Chapter Text
In the deepest, darkest corner of Reithwin, the party approaches the Grand Thorm Mausoleum at last. It resides not too far from the House of Healing — tucked away in the back of the graveyard up a gentle slope. Its entrance was carved into the rocky cliffside, and curiously, the heavy gates appear to have been exploded outwards.
It makes sense, given Halsin’s recollection from a hundred years ago.
“Ketheric Thorm had only been interred for three days when a wave of dark, twisted necrotic energy burst from his tomb,” Halsin explained as he marked the location on their map. “I was near the town square and yet was still knocked completely flat, if that gives you an idea of how powerful it was. And that wave of force only gathered speed as it swept through the land, shattering the very plates beneath it. We didn’t know the nature of the curse back then, of course. But it soon made itself apparent as those caught unawares began to transform."
He exhaled grimly. "It didn’t discriminate between Sharran, Harper, or Druid.”
“How did you survive?” Church asked him, his voice soft. The tiefling was scratching away at his sketchbook under the pretense of taking notes. Truthfully, however, he had been looking for an excuse to sketch the druid deep in thought over the table instead.
Halsin shrugged helplessly. “Luck. Sheer will. I wasn’t the only one to have made it out alive, but we all came out changed by what we saw. We made hasty attempts to contain the curse, but it was like attempting to dam a river with one’s hands alone.”
Church pondered to himself, eyes flicking over towards Thaniel and Oliver. Although the fey did not need to sleep at all, they still seemed content to snooze together in a pile with Scratch and Little Brother.
“At what point did Thaniel disappear?" he asked quietly. “Before or after that?”
“That’s what haunts me; I don’t know, and he doesn’t recall either,” Halsin huffed bitterly. “I hadn’t been able to reach him for some time. I had assumed that, like me, he was busy defending the land from the dark powers at hand. But given the timing of Art’s ordeal within the Shadowfell, Thaniel must have been taken well before Ketheric’s death.”
He followed Church’s eyes, his low voice catching in his throat. “How could I have…? Did I truly not notice he was gone for that long?”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Church sighed. “Weren’t you preoccupied with protecting the Selûnites and fighting the Sharran army? Like you said, Thaniel may look like a child, but he’s an ancient, immortal fey. He’s the last person you would have expected to fall in battle.”
Halsin scoffed harshly. “It doesn’t make me regret his suffering any less.”
“No, of course not, but what would you have done, Halsin?” Church asked. “You didn’t know he was in danger, and even if you did, you wouldn’t have been able to stop it. And once he was gone, how would you have gotten him back? You didn’t have the knowledge you do now. If you had attempted a shadow crossing like I did, without any preparation… you would have died.”
His voice broke. “And then where would we be?”
Halsin didn’t reply as Church awkwardly resumed his sketch.
Perhaps as a consequence, the druid had opted to stay behind at the Last Light Inn rather than join their party, and Church couldn’t blame him. If they were about to enter the birthplace of the Shadow Curse, there would be a chance that they might unleash something far worse than bad memories. The sanctuary of the inn needed to be prepared, and with Thaniel still recuperating, Church understood that Halsin would feel more at ease staying near the fey’s side.
Fortunately, no tidal wave of necromantic magic meets them as they make their way to the mausoleum. As they get closer, however, they hear a lone voice in the eerie silence, murmuring something to himself before pausing and repeating the same phrase with a different inflection.
The voice is unfortunately — or perhaps fortunately for two of their party — a familiar one.
“Rehearsing for your audience, devil?” Astarion says loudly.
Unperturbed, Raphael chuckles, examining his nails as he leans casually against the rocky cliffside.
“‘Our hero thought but of treasure ahead,’” he recites. “‘Did not consider the peace of the dead…’”
He pushes away from the rock, smiling and strutting towards them.
“‘Through the dark he went creeping, and awoke what was sleeping…’” his eyes flash as he concludes, “‘A new grave they dug, which he himself fed.’”
Somewhere close beside him, Church hears Karlach scoff.
“Ooh,” she rolls her eyes mockingly. “Spooky.”
