The Black Canary: Triptych Two
Nasher Alagondar smelled decay on the air, and though he lacked a druid's earthly acuity, knew that it wasn't the scent of his own bodily decomposition. The odor was hardly physical. Unlike the sickly coughs and infectious boils that plagued the lord's body, this smell was transparent, perhaps more of an aura than an aroma. Even in his weakened condition, Nasher sensed his kingdom rotting, physically and perhaps spiritually.
And so when Sir Darmon entered Nasher's quarters late that evening with grave sorrow in his eyes, Nasher feared his sentiments had been realized. Long a knight of the Nine, Darmon frequently visited his lord, with reports of courtly intrigue and domestic trials. But there was always a devious smile in his eyes when he entered his lord's chambers, and an amiability present warm enough to stave off the bleakness of Nasher's sickened state. The terror and sadness in the knight's eyes confirmed his lord's fears.
Darmon knelt beside his lord's bed, head bowed. He trembled, "My lord, the Lamb has returned to Neverwinter with the child of our Captain. We must summon the Nine."
-
Nine knights gathered, mantles as blue as the ungodly hour of the night present outside the marble walls of Castle Never. Dawn lingered in the horizon, an emerging light amidst the bottomless sea of blues, black, and the white scars of the stars plastered across the empyrean dome. Eyes dreary from sleeplessness and shoulders slumped with anguish, the Nine stood in a semicircle around Nasher like a lifeless assembly of the undead. Heaving gutturally, Nasher stooped in his throne. He peered out from beneath his mountainous fur capes like a withering beast.
Though disease had long robbed Nasher of his humanity, even in the worst of circumstances and after hours of strenuous work, a solid enthusiasm pervaded the atmosphere of court. No task was too challenging, no subject daunting to cover, even though scores of celebrated knights had fallen from their ranks in battle. But that night, the world unraveled, and there the Nine after decades of strength were rendered feeble in the presence of a demon.
Axarthys sin Saintrowe slithered into the throne room, languid and deliberate in her steps. An inexplicable mist shrouded her, and the floor she walked on clattered, as if demonic claws pawed at the ground around her. Her body poured in diaphanous black silks, her jaw draped with a sheer veil, she like a specter floated towards Nasher and the Nine. It was clear that she'd been cursed with hypothermia; her flesh was cyanotic along the framework of her face and shoulders, as if to accentuate her frail form with strokes of watercolor blue. The pink tattoos marring her cheeks framed the fire in her rosy, serpentine eyes. She coiled her hand into the blonde curls of the horned child at her side, raising her chin triumphantly.
"I trust no introductions are needed." Casavir announced.
"Since last I strode these halls, I have ascended from the ranks of a lowly Waterdhavian emissary to Graz'zt's Ambassador to the Planes and envoy of Zelatar." Axarthys unwaveringly informed, her lips pressed into a stern line, "No longer am I the nightmare within the hearts of mortals, but the spirit that haunts them in the consciousness of daylight and in the sanctity of their homes. Do not presume I appear to you now with the scant prestige I boasted over a decade ago."
Her spidery hand cast the daughter from her side, sending the girl shuffling behind a pillar. The child's eyes shimmered chocolate brown in the shadows. Axarthys continued to approach, pacing the semicircle in front of the Nine. As she passed them, a faint aroma of frankincense pervaded the air. She halted before the throne, but her gaze did not meet Nasher's. She stared at Nevalle unblinkingly, proclaiming, "I rarely sully my hands with the mortal politics of this plane, but the present matter is exceedingly personal."
"Her Ladyship Emissary has claimed the throne for her daughter and child of Captain Nevalle, Rialnah sin Saintrowe," Sisserou snapped in clarification, "The Nine have gathered to review her claims and, if necessary, put them to a trial of the people."
Axarthys scoffed, continuing to pace gradually about the room, "The declaration of succession to the throne of Neverwinter states simply that the eldest child of one of the city's Knights of the Nine is sole heir to the crown. Lord Nasher believed naming an heir outright was undiplomatic, and considered his declaration a means to safely- and diplomatically- assure the throne to Rodric, the son of knight Casavir."
"And by what diabolical means did you employ to discover my son, demon?" Sisserou defensively spat.
"I would think a paladin is aware of a demon's capacity for telepathy," Axarthys replied harshly, glowering as she noted, "Need I employ those talents and share your rather dubious past with the Nine present, knight, or will you temper your theatrics and allow this conference to continue?"
