The Black Canary

by apeacockpersian

A dying Nasher's throne, promised to Casavir's son, falls into the claws of Nevalle's daughter by a demonic emissary. Amidst Blood War politics, a knight seeks love, and two paladins for the safety- and throne- of their child. Casavir/OC, Nevalle/OC.

4. Diptych I

The Black Canary: Diptych One

When Nevalle returned from Rodric's funeral, his black cloak and tabard drenched and icy, he found Axarthys awaiting him beside his chamber's fireplace, draped entirely in pale pink layers of ghostly silk. Her bare, grey shoulders rose up from the pearl-beaded collar of her gown, fading into the slender neck, delicate jaw, expressionless lips and otherworldly eyes of his Ladyship Emissary. He breathed in the perfume of her frankincense, approaching her.

"It is late," she stated simply. Her words echoed through the chamber, resounding as a muted, devilish screech. The closer he drew to her, the louder the scraping noises on the floor became. Her slit pupils narrowed and set themselves on him, unblinking. He reached out to embrace her with his gloved hand, and she flinched at the chill dampness of his clothing against her already cold skin.

"Perhaps I'd best find something dry to wear." He offered softly. Axarthys stepped in closer, her cold breath glacial against his tabard's wetness. Her hands slithered up his chest and unbuckled the clasp of his cloak, and it slipped to the ground with a rustle. Her hands descended to his belt, loosening it from his waist and tugging the surcoat from off his shoulders. He wriggled free of his boots, and she followed suit, locking her thumbs into his breeches and freeing them from his waist. Sooner than he could embrace her, she turned from his grasp.

"Before you succumb to hypothermia," she ordered faintly, her fingers flexing to point in the direction of his armoire. Silently he did her bidding, shivering at the trenchant reminder of her constant suffering. To feel perpetually frozen…

When he emerged from his armoire clad in a balmy wool robe, he discovered Axarthys pacing the room, her stature rigid, as if to discourage any restless movement. Whenever she noticed him there, she halted, immediately folding her hands below her waist as politely as possible. She expressed, her voice loosed of some of its melody, "I cannot walk outside this cage without being stalked by your ilk."

"I am sorry," he apologized gently. Her composure splintered, and the bones of her shoulders cracked as she agitatedly shifted them out of their sockets. Mimicking human movement was difficult for the demon, Nevalle realized with equal parts dread and disgust. By the time Axarthys retired each night, she yielded further to the natural contortions and horrifyingly preternatural behaviors of her kind. Regardless how often she swung her limbs out of place or rotated her arms out of their joints, the knight never grew numb to it. It unnerved him still, and that night, she was at her fiendish worse. Her grasp on humanity grew shockingly, frighteningly thin.

"I have the word of Neverwinter's Captain that I could not possibly have slain the child," Axarthys rasped, tensing when the chilling noise emerged from her mouth. She quivered, closing her eyes and swallowing a breath with difficulty.

"You haven't inhabited the mortal world since we parted, have you?" He asked, hoping to divert her from the subject of her accusation. Submitting to him, her posture loosened.

"Forgive my lack of restraint. I am not as… gifted as I once was in emulating the manner of mortals." she murmured. Nevalle shook his head, maintaining his equanimity. When he did not proffer a spoken response, she added guardedly, "Victims of possession contort their bodies as they do because it is not natural for us to move as you do. Demons command all the knowledge in the world, but they cannot know how to act a human when blending into the theatrics of the living."

"Ten years as a Chalice knight still hasn't taken the terror out of limbs flailing out of their sockets and spinning heads," Nevalle admitted with a roguish chuckle. Axarthys's brows softened, and she smiled delicately. Confident that he'd quelled her agitation, Nevalle strolled over to his bedside, prying the cork from a bottle of sherry left there. He inquired, "May I pour you a glass?"

"Is it chilled?" she responded. Nevalle nearly expressed his regret that it was not, but before he spoke, an affectionate smile crossed his lips. He realized she didn't want it to be cold.

"Not in the least," he promised, offering her the goblet. Her fingers grazed his as she accepted it from him, and a wave of sudden heat overtook him despite the frost of her touch. She dipped the glass against her lips, downing a long swig of the intoxicating liquid through the parched tunnel of her throat. When she lowered the glass, Nevalle swept a stray lock of her snowy hair from her face, uttering, "Perhaps the luxuries of the nobility will have the same intoxicating effect on you, my lady, as it does on aristocrats."

She dropped the glass, and it crashed to the floor. The knight was oblivious to its descent. By the time it shattered and the wine had leaked between the panels of the floor and under the bed, Axarthys had smothered the knight with the taste of the wine lingering on her lips.

"I shall be charged with the death of the boy," she panted, silencing his response with her mouth. One of her legs twisted, locking around his waist, her arms bent around him. He broke their kiss, grasping the back of her ashen curls.

"Then I stand as your champion," he declared, before supporting the small of her back against his hand and lowering her into his bed. Kneeling over her, the demon's knees straddled his hips, her fingers straying against his neck to beckon him forward. His mouth again found hers, his hands unbuttoning the clasps of her dress. He promised before shirking off his robe, "You will be safe, my lady, else my life will be forfeit."

-

Icarus returned to Luskan immediately after the funeral, departing before he drew any suspicion from the natives of his city of origin. Though his physical presence was lacking, the weight of the vial around Sisserou's neck soothed her, reminding her of Icarus. Her brother had given her purpose, and it was a better condolence than tears and familial embraces.

Grief and subsequent emptiness absconded Sisserou's heart, and reemergence of the Black Canary consumed her. She lingered at court with runes and spells rushing through her, stealing her consciousness away from the drone of diplomats and the commentary of her fellow knights. While the Nine deliberated, she drifted into a stupor, contemplating the repertoire of her magic and envisioning herself liberated of the armor of knighthood for the pointed capes and cloaks of a witch. After a lengthy session, chiefly concerning unwelcome news of Nasher's declining condition and Rodric's passing, Darmon dismissed the court and returned to his lord's bedside, to report the court's discussions. The knights exited the throne room in numbed silence, and Sisserou snorted as Nevalle ascended the staircase. To his demon, she mentally seethed. Just as the fire of vengeance ignited within her, Casavir called her name. She sighed deeply, calmed by his proximity.

"You were quiet at court today," Casavir observed as he approached her.

"I am not prepared to relinquish my knighthood before the Nine," she admitted, frowning, "I am consumed with it, with becoming… what I was, once more. After all, it is not in the proper place of a witch to be entangled in the politics of a kingdom."

"The ladies of Rasheman would disagree." Her husband countered, beaming gently. Sisserou chuckled faintly.

"Perhaps there is credence to your words, my love, but I…" her speech faltered. Casavir rested a palm against her back, bidding her to stroll alongside him. They exited the castle doors and into the streets of Blacklake. Both were silent, reverent of the palpable peace of the district. As they wandered into the Merchant Quarter, they were greeted with the bustle and noise of commerce, and Casavir directed them to the district park, where they meandered between the rollicking greens, enjoying the muted sunshine coating the landscape between the occasional, passing cloud.

"I know very little of your life in Luskan," Casavir mused. Sisserou shrugged.

"If you know of the Black Canary, there is little else to tell."

"All I know of her, though, is that she is currently my wife, and at one time, was a witch," Casavir replied, "And I wonder, why now does she wish to return? Why the paladin is being replaced by the witch, where the witch came from, how she… everything, I'd like to know."

Sisserou stopped, and sunk to the grass below. She crossed her legs, sighed, and leaned back into the plush, textural carpet of green beneath her. Casavir reclined beside her, and she explained, "My family was minor nobility in Luskan. We maintained our title decades before piracy and corruption plagued the city, but when they eventually befell us, we had to find another means to assert our power, a means congruent with the shifting interests of Luskan. My father knew the Hosttower mages were expanding their influence over the city, but he was reluctant to join them. If they toppled in their ascent to power, our family would as well, and so he emulated their practices in hopes that if the Hosttower usurped control over Luskan, our family would be adopted into the ranks of their new government, and not slain. We should've fled Luskan, established a new life elsewhere. Instead, my father drove us into the darkness of black magic and nighttime vigils, in which my occult name was Black Canary.

"My mother was quickly driven mad by the sabbaths, and dedicated her soul to Asmodeus before leaping off the roof of our home, killing herself. My father was only… well, marginally heartbroken, and pursued his talents as a sorcerer relentlessly. He communed with devils and summoned demons for knowledge and for power. Icarus happily followed his example, but I had no talent for black magic. My forte was natural magic, and so I took up the studies of a witch. At first, I studied only to benefit my father, but soon I was enamored with the work for its own sake. While I wasn't the finest of witches, I was certainly the most passionate, and breezed through my studies. I had potential.

