A/N: And of course, because I feed on pain, let's focus on someone else!
Interlude 5: The Magician's Herald
First life
The stare in silence had a sound all it's own. The Warden had that effect on the room.
Many of her subordinates would commit unsanctioned vigilantism to learn exactly how she did that, but the thing about the Warden (along with her insistence on remaining nameless, nobody sane asked twice, largely due to the loud stare) was that she honestly didn't know herself; the old githzerai simply disapproved hard enough, and suddenly a berk's timestream was visible to him.
"You hesitated."
"Yes ma'am," the Justicar said, trying to remain stiff despite everything in his body, those instincts he inherited from his tiger-headed mother telling him this woman is a predator stronger than you, there is no shame in retreat. "I panicked."
"Why."
"There was an innocent, ma'am." The factotum inhaled. "I...had not prepared my spells properly for that possibility."
"And."
"I did not bring the proper first aid, ma'am," he replied, stiffly. "I made a value judgement and put an innocent life ahead of Law."
"The factol would be proud," the Warden said, her tone making it clear exactly what she thought of that pride. "Sadly, the Bailiff, for your..ethics, is safely back in Arborea, and will likely arrive at the conference with the files. Ten years of work, lost to our homegrown knights of the cross trade. For a situation you caused."
"In fairness ma'am, I didn't realize he would stoop to bargaining with mind flayers. I thought the Baliff was more akin to the legitimate Harmonium, ma'am," the factotum continuing more because it was expected than because it was a defense of his actions.
"The Union!?" the Warden suddenly bellowed, her stare turning into actual loudness. "The Ortho Union is not debased!? Have you paid any attention to the briefings, soldier!?"
"Yes ma'am. The Union is a relic of the time all three of the Enforcers of Sigil lost their way, ma'am," the factotum continued, automatically. "They are a symptom of all disorder within Law, the embodiments of all that is our personal shame."
"Yes. So tell me; why in the name of all that is just in the planes did you leave an illithid, of all things, alive to warn him in the first place!?"
...Telling the truth would lead to less pain in the long term.
"I...considered parleying with it for intelligence to be more productive in the long term. It was simply fair to leave it be, ma'am."
The stare returned. Even colder this time.
"And because you thought slavery was not a large enough crime to be worth distracting your pursuit, you allowed this entire sordid catastrophe to unfold. Your continuing existence in the Red Death is nearly as much of a shame as the Union."
"Not as pertinent to my mission, no."
"Followed by, very recently, refusing to plug an intelligence leak that drew a reporter to the center of Acheron, of all places."
"I wished to pursue the Baliff as quickly as possible, ma'am."
"Even more recently, you decided to instead blow a hole in a base instead of infiltration? Couldn't stand the idea of Ragel getting credit instead?"
"...You wish me to tender my resignation, then?", the Justicar said, swallowing repeatedly.
"I see your heritage isn't completely degraded. You are dismissed, and I expect you to have removed your equipment from the Outpost by the end of the week." She leaned back. "You are dismissed, Mr. Lukic."
"Understood, ma'am." And with that, the soon-to-be ex-factotum quietly rose, and walked away, attempting at dignity.
Right up until he was sure the Warden was out of earshot.
That's when an unfortunate statue exploded.
Stupid!
So, completely, stupid!
An animalistic scream of frustration came from the man as he sank into the rubble, ignoring the dabus glaring at him in disapproval.
How could he have been so addle-coved!?
He knew perfectly well the Baliff was the head of an intelligence network before he bought his way into Union membership. Why wouldn't he have contact among Baator-bound aberrations, especially mind flayers. What kind of barmy was he!?
Oh yes, that's right; a glory-seeking, fame-hogging idiot. He couldn't just be happy with being a Mercykiller, oh no, he had to be the loved Mercykiller, the respected Mercykiller. For example, bringing in a member of the Union in front of photographers, and a Sigilian one at that. Or getting that prize for least damage caused in the course of pursuit. All hail Alphonse Lukic, seeker of the guilty, protector of the innocent.
And now the planar crime syndicate knew about their agents. Knew exactly where to find those brave Guvners who put their lives on the line to stop their errant brethren. And they already proved their willingness to associate with kin to the worst of the exemplar races. At least the suffering caused by kalites would end someday, that was the human-born daemons' mission in life. At least tanar'ri would allow some resistance to arise, if only for the pleasure of crushing all order again, so there would be hope in their world. But baatezu? No freedom, no hope, noend. A strange position for a Mercykiller to take, yes, but the man had long learned that laws were meant to create real freedom rather than anarchy; his mother's own mastery of them was the only reason she was able to save him from that prison.
