We'd spent the better part of the day stuffing around at the Ice Quarry. The quarrymaster, Gru'ul, had been under the pump when we'd arrived, in a state of panic at their shipment being behind because of a damaged grinder. Despite my pitiful attempt at a bribe, he'd been unwilling to trade with us until business returned to normal.
The grinder hadn't been damaged, so much as clogged; an imp's hand trapped between two gears, halting progress and deafening any who came too close with his shrill shrieks of fear and pain. Devils and ghosts of all shapes and sizes had paid us and the squealing devil no mind, as they went about their neverending labours.
It pleased me to know that imps looked infinitely less smug when they realised their lives were in your hands…
I'd contemplating just repairing the damage enough to grind the sorry sod through the machine, my face and fingers freezing as we worked out in the open expanse of the quarry. But, we'd ended up staying out there longer than necessary to help him, against my better judgement, and perhaps because — if even Valen wasn't insisting we just kill the devil and be done with it — it probably wasn't the right thing to do.
Valen shadowed me, attempting to block what wind he could as he watched me work. I'd pulled my gloves off to provide more movement to my already freezing fingers — being the smaller and the more dexterous of the two of us — attempting to manually wind the gears back. Deekin had been quick to retreat back to the warmth of the pit fiend's office when it became clear he was not needed.
One wrong move and my best hope was that the machine crushing the imp would buy me enough time to pull my hands out.
The gears jolted, scaring another shriek from the imp, wings flapping uselessly as he tried to yank himself free.
"Shut your bone-box," Valen hissed, hitting his palm against the metal machine in warning.
The imp hissed at him, spitting something in infernal which had Valen almost immediately replying in kind.
I jolted at the snarl of the foreign tongue on his lips, but was ultimately thankful that, whatever he'd said, both shut the little shit up and forced him to finally still.
I wound the gear back again, the imp gasping as some of the pressure loosened from his mangled wrist.
Just a little bit more.
I shook my head as I was forced to pull my marbled white hands free, rubbing warmth back into them as my joints popped in protest.
"If I offer you something for them, will you bite my head off?" Valen asked slyly, eyebrow raised in mock challenge.
"Not yet," I replied around the gloves in my mouth.
Ever the gentleman, he took the gloves from me, tucking them under his arm for safe keeping.
I didn't pull away when he reached for my cold hands, rubbing them between his much warmer ones. My heart skipped, stomach doing stupid little backflips as he stepped closer, bending to blow hot air against them, eyes on me all the while.
I offered a small smile, hoping he didn't see the shiver that ran up my body before I gently pulled away from his warmth, reaching back into the machine and tearing my eyes from him.
Conscious of Valen's breath tickling my cheek as I worked, I kept my eyes resolutely focused on my task.
Finally, the cog wound back a final time with a resounding click and the imp squealed in triumph, pulling his arm free. I grimaced, as the squeal quickly took on a horrified tone, the little devil staring at the limp mess of broken bones that had been his hand, hanging limply from his elbow. Most of his fingers were missing, and those that were left we're bent at random angles. Blood had crystalised on the surface of his scaly red skin.
Grimacing, I pulled a small vial from my belt, one of the healing potions I'd diluted and re-jarred earlier that morning, to stave off the frostbite.
Valen's hand closed around my wrist, stilling me.
I glanced back, and — noting his confused frown — rolled my eyes, gently pulling my arm free of his grasp.
"I didn't go to all this effort just to let him die from infection," I said with a smile.
I held the vial out for the imp and he greedily snatched it, startling a gasp from my lips. He hadn't even opened it, before he leapt from the ground, flapping away as he muttered something under his breath.
I heard the sound of the empty vial hitting the ground not too far from us, as he tossed it back in our direction.
"You're welcome," I hissed bitterly at his retreating form.
I turned back to the still broken grinder, returning to work and wishing that I had just minced the little asshole and been done with it.
Occasionally Valen would interject, pointing to chips of bone and red skin that still clogged the machine, breath on my face sending goosebumps across my flesh and bringing back memories of the night before. He would pass me wads of cloth to keep the machine in place, our fingers touching and lingering longer than necessary, little puffs of white air escaping my parted lips.
Always, I would pull away first, chest clenching like a vice as I returned to the grisly task that should have been enough of a cold bucket alone, never mind the deadly weather. But still my heart pounded and my stomach fluttered at the overwhelming nearness of him.
I bit my cheek as I worked, eyes hard as I realised again what a mess I'd made by not closing the door on this — whatever this was — properly.
When the grinder did finally blare to life I was ready, pulling my hand lose with a triumphant smile.
Valen helped me pull my pre-warmed gloves onto my brittle fingers, before we'd retreated back to the warmth of the quarry master's office.
