back a fraction and you suck in a sharp gasp as he drives his solid length into you. The position has you completely immobilised and it's delicious, his full weight baring down on you as he thrusts into your heat again and again.“Don't look away,” he orders you in a harsh voice. “Don't close your eyes.” His hard gaze bores unblinking into yours. “I want to see everything you are.”Topaz or magma, you always feel yourself sinking into them whenever he looks at you with such intensity. “So do I.”“Your desire, my pleasure,” Raphael purrs with deep satisfaction as the glamour of his mortal guise fades into the Infernal. Great bat-like wings unfurling and casting malevolent shadows against the walls and ceiling.As those bright and burning eyes strip everything from you, you finally accept the simple truth you've known all along. Even without your signature at the bottom of his contract, you'd be lost to him. The power, the forbidden allure, his passion for music. If it all proves to be lies in the end, there's no one to blame but yourself. You chose to cross the line in Sharess' Caress.You stare up into his eyes, pools of magma on darkest unfathomable black. “I'm damned.” And you don't care.“Beautifully so.” The devil's lips fall on yours and you let him take everything.~~*-*~~The de Lazlo's estate is abuzz with activity in the morning. Extra staff brought in to deal with all the mundanities of smoothly running a masquerade ball as lavish as the de Lazlo's want it to be. You stifle a yawn, stretching out the aches in your muscles. A smile pulls at your lips as you vividly recall the dancing between the sheets as much as the two of you rehearsing the dance planned for the ball. The music is finally set in your mind, the lyrics committed to memory. They'll be talking about it for months after the event, that you're sure of.Raphael had vanished from your bed by the time you woke, the rumpled sheets still carrying the scent of his musk. Disappointed as you were, you don't doubt he has a multitude of threads to keep his eyes on. More than he might like. You'd wanted to ask if he knew anything of the de Lazlo's contract holder, but selfishly hadn't wanted to ruin the mood of such an intimate night.“You're such a sweet charmer!” Marta almost barrels you over in her exuberance, all traces of her worries gone from her flushed cheeks. “Your dear friend, the wizard, he said yes! To talking with us, attending the masquerade, everything!”You make no effort to hide your surprise. A ball catering to the vapidness of nobility really doesn't strike you as Gale's idea of fun, but at this point you wonder if you ever knew the real Gale Dekarios. If nothing else, it will be full of people brimming with desires and ambition. Prime hunting for a devil as much as a would-be god.“That's wonderful to hear. I honestly wasn't sure if he'd agreed just so I'd leave him alone,” you laugh even though you had been genuinely concerned, more so in lieu of Raphael's demand.“It makes me sad we can't get all of Baldur's Gate's heroes to attend,” she laments a moment before brightening. “But it's more than anyone else. Even our Grand Duke in-waiting has accepted.”Your heart gives an ugly thud. “That's quite the coup, my lady.”“Isn't it?” Marta smiles cheekily. “Aless said not to bother him, but I couldn't resist sending him an invitation. Walk with me?”“Of course,” you answer automatically.Marta hooks her arm through yours and you let her lead the way. Wyll's attendance at the ball isn't something you'd discounted, more one you hoped wouldn't come to pass. The only positive to be taken from him accepting the invite is that he's unlikely to try anything, not with so many innocent bystanders. If he manages to corner you alone though? Well, then all bets are off. So don't be.“I trust all the music is set?” She asks.You slide the mask and smile firmly into place, there'll be time to worry about this later. “The ball will be as magical and whimsy as you hope. Plus, I do have that little surprise performance for everyone,” you add with perfect innocence.“Yes, and it's very unsporting of you to keep teasing me with that.” She presses in closer to your side, whispering. “I promise I won't tell anyone if you sing me a verse or two.”You laugh lightly. “I'm afraid I can't. I can only promise it'll be worth the wait.”“Hmm, you are a rotter. I feel all you've done since coming back to me is be a tease.” Marta leads you into the sunroom where a mid-morning luncheon has been laid out. “But I'm beginning to realise you aren't the sweet and carefree bard I adore anymore. Your adventure really changed you, didn't it?” She lets your arm go and you both sit down.The warm sun through the large picture windows feels good on your face, helping to ease some of the chill from deep inside your body if not from your mind. “It did,” you admit sombrely. “And I don't think I can ever get back to that person.”“Do you want to?” She asks softly, pouring light coppery tea into small porcelain teacups.You look out the windows towards the trees and the manufactured wildness beyond. “More than anything.” Only there's a dead worm in my brain, my signature in blood on a devil's contract, and not a single helping hand in sight.“You can get there in time with rest and good company. Aless and I want you to stay on beyond the ball, we'll stop being so... expectant of your company in our bed, but I can't promise not to tease you,” she adds to lighten her words.“You're very kind to me, my lady. You both are.” Sweet and so surprisingly naive, it's little wonder a devil chose this particular home to bind. The question you can't answer is why one would do it at all. Why not just pluck the fragments from the Chionthar? Simply because it wouldn't net them souls, debtors of influence? Raphael has Mol up and coming in the thieves guild, Portyr high up in the Flaming Fist. Having the de Lazlo's would have added influence amongst the patriars. All young and ambitious, securing him decades of influence from the shadows. To what end, you have no idea.“There is something I wanted to ask you,” Marta breaks into your thoughts. “Technically Grand Duke Ravengard has yet to be inaugurated, he wanted the reconstruction of the city to take priority. Given your adventure together and that he's a friend, would you say you have much sway with him?”You almost choke on the dainty sandwich you're eating. “Sway?” As in law or policy making? This feels like something they should ask of their contract holder.Marta laughs, eyes sparkling. “Your face is a picture, don't worry it's nothing questionable. My thought is that he's going to need someone in charge of the music for the grand ball afterwards, and you'd be perfect. Everyone will think so too after the masquerade. My bard, his good friend, Saviours of the City. It's perfect.”Sometimes talking with Marta is like trying to manage the chaotic swell of the ocean. One moment sweet and kind to those she cares for, the next a prime example of the calculating nature of patriar families. She isn't wrong though. To be offered such a position would be the pinnacle of any bards career, would set them up for life. To her mind, she's doing you a favour and also granting herself the particularly unique access you offer. Is this the real reason the de Lazlo's asked you back, or simply a perk of it? You suddenly fell cold in her presence despite the warmth of the sun.“Is this why you invited me back, because of Wyll?” You ask plainly, rather than letting the cold fester inside you.“No, we invited you back because we love your music and company, silly,” she dismisses your concern with a sweet smile.You could tie yourself in knots wondering what order events happened in, when plans were devised. Marta's ball was brought up in less than five minutes of your return to the estate, that's all you know for sure. Much as you want to excuse yourself from her presence, claim you need every moment to practice before the ball, you don't. You force yourself to sit there and talk, let the performer take the stage while you sit back from it all.Marta wants her fey masquerade to be a unique event that will help elevate their status amongst their peers and the ducal throne. With so many opposing sides coming together in the same place, there is the seed of worry that it could be memorable for all the wrong reasons. Wyll, Gale and you all want different things and there exists little to no trust between any of you. Add Raphael to the boiling pot and whoever sits on the de Lazlo's shoulders.Maybe you're over thinking it, letting the paranoia and anxiety take too much of a hold. Maybe the night will be full of music and dancing, drinking and the closed door debauchery nobles like to indulge in. Maybe. But you aren't naive enough anymore to believe it.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
You look at the woman in the mirror feeling the strangest sense of disassociation with yourself. It's you and not you. A character. A mask. Maybe it's the slightly moody lighting, the ambience, as Raphael calls it. It casts you in deeper shadows rather than the bright light normally associated with dressing for a party. You run your hands over the soft gossamer material of your dress and try to ground yourself. The waist is cinched in with a corseted belt of maroon, edged in deep burnished gold braid. Fine embroidery decorates the panels, twisting rose stems, the thorns made of Infernal metal, the petals of uniquely cut blood red rubies. The body of the dress is made up of softly pleated and layered shades of deep stormy grey through to darkened silver, each gauzy layer flowing effortlessly as you twist one way then the other. Not the Seelie or Unseelie Court, these are the colours of Raphael's House, the dress a gift from him.You watch as the devil in question joins you reflected in the mirror. His eyes move over you in slow appraisal, down and up, back to your eyes. Satisfaction oozing from him as he places a lingering kiss against the side of your throat.“The leading lady about to take her place on the stage of tonights extravaganza,” Raphael announces with a clear sense of the grand drama.He wears the same triad of colours, a blood red sash accenting the exquisitely tailored frock coat and trousers. Supple, square heeled boots, lace cuff flounces that match the lace shoulder caps of your dress. The matching ensembles making a very public statement about where your allegiances lie. You know what you feel and what you want. Seeing it like this, the fantasy outside of your mind and made tangible, gives you a moment of pause. Is it all a manipulation on the part of the devil, drawing you closer to the dark, shutting out the light? Or are you more than a perverse fascination, a challenge to corrupt?“Should I expect you to join me?” You ask his reflection.“At the right moment, my dear. I'll be watching to see how the players take to their roles first.” He smiles, the very picture of conceit as he moves a perfectly curled strand of hair off your shoulder. “I shall enjoy watching your performance. But we are missing one last finishing touch.”You wait as he leaves your side, your eyes never straying from the reflection in the mirror. Then he's standing behind you and you watch as a mask slides down over the top half of your face. It's painted in a rich ombré of cerulean blue, lightest over the bridge of the nose and brow bones, deepening into the open eye sockets and the hollows of the cheeks. Narrow black eyebrows and an organic web of bony protrusions that move into a pair of small horns of ash grey. It paints such a striking picture that it twists something deep and dark inside you. The devil's watching you drink it all in, knows full-well what his choice of mask says.“I hope you like it, my little tempest.” He sounds so very pleased with himself.You don't quite trust your voice, settling instead with turning to face him and placing a soft kiss on his lips to buy the time to compose yourself. “I should take my place.”Raphael doesn't try to stop you as you slip away from him, and you try very hard to clear your mind of the darkly hungry gleam in his eyes. The absurd thoughts and images your mind wants to inflict on you. This is not the time to let such distractions get the better of you, not when there's so much to keep an eye on. People to keep an eye on.The hallways leading towards the main part of the estate are relatively quiet, but you can easily pick out the flowing notes of music, the sharp counterpoint of laughter. Nerves flutter close to the surface, that brief moment of anxiety before stepping out into the stage. You wonder if Wyll and Gale are already here, if the latter will actually bother to attend. The Grand Duke won't be alone either, Florrick will be somewhere. You twist the warding ring. Two wizards, one charge. Though you doubt Gale would do anything other than verbally spar with Raphael, he's too confident in his hand and doesn't need to press the issue.You catch sight of your reflection as you pass a large floor to ceiling mirror in the hallway, the almost ethereal billowing of gossamer material behind you. It almost looks like the fragile wings of a newly emerged butterfly. Then your mind layers a second image over it, sharp, spiny and bat-like. Lips pressed firmly together, you pull your eyes away and keep walking. These invasive thoughts, the complex twist of feelings they stir, it's a jumble you don't want to stray too close to. It's a very unfair move on the devil's part right before such an important performance.The open and airy nature of the de Lazlo's home lends itself perfectly to the fey theme. They've brought the outdoors inside, rich and exotic looking plants, the lighting dimmed to allow for all the lanterns and other magically created lights. Shear material drapes replace doors, threaded through the lights to help defuse them and add strange colours. Voices are louder now, a low roar that undulates with the natural flow of conversation. There are as many styles and shapes of mask as there are people, dark and light, beautiful and grotesque. You straighten your posture, let the feyest of expressions light the lower half of your face. It's Marta who sees you first, her flowing gown mimicking the iridescence of pixie wings, her mask flecked with gold dust and studded with crystals. She politely excuses herself from a small group that includes the Grand Duke. Well, better this happens now and around people, than later and alone.“Oh, look at you!” Marta exclaims in excitement, pulling you into a light hug. “I almost didn't recognise you. But what court does a tiefling belong to?”Your smile stays firmly in place as you watch Wyll move towards you, his mask that of a bronze dragon. Predictably, Florrick stays at his shoulder. You flourish a perfectly executed curtsey to him.“Advocatus diaboli. A little on the nose, don't you think,” Wyll says dryly with a curt nod.It's interesting how all Marta sees is a tiefling, while Wyll sees the she-devil. “You were wrong about that once before,” you reply with light warning.He smiles tightly. “I'm not so sure this time.”You can tell the brief exchange isn't what Marta expected, that she's slightly off balance and concerned. Not sure if you're both serious or engaging in the ribbing banter of old friends.You hum musically to cut through the tension. “Then I hope a night of journeying through the delights of the Feywild will help to sooth your troubled spirit. Song, dance, the finest food and wine.”“You will permit me a dance later?” He asks.“I'd be honoured, your grace. But I must beg your forgiveness and excuse myself. There's a harp waiting for me in the gardens and a recital it won't do to be late for.” You dip into a curtsey again. “My Lady de Lazlo, Counsellor.”You turn away from them without a backwards glance or a rush in your steps. Calm and composed. Wyll wants to dance? With words or blades? It certainly won't be a simple waltz around the dancefloor. As you ease past groups of patriars, you see no obvious sign of Gale. Though he might very well keep his attendance to the confines of a private meeting, all the better in your mind.A number of dance partners drift across the ballroom floor as you skirt the edge, graceful and refined. It's beautiful to watch, but there's no passion to it, no power. Statuesque and empty as puppets, an image only made more prominent by the masks they wear. Idly you wonder if Lady Eunice Bourigeaud is here, what number husband she's on. With all the masks, it's difficult to tell how many attendees you've played for over the years.The twilit evening is sultry warm and still as you step from the ballroom and out into the gardens. Over the last few days carpenters and gardeners have performed a miracle just beyond the terrace doors. A black and white diamond checkerboard dancefloor, open to the coming night. It's currently filled with chairs for your performance, but you can't wait to dance on it. The warm night air brushing past your skin like it had in the Feywild.Coloured lanterns are strung above it, more hanging from lampposts carved into twisting organic shapes. All manner of wild grasses and night blooming flowers, mushrooms, toadstools and moss, mark the edge. Discreetly hiding away sofas to lounge on and drink, more, if the mood struck. Long tables of food and drink sit under the boughs of trees, waiting staff in plain unadorned masks move from group to group for those too indolent to walk that far. The only part that interests you is the stage that sits at the far end, your harp is waiting for you at its centre. Behind it are the instruments of a string quartet, a piano and percussion. For now though, the stage is yours alone.The moment your feet touch the steps you physically feel the expectant hush fall over those choosing the outside to mingle, others moving quickly to claim seats nearest the front. No doubt Marta has made a point of telling anyone with ears that the lead bard for tonight is one of those responsible for defeating the Absolute. You're lucky the masquerade allowed you to walk through them all without a single person turning their head or attempting to stop you. Now they know and you settle onto the stool and adjust the fall of your dress, ease the harp back into your shoulder. They're all rapt and you have yet to play a single note. It's a feeling of power you're familiar with, one you could increase a thousand-fold with the right notes and words. Holding the audience in blissful thrall. You set your hands and begin to play.