“Cute,” Church says blandly. “How long have you been standing around practicing that little recital?”
“Until it was perfect,” Raphael smirks, before arranging his expression into one of unconvincing sympathy. “You have had quite a time, haven’t you little warlock? The Shadowfell wasn’t kind to you, but you came out stronger than ever before. It’s a pity, however, to see how you passed yourself from one master to the next…”
“You have a point to make,” Church says coldly. “So make it.”
Raphael’s eyes narrow at him. “I’ve grown quite fond of you, you know... in my way. After everything you and your companions have been through, I thought it only fair to warn you about the dangers ahead.”
Astarion sighs. “How… thoughtful of you. What dangers are those, anyway?”
“Oh, we both know they are soon to be revealed,” Raphael smiles wolfishly. “It would be pointless of me to try to bar you from entering, but I can… set the scene, as it were. Prepare you for your role.”
Church kneads at his brow, wishing that the conversation was over but still anxious to milk every bit of information they can from it. “Sure. Why don’t you paint us a picture?”
Raphael chuckles, flourishing his hands theatrically.
“There is a stage down in the dark upon which a great drama has suspended itself in time,” he expounds. “Its actors dwell there still, mired in the languor of their long-tired scenes. If you, however, through the dark go creeping and awake what is sleeping…”
His eyes grow baleful.
“...chances are many more graves than yours alone will soon be fed.”
There is a lengthy pause.
“Paint me a clearer picture than that,” Church presses him. “You want something, and you won’t get it unless we succeed, so…”
“Very well,” Raphael smirks. “There is a creature that lurks in silence and shadow — a creature who, like me, is very much of the infernal persuasion. Should it make its way out through the very doors you are about to brazenly swing open, you’ll have unleashed a pestilence upon this realm.”
His smile turns to a scowl. “In truth, it is carnage incarnate. So if you meet the devil of which I speak, kill it. Consider no other course of action.”
Unimpressed, Church meets his snarl coolly. “I can tell that you're still only telling me half of what you really know.”
Raphael sighs exasperatedly, tossing an irritable hand in the air. “This creature and I go back a long way. I admit it would be in my best interest as well should it remain trapped in the dark… or misplaced its head perhaps.”
“What are we talking here?” Karlach chimes in. “Lemure? Pit fiend? Orthon?”
“Getting warmer, warmer…” Raphael’s eyes blaze along with the white teeth of his cheerless smile. “...Hot.”
“Was that so hard?” Church asks flatly. “Anything else I should know?”
“You have it in you to author a thrilling finale, if…” Raphael’s face twists into a sneer again. “...if you heed this warning: do not underestimate this opponent.
“At best you will have the blink of an eye to strike,” he says fervently. “Strike first. Strike true. Defy the odds, for they are distinctly in its favor. That much I owe the bastard to concede.”
He composes himself, turning affably towards Astarion. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten your tale, little vampling. “When the beast is dead, I’ll consider that payment enough to reveal the purpose of those scars of yours.”
“A fairer deal than I expected,” Astarion concedes.
“You wound me, spawn. I always deal fairly,” Raphael pouts. “And we’ll close this particular deal soon enough. Vanquish the beast, and all will be revealed.”
With a flourish, he disperses into a burst of smoke and sparks.
“So… clearly we’re about to step into more than a mausoleum,” Church grumbles.
“Very well — let's take a moment to prepare ourselves, then? Fiend aside, if Thorm’s ‘artifact’ is still within, then we might come right out of this straight into hell,” Gale hums, inspecting the surrounding ground and the remaining debris of the door. “Curious… have you noticed all these sigils around the mausoleum’s entrance?”
“Attempts to restrain Lady Shar’s power,” Shadowheart surmises. “Failed attempts, clearly.”
“Church,” she continues in a whisper into the tiefling’s mind. “This is it. Shar’s temple — it must be through here.”
“How do you know?” Church appraises her wide, adoring eyes and soft, awed mouth.
“Her power radiates through the ground of this graveyard,” Shadowheart explains reverently. “This is everything I’ve been looking for. I could prove myself to the Dark Lady once and for all when we defeat Thorm!”