"But then Icarus had a most brilliant idea to summon our dead mother's ghost. And when he did, a slew of devils rose with her, and broke free of the summoning circle. They ravaged our home, killing our servants and injuring my father. We looked like fools to the Hosttower. Though my brother was guilty, my father blamed me instead. It seemed logical to him that the less capable of the two of his children would fail so miserably, and it seemed rational that I was trying to commune with spirits, accidentally calling on devils in the process.

"My father banished me, and my brother felt guilty for it as soon as I gathered what few possessions I needed to survive in exile. He gave me the vial I now wear, to call on him whenever I needed him, as an apology. I took it, but I was bent on vengeance. I would never allow another fiend to escape the Hells or the Abyss again. As I journeyed the Sword Coast, I came into knowledge of Tyr's temples, and became a Knight of the Chalice, accounting for much of the hostility Nevalle treats me with. I digress, again. So, the priests of Tyr realized that I suited the role of paladin better than a knight, and so I heeded their advice. I shed all knowledge of magic and took up arms as a paladin." Sisserou released a long breath, closing her eyes. A long silence spanned, and Casavir wove a tress of her hair around his finger.

"But now you are returning to what you once were," he goaded. When she opened her eyes, there were quiet tears in them, rimming her emerald eyes with a glassy, liquid coat.

"I became a Tyrran warrior to slay demons and devils out of spite, out of revenge, and I fulfilled that purpose. I killed fiends on their ground, infiltrated their strongholds. Now, a demon has invaded our city, Casavir, and she… she has taken our son," Sisserou cried softly, "Tyr teaches us justice, and perhaps this was my justice, for taking up his cause with such horrible intentions. Now, I can no longer be a paladin whenever I know my actions are no better than a demon's. I must return to what I once was, to start anew where I left off. Icarus's suggestion… I admit, in humility, is the right one to be made."

Casavir laughed heartily aloud, and Sisserou shot a piercing glare at him. He amended, "I only find it amusing that despite our many years of marriage, I never thought twice when you swept the veranda with those rickety brooms and never questioned why you harbored a peculiar affection for pointed hats."

"Ha. Ha." Sisserou sarcastically responded. She dried her tears with her sleeve, and a bout of laughter cleared what sorrow remained in her expression. Brushing the grass from her knees and standing above Casavir, she planted her hands soundly on her waist and announced, "Best be careful what you say to me, paladin. I could transform you into my toad familiar."

"Truly?"

"Would you like to find out?" She taunted. The sparkle in her eyes was undeniably teasing, and it brought Casavir immense relief, irreplaceable by any offered by the funeral guests, family, and his fellow knights. Though she mourned still, his wife, his mischievous Sisserou, had returned to him.

-

It was not out of disrespect that Alice abstained from Sisserou's company in the days following Rodric's death. The medium was a conduit for spirits, and wherever she went, souls treaded in her wake. To attend so spiritually charged an event such as a funeral would be to provoke the spirits, coax them from crossing over, draw them from heaven or hell and into the purgatory that Alice communed with. And so, for the sake of Rodric's soul, and for the emotional closure of Sisserou's ordeal, Alice remained in Neverwinter, fitting keys to locks and locks to safe-boxes, tediously tampering with especially challenging devices beside the welcome heat of the fire as the rain poured. Half of her heart pined for the normalcy of a locksmith's work, though she dared not deny the remaining half that ached to offer whatever consolation her mediumship could provide to the mourning, however dangerous it was to give. She continued to pry her locks, her inner turmoil numbed by hot cider and the veneer of her earthly employ.

Yet work failed to provide any escape from the tragedy that plagued her, or to quench her languishing desire to offer the deepest, sincerest condolences to a mother for the loss of her child. Alice tiptoed on a fine line, struggling to balance professionalism towards her clientele and emotional support to a friend, the boundary so precariously drawn in a medium's work. When Sisserou and Casavir returned to court at Neverwinter, Alice at long last finalized her course of action. She fastened the brown wool of her cloak over her shoulders, drew up her hood, and stepped out into the insipid sun of the early evening.

Her path to Castle Never wound through the subdued commotion of the Merchant Quarter and into the serene, sprawling, landscaped walks of Blacklake. She climbed the steep lane to the castle, stating her business with the guards, "I am here to speak with Lady Sisserou. Does she still remain at court?"

"If you've a complaint to register, talk to the Greycloaks," The guard grunted.

"You mistake my intent, sir," She addressed him, "I am Lady Dianarca's counselor, and I need to convene with her, on the recent matter of succession. My endeavors are important, be assured."

"Oh, Miss Reinhardt. Lady Sisserou told me to expect you," he frowned at the common company that the noble lady kept, muttering, "She returned to her estate until the Nine are called back to court. I'm not going to meddle in noble affairs, so… look, go inside, and leave her a message with Sir Nevalle."

"And where may-"

"Top story, up the stairs in the main entry. Quickest route." He interjected, turning back to his post. Alice stepped away without thanks, instead bowing her head defensively and slipping through the entry, traversing the marble floors and scaling the stairs to the sound of the thump of her boots, where all around her, the click of aristocratic heels echoed the halls.

-

A rap on the door.

"Who in Tyr's name-" Nevalle exclaimed, interjecting his speech with a frustrated growl. Days in which he convened with the Nine on matters of the lower class caused the wretchedness of his nights. As Axarthys sauntered through the manicured parks of Blacklake at the day's close, Nevalle was left to review the written plights of Neverwinter's misfortunate and disconsolate. Snatching the tunic over the back of his chair, he tugged it over his breeches, and sulked to the door, swinging it open roughly so the hinges creaked aloud. He was met with the countenance of a platinum blonde woman, her silvery eyes set on his tenaciously.

"I do not mean to intrude open you outside court, but I was instructed to leave a message with you for Lady Dianarca," the woman explained. The clarity of her diction was unlike that of the commons, Nevalle observed with a suppressed sneer. He surveyed her nondescript bodice and skirt, jaw tightened as he beckoned her inside. Leading her to his desk, he lifted a quill from its ink fountain. As he reached for a sheet of parchment, she laid her hand across his. Shocked with the heat of her touch, he withdrew his hand. He had not felt the warmth of a woman for what seemed ages.

"I am versed in penmanship, my lord," she placidly noted. Nevalle nodded and relinquished the quill. He watched as her hands nimbly scrawled Sisserou's name on the parchment, but she hesitated to begin the body of the letter. Her gaze suddenly met his, and the bare grey of her irises pierced the façade of his nobility, as if to strip him of his aristocracy and equate him with her state of humanity. She inquired, "The demon does not reside here?"

"I hardly see why that matters in the discourse of your letter," he challenged.

"Lady Dianarca prefers our correspondence to be private," she nonchalantly replied, unperturbed by the acidity of his tone. Nevalle's eyes narrowed questioningly. He leaned in closer to her, placing a hand over the parchment to bar her from writing on it.

"What do you hide," Nevalle growled, "from her Ladyship Emissary?"

Alice pinched the quill tightly, but revealed no other signs of intimidation, expressing, "Lady Dianarca is a friend. I only wish to convey my condolences at the recent loss of her son, a correspondence I would prefer be kept confidential from her Ladyship Emissary."

"Because you think her guilty." Nevalle concluded in a snarl.

"Until Lord Nasher clears her of charges, I cannot say so with conviction," Alice responded firmly, glancing down at the parchment to whisper almost with desperation, "May I please pen my letter, my lord?"

Nevalle removed his hand from the paper, crossing his arms across his chest as he sulked to the other end of the room. Assuring his eyes strayed far from her letter, Alice quickly jotted her message down. Her condolences were succinct, but her request for audience with Sisserou was urgent and detailed. Glimpsing once more at Nevalle to see his back turned from her and his gaze fixed outside his window, she added to her note, Find me past dusk at the Docks in half a tenday. I shall remain at my smithy until we have convened, before scribbling her signature at the bottom. Blowing on the ink to dry, she hurriedly folded it and presented it to Nevalle. She asked, "May this be sealed, my lord, and sent to her immediately? It is urgent that she knows I wait to convene with her."

He scoffed, seizing the letter from. Marching over to his desk, he gathered a stick of wax and turned it over the fire of the candle illuminating his desk. Rubbing the heated wax in a circle at the parchment seam, he dipped the signet ring on his desk into it, and wrote Sisserou's name on the bottom of the folded sheet. Nevalle growled, "It is done. Lady Dianarca shall have it. Now go, and tell the guards not to send me any more of your ilk. Tyr knows I hear enough peasant gripes at court."