Casavir reached for his wife's hand, entwining his palm with hers and squeezing assuringly. Sisserou bowed her chin, lips forcibly shut. Her husband explained to the court, calmly and poignantly, "The declaration of succession was penned and enacted two years after the birth of my son, Rodric. At this time, Rodric was the intended heir specified by the stipulation of the document, which was that he was the eldest child of a Nine knight. Captain Nevalle, however, was not actively in the service of the Nine when the declaration was made official. This would exempt his daughter, though older than Rodric, from the crown of Neverwinter."
"There is no such amendment described in the document," Axarthys countered swiftly, "Regardless of when the declaration was ratified, it states only that the heir is the eldest child of the Nine, which is Rialnah. Additionally, to avoid the scandal of handpicking a successor in a progressively diplomatic state, the declaration was deliberately written without specifying Rodric as heir. If that was the intent, as it seems Neverwinter insinuates is, then little distinguishes this government from the corrupted regimes of less honorable societies. Should you contest either of these arguments, you may reference the declaration, of which copies are available in Blacklake's library."
Casavir grinded his teeth. Axarthys's words rang as true as if spoken by a priest of Tyr; the paladin had reviewed the declaration himself, and understood Nasher sought to be cryptic when naming Rodric as his successor. But to Casavir's fortune, Darmon's voice rang out, "And how are we certain that this child is Sir Nevalle's? Demons are notorious for their promiscuity."
Laughter warmed the room, and suddenly the chill of defeat softened from the air. Axarthys's shoulders tensed and the features of her face painted the picture of utter distaste. As the chuckles abated, the demon fell silent as a counter argument brewed in her mind. Fleetingly victorious, Sisserou flashed a sharp smile to her husband, who could only sigh with respite. Footsteps shattered the calm, and Casavir's gaze shot upwards. Nevalle descended the dais from Nasher's throne and plunged to his knees before Axarthys, pleading, "My Ladyship Emissary, Ambassador of Zelatar, Axarthys, my Lamb, swear to me that it is my blood that courses through her veins, and however alone I am, I will invest all my faith in your word."
"Nevalle." Casavir threateningly called, "Do not do this."
"And so this council is to withhold the veracity of her Ladyship's claim?" Nevalle shouted over his shoulder, smolderingly scathing, "You preach morality to me, paladin, when you cannot even value truth yourself."
"If you jeopardize Neverwinter's throne, Nevalle, only Tyr himself will be able to stay my hand from killing you," Sisserou declared.
"Are you so desperate to see your son on the throne, Luskan?" Nevalle growled.
"Silence, Captain." Axarthys mellifluously called. Nevalle sunk to his elbows before her, his forehead resting on the marble floor. The Lamb motioned with her hand, beckoning her daughter from the darkness. The girl emerged, floating across the floor in a wisp of grey robes. She settled onto the ground, lifting Nevalle's chin with a thin, delicate finger. He raised his eyes to her, and immediately felt as he had glanced into a mirror- her eyes, they were his eyes, and the blondeness of her curls was undeniably the same shade as his own hair. Even the curve of her cheeks reflected his.
"Can you deny her, Captain?" Axarthys asked. When the knight shook his head wordlessly, mouth agape, the demon smiled, "She is unmistakably his. Should any doubt remain, perhaps it is best Casavir assure you that last I graced Neverwinter, it was he that saw me depart for the Abyss in knowledge I was with child."
"You knew?" Sisserou whispered. Casavir nodded remorsefully.
"I was present when Tyr judged Nevalle and sentenced him to ten years' servitude as a Knight of the Chalice, for consorting and falling in love with Axarthys sin Saintrowe. It was there that Tyr revealed she was with child, and banished her to the Abyss. But demonic children rarely survive birth, and even more rarely past early childhood. I was right to believe the child had died." Casavir admitted to the Nine.
"And you felt the same?" Darmon asked Nevalle.
"Yes," he murmured, "It was the hopelessness of losing my child that drove me to the despair I have suffered in the past twelve years. I know now that Tyr answered what prayers I uttered years ago."
"And because Tyr has heeded your pleas, a demon shall one day inhabit our throne." Sisserou muttered. No longer could she stand to watch Neverwinter bow in defeat to that demon, who in arrogance lifted her chin in victory as the arguments against her foundered. Sisserou wrapped her hand around her neckline, drawing a golden chain with an empty vial dangling from it. Hope, and the only shred of it remaining. She stepped down from the dais around Nasher, her cheek turned away from the woman as she voiced, "I will not witness the downfall of my kingdom."
"Sisserou," Darmon pleaded gently. The paladin stopped, but she did not face him. The knight coerced, "Let Nasher grace us with his final decision before you depart."