But no. Because he was so stupid, now the Union had the upper hand, now the cancer was growing once more. All because he just had to allow that leak, now his people were in danger. Now the Union knew where their sworn enemies were, knew where...exactly...to strike...
….Except that would go double for the Union too, wouldn't it. More than that...he had proof of their relationship with the mind flayers. Yes, a tadpole could be faked...but the sworn enemies of illithids probably could tell it was real.
Of course, githyanki were normally banned from the Clerk's Ward for a reason. If they got their hands on the intelligence and records kept there, who knows what their creches could do with that knowledge? The birth of another Vlaakith, maybe? He doubted giving the conquering pirates legal reason to attack the stores would not put thousands of people at risk. That it wouldn't be a crime worthy of the gibbets, at the very least; maybe even anger the Lady.
And the tens of thousands the Union has destroyed?, the voice of his long-dead father replied. The hundreds their ambition will continue to hurt? You aren't a Mercykiller anymore, Al. You don't need to worry about the law in the face of the right.
...Slowly, the man pulled out his planar sextant.
Now, where would a likely creche be…
As the spikes on the intruder's glove retracted, still sparking, years of training immediately took over. First, Tybalt could naturally see in the dark, so the first thing was to ensure he could leverage that over the attackers.
It was only after he was tearing out the meeting room's fusebox that he realized that it may not affect time-anomalous areas, but that turned out to be a non-issue, the lights flickering off. After a quick note to the Protectorate was scratched into the wall besides the box (just in case the inevitable occurred), the agathion returned to mist form and fled into the vents.
Next step; observation. If he was right, this particular duct led to...ah. Wondrous.
["...ying cat?"]
It took a second to remember the strange dual-layering of Celestial and an unfamiliar tongue was simply Tybalts own gift of tongues working. How the planes managed to retrofit everything into this mangled flesh golem of the local language was something of a marvel.
["Yeah, flying cat! A flying cat made of mist!"]
The silvanshee's ear twitched. Sibilant, definitely the hook one associated with hyphens.
["...Sure that isn't the modrons' implants again?"]
Vaguely similar to Elvish, given the deep "r" sound.
["You know what, you're right! Hah! Ain't fooling me again, modrons! I'm on to ya!"]
Huh. Apostrophes. Lots of apostrophes. So, dialect of Elvish that mixed with Abyssal at one point, and-
Oh.
...Moradin's rotgut, oh gods no.
Before he could fully think about how stupid the next course of action might be, he jetted over to the gate, so fast he needed his claws to slow down.
Please don't be drow.
Please don't be drow.
Please don't be-
Not drow. Too short.
Thank Pelor.
Quickly ducking his head back in the duct, Tybalt let out his breath.
But...if the cloaked humanoids currently binding the unconscious Wards in glass fixtures weren't drow, but spoke a similar language…
Who were they?
...Why couldn't Underdark races be on the side of the angels, for once? First thing upon rendezvous with home was to fill this accursed gap in his knowledge…
First death
The bar under the containment tank turned white with heat.
"What...what are you doing!?"
The man at the steam control simply gave a sad smile, and disengaged another safety.
"Stop! That solution is unstable-"
"I know."
Clink. Another safety gone. The tank began to shudder with the force of the internal bubbling, acrid smoke spurting out wherever the cracks had grown visible.
"Al-Alphonse! I order you to stop!"
"Sorry, sir. That would conflict with your other orders; the creature must be destroyed, correct?"
The next safety had to be destroyed to turn off. A little acid sprayed here, and the blue flicker of electricity soon began to illuminate the room.
"Not-not with the castle, too! You'll kill her!"
"She died a long time ago, Doctor," the man said, fusing the valves into their closed position. "It's time we all stopped pretending that things weren't this way." He laughed, bitterly. "Stopped pretending we were better than we are."
"No, no, no, all I need is a little more time, a little more-"
"Resources, Victor?" The man stood up, resolute. "Like Aubrecker? Like the hybridized lycanthropes? Like Adam himself?"