“Well. Let’s hope our interests do align so helpfully,” Church mutters. He glances to the side to see Astarion sorting his arrows and checking the potions in his belt. Each movement is so deliberate and methodical that Church knows the elf must feel troubled.
Church approaches him tentatively. “Hey, love…”
“Hello darling,” Astarion greets him blithely, handing him a restoration potion. “I think you'll need this.”
Church manages a smile at him as he takes it gratefully.
“Look… are you really going to trust that devil to keep his word if we kill this orthon?” Church asks him warily.
“I’d trust a devil over a vampire any day,” Astarion retorts. He sighs with a flippant shrug. “I think he likes us!”
Church groans softly. “Just… please stay on your guard, love.”
“Am I not the very definition of ‘careful?’” Astarion replies, his tone airy. But then he scowls at whatever expression must have appeared on Church’s face.
“Gods above,” Astarion scoffs, eyes narrowing. “Just be a dear and don’t get in my way.”
“Get in your way?” Church sputters indignantly. “When the hells have I gotten in your way? Don’t forget that I translated your scars first — not Raphael.”
The elf has the decency to look abashed.
“Just…” Astarion waffles. “Now isn’t the time for your merciful tendencies, you know?”
Church glares steadily back at him. “Astarion.”
“Yes, love?”
Church pulls him in close, his eyes blazing.
“I made you a promise, remember?” Church reminds him. “‘Whatever it takes.’”
Astarion’s expression softens, his mouth flickering up with the barest smile.
—
The Raven Queen watches her newest emissary descend into the Sharran temple hidden beneath the Thorm’s Grand Mausoleum. While the Shadow Curse does not reach down here, the ruins are still imbued with Shar’s Shadow Weave binding the sacred, accursed place together.
It’s redolent with blood as well. The air is heavy with deaths from a century past, rife with souls held in stasis by atrocities that never met the light of day.
The Raven Queen is eager to witness the Sharran cleric Shadowheart’s trembling awe whenever she realizes that this isn’t just a Temple of Shar — it’s the Gauntlet of Shar, through which she can undertake trials to become a Dark Justiciar like she always wanted.
Will she succeed?
Or will her discovery at the end of her pilgrimage end in bittersweet failure?
It makes the Raven Queen want to laugh. How annoyed must Shar be to know that of all entities, her nosiest neighbor can waltz along these halls perched on the shoulders of her warlock?
After a chaotic battle with a cloaker and its phantasmal copies, Church’s party encounters an altar to the Lady of Loss. Being curious little adventurers, they discover that not only can Shadowheart receive the Nightsinger’s Favor from it, but so can her companions. The Raven Queen takes her greedy opportunity, whispering into Church’s mind.
“Procure the power of this altar for me, won’t you child?”
Church grimaces, casting his eyes over to the Sharran cleric. But she seems preoccupied with her own struggle with obtaining her goddess’s grace.
As her warlock siphons away the altar’s magic directly to his patron, the Raven Queen sniffs out who awaits them on the other side of this adjoining mushroom-filled laboratory. The stench of his necromancy makes her seethe.
“This place is rife with foul undead,” she hisses into Church’s mind. “Destroy them. Destroy their maker.”
She assists her little warlock with the ensuing battle fighting the specters of Dark Justiciars that manifest through the umbral tremors that appear throughout the room. She tolerates his temporary alliance with the undead puppeteered by the necromancer Balthazar, but she can’t help but feel quite indignant that Church doesn’t destroy them and their maker when he has the chance.
“Why do you hesitate, child?” she inquires curiously.
“Look, my companions are already cut up from that fight with the Dark Justiciars. We need to save our strength for this orthon,” Church insists. “Is he close?”
The Raven Queen sighs. “Yes, child. You are so close to your quarry.”
“Good,” Church replies. “Don’t worry — we’ll take care of the necromancer at the best opportunity.”
“That was your best opportunity,” the Raven Queen says pointedly. “He gave you that bell for his undead brother, yes? Use it soon, and see the wretched creature disposed.”