Darmon knelt at Nasher's side, suggesting quietly, "Perhaps it is best that we specify the heir described in the declaration of succession at a later date. We must consider what has been said in this chamber, truths and opinions both, and assure that whatever our verdict is, it honors Tyr."
"Very well," Nasher rasped, "Declare a celebratory ball… of the announcement of Neverwinter's heir, tomorrow night."
"You have heard his decision," Darmon proclaimed, rising to his feet beside his lord and calling, "Captain Nevalle, permission to adjourn this conference of the Nine?"
"Granted." The knight distractedly responded, hunched at the patent heels of the Lamb. He remained there as the knights disbanded, their sea of blue tunics flooding the exit of the throne room. Darmon and Casavir escorted Nasher behind the knights, guiding the lord's taxed steps to the staircases winding up to the towers of Castle Never. The echoed whispers and footsteps of the Nine weakened, abandoning Nevalle and Axarthys to the lonely stillness of the throne room. Certain his comrades were far from earshot, Nevalle clamored to his feet, extending a hand to sweep the demon's white curls away from her cheek.
"Ten interminable years I spent traveling the Abyss, and in that time, though I encountered succubi and lilitu lovelier than any human could physically be, no creature that walks the planes compares to your beauty and charisma," he swore, "If you may only be mine through possession, then my soul is yours, Ladyship Emissary."
The Lamb gazed at him viciously, leaning close into his shoulder. Her forehead barely missed his neck as she brushed her fingers dangerously close to his lips. Her eyes shone, her lips parted invitingly as if she was moments from kissing him. He craved her, grappling for her embrace as his eyes filled with pained yearning. She was a cruel temptation, utterly tantalizing. She withdrew, spinning on her heels and towards the exit in a single, ethereal motion. The Lamb floated away from him, her foggy garb whisking behind her as if she were some ephemeral phantom. As further she drifted, his primal need for her intensified.
The demon uttered as she fleeted, "I have already possessed you, my Captain."
-
It was cold. Sisserou's bones froze to the marrow, sending shivers down her neck and arms, into the digits of her hands. Materially, the air was quite tepid; no, the chill was spiritual, not physical. Though any mortal could sense that Axarthys's presence teemed with evil, the paladin experienced her nearness much more intensely. Behind the mask of the demon's perfume, Sisserou smelled burning flesh and sulfurous fumes. When the demon spoke, it was as if seven voices boomed from her lips. The amplification of dread felt in the entity's company by the paladin was unbearable. Standing alone in the castle's grand foyer, far from the demon, Sisserou was frozen to the core with the spirit's wickedness.
When Casavir jogged down the staircase after retiring Nasher to his quarters, Sisserou breathed with reprieve, sighing, "Oh, thank Tyr. I couldn't bear to wait any longer."
"Does my wife crave a warm bed and a few hours' time of much-deserved sleep?" He chuckled. Sisserou frowned at his lightheartedness, and Casavir's posture slackened. The paladin hugged his wife close, rubbing his nose against hers apologetically, "You know that pure laughter is a repellent of evil, my love."
"Casavir, I… I can't come home tonight," she distantly responded. She broke from his grip, drawing her cloak tightly around her neck, "I ask only for your trust in this matter. There is someone I must consult with before the celebration tomorrow."
He nodded solemnly, "Do what you must. But, Sisserou… if it concerns what happened tonight, know that I have faced her and her ilk before. I promise you will be safe in these coming days from whatever forces of the netherworld she summons to these halls."
"For that, my heart pumps a beat slower." She assured, turning to leave. Casavir caught her wrist, drawing her into a final embrace before she parted.
"My love," he whispered, "Never fear what prowls in Neverwinter's shadows."
-
Nevalle scoured the halls for Axarthys sin Saintrowe. Rapping and scratching noises inside the castle walls alerted him to her demonic presence, but as the sounds grew deafening and it seemed she was all but feet from him, the knight lost pursuit of her. Just as he wished a medium had accompanied him in his search, his fortunes changed. Shadows cast their darkness where no lights existed to cause them; windows hissed with a draft, though they were closed and their drapes remained motionless. The knight grinned with relief for the signs. In Axarthys's wake, the world was haunted, and Nevalle was determined to follow the spiritual, ghostly aura left by her transitory presence. As he rounded a corner of the hall, a sudden cacophony of otherworldly voices chattered in the air. The chorus ended with the faint snort of a pig, where no such animal resided.
It was a telltale characteristic of severe demonic manifestation, and for many a horrific sound. But to Nevalle, it was a godsend, a symphony to his ears. He trotted to the end of the hall, and was greeted with a cloud of white curls crowned with rosy horns, Rialnah's blonde locks visible behind her mother's shoulders. He called to the demon, "I have sought you in every crevice of this castle, and-."