~~*-*~~It really is a terrible shame to see so much potential business go begging, but the devil is here for a bigger prize, not trivialities. He sits towards the back of the audience, eyes fixed on the harpist as she effortlessly captivates all who listen. It would be so easy for her to play them as she wished, turn their collective mood to desire or violence. He sensed it in her music that very first time he heard her play. Saw the potential. Who would ever have foreseen events leading her straight into his web the way they did. It's satisfyingly poetic and promises only more.The devil doesn't turn his head as he senses someone take the seat next to him, but his smile widens fractionally, the crows-feet at the corners of his eyes deepening. “A bronze dragon? Paying homage to the Heart of the Gate, or thinking you deserve to sit in the same company, I wonder.”“See it however you please, devil,” Wyll replies shortly.“I really aught to thank you, little dukeling. You did an absolutely marvellous job of shredding the last vestige of hope she held. Surely of all people, you would understand her plight. But you didn't even try to help,” he says in a low and mild voice, completely relaxed. “And made my job so much easier.”“Tonight isn't going to play out the way you think it will.” There's a promise to his words, maybe even a threat.“Such animosity in your tone,” the devil tuts quietly. “Besides, I doubt you are capable of knowing what I think. You couldn't even see past your own importance to help a friend. Desperate. Alone.” He leans closer to whisper. “Her nightmares are exquisite.” The devil feels him bristle with righteous anger and chuckles lowly, turning back to the performance. There's no need to start a fuss, not yet.Wyll follows his gaze. “You've steadied my resolve. And for free.”The devil's eyes don't stray from the harpist when the dukeling gets to his feet and leaves, not does his relaxed posture shift. The smile flattens out however. Something is afoot and he's not inclined to let himself be outmanoeuvred.~~*-*~~As the last notes play out and the last words of the recital disappear into the night, it almost feels like coming out of a trance. Time feels slowed, your movements exaggerated. Even the sound of your audience coming to their collective feet and applauding, is muffled to your ears. You take a deep breath, then another, slowly adjusting back to the world around you and ease the harp back onto its stand. One last breath and you rise from the stool, turning towards the audience and flowing through an elegant curtsey without thought.The moment you lift your head to look out across them proper, you're greeted to a sea of frozen masks. Nymph and fairy, goblin and displacer, it's disturbing in a way that makes you take a step back. A leering mob, the uncannily beautiful and morbidly grotesque. You feel a sense of relief when the Master of Ceremonies steps up onto the stage to draw their attention away from you. As he recites a list of titles you aren't sure you deserve, you force your body through another graceful curtsey and step back towards the side of the stage.Staff are already moving from the shadows to begin quickly clearing away all the chairs. Someone in a twisted hobgoblin mask offers their hand as you step down from the stage, more masks swarming to greet you with congratulations and questions. You deal with them one at a time, always courteous, always graceful and humble. You flatter and demurely tease, all the time expertly working yourself closer to the edge of the group. All they can see is the dark plum of your curved lips, not the coldness in your eyes.The small orchestra is already playing, thankfully drawing people to the dancefloor and away from you. A cool glass of white wine, somewhere quiet to sit, that's all you want right now and the edge of the group is so very close. Escape is so close until you turn and see the mask of a bronze dragon, the Grand Duke bows and offers you his hand.“A dance, my lady?”All eyes are suddenly back on you, both of you. A hush falling over those closest as the crushing weight of expectation falls on you. There's no choice but to accept. To refuse would be seen as such a shocking insult your reputation would never recovery from it, and in turn, do irreparable damage to your patrons. It would also ruin the plans you have with a certain devil.“I would be honoured, your grace.” You place your hand over his and allow him to lead you onto the dancefloor.Wyll has to know what his actions mean, what everyone watching will decide it means. By the morning every newspaper and patriar household will be gossiping their opinion. Marta's going to be giddy with it all. He turns you into the starting position and at some hidden signal the orchestra moves into a new piece of music. You recognise it immediately and the dance associated with it. Thankfully it's not a solo dance, but one that welcomes everyone to the floor to take part in its twists and turns. Those watching are more than happy to accept the unspoken invite and couples flood in, no doubt to later tell the tale that they saw it all firsthand and took part. At least this isn't the first dance after his inauguration.You curtsey to him as he bows, moving through the first few steps in poised silence until they bring you both into a close embrace, then he speaks.“He's deceiving you.” Break away, turn and bow, come back together again. “Manipulating you.”Your sculpted smile doesn't waver. “Of course he is. I expect it from him, he's a devil. You though....” You both change partners with the couples next to you, until the steps bring you back.“I want to help,” he whispers with an earnestness you don't want to hear.“It's too late.” Your choice is made. The only person you can trust is yourself.“No, it's not!” Wyll tells you with quiet vehemence.Your world spins through the turns, masked dancers paying more attention to you and Wyll than their own dance partners. “I trusted you once, I won't do it again.”“Do you remember Helsik? She can get us into the House of Hope, we can take your contract ”“You're deluded.” And you don't understand why he's suddenly so desperate.“And you're brainwashed!”It's fortunate he's wearing a mask because you can tell his face underneath is nothing of the sort. What will the patriars say, you mentally tut. “Believe me when I say there's a clause that covers what you're suggesting.” A clause that voids all terms, including keeping your soul right where you want it to stay. At least until your mortal life ends, then. A change in step does to hide the chill that runs down your spine despite the heat of the night.“I'm sorry,” Wyll says soberly.The music is starting to wind up to its crescendo and you flow through it without conscious thought. “I know what I chose.”Wyll pulls you in close one last time. “Meet me later.”“Not a hope in the Hells I'll do that.”You part to bow and curtsey respectively and as you straighten your eyes are drawn past his shoulder to the slow approach of a devil wearing a mask of exactly what he is. In the lull of the music there's as much murmuring as there is anticipatory silence. Wyll turns at your distraction and you hear the growl of annoyance he makes at Raphael's closing presence. Couples are moving back to the edges of the dancefloor, not sure how to interpret what looks like an impertinent challenge. Before Wyll can move to give an answer, you defuse the moment by stepping past him and towards the devil, head high, shoulders back in a posture of open defiance. It's earlier than you expect for this special performance, so you can only guess Wyll's ruffled his wings for some reason.A solitary piano begins to play, sharp, abrupt notes in an almost martial rhythm. Everyone watches, still as statues, but some of the tension bleeds out of the air as they realise this is a performance and not a dispute. At least not on the surface. And then Raphael begins to sing as you come to stand before him, only this is no sweet serenade, there's threat and menace in his tone and words both. You hold firm under it, refusing to drop your defiant gaze and posture. At least until he smiles in cruel triumph and the audience gasp as he yanks a chain from your neck, a small key dangling from it.Rapt to the theatre of it all, their eyes follow you both as your voices layer and he begins to press his advantage and back you up across the dancefloor. Step after step you give up to him until you fall to the floor under his overwhelming presence. It's over. The devil looms over you, seemingly about to strike. Then, as before in the Elfsong's courtyard, he offers his hand. He pulls you up and into a dancers embrace with ease.The dance you've worked on together is no traditional courtly waltz. It's passionate and strong, sharp snaps of movement flowing into ones that ooze a slower and intense sensuality. The footwork isn't just about transition and travel, it tells it's own story. How one moment it's fluid only to slow to a near pause and change direction. Eyes never straying from one another, the dance is a battle as much as the words you sing to each other. A story unfolding of captor and captive, both refusing to bow, both refusing to admit what bubbles below the surface.It's scandalous and neither of you care what anyone watching thinks. All you see is him. The strong lock of arms, the way he moves you through the turns and tightly controlled footwork. A slow dip into a sharp snap upright. Passion. Power. Control. As many will mutter under their breaths as fan themselves, refusing to admit that deep down they want to experience it for themselves. You don't want this to end, but know that it must.Raphael lets you slip from his arms as the music slows, your voice softer as you plead with the devil for your freedom, try to placate his disappointment. For the briefest of moments there's a pause to draw in the audience, the hope that he'll give in. He does nothing of the sort.The music ignites one last time, the dance and song with it. Only there's a subtle word change, one that maybe only matters to the two of you. An acceptance, mutual understanding. Or maybe a stalemate. Raphael spins you through one last turn and lets you go, turning his back and walking away, swinging the small key on its chain. You watch, gaze unblinking and unrepentant as you're escorted away by two people wearing imp masks. Pulling you back to your cell, or in this case, the darkened edge of the dancefloor. The last notes die, the gathered audience erupting in applause and calling for an encore they won't get.Your body is shaking with adrenaline, heart beating too fast. You try to pick Raphael out of the crowd on the far side of the dancefloor, a growl of frustration escaping you when you fail to find him. All you want is to leave all these fools to their waltzes and intrigues, while you take the encore to your bed. Only everyone is pulling at you again, trying to demand your attention when all you want to do is leave. It's Marta who shoos everyone back and draws you away, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief behind her pixie mask.“I can't believe the two of you managed to keep that a secret!” She scolds with delight. “It was absolutely perfect and divine and I desperately need you to teach me how to dance like that.”She can ask, but you're of no mind to ever dance with anyone like that save with the one who helped you choreograph it. “Do you mind if we find a drink and somewhere to sit? I'm a little breathless.”“Of course you need a little refreshment after that.” Marta steers you away from the crowd of onlookers. “Now I understand why you both picked the colours you did, to match for the performance. I'm quite cross with myself for not questioning it earlier. Wait till I have a talk with that man, and to have the Grand Duke as part of its setup!”You tune out her breathless chatter and assumptions, eyes moving over the people you pass by. None of them are Wyll or Florrick, nor are there any larger gatherings of people to suggest his presence.“Here we are,” Marta announces as you both step under the boughs of a tree and towards the tables laden with refreshments and food, dancing lights floating above. She lifts a fluted wine glass and offers it to you. “One glass won't hinder your next performance. I can't even imagine what that's going to be like.” By her tone, she's angling for a hint.There's a song you've been working on, one you've shared with no one. No written score exists outside of your head. It's a piece that feels timeless and intensely personal. Hope and loss, no doubt melancholic, but powerful for those who might discern its true meaning. You sip the white wine, fresh and crisp, a balm against the warmth of the night.“It's full of longing, a search for meaning. That's all I'm going to say,” you tease, watching her pout. “Don't worry, it won't sour the whimsy mood of your guests.” With the speed at which wine and other spirits are usually imbibed at these parties, you doubt anyone will be sober enough to care.“You!” Marta points behind you, her smile widening again. “I should scold you both for being so devious! But it was spectacular to watch and so very..., stirring. I don't doubt they'll be talking about it for months.” She snaps open her fan to cool herself.Raphael steps up to your side, his hand a light pressure against the small of your back. It's an unexpectedly open display, but you don't draw away from it.“I'm pleased you approve.” He bows slightly at the waist, his lips curving into that self-assured smile you know so well. “It's not often I get to indulge in such theatrics.”Marta's smile turns suspicious as she blatantly looks you both up and down. “So are the two of you..., or was it all the performance?” There's a scandalous lilt to her voice.“A gentleman never speaks of such things,” he deflects graciously. “Now, might you be so kind as to point me in the direction of the red wine. I do so much prefer something rich and full-bodied,” he teases in a perfectly polite manner.By a red that's rich and full-bodied, you know he's not talking about wine. The devil's no vampire, but you're well aware of how much he likes the taste of blood, yours in particular. And with the way his fingertips are pressing through the delicate material of your ball gown, it sparks all sorts of invasive thoughts.“I'm unspeakably jealous of you both, but I suppose I'll get over it,” Marta sighs and then hums thoughtfully. “Or convince you both to join Aless and I. As for the reds and dark spirits, they're on the Unseelie side.”“Sounds perfect,” Raphael all but purrs, whether to the offer or her directions, he's obviously happy to let Marta decide. “I hope you don't mind if I steal the company of your lovely bard for a little while.”“You really are hogging all the attention, but I suppose I'll allow it.” She dismisses you both with a wave of her fan.Raphael's hand is steering you away when someone catches your eye, someone that stirs old and dusty memories. Back towards the dancefloor stands a small group of patriars, the mask of an elderly rotund man is the one you know, one that makes your steps falter and your heart give an ugly thud.“My dear?” Raphael questions, frowning slightly.Not wanting to believe what you're seeing, you turn back to Marta and touch her arm. “The gentleman over by the dancefloor, the one in the satyr mask, do you know who he is?”“Oh, that's Lord Morelli. I'm surprised he hasn't tried to bend your ear yet, his family are quite the patrons of music and poetry, supporting talented bards,” she replies.“And the young lady next to him?” Something icy is sliding through your blood.Marta's eyes dance with curiosity, no doubt she wants to know why you're so interested. “His daughter, Sofia. She's quite the reclusive sort and not seen much at parties. Nervous disposition, so they say. Maybe the mask helps. I believe the other gentleman is her husband.”Sofia? A ringing starts in your ears and head that stops you from hearing anything else Marta says. Your eyes bore into the group, fists clenching, the wine churning sickly in your stomach. You place the glass back down on the table. “If you will excuse me.”Marta calls after you, but you don't stop or look back. The haste of your passing draws the attention of more people than you like, their masked faces and veiled eyes watching, lips muttering. The heavy warmth of the night suddenly feels oppressive and you pull the mask from your face, feeling stifled by it. It slips unnoticed from your fingers as you weave between dark trees, all sounds of the ball fading until only darkness and the silence of the night closes in around you.In all the years you've toured from one patriar court to minor nobles and back again, your paths have never crossed. Somewhere in the depths of your mind you've always known it would happen one day, that you would have to face him. Feel the hate rise, the betrayal. That the bastard took your future from you wasn't enough though, he had to take your name too. And give it to someone else.Absently you become aware that you're laughing, low and harsh, your chest full of acidic bile. Fingernails dig into rough tree bark as you fall against the trunk to keep yourself upright. How many more callous wounds can your skin bare? You push away from the tree, stumbling towards the bubbling sound of water. The moon is a sliver in the endlessly black sky above, its light so meagre you can scarce make out your distorted reflection in the brook as you kneel down. Pull yourself together!You cup the blissfully cool water between your hands and splash it onto your face, ruining your make-up in the process, but it helps to sooth the fever in your brain. The chaos and spinning. You grit your teeth until they hurt. Get back on your feet. Walk back up to the bastard and.... You screw your eyes shut at the image of gutting the pig, of savouring the moment of recognition in his eyes. No! This isn't me!