"Thank you, my lord," Alice managed, curtsying before she slipped out of the door, closing it in her stead with a hearty bang. Nevalle rolled his tense shoulders, growling.

"Commoners." He muttered.

-

When Axarthys hadn't returned from her stroll by the stroke of eleven in the evening, Nevalle deserted the work at his desk and journeyed into Blacklake's central plaza in search of her. Crossing the largely desolate space and wandering past the theatrical stage, he reached the shores of Black Lake, its glistening ebony surface velvety beneath the nighttime sky. The lake seemed endless to him as a boy, and when his father traveled to court at Castle Never, he would have called for his escorts to row him across it and directly in the district. When Nevalle accompanied his father, it was as if the lake was the size of an ocean, its depths unfathomable and its reaches indefinite. Now grown and tempered with the experience of age, the knight could peer across the watery strait and envision the sprawling landscape of Swychcreste estate, his boyhood home and inheritance, positioned atop the distant, verdant hills of his land.

A sigh released the breath from his lungs as he began to pace the shores of the lake. When he peered up from the water's edge, he saw the black-draped Axarthys ambling towards him, her pink eyes visible even at a distance. At last, when walking closed the space between them, the knight took her hands into his, half-anticipating the warmth of Alice's hands. But he was greeted with the unnerving chill of her ever-frozen flesh instead.

"Gods, Axarthys, you could have been killed staying out so late alone," he chastised exasperatedly, "Why did you not return?"

"I became… entranced with the fleeting freedom," She admitted. Nevalle sighed, looping his arm in hers. They walked along the water's edge, where the ripples of the otherwise calm water lapped the mud of the shore. Nevalle sensed as his arm moved naturally in stride against Axarthys's stiff, motionless limb. He felt her floating, her gait nonexistent.

"I apologize that Castle Never has become a prison to you," he finally responded, with a distinct air of cynicism. Axarthys turned her face from his and towards the water, drawing in a clean breath off the water as the wind caught it, carrying it towards her. Her snowy locks danced in the zephyr.

"Your world is an Eden to me," she responded, "I only wish to be outdoors, where I may best admire its beauty."

"You've wiled quite a time outside, and I wish you'd return with me to the castle. Your beauty is best admired in the privacy of the indoors," he stressed, "Where protocol does not dictate your posture be so unnaturally rigid, and where I may enjoy the sincerity of your beauty not for the human masquerade you play, but for the rawness of what you are, in truth."

She winced, prepared to chastise him for his words, for traipsing blissfully unaware into the claws of the creature no human façade could ever mask entirely. Axarthys would be his death, and she knew it. She would be selfish to allow him to love her, and lead him deeper into that chasm, that damnation, from which there would be no penance enough to save him. His soul and body would wither in the negativity of her spiritual essence, and she could do nothing to stop it. Yet he was the gatekeeper to her paradise, the key to purgatory she came to see as preferable to the tumultuous politics of the Lower Planes. She could save him from her, preserve his salvation, if only she stayed away.

Axarthys was selfish, parched for his love, and smiled in reply to his declaration. She uttered, "Then let us return to your chambers, my knight, so that you may love me in full."

-

The air was emptily dry, despite the prolonged downpour that had been the recent weather, and hung stale on the glacial air. Absanoch's breath appeared as two streams of smoke from some infernal engine, the exhaust of a diabolical mechanism engaged in fiendish plot. The watery silk of his robe concealed the reptilian armor beneath, camouflaged him as he predatorily paced in the shadows. He was wary, watching. The nobles meandered past the windows of Castle Never's towers, and the devil spied them vigilantly. He saw the blonde knight departing the castle. Once the knight descended out of the devil's sight, Absanoch emerged.

He leaped onto the stone surface of the castle tower, clinging to the craggy rocks and locking his boots into the slits of mortar between them. The magic of his cloak hissed softly, and blended him into the fabric of the late evening shadows as he scaled the edifice, crawling onto the balcony of the proper chamber. Clambering over the railing, he readied his pick and unlocked the door, slithering into the quarters of the knight Nevalle.

He scoured the room for evidence, under which a pretense for which murder could be falsely established. Asmodeus, in the intricacy of his diabolical plots, affirmed to his agents that assassination required diplomatic subterfuge as well as physical camouflage. After all, ruthless slaughter was demonic, and it was reckless. Without constructing the web of lies that hid his involvement in the crime, Absanoch would fail Asmodeus, and the painstakingly wrought and fragile plot could collapse if he lacked caution and a solid charade for murder. Scoping out the knight's belongings, he searched for something pertaining to Axarthys, even to Rialna. He uncovered only a woman's ring, too large for Rialna's fingers, and set with one canary diamond. A token, perhaps, from Axarthys. It was a memento hardly able to mask a murder. The devil crept to the knight's desk, surveying the papers organized there. Amidst the homogenous piles of red-stamped parchment sheets, one labeled Lady Sisserou Dianarca piqued his interest.

Absanoch broke open the seal, reading the full contents of the letter. He marked the name signed at the bottom of the message. Alice. He knew of the talented medium, and was certain, though the letter was vague, that the only reason for a Neverwintan lady to rendezvous with a medium was if it concerned the occult… and, likely, Axarthys sin Saintrowe. Sparse as they came, Absanoch permitted himself a terse laugh. The devil was certain that Sisserou would hasten to Neverwinter if she thought the medium had good reason to solve the succession crisis, and provide closure, at least politically, to the death of her son.

Absanoch could exploit that.

He traced the inked letters, erasing them with the utterance of a spell. Forging what was needed, he tapped the back of the wax seal, heating it with a brief blast of infernal flame. Heated, it easily resealed the parchment, as if no one had tampered with it.

By the time Axarthys and Nevalle returned, the letter lay motionless on the desktop, precisely where the devil had discovered it. As Nevalle stripped off the layers of his tunics and folded Axarthys's finery into a stack beside his own clothes, the demon paced the chambers in her silk dressing gown, tracing the footboard of the bed and wandering over to the desk, where she uncovered what the devil had, unbeknownst to her, tampered with. She scrutinized the seal of her aristocratic paramour stamped on it, officiating the document as Nine business. Sisserou's name was inscribed at the top, and she scowled.

"What is this?" She solicited. Nevalle tugged off his breeches as he approached, taking the letter from her hands to inspect it.

"Alice, the medium, needed to forward a message to Lady Dianarca," he explained, shrugging as he took it with him to the door, "I'd forgotten to have it sent to her estate."

As Nevalle took the letter to the servant stationed at the end of the hall, to be sent by messenger to the paladin's home, Axarthys climbed into bed. When Nevalle returned, she already feigned sleep. The knight quietly plodded about the chamber, blowing out the candles and leaving only the crackling glow of the fire to illuminate the room. He dipped under the blankets, tucking an arm around Axarthys as he buried his cheek into her tresses, whispering, "You're quite good at mimicking human behavior. But you can't pretend to sleep if your life was at stake for it."

"Have you a fear of what I may do whilst you sleep?"

"No, only a hope that you'd reserve sex for my waking hours."

"As you did whenever I was unconscious in the bath tub, those many years past?"

He snorted, "Cease your torments, demon, and let me sleep."

-

A squire's young gelding clattered up the trail towards the estate, and his untarnished chainmail clinked as he dismounted and trotted to the door. It was late, past midnight. Sisserou and Casavir had fallen into uneasy slumber whenever they were awoken by the incessant knocking on the door, and Casavir opted to stumble out of bed, collect his cloak, and answer it. The overexcited squire, thrilled to be given a duty to complete on his own, immediately handed the paladin the letter and explained- with incredible fervor, despite the late hour- that it was news for Sisserou from Nevalle. Casavir accepted it, groggily muttering a string of thanks, before slamming the door and cursing the blonde knight for his disrespectfulness.

"For you," he said, tossing the letter onto the bed. Sisserou rubbed the sleepiness from her eyes and took it to the window, where she examined it in the moonlight. She glanced quizzically at the seal, and broke it open with her fingernail. Scanning the contents, she closed the parchment and folded it back into the envelope. Casavir inquired, "What was so urgent?"

"It seems Alice missed us at court, and wanted to meet with me," Sisserou yawned, nestling back under the blankets beside Casavir, "She wishes to meet me at dawn, in the temple of Tyr."

"Daybreak? You'll have to leave here soon." Casavir noted. Sisserou chuckled, tired.

"I'll steal what hours of sleep I can, then." She uttered in response.