She guides her warlock and his companions towards a more remote, defensible wing of the temple, promising Church safety from any dark creatures lurking within — even rats.
“I don’t actually mind rats,” Church remarks absently.
“You will not like these ones,” the Raven Queen replies. “After all, they do not like you.”
Point taken, Church nods slowly, passing along the message to his companions as they cautiously make camp. They rest there only for an hour, giving Shadowheart enough time to heal her companions to the point of holding themselves upright.
“Oh, yes, let’s just waste time loafing about when there’s a bloody orthon that needs killing!” the vampire spawn sulks as he paces impatiently at the camp’s entrance.
“I don’t know what to expect and neither do you,” Church reproves him. “I’m not going to drag along anyone with a weak ankle or who's whittled down to a drop of spellpower.”
“Then let’s not take those ones with us!” the spawn urges him. “You, me, Shadowheart, and… hells, Karlach knows a thing or two about fighting devils, eh?”
“Then with that logic we should bring Wyll,” Church points out. “Devil hunter and all.”
Astarion sniffs. “Ugh… fine.”
“And Gale’s spells will provide excellent crowd control, if needed.”
“Well, I…”
“And we can’t expect Lae’zel will be pleased to be left in the camp alone with Withers, so…”
“You’re stalling!” the spawn accuses Church, a scowl on his face.
“Maybe I am!” Church throws up his hands with an exasperated scoff. “Because I know this will be a tough fight, and I need us to succeed. You need us to succeed.
"And I need you to stay alive and collect answers from that sulfurous asshole," he concludes. "I wouldn't dare take that satisfaction from you.”
The Raven Queen watches in amusement as the spawn huffs and says nothing more, stalking away from the tiefling. Church stands firm for a moment longer, but then he sags, rubbing morosely at his neck.
—
She wants him to win. She has always wanted him to win.
And so the Raven Queen guides her warlock and his company towards the wing of the temple where the orthon and his merregons lie in wait.
“Step softly,” she warns Church, dulling even his biggest, clumsiest companions’ footfalls. “Be clever.”
She advises them to creep stealthily around the edges of the room. She giggles to herself as the warlock stumbles upon a displacer beast in her nest, his surprise only growing when the creature doesn’t outright attack them. In fact, the displacer beast even leans into his touch…
The baffled tiefling finds his answers in her nest, however. They inspect the gnawed-upon carcass of a dead spider, for Church can sense something odd about its putrid flesh. Something magical laces through it. A potion? He’s about to turn to Gale to ask him for his insight when they watch in horror as Karlach stoops down — peeling off a strip of the meat and bringing it up to her mouth for a delicate taste.
"Ah, Karlach...?" Church begins.
“You licked a dead spider,” Gale utters in disbelief at the tiefling. “Dead... spider. You licked it. That was a thing… that you did.”
“Ugh, I thought that smelled familiar,” Karlach grumbles, spitting to the side. “Succubus spittle.”
Church stares at her. “How do you know what succubus…?”
“Hey Soldier,” Karlach says flatly. “That’s a story for another time, alright?”
“The only way an orthon could find himself loved,” the Raven Queen whispers derisively into Church’s discomfited ear.
Karlach seems to ponder something to herself before going in for another taste, and her party hastily scrambles to put a stop to it.
“Stop licking the damn thing!” Gale hisses.
The Raven Queen watches proudly as the clever little warlock then channels his magic into his mind and tongue, approaching to speak with the wary displacer beast.
“What business do you have in my master’s den?” the creature growls.
“Your master?” Church asks. “I’ve never met one of your kind in… servitude.”
“I am no servant. I am my master’s heart-chosen,” the displacer beast boasts, and her breath is redolent with that taint of infernal magic.
“I hate to break it to you, but you only love your master because he’s been dosing this meat,” Church informs her. “He’s been manipulating you. Cold, dead spider hardly seems like a delicious meal, does it?”
The displacer beast hesitates.
“I remember… quick flesh. Hot blood. Before master, my prey was alive!” she snarls. “False master! Hind-legged liars all — I’ll shred you!”