“It doesn't become you to flee from a confrontation, my dear.”Of course the devil would know exactly where to find you. “He's not worth it.”“I beg to differ, I feel it could be quite... cathartic,” Raphael purrs the word, lacing it with temptation.He can't possibly know what your connection is with Morelli, or to what dark corners your thoughts have strayed. He's simply reading your body language and making assumptions.“Who is he to you?” Raphael asks the question in such a blasé manner it instantly has you on edge. “Maybe the person you were glad to burn away twenty years in the Feywild to remove yourself from.”You pull yourself to your feet, your mind feeling slightly calmer, the slow burn of hatred eating away the shock of Marta's words. “My father. And before your mind goes there, it's nothing indecent.” You can only see a suggestion of Raphael's face in the darkness, and you're thankful for it.”Tell me.”“Why?” What possible interest could the drama of one mortal family be to him?“Because I can see the hate burning in your eyes, feel the murderous aura pulsing from you.” He steps in closer, what little light there is reflecting off the back of his eyes and giving them an eerie quality. His hand curves around the dip of your waist, his breath hot against your upturned face. “It's intoxicating.”“You want to watch me kill him.” The words that leave your lips don't feel like your own, and yet it's your voice.“Or watch you trick him into selling me his soul.” His other hand cups to the side of your face, fingers moving into your hair.“Is this you trying to corrupt me?” Why aren't you revolted by the idea, angry? Why do you feel so....“My sweet tempest, I feel that is something everyone else is beating me at and I won't have it.” His kiss is fierce, unyielding. “Tell me,” he rumbles the demand against your lips.“He married me off at sixteen, I was divorced a year later and packed off to a temple of Ilmater to never be seen again.” You tell him through gritted teeth, fists clenching at your sides.“Your new husband found your temper disagreeable?” He taunts, but there's an edge to his tone.You feel your nails dig into your palms. “The thing about marriage between patriar families and forging alliances, is having progeny to cement it. I am..., defective breeding stock.” Your father's words for something that wasn't your fault, but made you pay for all the same. “I ran away from that temple a week later. Changed my name, pawned the one ring I had for a battered lute. An upbringing in music was all I needed to make my own way, and that's what I did.”“And the woman who is with him, the daughter?” He presses without mercy.You know he's already figured it out, can feel the curve of his lips so close to yours. “My younger sister, I suppose. Given my name. A second try. It's sick.” Placing a hand against his chest, you push him back slightly. Without the aid of darkvision, it's impossible to see his expression, but you can make out the hardness of his dully iridescent eyes. A perverse thought enters your mind, twisting your lips. “More fool me for not signing your contract with my old name.” Too late to wonder now.Raphael snorts, clearly amused by the thought. “I would have known, you don't fool a devil that easily. And maybe don't forget that you signed in blood.” He pushes back against your hand, sharp teeth biting at the flesh just behind your ear and drawing a sharp pained gasp from you. A deep rumble sounding from his chest as he laps up the crimson droplets.So blood is the binding factor, not the name? “And what if I transfused my blood, made it completely new?”“It doesn't work like that, and you'd probably die attempting something so stupid. Either way, I still win,” Raphael dismisses curtly, before turning his voice more sinuous. “Why not simply accept that you are mine for eternity?”His lips fall on yours and you offer up no resistance to the demanding kiss for the beat of ten seconds as you slip your feet from your heels, then you twist out of his grasp and break into a run. The dark growl of a warning follows after you and is paid no heed. You need to move, to burn off the maelstrom of emotions that vie for dominance inside you. Countless times over the years you've thought about the types of revenge you could take on your father, of showing him you amount to more than a pawn on the lance board of allegiances. And darker thoughts.... There's darkness inside you, Raphael's voice taunts. A knife between the ribs, poison. Holding him in the thrall of a song, watching as his heart gives out under its power.You stumble as something snags your ankle but fails to bring you down. Something darker than the night and moving between the trees. All you can smell is wood and earth, the rotten dampness from the brook running close by. The lights from the de Lazlo estate can't be seen in any direction and you risk slowing down in a futile attempt to try and orientate yourself.Breathing hard, heart pounding in your ears, you dodge to the right on pure instinct. Whatever brushes past your side is impossible to identify in the darkness and spikes a shot of adrenaline, forcing you back into running. You make it past two more trees before you're thrown back against the third, all air knocked out of your lungs and leaving you to gasp the warm and dry air. You drop to the ground, scrabbling out from under his grip. This could be over in an instant if Raphael wanted it, but he lets you slip from his grasp, claws scrapping down your arm. He expects you to run again, wants you to. You aren't inclined to indulge his wants as you slip around his side and jump onto his back, laughing at the snarl of indignation he makes. Wrapping your arms around his neck and legs about his waist, you nip sharply at the shell of his ear.“You are being very naughty,” he chastises.You expect him to wrestle you off with ease, instead you watch as large bat-like wings materialise and suddenly you're both in the air and climbing higher.“No, nonono!” Your grip tightens on him, all pretences of trying to get under his Infernal skin gone.“Afraid of heights?” Raphael laughs, seeming to find the idea utterly absurd.The canopy of leaves brushes past you and you're glad the weak light of the moon spares you the full truth of how high you are. A moment later and his wings still as he alights on the precarious stone ruins of what must be the tower of an old folly. You don't let go, aren't inclined to take in the view of the de Lazlo's estate lit up in the distance.“Of all the things I thought might scare you, this is not it,” he gently mocks.Falling from the Netherbrain has given you a whole new perspective on heights, what it's like to freefall through the air and know there's nothing you can do to save yourself. And here there is no water to give you a chance of survival, just cold hard ground littered with broken stones. You try to control your breathing before forcing yourself to speak.“Put me back.”“On the ground?” He asks in a tone you fail to pay enough attention to.“Put me back, now.” You close your eyes, burying your face in the back of his neck.Raphael twists, easily grabbing hold of you. A scream of absolute fear is torn from you as you're suddenly swung out over the precipice. Your hands grabbing onto his arm, your bare feet trying to find purchase on the crumbling stone tower and failing.His lips curl in cruel amusement. “Are you sure?”Out here above the tree canopy, more of the moons light falls on you both. You stare up at him as he holds your life by one hand. He won't do it, won't let you go. Or that's what you try to tell yourself. He's playing with you, wants to feed on your fear. You swallow, feeling time slow, the too warm night air stirs against your clammy skin, billowing the gauzy layers of your gown.You drink in the solid black outline of his silhouette against the starry night, wings extended and poised to keep him balanced. The moonlight plays off the gold accents of his clothes, the smouldering embers behind his eyes.Your lips quirk and you watch as his confidence and power in the moment falters.“You are magnificent,” you tell him with breathless honesty and let go.It's over in a matter of seconds. The sickening freefall, the moment of horrifying doubt that you read everything wrong. Then you smell cherries and brimstone. Everything lurches, both of you hitting the ground with enough force to wind you again. It stops you from laughing in hysterical triumph as he roughly rolls you over to face him, magma eyes ablaze with rage.“Never do that again!” Raphael snarls, absolutely livid.The brief surge of power you feel for testing him and finding yourself right is smothered out by the press of his anger, the painful way he's pushing your wrists down into the dry earth. You keep your mouth tightly shut rather than point out the fact he was the one holding you over a shear drop.“Say you're sorry and swear you'll never do something so stupid again!” He demands, sharp teeth bared, the weight of his dominion pushing down on you.You've seen his anger before, the hot and violent turn of it in an instant. The games you play always skirting close to the line of his authority, his control, this is the first time you've so brazenly stepped over it. All your senses feel crystallised into sharpness, the night-time sounds of the woods, its scents of life and decay. The devil above you poised to strike in some unholy way you can't bring yourself to imagine.“Raphael....”“Swear it!”You swallow thickly and stare up into furious magma eyes. You're well aware what it means to swear anything, especially to a devil. “In blood.”The bruising pressure on your wrists relents a fraction and he shakes his head as if trying to dislodge something unwanted. “Humans and their perverse need to dance with chaos,” he grits out with clear contempt.Feeling you both take a step back towards the right side of the line, you take a quiet breath to speak when the look in his eyes silences you. The devil's lips find yours in a kiss that's so raw in its sensuality, your toes curl into the soft loam under you, restlessness flooding your body. You want to touch him, pull his body down on yours, but his grip tightens again, not allowing you even a fraction of play. Raphael doesn't relent in the kiss, doesn't allow you any control, the heated press of his Infernal aura causing sweat to bead on your skin.You bend your knee, lifting your thigh between his legs to rub against the hard line of his erection, a thrill rushing through you at the dark growl he vocalises as he breaks away from the kiss. Hot anger still bleeding from his gaze.“Why must you be such a temptation!” He accuses harshly. “You ceaselessly distract me, itch under my skin, say the most delicious of things and think there will be no consequences!”You've never seen such open conflict on his face or heard it in his voice, maybe his anger is making him more careless than he realises. It turns something over inside you, pulls words from you that you should know better than to admit to a devil. “Why do you make me entertain thoughts I know are wrong, feel things I should never admit.”“Tell me.” The burning fingers closed around your wrists tighten to a painful degree, his demand a deep and dark growl that makes your heart trip erratically.You take a breath of the scalding air between you, drawing in the scents of cherries and sulphur. “No.”“You are mine and you will tell me!”The faint sound of laughter reaches you both, then two dark shapes stumble drunkenly between the trees before settling against another in a heated kiss. It seems the party has reached that stage of the night earlier than you expected.Raphael follows your gaze and chuckles without humour. “Afraid they might see us, hmm? See one of their precious saviours indulging in a moonlit tryst with a devil?”“You wouldn't want anyones eyes but your own to see me like this,” you deflect even as you know he can see right through you.“I'll admit that a tumble in the woods is a little plebeian for my tastes.” There's a snap of his fingers and everything shifts in an instant.It's the heat that hits you first, washing against your already too warm skin. Avernus. His House. Pulling you from your domain and into his. The message is implicit, as is the warning. The devil above you on the bed might just well and truly be done with playing whatever game exists between the two of you. Knife edge steps, half-truths, and bubbling under the surface a whole tidal wave of words neither of you will ever say.Your eyes dart around the music room, looking for an escape that isn't there. “You're going to make me late for my second recital,” you try to say flippantly and fall drastically short of it, taut nerves getting the better of you.Raphael sits, settling his weight across your hips, then he slowly loosens the sash he wears and ties it around your wrists. There's no conceited curve to his lips, no amusement glinting in those burning eyes. You've felt fear in his presence a number of times, but this is different, worryingly so. Maybe that stunt at the folly really hadn't been worth the cost.“There's a choice before you, little mouse. So I suggest you consider your next words well. Swear your eternal loyalty to me, serve me. Refuse and I'll pop over to Baldur's Gate, pick up the fragments and void your contract. Might I remind you that article two states very clearly that you are to deliver the Crown to me. I have been exceptionally generous in my leniency while you stumble about petty mortal intrigues. Given you chance after chance. Admittedly, I was very curious to see what you would do, who you would turn to and what you would say. How loyal and truthful you would be with me in turn. The conflict you've displayed is,” a deep hungry breath, “infinitely delicious to me.”His words give you pause, a long lost thought finally slipping into place. “The necklace.” You worried there was more to the gift, only for the concern to slip from your mind as events unfolded. So he's overheard every conversation you've had? It's a sickening invasion of privacy.“Very perceptive, yes.” There's no smile, no flash of smug satisfaction.“Then you have your answer,” you say flatly.He gives a soft snort, eyes narrowing. “Sly of you, but it's not going to work. I'll have your answer, verbally.”An oath. “If I refuse?”“Aside from what I already told you? I'll flay you alive and you can join Hope. I have an eternity to break you both.” It's no threat. He means it. “Do you hear that, little mouse?” He holds up a finger. “The silence? The clock has stopped, its second-hand poised on your answer.”What if you'd taken the chance and chose to believe Wyll's offer instead of dismissing him so completely? It could still have all been a lie, help defined in a way that's very different to yours. All you have right now is a simple choice of how far you're willing to go to stay alive. Every step only digs the pit deeper, every false hope you hold about getting out of this, a lie that no longer offers any comfort.“If I say yes?” You want to hear the full terms.He chuckles at your audacity to even ask. “You get to keep your skin. There are no negotiations to be had here.”Why did you think any different? “My loyalty?” You huff the question with derision. “I was under the impression I'd already given it. You've heard every conversation I've had, but if you need me to make it business, a grandiose statement, so be it. But know I'd have given it freely.” It's reckless and beyond stupid to demean him when he's already furious. But you fail to stop the self-destructive anger because you let yourself believe lies over commonsense, any punishment he can inflict is wholly deserved. Maybe it'll cleanse the realisation that everything you read into his behaviour is all smoke and mirrors, for telling yourself falling for him isn't a mistake. Well played. “You have my loyalty. Until the day you discard it into the Styx.”“Go.”~~*-*~~The devil snaps his fingers and she disappears in a twisting of red and orange embers. He lets go of the rage in an instant. Wood splinters, marble cracks, glass shattering. Confounding creature! Fire ignites across her writing desk, curling and blackening paper, turning every word she wrote to ash. How dare she! How dare she!He can still see it, the expression on her face as she hangs from the folly's tower. Open and unmasked, no sign of pretence or teasing. Moonlight catching her eyes, make-up ruined by the water, making her look like she's been crying. Devotion, adjuration.
You are magnificent.