-

Rialnah combed her blonde curls at the mirror of her vanity, chirping a lullaby her nursemaid would sing to her as a child. She brushed around the wide, spiraling horns that looped like a ram's around her temples. Commanding her own chamber, while her mother attended to court, instilled the young demon with inflated confidence in her sovereignty. She roamed the city under the guise of her cloaks by day, browsing vendors of colorful cloths and imported handicraft. The freedom that her mother lacked the daughter fully enjoyed, and though she kept herself busy, her life was blissfully insignificant. Rialnah was bound to no schooling, no career, not even the responsibility of an adult. She had the tact and the social prowess of a courtly demon, and the intellect of those twice her age, but flexed those talents with little purpose higher than convincing the castle bakers for a second sweet roll, or duping the city children into completing some base, ridiculous task to serve only her amusement.

She was utterly free and wholly uninhibited in Neverwinter, under no tutor or parent's gaze, so long as her more nefarious exploits were negligible enough to go unnoticed by her superiors. Smiling smugly at her reflection in the mirror, she untangled the strings of her corset and wriggled into her night gown, before curling into the coverlets of her massive bed and collecting the stack of books at the nightstand to arrange on her bed. Most evenings, she stalked the city and frightened street urchins sleeping in the alleys, though tired from her adventures she settled for a subtler pursuit.

Rialnah flipped open to the first fairytale in the volume she chose at random, a tale about a clown who made a pact with a demon lord to exchange his soul for knowledge. The depictions of the motley fool daftly summoning a fiend brought giggles to her lips. As she skimmed the tale and admired the illustrations, she wondered if her human father, who she knew only in countenance, was so dim-witted. From her storybooks, Rialnah knew mortals purely as jesters and idiots. Knights and paladins, with their lofty ideals on redemption only truly achieved by the naive and the sheltered, fell into the latter category. Suddenly weary of the stupidity of the character that usually delighted her, Rialnah cast aside the book and began surveying the other volumes spread across the coverlets. As she reached for one, another slipped off the bed and plummeted to the floor with a thump. Growling, she flung her torso over the side of the mattress and retrieved it.

When she lugged herself back into the bed, there was a man standing over her.

"Hello, Rialnah."

Before she could shriek in surprise, he had his hand cupped around her mouth and his other arm locked around her torso. She struggled in vain to escape, and realized only after glancing momentarily down at the mint-green flesh of his exposed hand that it was Absanoch Shaddonhale, her mother's consort. Though her struggling waned, her body went rigid, fearful of the man she knew only through acquaintance. Her breathing intensified, as did his grip upon her body. Rialnah felt the air squeezed from her lungs. A fierce wind blew open the window that the devil must have entered through, blasting her nostrils with a waft of unanticipated cold. She choked, gasping in whatever air she could fill her constricted lungs with.

"By the order of Asmodeus and the will of Graz'zt," he announced, muttering the words into her ear, "Your life is forfeit for your unlawful claim to the Neverwintan throne."

He plunged the needle into her upper arm. The devil muffled her scream as the poison began its course through her body. When her body flinched no longer, the devil tucked her under the folds of his cloak, and escaped through the open window and down the castle wall. His boots silently met the cobblestone below, and he skulked in the shadows towards the Merchant Quarter, unsheathing his short sword and slinking into the Temple of Tyr.

No rain fell that night, because heaven saved no tears to shed for the demonic.

-

Sisserou alone woke that morning and saddled her steed to ride to Neverwinter. Dawn had not yet broke, but it was well past midnight, and Casavir slept soundly still. The witch felt it her responsibility to convene with Alice, as if it were recompense for leaving the details of Rodric's funeral to her husband. At least by handling the political consequences of her son's death, she felt as if she repaid Casavir for his dedication to burying their child when she was too selfish in her despair to do so. Despite the early hour, knowing that she could remedy her guilt through the meeting with Alice offered her much-needed equanimity. Devoted to making her meeting successful, she felt especially awake, and vigilant of the task at hand.

The ride into Neverwinter was not long on horseback, and the journey was truncated after she bade her horse into a canter, and a gallop when the city walls were in sight. Crossing the opened drawbridge and directly into Blacklake, she eased her steed into a trot, and passed the threshold into the Merchant Quarter. Dismounting at the temple and fastening the reins of her steed's bridle to the post outside, she brushed the dust from her skirts and tucked her windswept locks behind her ears, before marching inside.

Tyr's temple was eerily dark, illuminated only by sparse candles reflecting off the polished mahogany of the pews. Sisserou glanced at the seats in front of her, which were unoccupied. As the chill of the morning breeze lifted from her nose, the witch perceived the odor of fleshly decay, and then of blood. Her eyes rose to the altar, where illuminated by the skylight above, was the demon-spawn's severed head on the offering tray. Sisserou's head spun, and dizzy with the sudden horror of the spectacle, staggered into a pew, leaning against the seats before her in support. Breathless and aghast, her mind grappled with the reality of the nightmare before her. Hundreds of questions and fears assaulted her conscious mind at once. She panted, "Alice, what have you done?"

"More appropriately, human, you should ask what you have done."

It was the devil, Absanoch. He reclined in the pew next to her, materializing instantly beside her. Sisserou leap from her seat, hurriedly backing out of the pew, exclaiming, "It was you! You killed her!"

He replied unfazed, folding his bloodied hands into his lap, "According to Neverwinter, I disappeared after I escaped the palace ball."

"There is no evidence in all of the planes that could indict me for this," she seethed.

The devil continued, ignoring her statement, "Though you slept soundly in your estate, there is written evidence in the proof of the correspondence you received from the medium Alice Reinhardt that you were both to convene on the matter of the heir to Neverwinter's throne here this morning. Alice committed the crime on behalf of the alliance she made with you, and by meeting here, you would verify the death of Rialnah Saintrowe- her handiwork, if you will."

"Scheme as you wish, fiend, but I am an upstanding member of the Nine, and all of Neverwinter will know the truth through me that it was you who killed the child," Sisserou declared. Absanoch's orange eyes brimmed with victorious pleasure.

"The Greycloaks ceased searching for me after they recognized the fruitlessness of their endeavor. Blame me as you like, human, but you will only look as a fool evading justice," he responded impassively. Sisserou parted her lips to scream, but Absanoch noted coldly, "I may depart swiftly as I came. Should you scream for their help, your damnation will only befall you more quickly."

"The priests know that I am innocent, and a loyal Tyrran." She proclaimed.

"Do they?" the devil inquired sharply, "Your dubious origins in Luskan came back to haunt you whenever you consulted with your demon-summoning brother, which all of Neverwinter will know whenever Alice admits under interrogation that you approached her after receiving his recommendation to do so. Then there is the matter of the curious gift from your brother, and the secret you harbor even now that you intend to resign from the order of the Nine and reclaim your mantle as a witch."

"You cannot know-"

"Of your secrets, your deepest fears? Yes, I can," Absanoch answered, frustration fraying the collectedness of his voice, "Did you sincerely believe I escaped the prisons merely to cower back into the Hells? No, human. I spied on you, watched you, stalked you, and constructed pretenses under which Neverwinter would fall, so that neither demons, nor humans, nor any force under Celestia's fields could rule this city. Asmodeus has plotted every step of this plot, from the murder in Waterdeep, to my arrival at Crossroad Keep, to my transportation to Neverwinter, to this moment. Every event that has unfolded has occurred with purpose, and the fruits of Asmodeus's designs shall soon be known to your wretched people, and to the ones that matter most, her Ladyship Emissary and her lord, Graz'zt."

"So Axarthys wasn't here to serve her own intents," Sisserou whispered. Absanoch scoffed.

"Certainly not," He replied, "She despised the mortal plain after she was banished by Tyr from it. She'd been ejected from the Eden that she loved, and condemned back to the Abyss, back into hell. Rage consumed her, and she ascended to the position of Graz'zt's Blood War diplomat, filling the hole left by paradise's loss with an unquenchable thirst for power. Installing her child as heir to Neverwinter's throne was her final assignment on the mortal plain, Graz'zt promised her. He wished to begin large-scale assault on the material world, to establish strongholds from which he could later launch an attack on Celestia, and Rialnah was conveniently born the child of a Neverwintan knight. Wishing to ally himself with Graz'zt, Asmodeus capitalized on this quest by offering my aid to Axarthys as her champion. My aid, as well as our preexisting consortship, sealed the feeble alliance."

"Except now you've shattered Graz'zt's plan, and broken the alliance," Sisserou snarled, "Because you slew the final remaining heir, you fool."