Back in the warmth of the room, I didn't need any convincing to drink one of the small vials at my belt.
The quarry master noticed, laughing at my discomfort, long yellow fangs glistening from where he stood behind his upturned desk.
Smoke rolled off the pit fiend's scaly red flesh, and I realised that his body was what was lending warmth to the small room. He looked every bit the iconic devil; from his massive wings all the way up his tree-trunk of a neck to his long black horns.
The devil's size was dwarfed only by his aura of general annoyance; his sneer a permanent fixture, changing only in size. Evidence of his frustration was all around us, from the broken furniture to the smoldering dents that littered the walls.
Deekin seemed all-together unconcerned with his fuming company, sitting vicariously on a chair that had only three legs, arms outstretched for balance.
Our belongings were stacked into neat little piles in front of him, ready to sell.
The pit fiend waved a dismissive hand at our belongings, disgust clear on his face. "'Spose you're wanting to trade off your heirlooms, just like those yellow-skinned cross-piking gith, ey? Well go on then, show me what little trinkets you've collected, berk. And don't be expecting no pat on the back just 'cause you fixed grinder five."
We bartered for some time, buying everything that we'd possibly need out in the wastes of Cania, and selling everything that we wouldn't. As we traded, the pit fiend's language had become increasingly more and more colourful, evolving from intimidating to just plain fantastical. Valen would occasionally snarl something in infernal at a bad trade, causing Deekin and I to tense up nervously, but the pit fiend had a job to do — and he obviously hadn't risen to his station picking fights with tieflings — so he got on and did it. He certainly didn't do said job happily, but he did it. He would shake Valen's words off with another one of his tirades of an insult, followed by a more reasonable offer in the common tongue.
It was becoming increasingly apparent that the colourful turn of phrase Swift had weaved in and out of our conversation the night before had more to do with his lineage and less to do with him. I'd found myself smiling despite the towering pit fiend's presence, imagining Valen as a young pickpocket on the streets of Sigil, spouting local cant with the best of them.
Our packs lighter, and my satchel back where it belonged now that Deekin had his own, we left with everything we needed — along with almost a million in gold which we tucked away in my bag of holding, much to Deekin and Valen's outright dismay.
"No need to ration our potions, anymore," Valen said pointedly as we left the quarry, nudging me in jest.
I rolled me eyes, smirking. "You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"
Despite things looking better than they had yesterday, I knew our small fortune was only just going to be enough to buy the Names we needed from the Knower.
And even then, our options were going to be limited.
I rubbed my fingers together gleefully once we were back on the cold streets, my new gloves like a second skin and the chill air barely noticeable through the enchanted material. They were snug enough that they tucked nicely beneath my bracers. The trade off may have been my worn Gloves of Discipline, but I was beginning to find discipline didn't matter as much if you didn't have to push through the pain of frostbite every waking minute.
Ahead, Deekin scooped up a handful of snow in his gloved hands, cackling as he threw the powder into the air before looking back over his shoulder at us with a toothy grin.
We'd been unable to do anything about bolstering our own body's resistance against the cold, but — between the new gloves, our thicker shoes and the extra healing potions — our limbs weren't going to drop off any time soon. We'd just have to rely upon the velox berries and the Firewater to keep our core temperatures up.
Despite it all, my new gear didn't stop me from slowing when we passed each of the pilgrims fire on the way to our final destination for the day, listening as they chatted between themselves about the city's dwindling ghost population with fear in their eyes.
We made slow progress, choosing to zig zag through the quieter streets and passing as few of the locals as we could, Valen's tail flicking irritably and body tensing each time we turned a corner. Despite his jumpiness, it was impossible not to notice that his smile was coming a lot easier than it had the day before. But for the life of me, I didn't know how that was supposed to make me feel.
Hair damp from falling snowflakes, we finally arrived at Aribeth's resting place; the caves on the outskirts of the city.
Once there, it turned out that it was all well and good to say that everybody deserved a second chance, but it was another thing entirely to try and help them get it.
We spent more time than I would have liked collecting the scattering of berry-picked velox bushes, pulling them roots and all from the ground and using them as fuel for our fire. I'd scattered a few of the berries in with the thorny brambles before lighting it with Emma's flint and steel.
The fire burst to life, colouring the blue and white cave of ice yellow, as we huddled around the flames. We waited quietly as the elven ghost defrosted, ice thinning and her true beauty shining through with every passing minute.
She was kneeling, her massive sword thrust tip down in front of her, hands resting heavily on the pommel. Ice melted from her face like tears, and her hair clung damply to her brow.