"Alphonse, please!" The natural philosopher's voice had become even more shrill, even more panicked. "You yourself said-"
"I was wrong, Victor." The man turned around. "You were wrong too, but I was being even more myopic than you. Even more selfish."
"S...Selfish!?" The fear had become a snarl of rage. "You impinge my Work too-"
"There is no glory in a hamster on his wheel, Victor." The man sat down, carefully setting his tail aside; surely the Powers could begrudge his last moments being comfortable. "There is no progress, only vainglory, and a sad old man pretending to wisdom he doesn't have."
The philosopher advanced, pulling out a scalpel. "No wisdom!? Who took you in, outlander!? Who found you, lost and alone in that valley, gawking at the stars!? Who designed that device you use to hide your inhuman features, who-"
"Has been nothing but kind to me, I know, Victor." He leaned back. "And I am betraying that kindness for the greater good, I know. I've had experience." And looked at the ceiling. "But before you call out my hypocrisy-did you know Adam has a soul?"
The scalpel clattered to the ground. "W-What?"
"You succeeded, sir. I've actually touched it. The thing is, though...I don't think you willed it into being. It came from somewhere else, somewhere very close by when he opened his eyes for the first time."
"I...I don't-"
"In my travels, Doctor, I once walked with a woman who was born without a soul, through no fault of her own. Sweet woman, kind woman, but very...shallow. Uncreative. Quite vexing for her, honestly, to repeat the same actions, the same experiments constantly and yet never...learn...anything."
"...What...do you mean...to…?"
"I mean, Doctor, that I've figured out why you seem to regenerate; under examination, I couldn't help but notice you and the creature's life forces are akin to Ouroboros."
The tank began to open, a metal flower blooming.
"It's only a theory, but I'm pretty sure you and I are going to the same place if I am correct. So I'll check for you once I'm there."
The flower petals fanned out.
There was a terrible ghastly noise.
For once, just once, Tybalt wished whatever tin of a hiding place he forced himself to stow away in would at least have room for his tail.
Barring that, it could, at least, have some ergonomic considerations. For example, not being directly above the quite rocky ground, with someone who apparently thought the speed limits were more speed suggestions at the wheel. He swore;, a tooth would get loose at this rate.
Thankfully, there was enough of a gap to see through...vaguely. Night, and more recently depth, posed no obstacle, but the issue remained that he doubted this particular hole in the underside of this particular van was much larger than his pupil. So far, all he had gotten was that the entrance to these intruders' hold was still in the city. Nothing worth having for navigation.
And so it continued, for about half an hour; the only thing worth mentioning in the entire ride was the sudden feeling of nausea before he began to detect subtle movements in the rocks the van was going over. Returning to normal time, he supposed. Wondrous.
Eventually, thankfully, things started to slow down. Returning to mist form again, the silvanshee extruded himself from the block long before the van actually stopped; he had no intention of ever getting close to being found, and it was easy enough to catch up.
So, the cavern vault. Could be natural, could be artificial; geography and Underdark engineering wasn't his forte, not hardly. But it looked uncut enough, which meant lots of hiding places.
All he needed to do was-
A truly enormous amount of pain shot through the gaseous body of the silvanshee. Burying his face in the wall to muffle any stray cries, the mist began to congeal into nerves, then bones, then all the way up to skin. It only took three seconds or so, but given how every cell in his mist body suddenly felt its separation from its other cells, it took a quick glance at the position of the parking(in-progress) car to confirm that it wasn't actually that long.
Damnation. Got careless with how long he was keeping that form up. The required sleep cycle before he'd regain control of that ability would take too long, too.
The underhanded way it was, then.
Darting to another alcove, the silvanshee quietly began to take the unfamiliar environment in.
Hm. Lots of glass, a lot of it bulbs built into primitive-looking (compared to the information technology of this world) consoles mounted into the walls. Lots of glowing blue patches on the wall, too, looked like a deliberate fungal growth. That bit over there looked like a loading dock for foragers. Excellent, there was probably enough material for a bag. He also doubted whatever lab they possessed wouldn't have useful chemicals in there...
In the midst of his planning he almost didn't notice when the current young mistress and compatriots were wheeled out on crystalline...stretchers? Looked more like clam-shell plastic casing on wheels…
Couldn't well free them if he didn't know where they were, and following would waste time. After a quick inhale, he discovered no particular scent either. So, how to track-
A bit of dust fell from the ceiling. Inspiration.