"How did you track me?" She spat. It was hardly a greeting the knight expected, and he grimaced at his own methods.
"Mortals… can perceive your kind, in their own ways, and if they choose to listen." He confessed, "My lady, I only wished to address you in private. Twelve years of separation from you gorged a hole from my heart, and there is so much I would admit to you, so much I would weep to you."
"I am not here merely to converse with humans." She coldly replied. Nevalle shook his head, perplexed.
"But we share a daughter together." He murmured. Unexpectedly, Axarthys flared with anger. Her lips swelled with exasperated breaths, her teeth bared in frustrated agony. Door handles rattled loudly down the hall without cause, and the blue silk drapery on a nearby window tore, slinking limply to the carpeted floors into a crumpled heap. Brimstone puzzlingly wafted through the hall.
"You cannot know the misery mortals condemn me to suffer!" Axarthys snarled, "I know what it is you seek- you, like every mortal, wishes to bind me to your world, to ensnare me in summoning circles, in séances, in your bodies as some… possessing spirit, in the very fabric of those most terrible dreams that titillate your fearful excitement. I am no one's poltergeist, human. In my netherworld, I have uncovered power, prestige, and happiness- and I refuseto be bound to you, in this damnable world, as nothing but a human's familiar."
The demon anticipated the human's departure at her proclamation. Her trembling hands inserted the key to her assigned chambers into the lock, but before she disengaged the door, Nevalle's surprisingly warm hands were around her waist. She gasped, shaking at the comfort her cold form felt in his arms. He hushed, "You are nothing but a woman to me, Axarthys."
"Nevalle…" She gasped as her chill ebbed from her body. The scratching inside the walls diminished.
"I spent ten years imprisoning and combating your kind. I've traveled with spiritualists, paladins, priests, exorcists. I realize that you are victim here amongst mortals. You will be hunted, and banished, or worse… held against your free will by mediums vying for your diabolical wisdom," he cooed, stroking her slender neck. Though her body felt fragile and frosty in his grasp, her power had undoubtedly grown. Nevalle tasted the horrific extent of her supernatural abilities as their bare flesh met. He repentantly purred in her ear, "I made a terrible mistake when I first fell in love with you. I believed that we had a future in Neverwinter, when you do not belong to this world. And when I crossed paths with a devil, not one day ago-"
"-You convened with a devil?" Axarthys breathed. Nevalle nodded, settling his head into the crook of her neck.
"He is a prisoner of the city, to be transported to Waterdeep. He told me that my name is whispered in your realm, and in his. You are a woman of renown in the netherworld, he said, and you wished nothing to do with me," the knight gnawed on the lobe of the demon's ear, invitingly muttering, "Perhaps that sentiment is true, and perhaps my hope that we may rekindle our love is foolish. I should never have sought to bind you to my world. But if nothing else, I will offer you warmth if you accompany me to my chambers."
"And what of my presence? Can even a seasoned knight brave the horrors of a demon, and claim still that in his eyes, she is but a woman?" She dared. He grinned morbidly, kissing the top vertebrae of her spine.
"There is little that bumps, clanks, and scratches in the night that frightens a Knight of the Chalice." He promised. Axarthys's tense torso loosened, and her chest folded partially over the knight's arms as she loosened and drooped with vague relief.
"I shall meet with you in your chambers, Nevalle, after I exchange my gown for more appropriate attire." She replied. Satisfied with her decision, the knight pressed his mouth to hers in a final seal of their tenuous, provisional relationship, and fled to his quarters to await their rendezvous. Axarthys removed the key from the lock and offered it to Rialnah. She instructed, "These chambers are yours alone, should you heed my demands. You overheard the knight, and know what you must report to our Lordship. Seek him, and inform him of the upcoming ceremony. Stipulate it is of the utmost importance that he attend, my child."
"I shall, my lady." Rialnah curtsied, tucking the key into the folds of her dress. She coasted down the hallway, her cape billowing behind her girlish form. Axarthys tugged at her black dress. Its straps shifted, and the satin lightened into sheer chiffon. Her clothing dematerialized into itself, her gown transformed into a sultry robe. She sunk her fingernail into her mouth, and stained her lips with the purplish red of her own blood. Pleased with her guise, she started down the opposite corridor, as the preternatural noises and phantom zephyrs haunted her steps towards the knight's chambers.
-
Tradesmen and customers alike slumbered, rendering Neverwinter's Merchant Quarter barren. Striped pavilions of outdoor vendors appeared as miniature, empty circus tents lining the grassy stretches of land between the stone causeways, devoid of their colorful goods. Sisserou's footsteps thundered in the silent vacancy of the place, and she tightened her hood. If demons lurked in the passageways of Castle Never, what horrors inhabited the Merchant Quarter?