And then she let go. Waking in him....A chair shatters against the wall in an explosion of Hellfire.Fear. Sharp as a knife and a thousand times more cruel.Everything has been going as planned. Has it? And now? The devil slumps down on the wreckage of the bed. Think! A humourless bark of a laugh escapes him. It seems the dukeling had it right. The night really hasn't ended the way he wanted it to.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
You wake up with a groan. Muted daylight bleeds through the curtains and elevates the throb of drummers trooping through your head into a cacophony. For one moment you wish for the abyss to swallow you whole rather than continue existing, then you make the mistake of rolling over. Your world lurches dizzyingly and so does your stomach, nausea swells and you heave, the mother of all hangovers making its intentions clearly known. One deep breath, then another. Slowly, you exert some measure of control over your rebelling insides. Then your eyes settle on the tiefling sleeping soundly next to you. Oh, fu....Where he came from and what his name is, you have no idea. From the clothing strewn about the room, he's definitely not one of the extra serving staff brought in. A guest? You rack your uncooperative brain, trying to think of a noble family that includes tieflings and come up with no answer. This is bad. Really bad. You stare at him, trying to remember what happened after Raphael dumped you back here. Excessive drinking, that's what happened. And now you need to get the poor bastard out of here.He already knows, you know he does. The panic only adds to the nausea. No, I don't. His dismissal of you could have been total, no more eavesdropping. At least until his temper subsided.“Hey?” You nudge the tiefling, trying your best to ignore the scarlet skin and swept back dark hair. “Hey!” A groan escapes you as your raised voice makes the elephants in your head stamp louder. All you get in return is a sleepy grumble.Pulling yourself up onto shaky legs, the room swims drunkenly, keenly suggesting you still are too. You pick up the water jug off the chiffonier and dump the contents over his head. He's upright in an instant, blazing yellow eyes wide and unfocused. Then he registers you and the water jug in your hands.“Mragreshem! A good morning would have sufficed!” He curses, rubbing his face.You really had to go all in on finding a proxy of the devil that torments your thoughts. Handsome as he is, there's nothing to compare, it's not even close. “You need to get out of here.” Putting the jug down, you start to gather up his clothes. Realising by the cut and flamboyance that he must be one of the other bards brought in by the de Lazlo's. Better and better, you internally deride.“Oh gods, is this where I find out you have an insanely jealous husband?” Despite his complaint, he slips from the bed and starts to quickly dress.Not exactly. “Believe me, you don't want to find out.” Considering what Raphael did to someone just for sending you a bad love poem.... But maybe you're overreacting. The curtain fell between the two of you last night, and you faced the consequences of your own foolish delusions. He's barely gotten both boots on before you're pushing him towards the door.“Wait. Wait!” He grabs the doorjamb, forestalling your attempts to see him gone. “Do you think you can put in a good word with Lord and Lady de Lazlo, about a position here? You did promise.”You had? Honestly, he could tell you you'd run naked through the gardens and you wouldn't remember. Your lips twist sourly. “You can have my post when the devil takes me.” You push him out the door and slam it shut.“Hey!”You ignore him, back resting against the door and slump down to the floor. He mutters something in Infernal and then you hear him walk away. A shuddering breath leaves you. Why are you acting like this, why do you even care? Your fingers curl around the necklace and you yank it as hard as you can. Of course it doesn't break. The damned thing would cut into the flesh of your hands and neck first. Idiot idiot idiot! The burst of heated and derisive anger bleeds out as fast as it sparks, leaving you nauseous and your cheeks wet with tears. No where to go. No one to turn to. Breath. Don't panic. All you need to do is concentrate on getting through the day, nurse the hangover, try to rest. No one will be about or need you today. Bathe. Dress. It doesn't need to be more complicated than that, and yet it still feels like a herculean task.You place your hand down onto the thick carpet to push yourself upright, when you feel something crumple under it. A small and precisely folded note. Probably pushed under the door and missed in your rush to get the tiefling out. You pick it up, unfolding it slowly. Your heart sinks further, it's instructions, the Privitera estates tower room, signed with the letter K. You close your eyes, wondering if you can go back to sleep and pretend you never picked it up.The deceased estate is the one Raphael claimed to have an interest in purchasing. Surely whatever Korrilla, and by extension Raphael, wants from you could just as easily be conveyed by coming here. No doubt it's meant as a test, a churlish way of making you prove the loyalty you swore. It feels cheapened and forced now, something demanded rather than offered. You told him no lie, you had given it freely. Maybe you were wrong to think him sharp enough to see it. Or maybe he simply just doesn't care. You snort with pure and cold self-derision. It isn't the first time you've fooled yourself into believing something about him that isn't true.Bathe. Dress. Then you can worry about what awaits you at the old estate.~~*-*~~It's late in the afternoon before you leave the de Lazlo's manor, though it's not entirely down to a peevish sense of spite. Even without the toxic mess that is your life, the hangover and still being somewhat intoxicated made everything more challenging than it has any right to be. Gerrad did you the service of fixing up a tonic to help with the symptoms, though you're dubious about how much the concoction actually helped. The slow walk out to Privitera's estate does little to clear any of the sludge from your mind, so you give up trying in favour of just existing in the moment. You could very well be running out of time to enjoy such simple pleasures as a walk in the warm afternoon air. Was any of this worth the mental torment? Is it time to accept your fate?The closer you get to the old estate, the quieter the streets become. Weeds push up through cracks in the pavement, mortar fallen from stone walls and trodden into dust. There's a distinct aura of neglect, and more than that, something unsettling. The idle gossip on patriar tongues is that the old estate is haunted, that Privitera dabbled in things better left alone. You performed at his request on a number of occasions and always found the elderly patriar to be perfectly polite and charming. Raphael is proof enough how much of a lie that can be, you mentally scorn. Still, what Privitera did in private and alone is none of your business, any more than it is gossiping patriars. You've been to countless parties where there's a dark room set aside for those who want to scare themselves with a séance.A closed wrought-iron gate greets you, chained and rusted, the path beyond overgrown in a tangle of weeds and brambles. There's the faintest suggestion of what used to be box hedges and decorative paving. A red brick townhouse lies further beyond, past a dried up and moss covered fountain. Windows boarded up, but you can see the main door isn't. You place a hand against the heavy gate and nearly stumble forward as it swings open on freshly oiled hinges, the chain clanking loose. Well, it saves you from having to scale the walls.You ignore the bite of trepidation as you walk past the gate, boots crunching on the gravel as you pick your way up the path. Your eyes drift towards the buildings dilapidated façade, up to the solitary tower that juts into the sky. No wizards tower. At his soirées you often heard drunk and loose lipped guests say one word; diabolist. Maybe that's why the estate appealed so much to the devil. Maybe Privitera had once been a client of his. What Korrilla wants to show you here, you can't fathom. The sooner in, the sooner done. You walk up the cracked tile steps to a front door left ajar. Candlelight flickers beyond.The sense of disquiet grows louder as you cross the threshold, the feeling that you really shouldn't be here. Is this a test of obedience, or something more? You pick up the candelabra, doing your best to not look too hard at the long and obscure shadows it casts around you. Barely any natural light makes it past the cracks in the boarded up windows, heightening the sense of claustrophobia. The air is heavy and stale, something rots somewhere, adding a sour and fetid tang. You turn about the foyer, wondering which way to go when you hear the soft tinkle of a bell and your heart thuds. But it's not the devil behind you, a sleek black cat trots past without a care in the world and up the stairs. Do warlocks have familiars?Pressing your lips together, you follow the animal. It waits for you at every turn and doorway until you see it and then bolts away. The shadows grow deeper the further you go, no doubt the late afternoon outside is slipping into early evening. Wood cracks and water drips somewhere in darkened rooms. You lift the small candelabra as you turn down a narrow hallway, the walls painted a deep crimson red, the polished floorboards stained so dark they almost look black. At the end is a single door, slightly ajar like all the rest. Only this one is of sturdier design, dark heavy wood with large brass rivets, the visage of a grotesque creature carved into it.There's a small voice in your head telling you to turn around and run. That whatever this is, isn't worth it. Only there's nowhere you can run that the devil can't find you. One step at a time, let me just get through this.All sound deadens as you step past the door with its horrifying guardian, making your ears feel like they need to pop. A heavy metallic scent hangs in the air that you're happy to put down to the metal spiral staircase in front of you. Hard as you try, you can't completely stop the sound of your boots ringing as you climb each step. The higher you go, the stronger the smell gets, there's ammonia too, like the stench of piss behind the Elfsong. Your heart is an uneasy rhythm, your palms sweaty. It's an effort to ignore all the alarm bells in your head, every sense of self-preservation screaming at you to run.Deep amber lantern light illuminates a doorway above, the garret room of the tower. A place that feels forbidden and heavy with darkness. The moment you take the last few steps and stand in the opening, your mind sobers up in an instant. There's a subdued horror to what greets you, a pointed simplicity that leaves nothing ambiguous. This is a terrible place and something terrible is going to happen. A central roof support rises from the floor, at its base is a shrouded mass, seemingly bound to it. The floor is marble, shot through with white veins, inlaid with what looks like silver gullies and forming some unidentifiable spiralling symbol. Fresh blood fills them, glistening in the light of candles at specific points. One larger lantern sits on a small table covered with a second shroud, a tattered and high-backed leather chair sits towards the back, facing the wall. Of the cat that lead you here there's no sign. Not of Korrilla either.Stepping into the room you can feel the unnatural cold of the marble seep through the soles of your boots. Whatever is hidden under the shroud at the base of the pillar begins to move violently and then there's a muffled voice. Your heart lurches, beating faster. It's a person? Throat dry, you want to call out the warlocks name but find yourself unable to. Just what in the Hells is this? Reluctantly you step very carefully over the blood filled gullies, half expecting the violent snap of magic. Nothing happens. Instead you let your free hand drop to your belt and draw the dagger hanging from it. Placing the candelabra on the table, you reach for the shroud, take a deep breath. Pull.It's like being sucker punched.You want to watch me kill him.The gagged and bound man staring wild eyed at you is your father.
Or watch you trick him into selling me his soul.
This is a test. A wickedly cruel one.Numbly, you lift the dagger to cut loose the gag. Morelli spits the sodden lump of fabric at your feet. “Of all the creatures to come crawling out of the dark,” he mutters venomously. “Now listen here girl, this will go a lot better for you if you release me right now. At once!”He recognises you? Isn't even surprised? It's been twenty seven years on this plane since you last saw each other. Your mind locks up as you sheath the blade. All the things you ever wanted to say, every conversation you've ever rehearsed in your mind, it all dissolves to ash.“Is this extortion? Well? Speak up girl!” His fleshy face is bright red with anger, eyes near bulging.You drag your gaze away from his hateful visage to look at the small table, lifting a slightly shaking hand to pull the shroud from it. What lies underneath is exactly what you expect, skinning knives, surgical scalpels.“Now. Now, you listen here! You want some petty revenge after all this time because of your own shortcomings,” he stammers, the slightest hint of panic overriding his indignant anger. Maybe your silence is worse than any tirade of curses you could spew at him. You pick up one of the scalpels, the metal feeling ice-cold against your fingertips.“Why do you think I'm the one who orchestrated this?” That he thinks so poorly of you is something you've always known. That he thinks you would go so far as to do something like this to get back at him? That's a whole other level of paranoia. Or guilt. “Maybe you caught the attention of someone who likes contrived games. Did you ever feel guilt for what you did?” You might as well take the chance to ask, to have one last hope gutted out with all the rest.“Guilt? For you being a counterfeit of a woman? Because you failed to perform the one duty your family needed of you?” He scoffs, looking you over like an object. “I demand to know what's going on, at once!” Only a patriar would be self-important enough to continue spitting insults and making demands when they're trussed up and facing a dubious future.It's disturbing how used you're getting to the pain, or maybe it's just numbness. Duty, your value measured in your usefulness as a tool. Everyone else's whims, never your own. “Seems to be a common thread through my life,” you muse aloud. “And I'm getting really tired of it.” The scalpel clicks as you place it back down on the table and pick up one of the knives instead. “The girl you gave my name to, who is she?”“You leave her out of this! If you lay one finger on her! I swe ”“Oh hush!” You snap. It's like nothing has changed, not the anger, not the derogatory tone of voice. It's like you never escaped. “There's a choice before you Lord Morelli.” Your lips twist into a sour and humourless half-smile. “The devil you think you know, or the one you really don't. I know you're here, Raphael.” Your eyes move to the high-backed chair. There's no way he would pass up a front row seat for this.Old leather creaks, confirming your suspicion. You look back towards Morelli, listening to the measured tread of the devil's boots as he moves to stand behind you. By the way Morelli's eyes widen and his face contorts in horror, you assume Raphael hasn't bothered to conceal what he is.“I.... I don't,” Morelli stutters.You pull tight on the cold anger inside, let it slide through your veins. This is it, isn't it? The devil wants to blacken your soul, corrupt it. The merciful thing to do would be to kill Morelli right now, not hand him over to the devil standing so close to your shoulder. But you don't even know if Raphael is interested in the bastards soul. That's not what this dog and pony show is about.“What would you do to save your worthless skin, Lord Morelli? How far would you go?” How far will you go? This isn't a game of verbal sparring, or tussling between the sheets. If you do this, you're going to the Hells. It won't matter if you break Raphael's contract or see it through. You will be a murderer.“This is insanity!” He splutters.Isn't it just. Put the knife down and walk away. You've killed countless people in the name of destroying the Absolute, blood on your hands isn't a novelty at this point. You could also argue that Morelli is no innocent. But cold-blooded murder, patricide? That's a level of damnation all of its own. You turn the razor sharp blade over, watch the candlelight reflect off the polished surface. You can feel Raphael's eyes on you, and you know he's feeding greedily off your conflict. Maybe your choice doesn't matter to him, he just wants to watch you agonise over it. After all, the letter wasn't an order to do anything more than come here.“I asked you a question,” you press without a hint of emotion in your voice.“You want money, influence?” Morelli doesn't know which one of you to keep his eyes on, rivulets of sweat beginning to run down the side of his face.“No. I can take both easily.” The right words, the right notes of beguiling. “Now that I'm talking to you, seeing you with the eyes of an adult rather than a scared child. I'm not even sure I want anything.” At a younger age you harboured a desire to make him beg for forgiveness, to prostrate himself and recognise your worth. Now all you feel is ugly and cold. With exaggerated care, you place the skinning knife back down on the table. “You're not worth it.”“Do you really not want to breath bloody life into the dark desires you try to bury so deep?” Raphael's question is a rich caramel purr behind you, enticing, charming. It's the voice of the devil you recognise from the first time you ever spoke.“They're your desires for me,” you say quietly, knowing it only to be half true.“To see your full potential bloom,” he corrects smoothly.“And turn to corruption.”“Everything corrupts in the end.”Why is your hand hovering over the knives? You know he's not pressing on you with his will, isn't trying to artificially influence you with magic. Just the right words. And that makes the conflict inside so much worse.“D Don't listen to him,” Morelli speaks up, voice quavering.“You can be in charge for once, decide for once,” Raphael's silky purr is right next to your ear, his hot breath ghosting across your neck. “Control is what you want most, isn't it? For your dominion to be respected..., feared. You are no meek little mouse. You've defied the odds, thwarted gods and destroyed their chosen. You know what you are.” His tone shifts to the one you've become increasingly familiar with, he pushes the deceivers mask aside to speak to you as someone who's more than just a debtor to him.It's a ploy. Everything up till now a subtle manipulation to get you here, to this point. It never mattered who the victim ended up being, or when the opportunity presented itself. Only that it it did. And this, your own father, is too much for him to resist.“Untie me, let me walk. We can go home, I can introduce you to your sister. We can start over,” Morelli's placating tone sounds as fake and desperate as it is.