Flying up to the ceiling, Tybalt quickly scratched out a tiny bit of material from a point directly above them.
And then his left flank. Wincing, he drew out a bead of blood, which he then mixed with the cavern dirt. And dropped it, directly on what appeared to be Mr. Stans-ahem, Gallant'scontainer.
Direct hit. Unsurprisingly, the kidnappers looked up in annoyance at the now cait sith-less source of the dust, shrugged, and wiped it off. Completely not noticing the fact that a bit of it was red and wet. Three cheers for complacency.
So, now that the clamshell was marked. Time to get to work.
Second life
The volcano was erupting. Lava ate away at the black rock of the mountain, replacing it even as it dissolves. Fire illuminated the black void, making it bright as day despite the lack of even any stars in the black sky.
By the gods, he was bored if he was actively noticing this particular feature now.
Thankfully, the next stretch in his route was a large, relatively flat plain of semi-melted stone. Suicide for an ordinary cavalryman, but most calvarymen didn't ride in Gehenna, let alone on a keshi.
"Keshi. Tsk tsk."
The nightmare snorted in annoyance, before her hooves separated into hardy three-toed claws, ideal for balance. A quick nudge, and the predatory horse quickly picked up pace into a bouncing canter, streaking across the dried lava rock and the flow beneath it, knocking away much of it into the yellow flow as she did. Apart from the occasional leap over a flow, little of the ride was noticeable; just the same volcanic planetoid, with it's all-too-literal Hellishness, the occasional daemonic construction, daemons-
"Whoa."
There was a sense of whiplash as the planar horse grappled the earth and skid to a halt, more great cat than ungulate. Much to his annoyance, the rider's helm shifted, exposing greyish, wrinkled skin to the elements, and moreover, the itching volcanic dust. No matter. A little bit of the contents in his pouch tossed over his shoulder, and…
"Greetings. May I ask you fine gentlemen the way to the embassy?" he said, turning Keshi and himself to face them.
"Lost again, second-chancer?", the leader, a sangudaemon with the head of a locust shot back, blood-formed wings already buzzing in anticipation. "Oh, it's simple- simply put your head between your knees and expose a tasty bit."
"Oh come now," the rider began, sighing. "I've heard that line, oh, six times in the past Sigilian quarter? I might as well start calling you serial patricides if you resort to that tired old jest."
A different member of the hunters, a lacridaemon, sneered. "At least we didn't have to rely on divine charity to escape our ordained fates."
"You must be new here," the rider began, putting as much condescension as he was capable in that one line. "Scourging is parole, nothing more. A way to enforce the will of the Bright Powers where their jurisdiction does not extend, to bring it to a level you can understand, kalite."
The hunters visibly bristled. None of the mortal-born daemons liked being reminded of what they originally were. Good, that meant less change they would notice that wasn't salt he sowed over his back.
To ensure; "Well then," the rider began, Keshi steeling herself as he hoisted his lance, "Shall we see what you could have been, pointless?"
Apparently these daemons never developed a thick skin. The sangudaemon roared a command, and all five charged.
They never saw the grayish-black powder of crystallized negative energy until it was too late
As the explosion of darkness evaporated, the rider could see the two weaker daemons were dissolving into soul-stuff already. Before the sangudaemon recovered, a silver bullet from his musket was put right between his mandibles. From the neigh-roar and bird cry screams, it seemed that his mount had the suspiradaemon covered.
He was about to dismount and face the venedaemon when he heard its own warbling cry: "Parley! I call a truce!"
Waving away the dissolving sangudaemon's soul-stuff, the rider narrowed his slitted eyes at the humanoid insect-squid. "Bit soon for you to start your sudden but inevitable betrayal, isn't it?"
"Look, okay, I really don't care for hellbred-hunting to begin with," the venedaemon began, its normally high-pitched tone made outright shrill by nervousness. "I just heard you might have been a mage in life, so I was thinking 'hey, maybe I could stabilize you, pick your brains for lore-'"
"I don't care," the rider bluntly replied, loading another bullet. "Now, I ask again; do you have directions to the embassy of the Nine Hells?"
"East, about twenty klicks," the sorcerer fiend replied, obviously sweating now. "Come on, you're a paladin, don't you have a code against killing defenseless-"
"My particular iteration," the rider began, hoisting the gun, "has an anti-fool clause in it; fiends are assumed to be lying until proof is presented."