The paladin spun down a winding alley and behind a brick storefront. She scoped the area for bystanders and onlookers, and satisfied that none occupied the vicinity, the paladin unclasped her golden necklace. She shook the chain, and a small vial fell into her palm. Shaking it, a green mist swirled from the emptiness of the glass. When the vial was uncorked, the green mist spilled forth and leaked into a steaming puddle on the ground. The paladin beseeched, "My brother, please hear me."
The green smoke rose from the grass, weaving into the translucent body of a vaporous figure. Dark robes formed from the ectoplasm, and he lifted his materialized face to the paladin. The green fog faded into the peach of his skin, but remained in the electric hue of his eyes. Scars marred his fiercely yet morbidly handsome face, and a red scarf tied round his head hid his maimed right eye from view. The man's chiseled cheeks and linear nose complemented the intellectually bright grin worn on his countenance, as he sniggered, "Ah, my little sister. Quite the odd hour to summon me, isn't it?"
"You can hardly complain," she resentfully muttered, "The last time I called on your assistance was over two years ago."
"Mmm, when that hezrou was accidentally summoned into a well in Blacklake. I'm still wondering how the beast fit inside there, and why a noblewoman would dally in the Black Arts." He mused. Sisserou growled.
"We are noble, Icarus, and you study the dark arts." She reprimanded. Her brother sneered lightly, amused.
"Please, Sisserou. I am a procurer of knowledge, not some… hulking, brutish diabolical engine. If I were, I doubt Tyr would allow me to appear to you. Frankly, spearheading the plots and pursuits of the Black Cult of Amn is a prestigious career, and one unsullied by our, well, questionable sources of information."
"You're attempting to sugarcoat the study of demons and exploitation of their arcane knowledge, to a paladin of Tyr, no less. Truly, brother, spare me the euphemisms. You summon demons, demand their knowledge, and collect items tainted by their evil. I know full well what you do, and only want your opinions." Sisserou said. Icarus snorted, crossing his arms defiantly. He leaned against the brick wall behind them, unmoved by his sister's request.
"You damn me for my wisdom," he said, "And then beg me to share it. I cannot help that I sought to harness demonic knowledge for the betterment of mages in and outside of Luskan, and that you decided to smash all demonic things beneath your hammer in Tyr's name."
"But I battle with a longsword-"
"Well, however you do what you do," he brushed her comment aside, "You've become quite self-righteous in the past years, ostensibly confident that outright vanquishing all evil is the only acceptable reaction to evil. I'm not about to aid you, Sisserou, not this time. Until you've tempered your paladin's arrogance, I'll mind to my own. Goodbye, sister."
As his manifestation faded, Sisserou lunged for his arm, snatching it. Suddenly his form became solid and opaque again, and she pleaded, "Icarus, I am desperate for your help. Axarthys sin Saintrowe has invaded the city, and claims that-"
"-The Lamb? Her Ladyship Emissary, Crown Ambassador of Graz'zt? In Neverwinter?! And you failed to tell me!" He exclaimed, grasping his sister by the shoulders, "Well, you could have mentioned that before you went on a paladin's rant of morality and conduct. Why would such a powerful demon grace the likes of the Material Plane, and the likes of Neverwinter, no less?"
"Listen, Icarus," she exasperatedly responded, "I have no time to divulge the story in full. I summarize when I say she has laid honest claim to the kingdom's throne, and at a ceremonial event tomorrow night, she will install her half-demon child as heir to the crown. I cannot risk banishing her, though such an act is well in the repertoire of a paladin. She is too close to Graz'zt, and I fear for my husband and son. I could not bear Graz'zt's vengeance upon them if I laid a hand on the demon."
Icarus weighed the situation, contesting, "You require exterior aid."
"Yes, entirely," Sisserou breathlessly replied, "We must find some just grounds upon which the demon and her spawn may be expelled from Neverwinter, or at worst, contact one capable of banishing the demons without the interference of the Neverwinter Nine. You are successful in your field, my brother, and-"
"I cannot help you," he frowned, "Though I'd easily sell my soul for the opportunity to commune with the Lamb, I have not abandoned our home city. Luskan ever has my sympathies, and its mages have my humble partnership. Neverwinter would not permit my help, merely on principle. However, there are followers of the Black Cult of Amn in every city of Faerun. In Neverwinter, our contact is a locksmith, named Alice Reinhardt. Though she isn't a cultist, perhaps she will be better suited to advise you."