We stood to attention as soon as her lashes started fluttering, her once-frozen fingers tightening instinctively around her sword. I glanced at her weapon uneasily.
As soon as I was certain I wouldn't snap a digit off, I reached forward cautiously, eyes on her face as I pried her fingers away. Her weapon dropped onto the icy floor with a soft thud, and I kicked it aside, the blade skipping along the ice and we'll out of her reach. I was stepping back just as her eyes snapped open; darting between her sword and me in alarm.
Thankfully, Valen was ready when she leapt for her sword, reaching for the elf in a tight bear hug from behind and pulling her arms flat against her sides. He kicked her feet apart with a booted foot, so that she wouldn't have purchase, face tight with effort.
Her face hardened, hands opening and closing by her sides as she considered her options. Her eyes were wide and feral as she tried to make sense of what was happening.
"Whoa," I held my arms in front of me. "We just want to talk."
It was plain to see which instinct was strongest in Aribeth, between fight or flight.
She cut me off with a vicious snarl, throwing her head back and catching Valen in the throat. He coughed, gasping for air and stumbling back.
The elf jerked out of his encircling grip, far more powerful than her slight frame advertised and faster than anyone had a right to be in such heavy looking metal armour. Teeth bared, she lunged for me with an out-stretched arm.
Valen grasped desperately for her, his powerful hands encircling one of her wrists and using her momentum to spin her in a half-circle. Her eyes widened, and with a grunt of effort he threw her against the icy wall.
I jumped out of my defensive stance, drawing Enserric in a flash of angry red light as I levelled him at her throat.
Aribeth stayed were she had fallen, on all fours as she gasped in great gulps of air. She had an arm wrapped around her lower chest in pain as she gathered her wits.
"Why can't you people just leave me alone?" She hissed quietly at the ground.
With great effort, she pushed onto her knees, lifting her head, eyes roaming between me and my blade. She lifted her chin, exposing more of her neck before pushing herself harder against my blade's point.
At the sight of blood on her porcelain white neck I eased up on the pressure, letting my elbow drop ever so slightly.
As soon as I softened my stance, the fight seemed to go out of her.
"What do you want of me?" Her voice broke.
"Elf-lady looked cold," Deekin explained as the words I'd prepared for this moment suddenly escaped me.
Her eyes snapped to the little kobold, turning hard as steel. "I'm a traitor, will you trust me? I'm dead, will you return me to life?" With each of her questions her eyes found one of us and held. "I've lost my innocence, will you help me find it?" She shook her head, dropping her steely gaze. "Save your breath. There are some things you can't get back."
"Why did you attack us?" Valen asked cautiously.
His hand continued to hover over his flail's pommel, brow pulled down in a concerned frown.
She jutted her chin sharply at the dying embers between us. "Why did you light that fire?"
"You were making a mistake," I told her simply. "You can't give up. Not here."
"Maybe so, but it was my mistake to make." She lifted her chin proudly. Her shoulders dropped suddenly, tears glistening in her eyes as she took a great heaving breath. She lifted her head, staring up at the ceiling to hide her tears. "Please, just let me be."
"Why are you doing this?" I pressed.
And so she told us; the dam breaking. The words pouring out of her like a confession. And, whilst she told us her reasons, she made no excuses.
She told us how she barely knew who she was anymore, muttering over lost loves and broken promises with the detachment of one who no longer cared. She'd come to this cave, seeking to become one of the Lost, numb even to memories.
Her face turned hard when she told us how she had challenged Mephistopheles as he'd started devouring souls to fuel his army, fearful that she would be next. She told us how she refused to serve anyone ever again. She's served all her life. Tyr. Lord Nasher. Morag. The Old Ones.
She refused to serve anyone else in her un-life.
Mephistopheles was where it ended.
She excused her heroism as a selfish act born of her own self-preservation, not for those whose souls he had already gleamed to fuel his army of undead on the surface.
As she spoke Valen's face turned grim, the collection of stories we'd picked up over the last few days all coming together and making sense. Deekin nodded along with the detachment of a storyteller, eyes on my notebook as he scribbled notes to digest later and narrate in his own book.
With each turn of her story, I felt myself feeling more and more sorry for this twisted woman. But I honed my features, knowing that the last thing she wanted was my pity.
She was not evil, but neither was she good. Only cynical and jaded and sick of it all.
As she spoke, I found myself thinking; what kind of natural order let someone suffer, even in death?
I touched the hard band of the cursed ring under my gloves, and wondered — not for the first time — what I would find on the other side of it all.
Before all of this, I had been so sure. Even when my husband had gotten sick, I'd taken solace in the fact that — when it was all over — his suffering would end. He wouldn't even know. He would just be gone.
Now, I knew I was wrong.