"...I have a map," the venedaemon responded, pulling it out. "Go on, check it with a compass, it's not some-gah!"
Pausing briefly to spit out the venedaemon's tentacles, Keshi handed the map to her owner. A quick landmark search showed the truth of the daemon's words.
"Very well,"
"Thank you!" the venedaemon shouted with relief. "Thank you, I won't forget this, if you ever decide to stop lying to yourself and join the sane side-"
"I can do this with a clear conscience."
"Wait, what-"
The daemon's words were suddenly silenced as the canister fired.
A second later, a net of light extended across the venedaemon's body binding it to the ground. Along with its mouth.
"I have learned what leaving witnesses may tempt me to do," the rider said, turning away. "Speak of the Knight in Grey when you return to your masters, but I cannot risk betrayal of my comrades."
The muffled curses of the sorcerer fiend trailed off into the distance, as the rider cantered on.
Not again.
Not after what I decided to do.
So, the lab. Looked...nostalgic, almost. Reminded him of the Schloss and its scholarly master.
Of course, it also reminded him of the darkness behind those walls, but the lord was...kind enough, when he could be. Sadly, Tybalt doubted these pale men would be any kinder to intruders than his old friend was.
So, a great deal of glass. A tad more of that blue glow, too, now revealed to be some kind of wet, woody lichen. Apparently was food too, given the blue emanating from what he assumed was a larder. Which was directly next to the laboratory.
Yet more wistfulness for that chapter in his lives.
Slowly, Tybalt shook his head. He was getting on in years, if he could find fond memories of...that place.
Memories that should not be positive aside, this place certainly looked more advanced than that old castle. The good natural philosopher certainly was never a fan of all the blinking computers, though that may have been because the computers of his day took up entire rooms to perform multiplication. Of course, it looked like the owners weren't a fan of mice, which was where the cait sith's knowledge of user interfaces began and ended (a fact which Clockblocker suddenly smirked for the rest of the day upon discovering. Hm).
So, there was nothing to go on but the screensaver, a fairly well-animated manta ray with a scorpion's tail in space, with a towered...city...on it's…
Tybalt's eyebrows shot up. Why would an Underdark species be obsessed with the True Spelljammer, of all things? Wasn't it that most of them hate space travel on the basis of there being nowhere to hide from the many suns? Mind flayers excepted, but even they did everything to protect themselves from exposure.
More than that, he knew devils. He knew they would have detected, and quietly destroyed the interlopers hads they arrived via spelljammer, either the normal or newfangled mundane ones. Assuming they weren't convenient scarecrows to assume further control. Either way, there was no good reason why the primordial starship would be a symbol of this particular expedition.
Not unless they were looking into different symbolism. Glory? ...No, if that were the case, a divine symbol would have sufficed. Conquest? Maybe, but after the baatezu arrived, anyone vaguely sane would write this world off and flee.
...but maybe it wasn't quite conquest of the planet, now? Hm, perhaps he should-
"Waah!"
For a second, Tybalt's fur arched before he realized that it was the scream of an infant. Rather horrific hauntings aside, infants who cried like that generally were harmless. If possibly eerie.
"Waaa...hah-hah!"
However, what was it doing in the lab?
Muttering to himself in Celestial about poor parents, Tybalt traced the sound. A little north, turn to the right and-
Guard.
Okay then, down into the alcove, and-
"Waaa."
"Shush, sweetie. You can wait a few hours, then we can have a bit of fun with the subjects together."
"Wa."
"Yes. Until then, I'll see if we can't find a rattle."
That was the guard's child? Funny, that didn't seem-
The patrol came into view.
How ever Tybalt managed to place a paw in front of his treacherous mouth in time, he would probably never know.
The guard's baby was kept in a cage. A thick little cage, not unlike that of a bird. Dangled at the end of a pole. That wasn't the horrible bit.
The horrible bit was the condition of the in-no, the foetus.
How the child managed to survive outside the womb was nothing less than a miracle, however obscene. The silvanshee wasn't sure if the thing sticking out of it's chest was an umbilical cord or yet another deformity brought about by extreme premature birth. The already pseudo-cataracted eyes of the pale men were so pronounced in the foetus that they looked almost insectile on a even more disproportionately large head.
...That was what the Spelljammer symbolized, wasn't it? Conquest over this deplorable condition at birth.