“Do you know how many times I've shown kindness, taken the high ground, risked my life. And can you guess how many times I've received the same selfless virtues.” It's not just about the journey with your companions, there was so much before too. Smiling and naïve, hiding the rot inside behind the mask of a hedonist, pretending you didn't care. Yes, there is darkness deep inside, spite and malevolence. The devil saw it. Were you born or made this way? Your soul already marked? Does it even matter anymore. “What's your counteroffer, Raphael?”The devil laughs, loud and genuinely amused. “There's no room for negotiation here, I already own your soul.”“I'm not asking for an amendment, I'm asking what you'll give me.” Given how poorly things ended between you last night, it's no doubt very dangerous and stupid to be making such demands of him. Especially in company. But Morelli is not leaving this garret alive, it's more a question of what state his soul will be in.“I could promise not to flog you for being so insolent,” he chuckles darkly. “Or maybe you would prefer this.” He leans in close to your ear, hands resting firmly on your hips, and whispers five words.“Liar,” you breath, shaken by the storm of emotions his offer wakes in you, the shear gravity of it. I'll make you my consort. The how and when conveniently left unsaid.“Am I?” He asks with a confident hum.You suddenly regret being cocky enough to ask. He twists and chooses his words with care, but he's never once told you a barefaced lie. If you go through with this now it'll seem purely because of his offer, a carrot he can dangle again and again to get what he wants from you. Idiot!“You torment yourself with foolish notions of guilt and regret. See your selfishness as a weakness, something shameful. Delicious as it all is, I'm of a mind to make a few things clear,” Raphael's deep voice rumbles next to your ear, void of any manipulative inflection. “There's nothing disingenuous between us. Heated, tempestuous, fractious? Without a doubt. You know the truth as well as I do.”“A devil's whore!” Morelli spits. “I should have listened when the priest said you were born under an ill omen!”“You're beginning to bore me, lordling,” Raphael snaps at the interruption. A careless wave of his hand and flesh sizzles, Morelli's lips melting together and muffling his scream of pain. The devil's attention turns back to you. “I won't stop you walking away, but deep down you know you're already mine. Do you think the she-devil mask I gifted you was an arbitrary choice? I wanted to see your reaction, feel the temptation it woke in you. Show you what you can be.”Your heart is beating so fast it feels like it might burst from your chest, adrenaline rushing through your veins, making both your arms and legs shaky. Does it matter what the devil thinks or wants? Didn't you promise to start looking out for your own survival no matter the cost? Stop turning yourself in circles, worrying about everyone else and make your choice.As your fingers close around the knife handle, Morelli's muffled pleas grow in volume and then the stink of urine hits your nose. Raphael steps back, hands leaving your hips, and moves to the side so he can have an unobstructed view of whatever is about to happen. You don't look at him, don't want to see the triumph on his face.Tears leak from Morelli's wide and fearful eyes, his head shaking from side to side as he continues to either plead or curse your name. There's no going back. No undoing this. You can feel the bile in your throat, last nights excess threatening to make itself known. Don't close your eyes. Own your choice.All intelligence flees your mind, all strength leaving your muscles and making them shaky and weak as you drive the knife into his gut. Morelli's muffled pleas become high-pitched shrieks as his body jerks, trying to get away from you. Hot blood flows over the blade and your hand as you twist and pull only to drive it straight back in again. It's a butchers job, your arms shaking, your eyes blurry, maybe you're even hysterically screaming. Nothing seems real. The overpowering scent of copper and shit makes you retch, but somehow you hold it together. Then something pulls you back, a vice-like grip around your knife hand that twists it away from Morelli's corpse.You look up into blazing magma eyes, watch frozen as the devil brings the knife up to his mouth and licks viscus blood from the blade and your covered hand, then his lips fall on yours. The kiss lasts a fraction of a second before you're forcefully pushing him off. You stumble blindly, knocking into the table and sending a dozen blades clattering to the marble floor. This time you can't stop the nausea and vomit. The room feels compressed tight, your ears ringing. Shut it down, shut it down. Take control. Everything gets tighter and darker. You close your eyes and scream.~~*-*~~The devil catches her before she can keel over into the mess of blood and bodily fluids. He's shocked. Had expected her to snap and snarl and storm away. A slow and satisfied smile curves his lips, there's no escape for her now.“Korrilla, see to this mess,” he orders with disinterest.Raphael snaps his fingers and steps through the portal into his House. She stirs from her stupor at the bite of magic and then just as quickly sinks back into unconsciousness. The devil pauses to watch her face, the spatters of blood, the sallowness of complextion. The violent revulsion to her actions only proves there's more work to be done, or maybe he'll leave it be rather than completely rob himself of her intoxicating conflict. So long as he stays vigilant to it, doesn't let it fester into disobedience and hostility.The warm and rejuvenating water of the boudoirs pool causes her to mutter and nothing more as he carries her down into it.“I thought I caught the scent of blood,” Haarlep comments as they lean against one of the marble columns, eyes bright with curiosity. “Did you break another toy?” They sound disappointed.The water around her begins to turn pink as the gore is washed away. “She's not broken. She's blooming into her true potential.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Darkness presses in, thick and heavy as a humid summers night, only a hundred-fold more suffocating. The heated ground under your prone body is nothing but fine choking dust and razor sharp gravel. A superheated wind whips up, making your throat dry and cracked, every breath turning into a gasping fit of coughing. In the distance thunder rumbles, vibrating the very ground you lie on. You should get up, run, anything. But your body feels so heavy. Smothered by the air. The thunder continues to rumble, slowly drawing closer and you feel the first drops of rain begin to fall. Too warm and the wrong colour. It's darkest red. Thick. Pools of it form around you at alarming speed, the cloying scent of copper overpowering. If you don't move it's going to.... You scramble up, bare feet sliding on the blood slicked ground. There's nowhere to run, no higher ground. The plane is flat and endless. Panic sets in as the viscus liquid climbs higher, the rain falling harder. It doesn't matter how much you wipe from your eyes and face, you're half blinded by the deluge. Blood reaches your shoulders, your neck. No no no! It's all you can taste and breath, filling your throat and lungs. You try to scream.Awake. Hyperventilating. You scrabble against silken sheets, lashing out at anything that tries to hinder you with all the strength you have. Laughter reaches past the lingering nightmare and you veer away from it. What you're running from and why isn't a thought that even registers, only that .“Hush, hush,” a sultry voice coos, all soft amusement.Too warm hands paw at your body and you slap them away, trying to blink your eyes into focus. The panic is slow to subside, your head aching with fatigue, your arms and legs shaky as a newly born foal.“If you don't behave, you're going to end up a heap on the floor. Why not let me help you,” the voice soothes with fake sweetness.Your vision slowly starts to clear and you blink at Haarlep. They look equal parts fascinated and amused, eyes bright and watching intently. You draw your legs up to your chest and hug them. You can still smell the blood, still.... Deep breaths, slow and even. Morelli's contorted face is seared into the back of your eyes. Why did you....The incubus crawls closer. “I know what will make you feel better.” They smile, settling next to you, a gentle hand curving around the side of your neck, thumb brushing your damp cheek. They lean in.You move back, knowing exactly what their intent is. “Where's Raphael?”They shrug, unconcerned. “Busy, I suppose. The two of you really should spend more time here, with me. Isn't endless pleasure preferable to the nonsense games you both play?”If they aren't going to tell you, then you'll just have to find him yourself. You slip off the bed and away from the incubus’ touch before it can pull you in. To your surprise Haarlep doesn't press you, they only wait and watch. It's not wariness on their handsome face, it's more like patient anticipation. Maybe even a level of consideration they've never shown before. Whatever the reason behind it, you ignore them to focus on yourself and not ending up on the floor as your legs shake slightly under you.“Where are my clothes?”“Why would you want those bloody things back? Especially when you look so deliciously perfect as you are.” Haarlep tilts their head, blatantly drinking in your naked body. Then those sensual lips smirk, mischief dancing behind their eyes. “Tell me what you did.”You pull a robe from one of the wardrobes, trying to push back the sudden wave of nausea the question causes. “I killed my father,” you answer with exaggerated care.Haarlep barks a short amused laugh. “Oh, that's just marvelous. The poor boy can't kill his own father dearest, so he makes you kill yours. And here I thought I knew the depths of his depraved voyeurism. How did you do it?” The incubus crawls to the edge of the bed, everything about them bright and eager with delight and curiosity.You have to stifle the inappropriate urge to laugh at how much the image reminds you of the gaggles of gossiping old ladies that litter every patriar court. “Why do you care?” Somehow you manage to keep the shake out of your voice, even as you fail to keep the tremor out of your hands as you pull on the robe.Haarlep sways like a coiled serpent. “I don't. I just want to know how he talked you into it.”“He didn't. It was my choice.”Now the incubus laughs properly, it echoes around the boudoir, pity oozing from their expression. “Poor, simple-minded mortal. You truly think you were in control, that everything wasn't plotted out? You can't be naïve enough to believe he hasn't had a plan for you from the start?”No, you aren't. But what that plan is, you have no idea beyond fulfilling his desire to have you place the Crown of Karsus on his head. ”If he comes back here, tell him I'm up in the music room.”“Suit yourself. Ta-ta.”You leave the boudoir, ignoring the hollow eyes of eternal debtors as they follow you. Away from the distraction of the incubus, your mind begins to turn over. Regret, horror, fear. It would be all too easy to let the feelings take over and turn you into a tormented wreck. Even now you can feel the small tremors that run the length of your body with every step. Killing another in cold blood. A man who had been your father by blood, but that's all. You harboured no affection, no sense of kinship. So many curses had spun through your mind when he disowned you, sent you to that temple to be quietly forgotten. If Raphael's only interest is to break you, there are so many better victims he could have chosen. Maybe there's some morbid truth to Haarlep's words, about him vicariously living one of his darkest desires through you.The magical lock on the door snaps open under your touch and the door swings inwards. You pause, blinking as your mind takes a moment to process what you're looking at. It's like an ogre rampaged through the room. With bare feet you carefully pick your way through the shards of glass and splinters of wood. When did this? After Raphael sent you back, of course. An unleashing of his fury and frustration. It's a disturbing and chilling tableau of just how deeply you got to him. Your antics at the folly, or afterwards. Probably both. You undermined his control and did it knowingly.Your footsteps take you to the writing desk, its surface charred and blackened by fire. You pick up a black curl of burned paper, watching as it turns to ash under your fingertips. Fury so insensible he destroyed your music. Something even the devil holds in high esteem. It sends a chill down your back and you pull the thin robe tighter around your body. Do you really have this sort of power over him? Whenever he says the odd thing about your influence, how you distract him, it's not something you've ever taken as immutable truth. The idea just feels so absurd. Maybe he simply hates the careless way you act at times. He's more than happy to lure and tease and amuse himself at the expense of others. It does not go back the other way.Turning away from the ashen remains of your work, you quietly tread over cracked marble towards the open archway that leads out onto the balcony. The red sky of Avernus, its jagged peaks and oppressive atmosphere. You step towards the wall, stopping just before you rest your hands on the polished granite. Heat radiates off the surface, had burnt you the first time you absently touched it. Now you touch the surface tentatively with your fingertips. It's still uncomfortably hot, but not to the point of being painful. Is it because your soul is blackened now, because it's becoming more closely aligned with Baator? This was your choice, you could have walked away.“What part do I have to play in all this?” You ask over your shoulder. The feel of the devil's eyes on you is something you've grown accustomed to over the months.“You really don't know?” Raphael asks mildly.One slow and deep breath, I'm in control. Straight back, shoulders square, you turn around to see him seated at a small table, wine and glasses waiting. He gestures to the vacant chair. How many times have you spoken like this in one place or another? His magma eyes don't leave you as you take even steps towards the chair. Maybe he's looking for cracks in your composeur, the wall you've drawn so tightly around yourself.You sit and pick up the wine glass. A thick and heady red, not all that dissimilar in bouquet to the one he brought to your bathing pool. It coats your tongue and you know it's somehow distilled with blood. Your stomach rebels at the thought as you force it down. Maybe every glass you've shared with him as been the same, only now it's potent enough to taste.“You surprised me,” he says slowly and with care. His gaze is considering, serious in a way you feel you've never seen before. Normally there's a hint of mockery or amusement, flippancy. You have his attention in a way that wakes a shiver in you. “I thought you would run.”Your lips twist. “Did I lose you a few soul coins?” You don't intend the first thing to come out of your mouth to be an antagonism. Not given how keenly you can feel the knife edge this conversation is poised on.“Do you know why I wanted to talk to you at Eunice Bourigeaud's party?” He continues in the same even manner and it's slightly disconcerting.You know what he told you before, that he enjoyed your performance, was enraptured by it. There are a few leaps in logic you can make from the words he chose to use, but you'd rather he just tells you straight. “I doubt it was as simple as congratulating me.”The problem with trying to understand what plan Raphael might have for you lay in the feeling that it isn't static. It shifts and changes as new information presents itself and situations change. You've seen Mizora do the same thing with Wyll in the past. Maybe it's a trait of all devils, ever adaptable, rather than the stubbornness of mortals who cling to one path even when it no longer serves.“I'm a College of Glamour bard, one of the best. I can bend an audience to my will, anyone with ears to listen. No contracts, no tadpoles, no mess. I imagine that's useful to a devil with dreams of total conquest.” A tool. Yet again. You might laugh if you didn't feel so sick.“Not dreams, real achievable goals,” he corrects. “I sensed the potential in you that first night I watched you perform. The tantalising taste of what you could do if you let yourself. Such beguiling talent, I'd hoped you would let a little bleed through and hold the court in thrall. But you proved to be such a tease, always stopping just short. It's innate to you, intrinsic. I suspect if you hadn't been brought up with music as an outlet, you would have made an exceptional sorcerer. You still could be.” He looks you over in that considering way that always makes your heart beat a little faster.Your fey mentor had said much the same, but you've never pursued magic beyond the utility of being able to light a fire or conjure light. There'd been no reason to, you've never lusted after power or control beyond self-determination. Not that you've done a very good job of it so far. Being passive has achieved nothing more than seeing you used by others, a repetition of the past, your kindness a weakness to be taken advantage of. Shadowheart had warned you.“I've pledged my loyalty, blackened my soul.” Haarlep could laugh and scorn you, but you had a choice. Even Raphael admitted he thought you would choose differently. That you weren't yet completely without hope. Now, of course, that's exactly what you are. “I'll see the Crown into your hands.” Carefully you set the wine glass back down on the table and push to your feet.“We aren't done here,” Raphael halts you as you pass by his chair. Getting to his feet, he steps right into your personal space, lifting a hand to hold your chin between thumb and index finger. His eyes are hard, his expression serious. “I'm not interested in unthinking subservience from you. I want you as you are, devious, adaptable, wilful. I want your fire and your passion.” He lowers his lips to yours and you turn your head away.Your fists clench at your sides. “I'll be your agent in your plans, but I would ask you to stop with this game of seduction. I'm not some doe-eyed maiden. I know what this manipulation is, lies of lo .”Raphael hushes you with two fingers against your lips as he draws you face back towards him. “I didn't need to seduce you to get you this far. I feel like I've told you the truth of it a dozen times over and you've failed to listen every time. Do you honestly believe I'd so frivolously offer the role of my consort to just anyone? I seduced you because I wanted you.” The devil lowers his lips to brush against yours. “Do you not want me?”“I want everything you are.” The hushed words are past your lips before you can give them due consideration and you feel him smile against them.“You shouldn't be so careless with your wants, my sweet tempest,” he murmurs against your lips. “They may well burn you up and leave you hollowed out.” It sounds as much a warning to himself as you. “Come with me.”The kiss you wait for doesn't follow, instead there's a brief moment of disorientation, of crushing darkness and floating embers. Then you wince as sharp white light stings your eyes, the sulphurous flash of fire igniting before settling down into the gentle flicker of candlelight. Your rooms at the de Lazlo estate, freshly made up, no traces of your indiscretion left behind. The way he's looking at you makes your heart beat a little faster with trepidation. The devil knows what you did.He holds your chin painfully. “After the insult of such a poor substitute, I feel it's only my duty to remind you of exactly why such behaviour is not acceptable.”