I didn't know where he was. But I knew now that he was content.
I felt a swell of guilt at the thought of him, glancing at Valen out of the corner of my eye.
But, knowing that he was okay, that there was more after all this — and that it could be as cruel as Aribeth's fate — only gave me more questions.
She continued, telling us how Mephistopheles had twisted her fears, making her realise the truth of her fall from grace. She had lead a rebellion against her city and church, damning her soul to the hells, and she'd thought she'd done it all in the name of love and grief and righteous anger. But Mephistopheles had made her realise she had never loved her fiance Fenthick.
She'd done it all for herself.
Story done, and nothing left of her, she hung her head, eyes on the floor between us and unable to meet our gaze.
"Tyr chose you as his paladin," I told her, trying for certainly and coming just shy of it. I swallowed. "Do you doubt his wisdom?"
"Yes," she answered immediately. "I do."
Valen glanced at me sharply, the slightest crease of a frown on his brow. The words I spoke to Aribeth were a long way from those I'd spoken to him so very long ago on the ferryman's boat. Back then, we'd both expressed our disinterest in following deities. Now, I pushed a woman we'd just met towards one for our own benefit.
"God's make mistakes," she dismissed me, voice unsure.
"So do people," I replied instantly.
She glanced up at me sharply, hope shining through her glossy eyes, beautiful even with the transparent palour of undeath. She shook her head and the look of total self-loathing was back.
"Righteous is the one who does what is right when surrounded on all sides by evil," she said, her words ringing with the fever of a fanatic. Her eyes dropped again. "I did not do what was right."
I shook my head sharply, eyes hard and jaw set.
I reached out a hand to the elf.
"Then be righteous now. Here, in the hells, surrounded on all sides by evil."
Valen watched me with something akin to pride on his face, and I smiled grimly. He wouldn't be so impressed if he knew this was scripted, that they were hardly my words.
She let go of the tension in her shoulders with a sigh.
Her hand was neither warm nor cold when she placed it within my own. It was simply a solid pressure, belied by her slight translucency.
I pulled her to her feet as Valen cautiously handed her weapon back to her.
His free hand rested on his flail's pommel, the warning in his stance firm, tail flicking.
She nodded to each of us in turn as she sheathed her sword, before considering the cave with a sigh.
"I will pray on it," she finally said. "If Tyr will have me, he will have me." She shrugged.
"I hope that he does," I admitted, before chewing on my lip and adding; "But I must admit that is not the only reason we came here."
She didn't seem surprised, motioning for me to continue.
"We seek the answers to the five-fold questions of the Sleeping Man. The fifth and final one."
She considered me with a frown. "You hardly seem a fanatic," she stated plainly.
I shook my head gently. "We're trying to get out of here."
She scoffed, her opinion on the matter clear.
"We're trying to stop Mephistopheles." I explained. "The Sleeping Man knows someone who can help us."
She seemed to consider my words, which is why what she said next was not at all what I expected.
"Leave me," she insisted.
I froze all over, fearing for an awful moment that I had made a mistake.
Her hard face softened ever so slightly at my response.
"Tell me where to find you," she said quietly. "One way or another, I will seek you out and we will finish this."
I relaxed, telling her where we were lodging and that we would be at the temple first thing in the morning.
And then that was that.
We left her to consider her future; to see if her God would have her and pledge herself once more to him. Or to accept that other side of her and truly embrace it, never to serve another again.
I was fairly certain I'd done enough to ensure she would embrace all that came with being a paladin of Tyr once more, but I'd been wrong before…
The three of us were silent when we left, her repeated mutter of 'one way or another' running through my head over and over.
NOTEBOOK EXTRACT
The following is in Deekin's scratchy handwriting. The lettering is wobbly at the edges of the page from writing without a solid surface.
Aribeth de Tylmarande is the title of the half-page of notes. Followed by a list of her past actions against the city of Neverwinter and some direct quotes
It is the brain dump and charts at the end of the dot points that takes up the majority of the space.
Elf-Lady part of redemption story arc? New hero for novel?
...probably sell more books than Boss.
Below this is a pro and cons chart, based on who would make a better heroine.
Elf-Lady
Pro
Dark backstory with redemption arc
Household name
Easy sell - Pretty elf
Cons
Might not have happy ending
Boss be insulted
Boss
Pro
Backstory with clear goal (getting home)
Mystery twists?
Happy ending possible
Cons
Plane-hopping backstory a cliche
Jane is plain-Jane human. Embellish more?
Questionable choices, good alignment easier sell. Leave things out?
It's unclear who won, but the kobold's concluding sign off is concerning.
Push for romantic twist? Maybe Goat-Man like pretty elf ladies?