Absanoch's quiet laughter froze the witch with terror. He glanced up at the head on the altar, and back to Sisserou, murmuring, "It was but another step in Asmodeus's plot. After Axarthys slew your son, you wreaked vengeance upon her by killing her child, plunging Neverwinter into political chaos by removing both candidate heirs. My hands- Asmodeus's hands- are clean of any crime, and Graz'zt will be distracted with the anarchy that shall unravel here, and busied with his continued attempts at grappling for the throne through political conspiracy. It shall be during this time that Asmodeus gains the upper hand in the Blood Wars, first by decimating Zelatar, the economic center of the Abyss, and from there shall plunge the Abyss to the bottom of the Elemental Chaos and destroy the cosmological structure of the Lower Planes, and begin his ascent to godhood."

"I hope that your lord likes surprises, then, because he's going to be shocked whenever he finds himself plunging through the planes and back into the damnable pit from whence he came, all over again. The gods of Celestia cast him out of heaven once, and they'd be happy to repeat history." Sisserou challenged. The devil stood gradually, beaming with an unsettling grin.

"We shall soon discover if that is the case," he announced. Sisserou reached to unsheathe the knife at her belt, but before it was drawn, the devil evaporated and a thunder of footsteps resounded inside the temple as the priests of Tyr hurried into the central church. They crowded around the altar, their faces appalled and petrified at the sight. The din of their gasps, yelps, cries and screams abruptly halted as Sisserou stepped from the shadows of the last pews, striding towards the altar. One priest pointed a critical finger at her.

"Lady Dianarca! Lady Dianarca has wreaked vengeance on the demon, and now she will invite the wrath of her Ladyship Emissary upon all of Neverwinter!" He exclaimed. Two priests dashed out the sides of the temple and out through the doors to alert the Greycloaks about the discovery immediately, while more followed to bar the central door. Sisserou stood composed at the center of the aisle, drawing in a breath to ease herself before she spoke.

"I cannot speak to this crime," She announced, "Until I have met with Alice Reinhardt. There is more afoot than what seems apparent, fellow Tyrrans."

"You shall receive no counsel from anyone until the City Watch deems it appropriate, if ever." The high priest answered from amidst his cluster of subordinates. Sisserou could not risk challenging him, as the devil clarified earlier for her. Helpless, she could only wait until Casavir came for her, and until her Ladyship Emissary would hear the full truth behind the plots of her supposed champion. Distress summoned tears that had been reserved for Rodric before, and spilled down her cheeks and onto the white linen of the dress beneath her cloak. She heard the Greycloaks' armor clank as they funneled into the temple from the ulterior entries of the church, lining the main body of the building as more gathered from throughout the Merchant Quarter's watch post. Brelaina trudged in last, frowning sorrowfully, disheartened, downtrodden, despairing, heartbroken more with the crime than by the visceral horror of the bodiless head upon the altar.

"Lady Dianarca, until you have been cleared of this crime, you must remain imprisoned in Castle Never for your crimes." Brelaina lamented. Sisserou nodded sadly, offering her wrists to her. Brelaina clamped the metal cuffs around them, and clutched the end of the chain binding them.

It would be a long, humiliating march to Castle Never for Sisserou Dianarca.

-

He'd been tacking his palomino stallion for a morning jaunt around Neverwinter's grounds, seizing upon the pleasant coolness of the day's magnificent weather as to leave his quarters to Axarthys alone. She preferred commanding the breadth of the room to lay her myriad of finery and jewels across the bed, admiring them all before deciding which regal selections to don.

News of Rialnah's death, and less significantly Sisserou's imprisonment, reached Nevalle by message of a royal guard. The armored man clanged up through the stable, bowing as low as he could, decked in plate mail. Nevalle was first irritated that the guard hadn't relayed the news to her Ladyship Emissary first, but soon felt burdened with the sadness of having to tell the demon herself that her child was dead. Sarcastically thanking the guard, and ignoring the man's sympathies for the loss of the knight's daughter, he departed the stable and scaled the steps to his chambers. He found them empty; the coverlets of his bed were folded neatly, the pillows arranged in a row across the headboard. Not one silvery trace of her silk and chiffon gowns graced his chamber. Not one echo of demonic laughter, scraping in the floorboards, not one chirp of a voice lilting in tongues.

The guard had informed Axarthys sin Saintrowe that her child was dead, and she was gone, leaving Nevalle with no farewell or lingering trace of her stay. The knight cried out, the noise a conquered sob and an infuriated scream. He'd lost her.

He screamed her name, lurching down the hallways, pursuing every shadow, every flicker of light, every drapery blow aside from wind that did not howl in Castle Never's halls. His mind swelled with hunger for her presence, and spun as he languished for her to haunt him, to stalk him down the hall and appear to him. He yelled in agony, pounding his fists on a wall as he reached a dead end in the castle corridors. He was losing her again, as if she was ice melted to water that leaked through the gaps of the fingers grasping her. He almost sensed the ghostly chill of her body evaporate into nothingness, her physical form shedding, returning to the Abyss and escaping the mortal vale. He could not lose her again.

Nevalle staggered down through into the center of the castle and out the door, stumbling through Blacklake as he shouted her name, her title, and insisted knowledge of her whereabouts from the oblivious passerby. He swayed on the divide between despair and lunacy, reeling down the hill from the palace and into Blacklake's plaza, begging for her, pleading for her. Why would she abandon him? He trudged away from the castle, crestfallen, furious. Nevalle arrived at the final estates situated on the crescent bank of the lake, grabbing his side in pain from bellowing her name.

"Praise Tyr the Nine finally sent someone," a noblewoman breathed with relief when she saw Nevalle, her pecan-brown hair rippling as she trotted to him. She grasped his upper arms, pleading, "The Bryce family's crypt was broken into, my lord, the seals to the door disappeared as if they never existed. I harkened the racket within my home and rushed to chastise the grave robbers, but no one was present, and the door hung limply from the crypt, so I-"

"I don't have the time for grave robbers," he muttered irritably, turning away from her. But she pursued him, again reaching for his arm.

"Sir Nevalle, I beg you," she implored, "A shadowy figure… as if, as if a mass of darkness blacker than night, descended into the crypt. I witnessed it as I moved down into the burial chambers in pursuit of it."

"Spirits are a consequence of a past spent dabbling in the occult, Lady Lisbet. I think you should recognize that by now," He snapped.

"My lord, a demon was in that crypt. I've been versed enough in the occult to mark the difference between mere ghosts and the fiendish ilk," she replied stubbornly, narrowing her eyes in confident assurance.

"And what proof have you that it was a demon?" He interrogated, "The stink of sulfur? The sound of leathery wings flapping? Of nails tearing against the inside of walls inaccessible to mortals?"

"No, Sir Nevalle. I saw a gateway open, in the dankest pits of the place, and burst into flames whenever I caught the shadow passing through it. Tyr knows the Bryce crypt has enough of a reputation for being haunted, that spirits could shift between spirit worlds in its dungeons. But no spirit would depart in such a fashion." She explained. His jaw clamped tightly shut, and he gave her one critical glance before immediately bounding down into the sepulcher. Lisbet followed closely in his wake, gathering her dress's hem to scamper after the knight and snatching a torch from the entry to illuminate their way. They journeyed to the deepest chambers of the sepulcher, where Nevalle knelt down on the ground to examine the summoning circle engraved on the floor and highlighted in chalk. He traced his fingers over the edge, pining for Axarthys. She had truly abandoned him.

"This is where I saw the demon disappear," she noted, explaining, "I'd hoped that the shadow was a concealment spell, and that once cornered in this room, that the culprit would reveal themselves. But the shadow… it crawled up the ceiling, or faded up to the ceiling, however it did. And then it dripped, as if water, save it looked more akin to smoke, into the old summoning circle. That was when the flames burst from the circle, and the spirit was gone."

Nevalle stormed from the crypt, offering no farewell to the noblewoman.

Axarthys would never leave him. She had been banished. He knew it to be so; it had to be so. Sisserou had done this; she and the blonde woman, the medium. For their crime, for his loss, he would wreak vengeance tenfold upon them.

-

The news came swiftly to Casavir's estate. Before the messenger could finish his announcement, Casavir tugged his surcoat and cape over his shoulders and nearly trampled the messenger as he bounded to the stables. He bridled his stallion and mounted the horse bareback, galloping towards Neverwinter. He lost Rodric, and now was on the verge of losing his wife, his second soul mate. His world threatened to unravel all over again. Cutting a shorter path through the forest, the lowest branches tore at the paladin's sleeves, and left thin cuts across his forehead and cheeks. Casavir clung to the stallion with all the might in his body, the blue of his Nine tunic flapping in the wind. As he emerged from the wood, he saw the city situated in the distance, and urged the final burst of energy from his stallion. The paladin and his mount charged into Blacklake and thundered up the hill to the castle, where he handed off his horse to a guard before they could direct him to a stable boy.