“You killed him?” Another blackened strike against your soul.Raphael smiles with cruel indulgence. “I'm sure he wishes I had.”So that only leaves the question of your punishment. You don't avert your gaze, don't question the rise of heated anticipation the thought triggers in you. “And what will you do to me?”“You, my sweeting,” he snorts softly, a slight shake of his head. Then he lets your chin go and shoves you back onto the bed. “You play at courting a devil, revel in the forbidden thrill of it. Hold a pathetic and trivial idea of what that actually means. Do you want to know what it really means? Do you want to know all the pains and pleasures of the Hells? It will irrevocably change you,” Raphael warns as he moves onto the bed, kneeling either side of your prone body.“I'm already changed,” you remind him, trying to control the fast pace of your heart.“Yes, you are,” he agrees smoothly, loosening the knot in the front of your robe. “But this is different. The pleasures and torments of mortal flesh will never satisfy you again.” He pulls the sides of your robe open, exposing your naked body to his slow appraisal. “Only the touch of the Infernal. My touch.”“Show me.”Raphael snaps his fingers and everything plunges into darkness, total deafening silence. It reminds you so much of your hell-scape nightmares, it stills your heart for a moment in pure fear. There's a second echoing snap and a ring of blue-white and red Hellfire encircles the stone dais you lie upon. The devil kneels over you, great wings outstretched, confident as any predator with its prey right where they want it. The power that rolls off him in waves is intoxicating, scorching your skin and raising an insatiable lust in you.“Can you feel it?” He rumbles intensely. “The pulse of all Nine Hells; consuming fire, frigid ice, corrosive poison. Each pulling at your soul, wanting to fill you with its distilled torment, its exquisite pleasure.”Your breathing becomes shorter, harsher, as you feel the push and pull inside you, the colliding swirl of overpowering sensations vying for dominance inside you. Eyes fluttering half closed, your back arching off the dais, nails digging into the unforgiving stone surface and chipping. More. You need more, or you'll be torn into pieces.A flick of his wrist and an orb of blue fire sits in his open palm. “I offer you the frozen, razor-like peaks and crevasses of Cania, the pure ice of true mind-shattering clarity. Breath stealing cold that creeps into the marrow of your being and saps you of all will to live. Of ice that burns like Hellfire. Which other torments will you pick?” The deep rumbling power of his voice vibrates though your mind, freezing it, prising it open to the pure merciless clarity of everything you've done.You listen as he lists the names of the remaining eight layers and what they offer, wanting nothing more than to reach for him. To run your hands over all that Infernal flesh, its ridges and dips, the sharp spurs and sharper claws. But your body refuses to obey, leaden, it burns and freezes and is racked with pulses of unsatisfied need that feel like they're dissolving your insides.“Stygia. Nessus.” Why those names fall from your parched lips, you don't know. Only that you want them.“As you desire.”His lips are like wet ice, treacherous and frigid. You push up from the dais, climbing onto his lap and driving your aching heat down around the icy length of his solid cock. The extremes in temperature a vicious shock that makes you break the desperate kiss and cry out. The cold seeps through you, into you, every touch of his hands against your heated skin a scalding ice-burn. Claws dig into your arse as you ride him, icy lips leaving yours painfully chapped and bleeding, sliding down your throat. Heat and poison are purged, leaving you panting and shivering violently from the coldness that's taking you over, your hot breath pluming with every harsh exhale. It's not enough, will never be enough. You pull him closer, welcoming the pain of his frozen bite, riding him harder, wanting to feel him deeper.“Raphael!”The devil laughs at your desperate plea, unhooking your arms and pushing you down. But it's not unforgiving stone that meets your back, it's ice-cold water that steals your breath and locks up your mind. Stops your heart and floods your lungs. The frigid and dark unfathomable depths of the River Styx claims you, robbing everything, thoughts and memories, life. It feels like the only thing holding your shaking body together is the devil above you. The pleasure he drives into you with every thrust, the sting of claws biting into your skin, racking it open. His fangs anchored deep to freely sup on the flow of your blood. You're unraveling, coming apart, agonising piece by agonising piece. Your screams are swallowed by the dark and icy water as you try to thrash for the surface. And Hells save you, you only want more.Your frozen and hypersensitive skin is suddenly bathed in superheated air, it washes over you, feels like it's melting every part of you away. Blackest basalt and bright lava red, waves of blistering heat that carries raw and absolute power with it, absolute control and authority. It's so immense and all encompassing there's no way your frail mortal body can withstand it. Crimson bat-like wings fold around you as you wrap your arms and legs tightly around the devil's burning body. It does nothing to shield you from the onslaught of plunging through Nessus. Everything begins to fragment as unearthly pleasure consumes you from the inside. Staring into bright magma eyes that morph and twist like the flow of lava. You laugh and bite into his lower lip, scream as wyvern hot blood burns your tongue and down your throat. The savage kiss, the furious rush of lust. Everything shatters into a crystalline rapture of pain and pleasure, a little death like no other. Wings unfurl along with your limbs and you tumble into the agonising bliss of darkness.~~*-*~~Slow pulsing light, tinged crimson around the edges. Vapors of soothing vanilla and grounding sandalwood. The gentle lap of warm water against your skin, a steady heartbeat and soft breathing. Firm fingertips kneading the curve of your hip. Boneless. Drifting. Gradually the deeper scent of cherries works through your senses, under it an enticing musk that draws you closer to the surface. You shift against too warm skin, hands moving across the firm muscles of his chest, one traveling up around the back of the devil's neck. The hand kneading your hip drops to your arse, pulling you closer, a deep and dark rumble vibrating through your body. You tilt your head where it rests on his shoulder, your lips finding the warm and damp flesh of his throat. Skin that tastes of the Infernal, of power and corruption, pure selfish darkness.“It really shouldn't surprise me that you've come around this quickly. That you didn't shatter into a thousand pieces,” Raphael hums, his voice full of vindicated pride. “Look at me.”You lift your head, sitting back on his lap and looking through the rising steam off the water. Raphael curls his index finger under your chin, moving your head left and right, his scrutiny unblinking. “What do you see?”“A soul indelibly marked, bound by more than oaths and blood.” His easy and crooked smile oozes conceited satisfaction. “No petty mortal touch or vice will ever stir you again. Everything will be a pale and hollow facsimile of the Hells. Of me,” he rumbles possessively.You let Raphael guide your lips to his, the kiss firm and full of slow and dark hunger. Shifting restlessly astride his lap, you can feel the hard and heated press of his erection against your lower abdomen. Your hand leaves the back of his neck to trail down his chest, under the steaming water, to wrap around him and squeeze. He rocks up into your touch, languid and unhurried, seemingly content to let you do as you please. And you're more than happy to.Your lips slide from his and he lets his head relax back against the edge of the sunken pool, a move that gives you unlimited access to his jaw and throat. Low rumbles of pleasure vibrate with every exhale of breath as you lavish attention along the prominent ridges. Your hand moving up and down his length, measured and purposeful, your own need pulsing between you legs as you shift on his lap. When he's feeling this indolent, it's worth savouring and taking your time. Maybe all that smoke and mirrors sex magic wore him out.Humming against his damp throat, your tongue moves across to the crook of his shoulder. The memory of what you indulged in stirring the embers of your desire, ice and fire, the rapture of pain and pleasure intertwined. The burning taste of his blood. Will it change you in some way? More than the plunge through three layers of the Hells? Your teeth nip at his crimson reptilian-esque skin and the pitch of his rumbles deepens in warning, the hand kneading your arse pausing only long enough to strike it. Maybe here, on this plane, it would do more than just scald you.“You tasted so rich and dark,” you whisper against his ear, adding a little twist to the slow up and down. “Hot and powerful,” you breath harshly, the tip of your tongue tracing up the elongated shell.“You are being very naughty,” he chastises coolly even as his hands move restlessly to squeeze your thighs, claws digging and scratching.Moving back, you look down into his bright and burning eyes. “Oh, am I tempting the wicked devil?” You ask innocently with soft and wide eyes, pushing up on the narrow ledge to lift yourself off his lap. You watch his greedy eyes flick over your body, skin flushed, beads of water running down between your breasts. He drinks it all in, hands curling around either side of your waist.“And now you are being wilfully impertinent,” he rumbles the warning.Maybe unwisely you laugh a little. Raphael's lips curl into the beginnings of a snarl as you sink down on his hard length. Your lips falling on his in a deep and wanton kiss, hands working into his damp hair. He snarls into the kiss, picking you up with him as he stands. The kiss breaks, a pained gasp leaving your mouth as your back hits the cool and slick tiles of the floor. Water flooding over the edge of the pool and against you with every savage snap of his hips. You claw at his back, wrapping your legs tightly about his waist. It's lucky he can't see your smile of triumph, you really can get to him. Goad him towards what you want. Maybe only in this debauched and selfish way right now, but it's a seed you can nurture.“I want to see you,” you gasp between wet and heated kisses. Desire tightening in your core with every thrust of his hips.Raphael draws back, but not before biting at your lower lip and rumbling loudly as he licks up the welling of blood. You whine at the unfairness of it and he chuckles darkly. “Do you want to know what you taste like?”Your tongue moves over the small cut, tasting rich copper. “Tell me.”He leans in close to your ear and whispers. “Sweet and treacherous temptation.”Your lips curve into a smile, hands running up his back and into his hair. To be able to tempt a devil, to have that sort of power over him. It's little wonder he wants complete control over you, wants to corrupt you. Sharp teeth graze your throat, making your back arch up off the wet tiles as you moan. You choke out his name as he bites deep, the vicious stab of pain lancing through your shoulder, mixing with the pleasure and heat bubbling through your core. It overflows as you pant for air, loud gasping moans filling the bathing room. He growls something in Infernal against your bloody and wet skin, burying himself deep and letting go. Your legs tighten around him as you feel his cock pulse, not wanting to relinquish your hold on him.Raphael laps at the slowing flow of blood, each exhale accompanied by a deep vibrating rumble that sends little tremors of pleasure through your body. He's equally loath to move, the weight of his body resting atop yours, slightly restricting your breathing, making you think all manner of dangerous thoughts.“Take me to bed,” you murmur into the quiet breathing and lap of water against the pools edges.He snorts against your throat, nips at the delicate skin. “You're incorrigible.” Despite the reprimand, he does exactly as you ask.
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It feels like an eternity has passed since the masquerade when it's barely been two days. The de Lazlo estate is gradually returning to normal, stages and dancefloors dismantled, decorations packed up, the extra staff paid and sent on their way. Only there's a tense hush about it all. A sense of disquiet that peaks past the smiles and greetings. Murder. You don't have to ask who it is, even as the question slips past your lips in feigned shock. Lord Morelli. Such a vile crime might not have happened on the grounds of the de Lazlo estate, but a dark cloud rolls over it all the same, quickly overshadowing everything your patrons had wanted to accomplish. The gossip in parlours this morning isn't about the spectacle of creating the Feywild on this plane, the music, food or wine.As you walk to the front of the manor, soft voices reach your ears along with a decidedly more imperious tone. You slow your steps and hang back around the corner as you recognise it; Valeria. Given your increasingly Infernal persuasion, it would be a smart move to stay away from the celestial creature. Just because you can no longer smell the sulphur on your skin, doesn't mean it's not there. You press your lips into a grim line. Maybe the Flaming Fist investigator will be more thorough this time, the duke won't want a court full of angry patriars. It's not a thought that fills you with any joy. It also makes you regret not being more clandestine with your slow walk over to the Privitera estate, not that you could have known how events would play out.“Eavesdropping, are you?”The voice stills your heart for a second, then you take a quiet breath and turn around, offering Devella a sheepish smile. “I'm a bard and, distasteful as it might be, this is prime material for a song,” you admit, soothing over the light accusation.The constable gives you a hard look. “Did you speak to Lord Morelli at the party?” She continues to question.“No. I was busy overseeing the balls musical entertainment and performing myself.” None of it's a lie. You watch her nod, a little of her professional distance easing.“You know what kind of bloody mess this is?” She sighs, irritation creasing her brow. “I thought those damn Bhaalists had been dealt with.” There's a slight note of accusation in her voice as she looks at you.Your mind locks up for a second as you replay her words. “Bhaalists?” There's no need to fake the reaction of being shocked. Why would Raphael...? “Orin is dead.” Sarevok too.“Kill one figurehead, another crawls out of the filth to take their place. Cultists, they're like damn cockroaches,” she curses with distaste, then her expression shifts, looking at you with consideration. “Would you maybe...?”“Oh, no! No no no.” You wave your hands in dismissal as you realise what she's eluding to. “I'm not being roped into this. I'm just a humble bard and I want to stay that way, thank you.”“I don't think you get to be humble when you literally saved everyone from the Absolute,” she laughs slightly. “And you do have experience with how the cult operates.”“You want to know where their temple is, I'll circle it on a map. Otherwise, I'm retired.” You are not doing this. Not going to be pulled into doing the Fists job for them. Not by them, not by anyone else.“It could give you a lot of juicy information for a song,” she tries to bait.“Retired,” you repeat, slowly and clearly. “You signed up for a life of this work, I was dragged into an adventure kicking and screaming with an illithid worm in my head.” You take a steadying breath and pull back on the anger before it can spark higher. “I just want to forget. I've enough nightmare fuel to last me a second lifetime.” You watch as her eyes move to your cut lip and darken a little. Maybe she knows something of nightmares, it wouldn't surprise you.“I can respect that, but maybe let the dust settle on this before you start singing about a patriars murder. I'll see you around.” She takes her leave, walks the rest of the way down the hallway to join Valeria.You can remember the garret room clearly and there was nothing remotely Bhaalist about its ornamentation. Despite the dust and decay, it was simple and clean in its design and intent, had none of the gaudy trappings of Bhaal's temple. Is this another twisted game? Does Raphael want to see how you'll handle this? It feels off. Just like the energy inside the manor. There's more to this, though what that could possibly be.... You rub at your eyes, feeling tired and worn down by it all. If only you truly were retired. Better to make yourself scarce. You don't make it far before almost striding headlong into Marta.“Oh, I've been looking everywhere for you!” She calls out in hushed tones. “This is just awful, all of it.” She takes your hand, urging you to follow her. “We need to talk away from those horrid investigators.”“Have they been here long?” You slept late for obvious reasons.“All morning,” she laments. “It's hardly a positive, but at least we aren't the only household being questioned.” Marta hurriedly leads you to the sunroom, closing the doors behind you both with a heavy sigh and leaning against them. “There's scandal and then there's... this!”“You should sit, my lady. I'll pour you some tea and then I can play something soothing for you.” Leading her away from the door, Marta all but flops down on the chaise. You watch her out of the corner of your eye as you pour the tea, very aware of the uncharacteristic tension in the air.“Thank you.” She takes the teacup, her expression glum and a wariness in her eyes that you aren't used to seeing. “Why did you react so poorly to seeing Morelli at the party?”The question doesn't take you off guard, it's the one you've been expecting to hear from her. It's better to know right now if it's information she's already shared with the investigators. “Did you mention that to the Fist?”Marta looks at you, almost as though she's offended by the question. “No.”She could be lying, but you doubt it. The de Lazlo's won't want any extra scrutiny if it can be avoided. Gods damn you Raphael. Keep the lie simple. You sit down opposite her, stirring your tea. “It feels so stupid, embarrassing. I thought I'd matured past the slight.”She frowns, leaning forward. “What do you mean?”“Every upcoming bard on the Sword Coast knows about his championing of music and poetry, and like many of those bards, I tried to get myself noticed and sponsored. I failed. It was nothing salacious, just a very curt rejection letter I kept and brooded on for an embarrassing amount of time. I guess my pride is still wounded all these years later, especially given how wrong he was in his judgement.” You stare out of the picture windows to the garden beyond, mirroring her dour energy.