"Alice Reinhardt," Sisserou repeated the name under her breath, inquiring, "And where may I consult her?"
Icarus answered, "Her shop is located near the docks. She is a spiritual medium, but prefers to keep her talents private. Though she is reluctant to investigate the supernatural, Alice has conspired with us in the past in a handful of hauntings, relaying locations of demon spirits imprisoned on the Material Plane. Mention I sent you, and maybe she will respond to your requests more amiably."
"I pray she will respond at all." Sisserou groaned. Her brother pressed her cheeks between his hands, drawing her lips up into a smile.
"You're going to come through victoriously in this matter." Icarus assured, adding as he faded back into the green puddle, and then into the mist that gathered into the vial on Sisserou's necklace, "After all, you're the braver sibling, paladin. You behead demons. I cower before them and call it a living."
-
Dank and despairing, little light warmed the dungeon's passages. Rarely, a gentle soul from the temple would deliver slices of fresh bread or glasses of ale to the prisoners, but no such joy had graced the prison in weeks. Instead, the only hope that flickered in the corridors of the wretched place was the musical voice of an adolescent girl, who skipped deep down into the farthest rows of cells. Her blonde curls bounced about her cheeks beneath a black bonnet as she sang a melody in her distant tongue, her young voice pronouncing each vicious syllable of the Abyssal language flawlessly. Misty lace trailed behind her slender form as she crouched before a cell.
"Hey, little miss, "a guard cooed, "You'd better not stray too close to that cell."
"Why ever not?" She sweetly pronounced.
He replied affectionately to the girl, "Well, there is a devil in that cell."
"But he is in a cage," She smiled naively, "And so I am safe, sir."
The guard grinned, shaking his head as he marched past and down the corridor, past the other prisoners. Having decided the child could have her fun rollicking through the dungeons, and having figured her a noble's daughter by her dress, the guard did not escort her from the prison. As he passed, the child leaned into the bars of the cell, her rosy cheeks pressed against the cool metal of the iron. She continued her song, murmuring it as if to put a baby to sleep with it. From the shadows, the devil emerged, kneeling in front of her.
"My lady has sent me with word for you." The girl announced in a hushed whisper, lifting her hood to reveal her spiraling, pink horns to the devil. Suddenly speaking with the intellectual clarity of an adult, she explicated, "There shall be a ceremony tomorrow, and by its end, I shall be named a princess amongst mortals. You must be present, or my lady will be most displeased. She insists that it is of the utmost necessity that you attend, and defend her from the Captain."
"Then send this message to your lady, Rialnah," the devil replied in a subdued hiss, stroking the bars lethally with his greenish fingers, "Her champion will never displease her."
-
Wind chimes fastened to the back of the storefront door jangled. The locksmith continued to pry at a padlock with her pick, pressing on one interior pin to hear a satisfying pop inside the metal carapace of the device. Absorbed with the task, the smith hardly heard the woman enter. But when her peripheral vision caught the lady politely folding her hands over the tabletop, she glimpsed up. Frosty, platinum-blonde locks fluttered from the smith's sandy cheeks, and though her femininity contrasted with her craftsman's' work, the piercing, intrepid silver of her eyes matched the ruggedness of the man's world she inhabited as a guild worker in the Docks District. Her brown leathers crunched as she sat upright, aimlessly flipping the pick in her palm.
"You don't look like a rogue," the locksmith noted, her voice surprisingly musical, "And so I won't tickle your fancy with pick sets and skeleton keys. Did you require my handiwork in opening a chest, a lover's back door, a jammed pantry?"
"No, I'm- I'm here on behalf of the Neverwinter Nine, unofficially." The woman said. The locksmith narrowed her gaze, lifting one finely shaped brow with intrigue. Tossing her pick into the air and catching it back in her hand, she inclined her head in piqued curiosity.
"Sisserou Dianarca," she observed, naming the woman without any pretentious titles, as if to call her by the bare bones of who she humanly was. It was personal, forthright. As if cautiously deciding her words, she introduced, "I am called Alice. What concern of the Nine do you bring?"
Sisserou gulped. Her fingers shuddered against the tabletop, her eyes widened with anxiety and fear. As if submitting a horrible secret to the woman, she strained in a whisper, "Lady Reinhardt, there is a demon in Castle Never."
A knowing, calm expression crossed Alice's features, but she did not relent directly to the request, replying, "So you have previously been acquainted with me."
"I- I don't know what you're saying." Sisserou shivered.
"You knew my last name, and I failed to tell you. Someone must have told you who I was, or else you sought my identity out alone," she stated placidly. Sisserou shook her head stubbornly, grappling for the words.