He wheezed for want of air, his heartbeat drumming in his ears as he plunged down the stairwells and through the catacombs to Castle Never's dungeons. Without asking for her location, Casavir shoved past the guards and searched desperately for his wife. In the dankest reaches of the corridors, he heard her sobbing. Dashing towards the sound and kneeling before the bars, he saw her crushed form without, reduced to a heap of dirtied white linen and sullied ebony locks disposed of in the cage. His heart broke and pined for her through the bars. He called for her, "Sisserou, Sisserou…"

"I have done no wrong, Casavir, none, and they will not grant me counsel. I swear upon my faith in Tyr that it was the devil who did this," She wept. Casavir reached through the bars, but his arm did not extend far enough to comfort her.

"Your character is greater than such ignobleness. I know you would never begin to think of committing such a crime, and Neverwinter will soon agree," he assured Sisserou, hushing her as she cried. But her sobs continued, growing hoarser as she depleted her tears.

"I must speak to Alice," she begged, "Please, please find her and bring her to me."

"The Greycloaks have surely imprisoned her as well," he replied gently. As sincere as his words were, they only evoked louder weeping and pleas from his wife. He resolved to search for regardless, standing to return to the prison's entry, where the guards were stationed. But as he approached the entry, Nevalle stomped towards him. The fury in his eyes was undeniable.

"What has the bitch done to her? Where is Axarthys?" He bellowed. Casavir held his ground firmly, digging the heels of his boots into the dirt floor of the prisons.

"Oh, naturally you're concerned with the well-being of your demon and not the life of the child you gave not a single damn about." Casavir snapped. The knight backhanded him, sending a collective cheer through the prison cells as the captives hollered and egged on their battle. Casavir retaliated with a punch, but Nevalle evaded it and caught the paladin's arms, locking the two in a stalemate.

"She kills Rialnah and leaves her head on the altar of Tyr as sacrifice, and now Axarthys has disappeared completely. No one in Neverwinter has seen a trace of her," Nevalle snarled, shoving the paladin farther into the dirt. Casavir saw the redness of the knight's eyes, and the damp remnants of tears already shed. Nevalle bawled, "Sisserou has taken my child and my love from me, and I will not be satisfied until it is her head placed on Tyr's altar!"

Casavir broke from Nevalle's grasp and clutched his forehead with his hand, pacing the prison corridor. He at last faced the knight and exclaimed, "How do you think I feel any different than you do now? I've lost my son, and now my wife is imprisoned under suspicion of murdering a child. I will stand to her defense at whatever cost, but know, Nevalle, that I suffer everything that you suffer now."

"Where is Sisserou?" Nevalle demanded, ignoring the paladin. When he was offered no response, the knight rammed past him and stomped to the end of the corridor, following the sound of the witch's tears. He kicked the iron bars as loudly as he could, roaring, "Shut up! What have you done with Axarthys sin Saintrowe?"

"Wrong answer!" The knight shouted, again slamming against the bars. Casavir leapt behind Nevalle, grappling with his shoulders to pry him from the prison bars. Tackling him to the ground, they rolled across the dirt, until Casavir gained his footing over the knight and pinned his arms against the ground.

"I declare a duel to the death to decide the innocence of Sisserou Dianarca, as is my privilege as a Knight of the Nine," Casavir stipulated resolutely, struggling to keep the knight trapped. He elaborated, "This evening, you are to meet me in the throne room, brandishing whatever weapons you carry on your person."

"Then I stand for the innocence of her Ladyship Emissary," Nevalle dared, hissing, "And so whoever falls, falls alongside their woman, condemned for the guilt that is hers."

Before he agreed to the terms, Casavir heard his wife cry out against it, her cry deafening. But for honor's sake, for chivalry's sake, and for Sisserou's sake, he had no other option. He released the knight, pointing at the exit with a growl in his mouth.

"Leave, knight." He ordered, and with that Nevalle stumbled off into the darkness.

-

She dived through the abyssal portal, surfacing in the heart of Azzagrat.

She collected the hem of her stormy silks and hastened through Zelatar, its capital city, immersed beneath the satin of her hood. She raced for the Argent Palace, her thoughts rife with a symphony of demonic voices, calling her name, beseeching their emissary. Her ears swelled with the noise of their torment, and she shed her physical form, rematerializing as diaphanous black mist to reel past the lingering ghosts and entities, weaving through the passages of the city. She rematerialized beyond the palace's walls and into a corridor, cavorting past chambers rampant with grotesque beasts and hideous monsters and quarters lush with velvet-draped lounges, where succubi courtesans satiated the pleasures of a host of mortal victims. So long had she spent in Baator and in the mortal realm that navigating her former home proved complicated, the course to her lord's throne ambiguous.

Axarthys heard the calling of her name, a whisper in her ear, and recognized it at once as Graz'zt's. It provoked her, tormented her, as if to dare her to find him. Resolving to turn back, the demon fled up a flight of stairs, through a maze of new hallways. Graz'zt's disparaging laughter roused the resolve of her pursuit, until she turned a corner and discerned that she stood, mysteriously, at the center of Graz'zt's throne room. When she peered behind her, where the corridor should have been, she saw all but empty air.

"You always did impress me with your diligence, little Lamb. So few demons even have the patience to be diligent. Yet you would stalk these halls endlessly in search of me, even without hope for success," the demon lord announced. The unoccupied throne was suddenly full with his black armor, the purple sash at his waist all that separated his bare chest from his plated legs. The spires mounted on his pauldrons continued down his arms and onto his gauntlets, imparting a reptilian air to the demon's frightful, yet appallingly handsome, visage. He rapped the metal claws of his gloves against the throne, casually sinking back into his seat. He growled, "Your talent is precisely why it is such a pity that you have failed me in so simple a task as usurping human thrones."

"I have served you over a decade without fail." Axarthys rejoined. Graz'zt stood from his throne, towering over her petite form. He unsheathed his claymore, a wavy-bladed monster of tarnished iron, from its scabbard. The metal hissed as the sword was progressively drawn.

"Our agreement was stated with flawless clarity, little Lamb," he unperturbedly reminded her, "You were to secure the throne of Neverwinter, and you would be removed from mortal politics forever. Do not entreat me to grant you the reward for what you failed to accomplish."

"I will not return to the mortal plain," she stated resolutely, "I will not return to Neverwinter, where I cannot leave the safety of the castle walls without escort, where my child was heinously slain and where I could encounter the same demise, and you cannot command me to return there."

"I may command you where and when I please, your Ladyship," he seethed, "Especially as the success of your mission shall determine the forecast of the Blood War itself. Asmodeus will not tolerate an allegiance with a demon prince who cannot seize mere mortal crowns."

"And what shall I do, then, produce more heirs?" Axarthys retorted.

"You have the knight smitten with you still, no?" He snarled. She shook her head, hesitant at first, and then with determination.

Axarthys again shook her head, recoiling from Graz'zt's throne as she responded quietly, passionately, "I have pleaded for no credit in the ambassadorial exchanges you assign; I have requested no power beyond the privileges of nobles and no payment save for worldly luxuries to entertain me. And now, whenever all I appeal for is salvation from the mortal world, and your promise that I never shall never more sully myhands in mortal squabbling, you will not grant me it."

"I wonder, do you wish to be free of the mortal world, or of the knight's? You retreat when I suggest you bed him, little Lamb. Perhaps I can do away with him, and fit you with a better candidate of Neverwinter. Perhaps a human possessing a grander claim - Duke, perhaps, to match the very title you command as Duchess Saintrowe. Would that please you?" The demon prince noted gamely, mirth parting the ebony of his lips, his cheeks lifted to narrow his pupil-less emerald eyes.

"My knight should have had sons by now, married a countess, or a marquise," Axarthys murmured. The words cut a wound in her heart, and she grasped her chest, as if the emotional pain was a corporeal onslaught. She cried out, "I will not be his downfall again! I will not steal from him the happiness I was refused."

"Then I revoke your station of you, Axarthys sin Saintrowe. You are no longer in the employ as my Blood War emissary, or in the service of my court as a diplomat or even common courtesan. Leave, little Lamb. You have wrought enough pain upon me already, and clearly your father Dantalion described it best: love, and not hypothermia, is your curse. Be damned, then, and go. You will know my wrath soon enough." Graz'zt solidly declared, extending his blade to judgmentally indicate her, indicting her of her foolishness, marking her for her daftness. Protesting tears rose to her eyes, but she suppressed them, exploiting her composure to retain the grace she valued most of all her traits. Backing away from the throne with her eyes fixed on the demon prince, she sunk into a bow at the end of the chamber before parting.