“Mmm, I've heard tails of his sharp tongue,” she agrees easily enough, then she moves as if uncomfortable, trying to cover it by taking a sip of the bright amber tea. “There is one other matter I'm curious about. The time I had to account for my whereabouts, you were absent from the estate.”You dip your head, letting a pink flush creep across your cheeks. “Given what you saw at the masquerade, I'm sure you can figure out who I was with. Though the other party might not want me naming them.” A patriar courting a commoner is not something that is for public consumption, is deeply frowned upon. It happens, of course. But you know Marta will understand the need for propriety, the need for secrecy to protect reputations.A little of her normal brightness returns to her eyes and she levels a conspiratorial look at you. “You didn't,” she whispers with a hint of a scandalous smile. “I would love to hear all the details about that particular individual.”That's something you definitely won't be sharing. “Can I ask for your discretion in this matter? It's bad enough that this happened at the estate he was looking to purchase.” So many questions tumble about your mind, chiefly the one about how the body was even found so quickly. Privitera's estate is all but shunned, no one goes there, not even for the macabre interest of it. You're going to have some very choice words for the devil the next time he shows up.Marta reaches across the low table and pats your hand reassuringly. “Of course. Maybe I should offer for him to stay here until this nasty business is concluded.”“So you can better try and lure him into your chambers?” You challenge lightly, meaning it as a tease and suddenly feeling the unexpected bite of possessive jealousy. You very quickly pack it away.She gives you a coy look. “Whatever do you dare to imply.” Then she laughs. “You know full-well Aless and I would happily entertain you both.”You remember well how pleasurable their company is, though if either of them laid hands or lips on you in desire, the consequences would be unthinkable. Raphael would no doubt void their usefulness in favour of some horrific punishment. And given this new sense of your own jealousy, you might react no better.“I don't suppose in all this mess that Gale actually bothered to meet with you?” You push past the spiralling of your thoughts. Better to turn the conversation towards something that might offer your mind a distraction.“He did, briefly. Is he normally so rude? I expected better manners from an archwizard,” she asks, clearly disappointed.You draw in a breath between your teeth. “He can come across a little condescending, yes. Was it at least helpful?” You can well imagine how the conversation went.“Not really,” Marta pouts, staring past the surface of her tea. “His terms are that we employ him as an arcane advisor, to validate the crowns authenticity for our business associate. But I just can't shake this awful feeling that something is amiss.”“Has your associate voiced any misgivings?” If Gale really can reforge the Crown, they may be happy to let matters carry on as they are. Let the wizard do the hard work and then make a grab for it. Though that still leaves the Netherstones.“Not at the moment. Though we don't see them all that often. Honestly, I'll be glad to see this whole affair brought to a close,” she sighs wistfully.There won't ever be an end. Even if the de Lazlo's get everything they bargained for, position and influence in exchange for the Crown. Whichever devil sits on their shoulder will continue to whisper temptations. Rewards of power or sated lusts, whatever it takes to keep influential pawns under their thumb. How many unwitting souls will the de Lazlo's pull into their masters web. Not that you're in any position to judge, and you definitely aren't about to start examining the deeper dynamics between Raphael and you.“For what little worth my words have; when this is over, don't allow yourselves to be pulled back in again. The cost will never be worth what they offer.” You can almost hear the devil's deep and dark chuckle in your ear.“Your tone suggests you have experience,” Marta notes, curiosity ravenous as always.“There are entire collections of tales and poems about the subject,” you explain easily. “Have you and Alessando decided on what to do about Gale's offer?”She places the teacup down, hands folding in her lap. “Honestly, it's all erroneous. The ducal authorities are refusing to allow the piece found to leave their custody.” Marta looks up at you through her eyelashes, expression pensive. “Do you think they know what it really is?”Of course they do, or the people that matter do. “Wyll knows as well as I what the Crown is and what it's capable of.”“Then it was all a trap.” Her normally light laugh is forced and humourless, her shoulders sagging.“Tell me you read the terms of your contract.” It could be as lenient as Astarion's, a deed for a deed, no souls involved.Marta doesn't answer, maybe she can't. Your talk has grown increasingly pointed rather than skirting the subject at a safe distance. She goes to lift her teacup and it rattles against the saucer, forcing her to put it back down. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. “This isn't what we wanted.”The sudden change in her demeanor is all the information you need. You quickly move to sit next to her and curve an arm across her narrow shoulders, letting her quietly weep against you. It's hard to stop the internal voice that berates you for being a hypocrite. They're both damned. Because there's no way in all the Hells you're letting anyone but Raphael claim the Crown.~~*-*~~Given the increasingly sombre mood of the estate, you decide it best to stay out of the way. Your own mood is no better, feeling heavier and darker after your talk with Marta. Retreating to your rooms, your mind settles to the one thing that has always been a solace. Music. It's surprising how easily the writing comes and, given Raphael's temperamental outbursts, it's better to keep your work away from him. But for as much as you write, there's something that itches in the back of your skull, stirs a sense of unease. You killed in cold blood and feel nothing, simply returning to living your life and navigating its increasingly complex mess. Killing to survive the nautiloid and escape, it had sickened you, been the fuel to start the nightmares. And now? Is it numbness, denial? Still, maybe those options are preferable to feeling a sense of enjoyment. You're slowly changing in ways you don't truly understand. The games you play are taking you further and further into the dark. It's moved beyond lust and fascination. When you vowed your loyalty to the devil, you meant it. There's no underlying deception to try and buy yourself more time.You place the quill back onto its stand and take a breath. Shouldn't your conscience be in a tumult? Or is this what Raphael meant when he spoke of torturing yourself with foolish notions of guilt and regret. Maybe you've taken his advice and stopped.One thing you know for certain is that you've been cooped up in this house for too long. The staff should be done with cleaning everything away and you can enjoy an evening stroll in the gardens alone. Afterwards you can drop by the kitchens and see what's on offer. In truth, you would much prefer to leave the estate entirely and eat out. What is there to fear from the Fist? Wyll knows you're here, knows whose side you've stepped to.Getting to your feet, you catch sight of yourself in the dressing mirror and turn towards it. A vivid memory playing in your mind of standing here with Raphael before the masquerade, of seeing yourself in an almost diabolical fashion. The afterimage still stirs you. A temptation. A possibility. But not the whole truth. The Hells don't work like that, not according to what Karlach had told you one night. A conversation that came about when you asked her exactly what a lemure was. As far as you understand it, there's no way to circumvent Hells hierarchical structure and your fate is sealed. If you survive being canon-fodder in the Blood War, you might be promoted up a rung and so-on. A process as long as it is agonising. So enjoy life and all it has to offer now, eh?“The boss will spread hours doing that, preening in the mirror.”“One of these days you and Raphael will learn what a door is for.” You turn to see Korrilla standing over by the writing desk, pawing at the drafts you've inked.“Feeling a little snippy today, are we?” She smiles, completely unfazed by your attitude.It only stirs your temper higher. “Whose idea was the Bhaalist theme to cover up Morelli's murder? Do you have any idea how much trouble you've caused?” You snatch the sheet music from her hand and place it back on the writing desk.“Strangely enough, Raphael isn't in the business of undermining his own agents. That doesn't mean that others won't.” She's lost a little of the jovial humour, eyes turning harder.You take the sting of the mildly spoken reprimand, suddenly wishing it had been a petty gesture or a test to see how well you perform under pressure. “No one followed me.” You say the words, but you don't know for sure. Given your mental state and the fact you were nursing the mother of all hangovers.Korrilla's dark lips quirk. “No one you saw.”This day is just getting better as the hours tick by. “Is the next note slipped under my door going to be a blackmail demand,” you snort. “Though who did leave that note?” There had been no wax seal, and if it arrived by way of a messenger or member of the estates staff, anyone could have read it.“There's nothing to track back from it, the boss left it himself. I'm here to tell you to start watching your back,” she says with a knowing glint in her eyes.Of course Raphael delivered it personally, knowing full-well what you had done. It makes you feel queasy to know he had likely stood at the foot of the bed as you slept next to a tiefling who made a very poor substitute for him. Idiot. Being drunk only accounted for so much, you knew what you were doing and why, you just didn't care.“You should also know the stakes are being lifted. Some clever shit worked out that they can use the one crown fragment they have to better pinpoint the rest. It's called sympathetic connection, or contagion, depends on the application. Court gossip is, Ravengard wants to display it as a showpiece at his inauguration ball. It's a trap, obviously. Lure out the players, see what happens.” By her expression she doesn't have a very high opinion of the duke's move. You're of a mind to agree with her.“That sounds like it comes with the risk of a lot of collateral damage if matters go awry.” It also strikes you as very un-Wyll like behaviour.Korrilla smiles, obviously sharing none of your concern. “There's the potential. But I see any confrontation happening away from the guests. Somewhere quiet and private.”“How long do you think it'll take with this sympathetic magic?” You can feel the clock ticking in the back of your head again.“A few days, a week or two. Depends how far they've sunk into the muck.” She's watching you closely even though her tone is back to being as amiable as ever.You try to hold back the sudden onrush of anxiety. The worst thing you can do is act in haste with an unclear mind, doing so might end your life quicker than the devil for failing him a second time. It's difficult not to feel overwhelmed, this new threat of someone following you, needing to have a plan and having no idea where to start. You doubt the de Lazlo's know anything of what's happening with the dredging. Gale might, but there's no reason for him to leave his tower. Anyone who wants the Crown reforged will have to go to him.“I don't suppose Raphael is secretly a scholar of Netherese magic?” Because as far as you understand it, the only other option is Mephistopheles.“Try not to worry so much,” Korrilla suggests, brushing off your concern. “I dare say you'll receive a letter from the duke shortly, one asking you to perform at his inauguration ball. The boss wants you to accept, write something fitting for the occasion.” By the cheeky turn of her smile, you know exactly what the devil means by his suggestion.“Trust that there's a plan?” You ask, finding it hard to keep the waspishness out of your tone. It would be nice to know what that plan actually is, the one that's been in motion since you set foot back in the city. “I'll go and see Dammon, get something better than a plain dagger.” Maybe some sort of lightweight leather jerkin too, and here you'd been hoping to never wear armour again.“There's no need.” Korrilla waves a hand in the space between you and a matte black blade materialises. “Give me your ring too, I'll enchant it with a bladeward.”You slip the cold metal from your finger and hand it to her, then you pluck the blade out of the air. Not quite long enough to qualify as a shortsword, but far more substantial than your dagger. It's surprisingly light and well balanced. “This have any tricks I should know about?” Like eavesdropping on conversations.“It sends the souls of anyone killed straight to the House,” Korrilla smirks, letting you hang for a few moments. “I jest. It won't break or lose its sharpness, can cut through just about anything. The sheath is enchanted to avoid mishaps.” She mutters a few words and hands the ring back. “It's a one time deal, like the counterspell, so either run or kill them before they try again. You know, it's a wonder to me that you still seem so uncertain, lost. There's a home waiting for you, allies, people who enjoy your company. Even with everything you've faced, done, you still cling to the hope there's a way out of this. I don't know if it's intentional or an instinctual survival response. Why be content to survive when you can live and live well?”Is that how you seem to her? You almost feel ashamed at being so transparent. “What if giving up hope feels like defeat?”Her eyebrow lifts, like she's surprised by the thought. “You're not defeated, you've accepted that you can become so much more than you once were. Did accepting the comfort and friendship of past companions diminish you? Did learning at the knee of your mentor lessen your own talent? The stigma associated with devilkin is one made up by the stupid and ignorant, those too foolish to read rules or abide by terms they agreed. You could carve quite the niche in the Hells, bards aren't the usual form of entertainment.”Her serpents tongue is almost as convincing as Raphael's, but nothing she says is a lie. You rub at your eyes, feeling the stirrings of a headache. “Is there anything else I need to know, or can I sink into a bath with a large glass of wine?”“Don't worry about the Fist's investigation into Morelli, I'll see it cut off. I suggest keeping your eyes on your patrons, something is afoot and you need to be alert to it.” She winks and leaves through a conjured portal that smells faintly of the Infernal.Sit tight, let the mice run around and watch the play unfold. Only the consequences were real and eternal. If only you could find a way to uncover the identity of which devil is using the de Lazlo's and why. If it's their machinations that saw the Fist informed about Morelli. No. Stop. Stop thinking. Bath. Wine. Sleep. Tomorrow will be soon enough to start asking questions.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Heavy rain streaks the sunroom windows, the clouds low and iron grey. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles. You slept poorly, a litany of almost lucid nightmares tormenting you one after the other. Of being in your room and seeing someone watching you who wasn't the devil. It never spoke, never moved. Its very presence smothering you in a blanket of anxious dread. Every time you thought you managed to wake yourself up, it was a lie. Your body pulled back down into pressing darkness. You feel irritable and fatigued, wishing for nothing more than to be excused from your duties for the rest of the day. No such luck is granted you and only adds to your irritation, especially when Gerrad informs you that Lady de Lazlo is feeling unwell and won't be in need of you. Alessando, however....You fail to hold back the tired sigh, feeling your shoulders slump. If feels like an age since melancholia of this depth has bothered you. What you should do is take a walk in the summer rain while it's here. To walk and keep walking. Right under Wyrm's Rock Fortress, through the Crossing, past Rivington. A laugh passes your downturned lips. Do you feel like this because part of you still hopes? Still entertains dreams of escaping even when you know you can't?“Is the rain really that fascinating?” A deep voice asks you.“It has a certain melancholic beauty.” You suppose devils don't have much use for it, or such foolish sentiments. “I loved to be out in summer storms as a child. It felt....” You suddenly remember who you are talking to and cut yourself short. “It doesn't matter.”“Powerful,” Raphael finishes for you.Raw, wild, cleansing. Like you could do anything. “Yes.”His lips curve in satisfaction. “So you weren't afraid of it as a child.”You aren't afraid now, it's just.... “A child has no understanding of the price or the consequence.” Why must your mind be like this? Why can't you be resolved? Have you not made the choice to stand at his side? You lift a hand to rub at your eyes, the throb at the front of your head no less than it had been last night. Given how poorly rested you are, it's hardly a surprise. You blink your eyes, trying to refocus them and look across at the devil. He's watching you, his expression neutral, all except for the slight pinch between his eyebrows.“Are you unwell, my dear,?” He asks the question easily enough, but something lingers in the back of his topaz eyes.“Ill rested, you know how it is.” Nightmares or your inner conflict, both are ambrosia to him.“What did you see?” He asks expectantly, relaxing back on the chaise.“I was awake, but not. Everything looked and felt so real, the bed, the wall murals, the open balcony doors. I couldn't move, couldn't speak. Someone was with me, no face or form, standing at the foot of the bed. Watching. Pressing down.” You can't suppress the shiver. “They've never been like that before, so real. They're usually abstract, disjointed.”“And how do you feel now?”His carefully asked question catches you off guard and you hold his gaze a moment, searching it for a clue as to what he's thinking and finding nothing. “I don't know how to describe it other than being muted or colourless. Like I'm being pressed into the ground.” You only began to feel like this after that night the devil took you through those layers of the Hells.Raphael takes a breath to speak when the sunroom doors open and Lord de Lazlo walks in. You stand on heavy legs and bow slightly at the waist. He doesn't seem his usual self, there's distance in his dark eyes, worry lines across his brow. Maybe it's to be expected with Marta feeling unwell.