"I- Alice. Lady Reinhardt," she stammered, "My brother is Icarus, Icarus Dianarca, the head of the Black Cult's Luskan base. He informed me that you have spiritual gifts, that you can commune with spirits, and that you've handled demons before. The Nine requires your talents, Lady Reinhardt, to banish the demon to the Abyss. The creature threatens to secure the crown for her half-demon daughter, and-"
"No need to explain, Sisserou." Alice hushed. She slid her pick across the desk into a pile of similar tools and lowered the padlock to the space in front of her. Leaning in towards the paladin, she composedly responded, "Whispers of the plot have already reached the Docks, and if rumor holds true, your concern is justifiable. But Icarus has poorly recommended my help. I am a medium, Sisserou. My supernatural work is composed of séances and communing with the dead. I undertake hauntings, where spirits and demons alike are incorporeal. Your demon is bodily, and so banishing her is not a task I am capable of."
"Lady Reinhardt, you are all the Nine have left to turn to," Sisserou pleaded, "I… I am a paladin, Lady Reinhardt; I have faced worse than this demon in combat. But I am no diplomat. I am no spiritualist. I cannot reason with this creature, to best her at the political games she plays. And if I cannot- if the Nine cannot- than our throne will fall to a half-demon child."
Alice pondered that, and looked directly into the paladin's eyes. Sisserou shuddered at the chilling, soul-piercing grey of the woman's irises. Alice murmured, "One cannot assume all that is born from shadow is consumed by it."
"This child has been raised in the Abyss, Lady Reinhardt! All she must know is cruelty, all she must feel is hate." Sisserou insisted, "I know you are hesitant to publicize your spiritual gifts, my lady, but you are sorely needed. Whatever aid you give, if any at all, will be compensated. I swear this."
"Reimbursement is the least of my concerns, Sisserou," Alice assured gently. She sighed, leaning her elbows on the desk. Shaking her head she said, "I am no Black Cultist, nor am I a demon slayer. I am ambivalent to the demonic cause. Moreover, I have encountered demonic presences only rarely, and many of those cases end up an infestation of a vengeful or nefarious mortal spirit. I sincerely wish I could promise you an outcome of my service, even an opinion on the quandary, but I know not what shall come of my help."
"Then you will help us?" Sisserou replied quietly.
"If my service remains confidential, I will." Alice decided. Sisserou's tense chest collapsed with relief as she sighed, her shoulder loose and sagging. She shed her professional tone and snatched Alice, hugging her as tightly as she could manage. She was no longer a Nine knight, but a concerned wife, a terrified mother, who was consoled by the aid a medium offered. Alice, she prayed, was the answer to her crisis. There was no embrace tight enough to thank the woman for it.
-
Absanoch rolled in his cell, curling into a sphere at the back of his cage and wailing incoherently. He'd torn his surcoat off, revealing a coat of sweat over his sculpted, greenish-grey abdomen, and he rasped and hissed as he breathed. All of his devilish sensibility and calculating logic were shed for the vestige of an utter madman. He looked a fool, and his guards thoroughly enjoyed the spectacle.
"Gods, can't you shut him up?" A royal guard spat at a handful of Greycloaks gathered around the cell as he passed through the dungeon. Stopping behind them, the guard pushed through the crowd, rebuking, "What is this circus? Get back to work; we've had worse pr-"
"-Sir, he can juggle- just watch, I'm certain he'll do it again!"
The royal guard groaned, "You gave the fiend things to juggle. Fantastic."
"Sir!"
Absanoch bounded to his feet, launching himself at the bars and beaming insanely. The royal guard, stunned, hopped backwards into the crowd, eyes wide as he bellowed, "Someone sedate him and move him to solitary confinement! This is absurd!"
"But sir," a guard commented, "He's rather… comical."
Another suggested, "He'd be a wonderful jester for the soirée tonight at court. There's nothing to lighten Neverwintan hearts after a scuffle with the demoness like a crazed fiend willing to humiliate himself!
"Yes, precisely Imagine the look on that bitch's face when she sees another fiend making a fool of himself. What a message that would send!" One piped, "It'll be the perfect joke!"
The royal guard paused, cocking his head in thought.
"I'd better not be demoted for this," he warned, to the excited nods of the Greycloaks surrounding the cell. The royal guard stomped off, exclaiming as he turned the corner, "Make me regret this, and I'll have you scrubbing the dungeon floors with your tongues until they're so raw you can't mumble a word!"
From the cage, the devil's crazed laughter faded into the silence of his pitiless scowl.
That threat would be the least of their concerns.