"Then I take my final leave, my lord," she announced, "Carting only my titles with me."

And after eons of servitude to demon lords, Graz'zt and Demogorgon alike, after the centuries of Saintrowe legacy established in the Abyss, Axarthys, the last of the Saintrowe demons, divorced herself from the abyssal politics that had identified her.

-

Trudging up from the dungeons, disconsolate having wiled time in the company of his imprisoned wife, Casavir marched to the armory to prepare himself for combat. He'd carried only the Nine tunic on his person and the hammer belted to his back, unaware that combat with Nevalle would ensue once he arrived at the city. Sulking up the stairs, fuming still, the paladin chastised his inanity for invoking the right to duel. Certainly it was Nevalle's rage that had provoked the paladin to suggest swordfight, but he doubted the knight would actually agree to the desperate terms. With a second thought, Casavir considered that to offer such terms, and to accept them, was a mark of blind anger on behalf of each party.

Guilt began to wear on Casavir. Not for challenging the knight, as justice begged to prevail, and his wife to be defended. Indeed, it was not for justice that he was ashamed, but for having to slay his fellow knight, he felt guilty, guilty that justice should come at so high a cost as the death of his friend. He prayed to Tyr that, perhaps, death would offer him the solace and love that life had not. It was all the paladin could aspire for the knight. Casavir entered the armory with a heavy heart, distressed and angry at once that these weapons of war should have been used against Luskans, against the King of Shadows, against demon, and not against comrades.

He perused the selection of armor, collecting a chainmail tunic off a mannequin as he selected the finest plate. He removed his mantle and tunic, leaving only a linen shirt, breeches and boots to wear beneath the armor. Wishing Sisserou could assist him with the process, he donned the chainmail, prying the breastplate off of the display to buckle it over his torso. He struggled to arm himself, groping for buckles and straps invisible to him.

"Amusing as this is to behold, you won't need the armor. Nevalle has requested that you both should fight in the mantle of the Nine."

Darmon leaned in the doorframe, arms crossed nonchalantly over his chest. Casavir replaced the pauldrons on the mannequin, unfastening the breastplate as he ambled to the door, removing the armor as he walked towards his fellow knight. Time had tempered Darmon's waywardness, but not his good sense of humor, despite the depravity of circumstances the Nine had faced in the recent years. He guffawed under his breath as the paladin drew near, nodding towards him, "Casavir, I haven't seen you declare something so bold since you high-tailed it out of Neverwinter and ended up in a festering orc-pit up at the Old Owl Well. What's gotten into you? Regressing to your old self, eh? "

"Nevalle needed the sanity pounded back into him," Casavir grunted.

"Lot 'a good that's going to do the man when he's dead," Darmon observed. He permitted Casavir a morbid laugh before lowering his voice, frowning with gravity, "Look, Casavir… much has transpired in the past number of weeks. We have lost a son of Neverwinter in your Rodric, a knight of the Nine with Sisserou's imprisonment, lost a demon somewhere in between. I… I only urge you to consider that Neverwinter is fraying at the seams, and quickly. We've lost so many, to our detriment and benefit. Consider that losing Nevalle would only add to our tragedy, and further tatter the fabric of our city."

"Did Nevalle send you to tell me this as well?" Casavir replied sourly. Darmon shook his head.

"I visited his quarters when the Royal Guard told me that a duel had been declared, and he said only what I've stipulated about the armor. Nothing more," Darmon quietly answered, "He wishes to see Axarthys once more, in case he dies tonight."

"Most naturally," Casavir snorted. Darmon shrugged.

"I'm not about to defend his character, or excuse him for being misguided. He knows precisely the primrose path to hell that he chases her down. But is his love sincere? Yes. He commands titles and wealth enough to have married and produced many sons by now, and has not, in honor of her. He is arrogant and miserable, to be sure, but I cannot deny that he is a decent man, Casavir," Darmon uttered, patting his fellow knight on the shoulder, "Remember that."

The words left Casavir with shame rather than meditation. Darmon departed, leaving Casavir alone in the armory to layer himself again in the garb of the Neverwinter Nine, and to secure his hammer to the scabbard on his back. For Sisserou's honor, he could not end what he'd undone, and so he tromped down the stairwell, furious and languishing, to battle with Nevalle.

-

"Please, sir," Sisserou begged through the bars of her cell, "Do they battle yet? Does Casavir win?"

She'd queried the same subject every time a guard wandered past her cage as they patrolled, pleading for the assurance that her husband was unharmed, and that he succeeded in defending her honor. Pitying her fretfulness, and the sight of one of Neverwinter's knights imprisoned, each guard solemnly shook their heads as they passed. Time crept past mercilessly, and in the dank, dim halls of the prison, Sisserou could not judge the hour of day outside. The only indication that time trudged forth at all was the distribution of dinner loaves, marking the early evening. Anxiety, over both her husband's safety and, less significantly, her innocence, prolonged the hours she wasted in her prison.

At last, one of the guards halted outside the cell. Sisserou nearly launched herself at the bars, to beg for knowledge of the duel, its progression, and its victor, but instead of speaking to her, the man unlocked the cell gate and opened it wide for her to exit. Before she could question as to what was happening, Icarus stepped from behind the armed man. He announced, "I am here to escort you to freedom, under the direction of Lord Nasher."

"Icarus!" Sisserou cried, leaping from her cage and into his arms. While the guard locked the vacant cell behind them, Sisserou hugged her brother's arm, relieved immensely as they headed for the exit. She implored, "Gods, Icarus, how did you come so quickly from Luskan? How did you even know I was imprisoned here?"

"I was trading hexes with a warlock in Ember," he explained with a smile, "Since the city has been rebuilt by Luskan agents, it's garnered quite the reputation as a center of occultism and Hosttower politics. All dealings occur under the surface, naturally. The city tavern was abuzz with the recent events in Neverwinter."

"Surely news could not have traveled that quickly that I was imprisoned under suspicion of the demon girl's murder," Sisserou anticipated. Icarus nodded, a sly smirk sparkling on his mouth.

"Ah, well, it advantageous of the demonologists of the Black Cult of Amn that we commune with the demons we do," he explained, chuckling morbidly, "To summarize, a handful of cocky wizards had been drawing summoning circles on the bar top at the tavern, and calling up demons out of the bar. It was a hoot, until one of them got quite furious that we were disturbing it at such a time of diplomatic strife, whenever the death of one Miss Rialnah threatened to disrupt a certain demon prince's designs. I've never had a ball of hellfire chucked at my forehead so hard in decades."

Sisserou raised a quizzical brow, "I'll never be so grateful that you were drunk when I needed you most. But how did you manage my release? Surely Lord Nasher was not receptive to a Luskan."

He explicated, "He is whenever that Luskan is a favorite of the Hosttower mages. Your lord isn't about to pick another fight with Luskan, and we with Neverwinter. I merely flourished my trade contracts, sealed with the Hosttower stamp of approval, and requested your freedom."

Icarus led Sisserou into the central hall of the castle, but immediately tugged her arm and pulled her into a side chamber, putting his index finger to his lips to advise her quietness. From beneath the black folds of his cape, he produced witch's robes, placing them in her hands with a whispered, "For the Canary has yet to fly in the light of Neverwinter's day."

"Icarus…" Sisserou murmured, but he only grinned, disappearing into the darkness of the chamber. A moment passed, and thinking he'd left her, Sisserou took one step towards the door. Before she took a second step, he reemerged from shadow, accompanied by the brown-cloaked Alice Reinhardt. Thrilled to see her, Sisserou locked her arms around the medium and muffled a shout into the coarse wool at Alice's shoulder. The witch exclaimed, "Alice, I feared you'd been captured as well."

"While I am not proud of my associations to the Black Cult, they kept me from the dungeons," The medium admitted. Icarus placed a hand on each woman's shoulders, leaning in close. Alice counseled, "We must hurry, Lady Dianarca. I feel the demon's aura returned to our city. She no doubt seeks the knight."

"The duel-" Sisserou recalled frightfully. Icarus comfortingly smiled.

"Return as she may, the powers of good have gained the upper hand. Perhaps you'd both be best to assure the paladin fairs the same." Icarus suggested. Alice nodded to Sisserou. The medium glanced up at the demonologist, and back to the witch, before parting to await the latter outside. Left alone to themselves, Sisserou grasped her brother's hands.