“I apologise for keeping you waiting.” He shakes Raphael's hand as he gestures for him to sit. “I hear you have withdrawn your petition to take over the Privitera estate. I hope this doesn't mean you'll be returning to Cormyr.”You sit quietly as they talk, keeping your fingers off the lute strings until you are requested to play. As Alessando talks, you feel a little of the weight lift off your shoulders. The Fist aren't pursuing investigations amongst the nobility. Instead, a raiding party is currently working its way through the Lower City's sewer system. Wyll knows the locations of old Bhaalist havens as well as you do. Hopefully it will be enough to quell any disquiet from the patriars and those who survive Morelli.Raphael agrees easily to the offer of staying at the de Lazlo's manor, which surprises you. Given his comings and goings at all hours, you thought he'd be resistant to the obvious restrictions staying here will present. You feel your mood darken, the same feeling of being outside the loop worming deeper into your chest. There is a plan, one you aren't privy to beyond accepting an invitation that might arrive at some point.Your gaze drifts from the two men, back to the window and the rain beyond. The day is still overly warm and humid, water vapour hanging like a shroud over the lawns and back towards the trees. Tension creeps into your shoulders as you lean forward on your stool a little. There! Between the trees, something dark, maybe hooded. With all the water running down the glass, it's hard to make it out properly, each new rivulet distorting what you see, making you second-guess yourself.You don't hear the lute drop to the floor, don't realise you're standing and moving towards the large windows. The glass pane feels unnaturally cold under the touch of your hands. What are you? You startle out of the trance as Alessando places a hand on your shoulder. A slow blink and you turn to look at him, can see the concern in his eyes before you look back towards the trees. There's nothing there. Maybe there never was. What in the Hells is wrong with me?“Why don't you return to your rooms,” Alessando says with gentle concern. “It has been a trying few days.”“Thank you, my lord.” You glance past his shoulder to see Raphael looking out into the gardens, his brow knitted.“I'll have someone bring you a warning drink.” Alessando smiles.You offer a quick curtsey and flee the room, feeling eyes on you that aren't the devil's.It's not your rooms that you retreat to, there's no solace to be found in the act of creating music, nothing you can settle your mind to and shake off this disturbing malaise. Instead, you slip out a back door and into the gardens beyond, careful not to pass in sight of the sunrooms windows. Warm rain soaks you through in moments and you push your hair back from your face. You had seen someone. Or something. Probably just a grounds person, no call to be letting bad dreams make you so paranoid, you try to reason.Outside, the humidity feels stifling, the mist rising from the heated ground seeming to cling around your legs. You reach the treeline without really remembering walking towards it and a sense of apprehension finally begins to bite into your mind. You shouldn't be doing this. Even with the warning ringing in your mind, you take a step forward.Sweat runs down your back along with the rain, your hands brushing against damp bark and lush fern fronds. The soothing patter of rain against the canopy of leaves above your head, it stirs so many memories, causes your mind to wander. You danced out in the rainstorms in the Feywild too. A time in your life when nothing mattered but your own freedom to express yourself through song and dance. Sometimes you wonder why you ever returned to this plane, why your mentor made you go.A branch cracks, snapping you out of the memories as you suck in a sharp breath, turning around. There's nothing, just lush green foliage, the rich scents of the damp earth. You look between the trees, taking a moment to try and listen beyond the white noise of the rain.“I know you're here,” you call out.There's a small voice telling you what you should have done, like picking up the blade Korrilla gave you before wandering out here. You aren't stupid. You know someone is watching you, following, trying to mess with you. None of this is Raphael's style, it's all too cliché.“There something you want to tell me? Now's your chance.” You hold out your hands away from your sides, slowly turning in a circle. Razor narrow claws scratch the back of your neck and you whirl around to see nothing. You swallow, heart beating too fast. This is a mistake. You need to go back to the manor.“What did you see?”You hear the voice, but don't register the words. Turning almost drunkenly to see the devil. He steps in close, too warm hands coming to rest on either side of your face, making the chilled skin prickle.“What did you see?” Raphael repeats, slower, firmer.The confusion you feel abates only a fraction, his grip stopping you from turning your head away from him as your eyes dart at every sound. “I don't.... I don't know.”“Yes, you do,” he presses. “Tell me.”You need to look, to go deeper and find it. “A shape, a figure. By the treeline.”“Like your nightmare?” There's a harder edge in his voice now.You nod, brow furrowing. “What did you do to me? What really happened when I killed my father, when you took me through those layers of the Hells?” You drank his blood too.Raphael's head tilts, gaze hardening and anger simmering. “You know what happened.” He takes a breath as if to force control over himself. “What you're feeling, this... oppression. Come with me.”He lets go of you, turning sharply, but you don't follow him. Feet turning back towards the deeper wood, something is pulling at your mind. It almost feels like those few times Haarlep got too deep into your head, only there's nothing sensual about this. You feel....“Enough of this!”A hand closes over your shoulder and suddenly you're no longer standing amongst the trees, you're inside and blinking like you've woken from a stupor. “What...?” Raphael is slipping free the small buttons down the front of your blouse, pushing the soaked material back off your shoulders. You bat at his hands, in no mood to indulge whatever want all this has stirred in him.“You would rather catch your death?” He arches an eyebrow, his mood clearly no better than yours.“I'm not cold.” The rain had been warm, the humid air of the day like a wet blanket.“Then why are you shivering like a drowned mouse?” He snaps.You blink slowly, your eyes finally focusing on him rather than through him. He's as soaked as you are, dark hair plastered back from his face, beads of rain clinging to those impossibly long eyelashes. There's anger in those topaz eyes, and something else behind it. You take a deep shuddering breath, gradually becoming aware that you are shivering, teeth chattering inside your skull. Your hands drop to your sides.“I don't..., what just happened?” You're finding it hard to remember anything after leaving the sunroom.Raphael's hands return to undressing you. “Given your lack of focus and dark mood, I'd say you're being oppressed,” he explains easily enough, but you know him well enough now to notice the seething anger behind it. “My question is; why?”Sodden clothes fall to the floor around your feet. Oppressed? “By what?” You let him turn you towards the bathing room, down the sunken steps into the water that feels too hot, prickling your chilled skin.“Strange that this only started after the masquerade. Patriars do have a nasty habit of playing at séances.” The disapproval is clear in his voice as he follows you down into the water.That is not a pleasant thought. “It's always possible.” You sink down into the water, closing your eyes. Listening as glass bottles clink, scents of warming pepper and clove, the deeper luxury of patchouli. “I wonder if this is why Marta is abed.”“Come here.” Raphael pulls you back against his chest, the warmth that always radiates so fiercely from his body, seeping into yours. The physical connection slowly helping your mind to feel more present.“So it could be some sort of manifestation, a ghost, or some such.” After the debacle with that damn painter, dealing with malignant spirits is not a problem you need right now. “Or lingering bad energy.”Raphael scoffs against the back of your neck. “Negative energy that causes people to see things, to feel drained and confused? Mortals will always play with the forbidden, have the arrogance to think they can control it.”Well, you are living proof of such arrogance. “I'll talk to Alessando about it, suggest calling in a cleric.”At least this should be a problem that's easy to solve. Still, if what happened to you last night and out in the gardens is just the result of a poorly performed séance, why does Raphael look so angry, so.... Your mind locks up and you go very still as a damp sponge touches your shoulder, moving in slow circles over your chilled skin, up across the back of your neck and down the opposite shoulder. He's... bathing you?“You should try and relax,” he purrs in such an over the top manner, he knows exactly how much his actions are affecting you.You make a grab for the sponge as it moves across your collarbone, only for him to pull it out of your reach with a chuckle. “I can bathe myself,” you snip at him.“Don't you want me to?” Raphael feigns the tone of being hurt like the master he is.“No.”“Why?”“Because.” It's too personal, too intimate. It feels such an absurd thing to say aloud given the carnal pleasures you've shared, but it's just sex. Fucking, if you chose to be crass. Not.... “I don't like the way it makes me feel.”“Which is?” He mercilessly persists.Can devils care? Every instinct tells you the answer is no. Can they play at the emotion to get what they want? Of course. Raphael's a cambion, a half-fiend. Which also means he's half-human too. Maybe somewhere deep in him, buried under his dominant devilish aspect, there are human motivations and feelings. It's a dangerous path to let your mind walk down, and asking him straight won't go well. Worship, loyalty, these are things you know he wants, can feel. So why does he keep making these small intimate gestures? Are they completely unconscious, or does he do it purely because he can taste the depth of the conflict it causes in you.“I'm not an invalid!” You snap, lashing out with your frustration and confusion, making another grab for the sponge.He laughs, easily holding it out of your reach. “I see a little of your temperament is returning.”Well, there is your answer. It's a ploy to get a rise out of you, to help bring you back to yourself. Twisting in his lap, you near climb over him to try and take the sponge away. Bastard! You stretch higher, losing your footing on the slick tiles of the pools floor. Your head goes under the water, panic gripping your heart. Hands reach for your body and you lash out at them as you try to get your feet back on the bottom of the pool. It's impossible to see past the churned up water and your lungs are burning. You know water is about to flood your nose and mouth, and it's not going to be like that illusion of sinking through the Styx.Coughing, heaving for air, you blindly dig your nails into the tiles around the edge of the pool, trying to anchor yourself there. But you're roughly turned over, insistent hands pulling at your body, hungry lips moving over your wet skin as you struggle to get your breathing and heart rate under control.Blinking water from your eyes, feeling the devil's greedy hands running over your body, you give up on holding onto your anger, your misreading of the moment. You take a deep and shuddering breath, fist a hand into his wet hair to pull his lips from your throat, ignoring his grumble of a warning. It's all bluster at this point, you're damn sure he likes it.You guide him to your waiting lips, kissing him with desperate hunger, prising his lips apart so you can taste him. He rumbles again at your demands, wresting control from you as he presses you back into the tiles. It quickly descends into a mess of wet open-mouthed kisses, a sparring of tongues as you refuse to bend to him. Such blatant disrespect only spurring him to louder and deeper growls. The bastard can grumble all he likes to placate his ego, but his body openly betrays just how much he's enjoying the tussle.Arching your back, using the water for added buoyancy, you wrap your legs around his waist and grind up against his arousal. His grip on you tightens, lifting you bodily out of the water. A few striding steps and you're falling backwards onto the bed and bringing him down with you. There's a surge of triumph as he suddenly rolls so he's the one on his back.“As you're being so insistent,” Raphael rumbles darkly against your lips.You sit back, shifting to straddle him better, hands moving over the damp skin of his chest as you entertain a number of ludicrous thoughts. “Would you ever let me tie you down?”“Absolutely not,” he chuckles, a dangerous glint in his eyes.“Shame.” It's not worth pressing him, and it's not like you expected a different answer.Raphael lifts his hands from your thighs, laces them behind his head and relaxes back into the covers. He says nothing, only watches you expectantly. It's as good as he'll ever give and you're more than happy to take it. You lean down, run firm hands over his shoulders, up into his hair and kiss him. An idea begins to take shape in your mind and you purposely slow the kiss down, turn frenzied heat into languid sensuality. Selfishly taking your time with every kiss, every caress of your tongue against his. You let your body lay supine atop his, the odd restless roll of your hips feeding into the slow burn of your need. He's far more indulgent of your whims than you expect, but you've barely gotten into just what you want to do to him.You let his lips go, sliding a hand from his hair to ghost down the side of his body, in at the curve of his hip. You lift your body enough to slide it between you both, firmly palming the length of his erection. The low rumble he vocalises, the way it vibrates through to your body, it's something you'll never get tired of hearing. How it sends a jolt of desire right through the centre of your core. You squeeze him, lips trailing down the edge of his defined jaw as your hand moves lower to cup his balls. He bucks into the touch as you fondle him, the sudden tension in his body making you brace in expectation of being thrown on your back. Raphael subsides with another of those rumbling purrs and you smile against the damp and too warm skin of his neck.Soft, biting kisses, your tongue tasting the sweat of his skin as you slowly pleasure him. Taking your own pleasure straight from him, how his firm body feels under yours, the elevated beat of his heart, the heavier breathing. And it's all your doing. Power, as Raphael would call it. You inch down his chest, touching, tracing fingertips over every line and curve and dip, always keeping your touch lighter than he likes. This is about your selfishness and satisfaction.Lower. Slowly. You can feel how taut the muscles of his abdomen are under your lips, the small tremors that run through his thighs as he holds himself back. That he hasn't reprimanded you or voiced a demand, is surprising. Maybe he's decided this is a challenge, or that he'll never utter anything that sounds like begging. Well, you aren't done with him yet.You lift your hand from his cock, lick the glistening trail that's leaked over your fingers and softly moan. Heady musk, heavy need. Your lips close around the deeply flushed head, sliding down his length. It's obscene how good he tastes, how hot the act makes you feel. He hasn't let you do this since that first night he took you to his House of Hope. Why, you've never asked him, and it's all the more reason to savour it now.You take as much of him as you can, feel the delicious way his thickness fills your mouth. Gently, you suckle on him, your tongue moving against the rigid underside. You're quietly moaning around him without even realising it, your own hips rocking as you hold down his. The heavy weight of him slips from your mouth, tongue lapping over the leaking head before moving down his length to the tightness of his sac. Oh, he's so very close. You smirk at the thought, swirling the tip of your tongue against the delicate and drawn tight skin. Do you encourage him to climax, or deny him? Fair's fair.You sit back, wiping a finger delicately across your lower lip, like a lady at luncheon. Topaz eyes glare absolute murder and you smile with all the innocence of an angel.“There maybe something you want, my dear?” You know it's a dangerous game and you don't care.Your back hits the bed, the musical laugh of triumph you make silenced by savage lips. Teeth and claws and you arch off the bed and up against him as he drives himself into your wet heat. His body moulded against yours, roughly pulling you closer, every thrust hard and deep and perfect. You pull at his hair as his claws dig into your arse, legs squeezing tight around his waist.“Raphael!”As your mind and body light with rapture, as he whispers your name like a prayer and comes undone inside you, a small voice laments that this can't be forever.~~*-*~~You stir awake. It's dark beyond the balcony windows, a single flickering candle burnt halfway down on the bedside table. Your head is pillowed on the devil's thigh as he sits up against the headboard. You lay still, keeping your breathing deep and even in an attempt to fool him into thinking you're still asleep. Raphael's hand rests on the top of your arm, occasionally his fingers move against your skin, idle patterns, soft pressure. It makes something ache deep inside you.“Shouldn't you get some sleep?” You ask, breaking the spell before it can work any deeper.His idle caresses stop. “Devils don't need to rest the same way mortals do.”Really? It's never stopped him before. There's something more going on, it's been in the back of his eyes all afternoon and evening. Watchful, refusing to let you leave his company. “What aren't you telling me?”“About?”“In the sunroom. I saw you looking out of the window, the way you were frowning.” Your hands curve around his thigh. “There's been this look in the back of your eyes, and now you sit here awake.”“I like to watch you sleep. How else am I to indulge when the nightmares creep into your unguarded mind,” Raphael purrs.He's trying to put you off, you know he is. “It wasn't a nightmare last night, was it?” You can feel the goosebumps rise along your arm, the chill run the length of your spine.There's a long pause before he answers. “No, it wasn't. And you are going to leave dealing with it to me.”What? You sit up and turn to look at him. His expression is unreadable, eyes hard and cold as the gems they look so much like. “I've dealt with denizens of the undead before.”“Yes, in the company of a cleric, wizard and whomever else you decided to let tag along. You were half-enthralled when I pulled you from the woods,” he warns coolly. “Leave this alone.”So that's why you were shivering in the stifling heat of the summer rain. You want to argue, protest that you can help, but it's your wounded pride talking. It's impossible to deny his point. Scowling, you settle back down against his thigh. “Okay.”Raphael's hand rests back on your arm, fingers squeezing. “Promise me.”This is.... He has no interest in watching you stumble and flounder, of feeding on your conflict and fear? In his own way, he's trying to protect you. The realisation sparks a storm of emotions you have no hope of sorting through at this hour. You take a breath before answering. “I promise.”The pressure lessens, turning back to idle caresses. “You should keep Marta company tomorrow.”An order, or suggestion. Something to keep you occupied. You focus on the feel of his soft touches, that note of genuine worry he let slip in his tone when asking for your word. Eventually, they lull you back to sleep.