As the patrol rounded a corridor, the agathion resolved to find a solution for this race. Evil tendencies or not, there were just some things nobody deserved.
Second death
Hm. So he actually did see the sunrise of the Upper Planes again. One last time.
If only it were under better circumstances.
"Take them! Rip them! Scar our names on the very fabric of the universe with their bones!"
The Harbinger's bellowing echoed across the burning land, roared even louder than the sickly greenish-gold flames. The more academic part of the man's mind speculated that perhaps the flames served as speakers (would make sense, given their purpose), but the sane part was more in agreement with the warrior part in that it was probably better to focus on killing the mixed platoon of kalites and their various creations.
One, a translucent-skinned, emaciated humanoid with a lamprey-like mouth (an urdefhan, he recalled) rushed forwards, screaming before suddenly vanishing in a purplish swirl of negative energy, along with the unfortunate artillerymen who had been shooting at him. Possibly that was the intent before the charge, it was difficult to tell with daemonic creations. A few seconds later, the scream of metal on metal joined the battlefield as a squad of genthodaemons (A/N: proper name for them, Angelform) flew dropped from one of the steam-powered spelljammers, steel plates woven in their skin that buckled and ground against each other.
The man forced himself to look away, pointedly ignoring the screams of pain and malicious joy. The mission could not be compromised.
"...Continue the advance," he muttered to the captain.
"Roger," the archon muttered, before signaling his men.
Keshi's hoof separated again, as the nightmare begin to stalk instead of walk; a cautious predator seeking dangerous game. Not at all comfortable for her rider, given the fact that he was now almost falling into her mane, but necessary. It gave her full use of her nose, after all.
The next few minutes was a tense slog through the burning underbrush, the Hadesian ash assaulting the hellbred's prematurely aged skin and nose. What made the itching worse was the complete lack of allergy medication; if he was suffering like this, in somewhere that was rapidly becoming his native environs, he shuddered to imagine what his celestial friends might go through. Hence why they were infinitely less discomforted, and why he was already planning particular ways that idiotic, undersupplied apothecary might be subjected to karma.
Not that he would be the one to enforce them. There would no capacity for him to do so if this plan worked. Hellbreds had a spoken-for soul, after all.
Skin issues aside, the man was actually relieved he was the guide into the daemon-held territory. After all, he wasn't required to then be the lookout as well; he was calloused enough given the significant portion of this life he spent in the daemons' orbit, observing their deeds after the fact. He did not need to watch and hear them commit them as well.
Eventually, Keshi began to flange, nickering uncertainly. The man held up his hand, before taking in the surrounding environments. Fire...outcropping...bush...upturned earth-
There.
A quick "hold" sign and dismount later, the man threw a bit of meat to the worked ground.
Fwoomp.
A tower of dirt arose out of the landscape, something brownish and shining flashing within as it grabbed hold and shook.
"Fall back!"
The cohort fled into the bushes, the susurrus to activate their rings of invisibility echoing briefly.
The dust began to fall away, revealing the flat, mantis-like head of an ankheg, not dissimilar from the mundane cockroach-like predator except for the sharp patterns of white running down its back. "Lesser Hadesian Earth Eater Ankheg," the man automatically whispered to the archon packed against him as it gnawed on the meat. "Often used as self-setting living traps by daemons. Good for capturing enemies."
Sure enough, a squad of urdefhan skydived from the fleet of steamjammers, their natural abilities allowing them to descend without parachutes. The living daemonic weapons quickly drew rhokas and rifles, rising to their feet with dark smiles on their toothy faces...which quickly fell away upon seeing what the ankheg was actually eating.
The largest urdefhan muttered something in his sibilant, silky tongue and whistled into the air. Shortly thereafter, three great bats, starved-looking and with torn wings, flew down to pick up the search squadron, one of whom gave what the man assumed to be a very rude gesture to the ankheg as they took off to look for actual unfortunates.
The cohort decloaked. "Remain vigilant," the captain began. "I suspect that, given the subrace the Harbinger is a part of, that is far from her least ingenious-"
"*-cracckk-* "It appears I have guests."
The silver-stocked pistol flew to the man's hand as he and every other soldier turned to the source of the voice.
In front of them, one of the sickly unholy flames had just suddenly turned stable and large from its earlier flickering, growing to the size of a human. Inside of it, the flickering shape of a woman made out of metal took form, blades threaded through chains that looked to have been hammered into her wrists.