"I cannot repay you for what you have done for me," she whispered.

He answered, "All I ask for in return is a clean slate, despite our history."

"And you shall have it," Sisserou agreed. The demonologist parted from her grasp, hesitating before he fled off into the evening. He stopped, paused, and turned to face his sister once more. Icarus pondered his thoughts for a time.

He said finally, "I have catalogued many individual demons throughout my career. Axarthys was one of the spirits whose history and hauntings I studied tirelessly. Before her legion was officially contracted as ambassadors to the planes, she haunted the mortal realm like any other entity. She would appear as a ghostly woman in most documented hauntings, making it nearly impossible to distinguish her from the ghosts of deceased mothers and sisters protecting their still-living broods. Those she haunts were receptive to her roaming spirit, until objects begin to move of their own volition, nails scrape under beds and inside walls, and the odor of smoke permeates the home without a natural source. Then she was expelled from the home, by spirit hunters or priests, and was condemned to the next haunt, and eventually, to the duties of emissary under demon lords' commands."

"You commiserate with her, don't you?" Sisserou whispered.

Icarus sighed forlornly, responding before he departed his sister. He uttered, "I do not pity any demon, only those people whose lives have been forever tainted by them. If only so she no longer prowls our world restlessly, I hope she finds peace."

-

The battle peaked, and Nevalle tumbled to the ground to avoid Casavir's hammer. While he was on the ground, Casavir again swung the weapon upwards. It swooped down on the knight's thigh as he attempted to scramble away, and his bone audibly crunched. Nevalle howled, snatching his leg with both hands, sprawled across the floor. Casavir's lip swelled with blood, and he wiped it away with a gloved hand, casting aside his hammer to brandish only his stiletto. The paladin clutched his side with his right hand, where he suffered three deep gashes. The chainmail once protecting the area dangled limply beneath his torn tunic, having been severed by Nevalle's sword. The silvery rings dripped scarlet.

Casavir trod slowly, excruciatingly, towards the fallen knight crumpled on the ground, entreating, "Stand, Sir Nevalle, and defend the honor of her Ladyship Emissary."

Nevalle fumbled towards the hilt of his blade strewn on the floor, but it was well out of his grasp. Snarling, he endeavored to crawl towards it on his stomach, to little avail. The closer he inched towards the weapon, the nearer the paladin approached. Nevalle clamored to his feet, and with an abrupt shout of misery, tumbled to the ground. His fractured thigh refused to support his weight; no measure of determination would forego his inability to stand on it. Desperately reaching for his sword, he snatched it by the blade, reeling it in and staining it with his blood. Propping himself up on the weapon, he huffed frantic gulps of air. He was losing the duel, and his life- and doubtless Axarthys's- would be forfeit. He wheezed, "Take my life, Casavir, but do not indict her Ladyship on charges I would surrender mine to discredit."

"I do not in the least doubt you, Nevalle," Casavir swore, the regret thick in his tone. He rested the tip of his knife on the knight's cheek, frowning with the sincerest of grief in his gaze, "But her Ladyship Emissary has stolen my child from me, and I cannot allow her plague of this world to continue. I am sorry that you named yourself her champion. Today… today you should know death, as the rite of the duel clearly states."

Nevalle turned his face towards his sword, cutting open his cheek on Casavir's extended knife. As he swung his arm out to knock the stiletto out of the paladin's hand, Casavir caught the knight's wrist, and lugged him to his feet, offering his shoulder to lean on. He said, "Enough death has come of this for Neverwinter to lose one its finest knights, and my closest brother in arms."

As he guided Nevalle towards the dais, a stampede of footsteps rushed towards them. Casavir lowered the knight to rest against the steps before the throne, and descended them to arrive in the company of his wife Sisserou and the medium, Alice. Their faces were pink with heat and their breaths thin with running. Sisserou glanced at the wounded knight, growling with an exhale, and gasped in frustration and fear, "I suppose you were too occupied smashing the bones out of Sir Nevalle's body with that damned hammer to remember that oh, yes! The Saintrowe child is dead. Her head was found on the altar of Tyr, and now the demon shall hunt us down the moment she knows of it. Casavir-"

"Sisserou!" Casavir exclaimed, "How did you-"

Sisserou interjected with a shriek between breaths, throwing her arms in gesture towards the knight, "How are you going to rationalize to a demon that her child was brutally murdered, and now, you've beaten the entrails out of her champion? May I congratulate you on your brilliance? Axarthys returns to Neverwinter as we speak. Bar the damn door or something!"

Casavir darted past her, tugging on the iron gates and locking them into place. Alice followed, chanting quiet words that the paladin could only understand as a protection charm against demons. Casavir turned back, dashing to his wife as a cloud of white ectoplasm churned in the air above the gate. A black, silken mass fell from it, and when it landed, materialized into the form of Axarthys sin Saintrowe. Draped in fabric as dark and gossamer as shadow, she crept forth. Her shoulders were hunched, tense, and her bodily movements did not remotely resemble any human gesticulation. She reached up, removing the black plate of armor that covered the lower portion of her face. The demon wept blood in place of tears.

"My child was murdered. My post was revoked of me. Here I return now, barred from my own plane, forsaken of my station," she roared, her voice stripped of its melody for the raw cruelty of its demonic rasp. Nevalle released a sob of agony, the utter inhumanity of her slit-pupil gaze unbearable. The demon slinked towards them, her arms bent out of their sockets, and her steps deliberate and indistinct, as if she walked and glided in tandem. The room grew cold, the air heavy with her presence, and her voice lost all of its melancholy. She screamed, "And I return to this!"

"Tyr, pray for us," Alice whispered, watching as the demon crept to her defeated knight, standing over him. She flexed the sinew of her hands, the joints snapping as she bent her fingers feverishly out of their places. Nevalle wept, reaching out for her hand. Discounting his plea, she merely surveyed the extremity of his wounds, hardening her gaze. Casavir poised to attack her, Sisserou standing for safety behind him. The demon craned her neck up, cranked her shoulders backwards as her stare fell momentarily on the witch and the paladin.

"You are fortunate, paladin," she sneered, "If he contracts his soul to me, I may save him from the death he inevitably shall face from his wounds."

"No!" Casavir shouted in protest. Sisserou clutched him tightly, barring him from running to the knight's aid. Nevalle coughed, gasped as he summoned his voice. Again, Casavir objected, "I spared your life, Nevalle! Do not cast it away by signing off your soul!"

"You have done him no favor, paladin!" Axarthys shrieked, her body sinking into an almost predatory, animalistic posture.

"Axarthys…" Nevalle panted.

"Nevalle!" Casavir pleaded, struggling from Sisserou's grasp. He collected his hammer from the ground, bolting towards the demon. He brandished above her, prepared to strike her down. Before his weapon could meet with her skull, however, she dispersed into a mist. His weapon met with naught but smoke. He cursed in frustration, scouring the ceiling above him for her bodiless form. He provoked the demon, spitting her name. As he scoured for her, he heard Nevalle speak from behind him.

"My soul is yours, my lady," he swore, whispering, "Take it as you will."

Casavir rotated on his heels. In horror, he watched as the smoke coalesced into her demonic form, hunched over the knight. She combed her fingers through his hair, resting a comforting hand against his shoulder. He was forever lost to that demon.

"With your soul as payment, I promise you immortality, so long as you remain in my keeping," she murmured. He sobbed into her black gown whenever she leaned closer. At last releasing him, her legs crookedly standing, her spine cracking as she regained her posture. Without comment, she drifted down the dais, soaring from the throne room with the orchestra of supernatural voices and noises with her. The air lightened once more, and Casavir choked on tears that he ultimately suppressed.

"Sisserou, Alice," he called, "Fetch a cleric to heal his wounds. I shall remain with him."

The women needed no excuse to depart, shaken from the events. Alice unlocked the gate and lead Sisserou down the hallway, and out into Blacklake's plaza. Casavir observed the knight, fearful to approach him, as if he, too, would fall victim to the demonic, or worse, that Nevalle had become the very thing he lusted for. The knight parted his eyes, moaning as the pain persisted. It was as if the liveliness was drained of them, the chocolate brown of his eyes muted. They lacked spirit- they lacked a soul- and Casavir grimaced. He could not bear to look at them. It was not until Alice and Sisserou marched back into Castle Never, a cleric of Lathander in tow, that he realized it.

He should have killed the knight, and saved his soul.

-

Author's Note: Please inform me of any mechanical errors or plot holes that you notice- I didn't get the chance to edit this as fully as I would have liked, and appreciate your help. I hope you enjoyed the 13,991 words (that's 22 pages) of the latest installment!