-
Unlike most demon lords, Graz'zt hardly indulged in material pleasures, and his fortress evidenced that. The expanses of his Argent Palace, a cluster of silvery towers rising above the abyssal city of Zelatar, were meticulously clean and bare of furniture, as well as residents. The occasional beast romped the entry corridors to ward off hapless adventurers and bothersome paladins, and a handful of snakelike mariliths guards patrolled the higher towers. Few mortals ever walked the demon lord's halls and survived, and devils were altogether slain upon entry to the Abyss itself. However, as chaotic as the Abyss was, it was rife with exceptional cases. Asmodeus's visit was but one of these instances.
Red-skinned and cloaked in uniformly scarlet robes, the Lord of the Nine Hells detested the very air of the Abyss. With every breath, his lungs filled with its bedlam, and contested the lawfulness that exuded from every pore and orifice of his body. Wrinkling his nose, he glided undetected down the corridor into Graz'zt's personal quarters, slinking through the iron door and into the cold emptiness of his tenuous ally's study. Inclined against the mantle of a grey marble hearth burning with green flames, a book in his hand, he barely glanced up at the intruder.
"Sending another one of your aspects, are you? I'd hoped that you would grace me with your true form this time, but alas, I am left disappointed." Graz'zt greeted coolly. Asmodeus reclined in a seat by the fireplace, folding his arms across his chest.
"I have little choice, given that the Blood War still rages and I've traveled into demonic territory," he stated calmly. Graz'zt momentarily peered up from his book.
"Well, if your machinations unravel as we've hoped, then that shall soon be a matter of no concern whatsoever," Graz'zt nonchalantly replied, flipping a page in his volume. He read the first paragraph, leaving a fleeting silence pass before he noted, "Your assassin has been of little help."
"Ah," Asmodeus smoothly replied, "So the Lamb succeeds alone."
"She's already contested the throne, and the king declares his verdict on the succession at a ceremonial affair tonight. There is no need for the performance; if he plans to uphold what is scribed in his declaration of succession and honor Tyr's evenhandedness, Rialnah must be named to the crown. The Lamb is competent alone," Graz'zt reported unenthusiastically, closing his book with a resounding thump, "Oh, but surely don't mistake his uselessness for my dissatisfaction."
"I won't," Asmodeus said, narrowing his gaze as he added, "Even Mephistopheles, the most mutinous of my archducal subordinates, was pleased with the servitude of my right hand, as I'm sure you shall be."
"Oh, Asmodeus, spare me the sarcasm," Graz'zt laughed, crossing the room to lean against his desktop, idly shifting the papers behind him, "Purely because his role has been… minor doesn't mean I am displeased with him. The bastard juggled keys and acted as a lunatic to gain entry to the royal ball. Absanoch Shaddonhale will clearly protect my prized emissary to any humiliating extreme."
Asmodeus smiled, almost tenderly. His voice softened, "I doubt that is any indication of his undying loyalty to you."
Graz'zt questioned, "And so your assassin is smitten with my ambassador?"
"Is difficult to love her? Even devils in my court adore her for her beauty and charisma." Asmodeus replied. Graz'zt snickered cruelly, pacing around the back of his confidante's seat and in front of the fire.
"And no heart is blacker than hers," Graz'zt promised, "She rose to her seat of power by slaughtering every last Saintrowe demon, including matron Balimynah. I have no doubt her ruthlessness will extend to the current situation in Neverwinter."
Asmodeus merely grinned, staring past Graz'zt and into the flame. His own fiery eyes captured the sparkle of the emerald blaze, and the light illuminated the gold lining of his robes. He considered aloud, "I cannot protect you should Neverwinter discover that you are behind this. I've involved myself enough in this plot by condoning it."
"I doubt that Neverwinter shall retaliate en mass. Axarthys understands it is meant to be seen as a personal mission," He promised, slithering towards the couch that Asmodeus was seated on. He leaned casually into the seat, an arm loosely slung over the back of the sofa. As his legs settled into the cushions, a rattle of chains and armor abound his waist echoed the room, blending into the crackling noise of the fire. Graz'zt considered, "Neverwinter believes she serves her own intents by instating Rialnah as heir and slaking her vengeance against the city for taking that human from her. The city knows not that I stand behind this plot."
Asmodeus shook his head hopelessly, ascending from his seat with a countenance of dissatisfaction plastered on his lips. Before departing the Argent Palace, he warned, "Should this coup of Neverwinter fail, I will not hesitate to negate our alliance and abandon all hope of ending this Blood War. Pray your faith is rightly placed in the Lamb, Dark Prince, for if she falters, my armies will be pounding on Zelatar's gates."