"Make no mistake, while I respect your will to win the battle by any means necessary, you are far beyond the reach of superficial hope. Bytopia's garrison will fall, and from there…"
The Harbinger continued for a while in this track, not remarking on any of the cohort. Or even the member whose race's existence was a point of humiliation for all the Lower Planes. Frowning, one of the soldiers threw a rock at her face.
"...know that you s*zzzt-crack*of a new era decided by sanity…"
"It's a recording. Set probably to play wherever there's a false alarm." the captain muttered, lowering his own musket. "She did this to at least demoralize any escapees, men, she doesn't-"
"Wait," the man said, holding up a finger. "Too imprecise for cruciadaemons, especially ascended ones."
"...and glorious oblivion."
The flame vanished.
The man frowned. "Wait…"
"As for you, Knight in Grey…"
Even the man himself jumped at that, given how close her image reformed.
"Or should I say, Justicar Lukic…"
The man's brow furrowed. "Observe."
"I wonder; do you realize the kind of person you'll be remembered as?" The metal woman smirked. "The vicious judge, so obsessed with his avenging his humiliation he provided the spark for the Great Sigilian Fire? Or the paladin in name only, who sold his honor for a chance at assassination? Choose wisely, scion of the Deluded…"
The flame and the recording vanished. The man's vision quickly flipped down.
The captain turned to him, a look of understanding in the archon's eyes. "You...that's who you were, wasn't it?"
The man looked away from the pitying gaze of the celestial in the cohort. "...I don't deny it."
"...Look, I'll go see if we can get a writ of rebirth, give you more time-"
"Don't bother," the man said, looking up. "I've chosen my path. An act of chaos doesn't matter in the long term. Not to others."
"I don't think the gods are that unforgiving, I'm sure if we-"
"Continue dallying?" the man began, flipping back on to Keshi. "The daemons will be given more time to despoil Bytopia, more time to fuse more land into Gehenna and Hades. My welfare, and that of my name in this life and the next, is inconsequential. We break the offense, we save millions of souls from devouring and suffering under kalite and baatezu rule. Compared to my infamy and perdition? I will douse myself in oil for the cleansing flames."
The archon captain blinked.
And broke into a smile.
"I forgot how much I enjoy people from outside of Celestia. Move!"
Completely unknowing of the fact he would never be offered cleansing flames from that moment onward, the man rode on.
Apart from the one guard (at first glance; the silvanshee resolved to stay away from any suspiciously organic-looking, sticky-seeming objects), the lab seemed clear of any unavoidable security. Just cameras with obvious blind spots. Not any good ones to observe the lab from, but that wasn't particularly needed. Lots of mediocre ones.
First thing to note was the relative cleanliness. Apparently the materials meant this lab needed frequent washing; a bit of it still looked wet, in fact. Not a warning sign in sight, though, which was rather strange when one added the possibility of slipping to the definite existence of fragile equipment.
Next to note was the bizarre array of specimens that Tybalt was sure would be disturbing to other people. After his own experiences and the sudden shock of the guard's ward, the misshapen organic material in the jars was nothing particularly alarming. The only thing of note was the fact that the eyes in the jars followed him; whether out of reflex or intelligent curiosity, he didn't know. Probably couldn't tell on him though, so he politely bowed to them.
At the back of the room, however, was something that would probably be of interest to the Tinkers, however; a large, blinking pillar of computer monitors and attached vials. About half of the screens were inactive, showing only the Spelljammer in its endless cruise...but the others, the others were worth noting.
First, all of the monitors, from a quick count, corresponded to a vial that was filled with a bluish, translucent fluid with an organic sample contained within, and one blue light. On the screens were various people going about their lives; there, a detective examined the blackened wreck of a building. Here, a translucent-skinned demihuman talked with a rather colorful mix of people in a luxurious room. In front of him, a rather thuggish individual with a tattoo of a wolf's head imposed over a familiar black cross (the name of which escaped him at the moment) antagonized a pair of barbazus (good for him, if suicidal and possibly resulting in diplomatic headaches in the long term). In the lower corner of each, an undulating bar graph with unreadable data flashed.
Implanted subjects, he supposed. How they managed to simultaneously scry all of them was beyond the biology major cait sith. But this kind of multi-faceted ingenuity settled it; tanar'ri were known for packing as many things they could into one device already (all the better to keep an eye, and grip, on their stuff), but the elegance was normally beyond them. Stressing the word normally, in the same manner as "most demons were not princes with practically infinite resources in their domains and an entire ethos based around crafting new and arcane technologies."
Combined with the desire of these people to remain unseen by baatezu, that settled it. These pale men were almost certainly part of Haagenti's vanguard. Likely arrived with the retriever, if not before. Made sense that he would patron, and thus benefit from, a race with a vested interest in biological research.
All he needed. Time to find-
"Hhhreee…"
Why, oh why, did he get overconfident like this, the table was likely a mimic-
"Hhhheeehhhh…"
Wait...that wasn't a normal breath. A wheeze, actually.
A quick glance from his new hiding place confirmed it. The guard had forgotten to close a door deeper into the lab at some point in his last round.
Guardian manufactory, he supposed?
"Hhhreee…."
...Better to err on the side of long-term caution.
Careful to avoid the camera gaze, the silvanshee flattened himself against the wall, using his
air cushion to slither from his spot, to the doorsill, and peeked around the door-
"Hhheeehhh…"
An involuntary hiss escaped him
Tybalt Menon considered it his curse in all of his lives to have a superior memory. A double-sided curse, certainly, but there was things that reincarnation was supposed to free one from the burdens of, one his ability to recall his pasts stubbornly resisted. Ramue apparently believed this was the reason for his "eccentricities", as the agathions called them when they were polite. "Symptoms of lycanthropy" when they weren' supposed it made sense - accident of existence had rendered him something different, psychologically. Endemic secrecy about everything, mainly; he doubted if his peer realized that he even had a bias in what familiar signals he followed. And his general mean-spirited nature towards diabolic life.
Much like lycanthropy, the curse of strong memories was one of those things that had its benefits.
Being able to understand when something was just plain evil, justifications or no, for one.
This...abomination wasn't the worst he had seen. He had worked for worse at one time, even if he had been soul-deep in denial at the time.
But the conditions…the rusty wire...the worn glass...the stained table…
This was something the pale men did as a matter of course. All for the sake of themselves, and their own welfare.
Deplorable births or not, there were just some things that were inexcusable.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, entirely sure that the test subjects wouldn't have been capable of hearing him even if he was louder.
The voice of his father echoed in his head. Hundreds of people, son. They will keep on hurting hundreds of people if you let them continue.
...Now, could he carry any chemicals with him on the way back to the cells?
Perhaps advise his mistress on matters of arson?
[The Great Mimir Guide to Everything: Hellbred: Race, planar. Occasionally, a person who has committed crimes that would send them to the Lower Planes, the worlds of wicked souls and selfishness, sees the error of their ways almost too late, and their attempts at redemption fail to completely nix their former actions; enough to be of note, but not enough to convince the judges of the dead they aren't just trying to chicken out of karma. In this case, the gods of Good may decide that they deserve a stay of hellfire and invoke the Scourging, which transforms the soul of the possibly ex-villain into a pseudo-fiend with a natural grasp of paladin-hood, and the ability to use Evil-infused creatures and equipment without fear of corruption. The purpose of the hellbred is to see if the person who became them is truly committed to redemption in the place where the gods of mercy and peace have the least sway; the battlefields of the Blood War.
Despite the name, all Lower Planes have their own hellbred. Unsurprisingly, the inhabitants of each Lower Plane regard each and every one of them with no small degree of contempt, since they are either cowards, turncoats against sanity, or likely both in their eyes, and unwelcome angelic interference in their business.]
A/N: Quick note: "Daemon" refers to "the genus of Neutral Evil fiends", and generally refers to kalites. It would refer to yugoloths, too, except yugoloths succumbed to the Rule of Three as well, and became the third fiendish race to be hunted to nigh-extinction by their soul-born (in D&D, the souls of people in the Outer Planes eventually become sapient inhabitants of that plane, such as the transition from Alphonse to Tybalt) creations.
Kalites are Pathfinder daemons, essentially; living embodiments of the way they died, and tormented by the memories of the worst moments in their living lives. As part of their direct link to death, they also have the ability to evolve and grow more powerful via devouring souls, hence why they're a bit more aggressive than their forebears. Such as actually attacking Upper Planes when they feel confident enough, looking for unspoiled souls.