“Peace; the only liar here is your ‘master,’” Church placates her. “You want vengeance? Then let’s end him — together.”
The displacer beast seethes. “There’s truth in you, stranger. I’ll not start the fight, but I’ll help you end it.”
“Now wasn’t that nice?” the spawn chuckles. “Seems romance isn’t dead… not yet, anyway.”
The Raven Queen feels prickles of the threads of her mind stretching in other directions, urging her to pay attention to stories unfolding elsewhere. But her heart — or what remains of it — hungers to keep watching the tragedy unfold before her.
But alas, duty calls.
She hums into Church’s ear as he glances warily towards the illuminated side of the antechamber. Although the scorned displacer beast claims the orthon and his company are gathered there, they are certainly not within sight range from here.
“Best to stay stealthy,” Church murmurs into his companions’ minds. “Figure out where the bastard’s hiding, and then hit him when he’s not looking…”
“It is too late for that, child,” the Raven Queen chides him. “Wield your words as your sharpest swords.”
“What’s this?” the clipped tones of a rumbling, basso voice growls from behind them. “Fresh entertainment.”
Church and his companions wheel around to see the enormous orthon grinning as he leers down at them — his fiery crossbow primed.
The Raven Queen leaves her warlock to take care of this pest.
He can handle himself.
—
The orthon has the high ground, as do a dozen or so glinting, masked merregons. Somehow, the enormous fiend must have moved soundlessly into position behind them.
“But you’re too fresh for this place, aren’t you?” the orthon sniffs the air. “There’s a whiff of the surface to you.
“You — tiefling!” he addresses Karlach. “You have the stench of the Hells about you — the stench of home. And a whiff of the surface besides. A servant of Zariel, if I’m not mistaken. I’d know the stench of her infernal machinery anywhere.”
“What do you know of infernal machinery?” Karlach shoots back, her flaming greataxe at the ready.
“Only what I can smell. And whatever engine burns within you is grinding to an inevitable explosion. Burning and fear…” the orthon chuckles. “...you reek with it. But there’s something else, almost hidden by your fear-stink. Cherries… musk and… sulphur.”
He snarls. “Raphael! I smell him all over you. Where is he?”
“I’m guessing you're an unhappy client too,” Church sighs.
“That perfumed trickster swindled me!" the orthon barks. "Trapped me!”
“I’ve had dealings with that devil,” Church calls up to him. “Maybe we can help each other, mister...?"
"...Yurgir," the orthon humors him, before chuckling darkly to himself. “Bargaining, are you? A Kara-Tur warlord once tried the same. I made him watch as I ate his concubines and young, then fashioned a codpiece from his skull."
Church doesn’t look at Astarion, but he can feel his companion’s rage and anguish burning into his skull all the same.
He can hear his barbed words, too.
“You damned fool! What the hells do you think you’re doing?” Astarion snarls into his mind. “This is exactly what I asked you not to do!”
“Trust me, please?” Church beseeches the elf. “I know what I’m doing.”
The orthon — Yurgir — growls to himself. "You can’t help. It’s not just the walls that keep me here. Not the traps, the dark or the creatures it hides." He shudders. "Something stronger holds me — a contract. Either I fulfill the contract, die trying, or forfeit my freedom. If I leave this place now, I’ll become Raphael’s slave.”
“Look, as a warlock, I happen to be an expert in such deals," Church insists. "Tricky as the wording might be, there is always a loophole."
"Raphael is no foolish story-devil," Yurgir scoffs. "His mind is different. Sneaky."
"That he is, but all the same, what was the exact wording of the contract?” Church entreats him.
To his surprise, the fiend relents and humors his question with a song — gruff and tuneless,
“Spill all the blood sworn to the night,
Silence all prayers; smother each rite,
Wander Shar's halls; hungry to slay,
Leave no Justiciar alive to obey,
Leave none to hear it, then be set free;
This song is your oath, swear, swear it to me.”
“Well… that explains where all the Dark Justiciars went,” Gale mutters.
“We thought an army must have come through the Grymforge and this place to kill the Dark Justiciars,” Shadowheart’s eyes narrow as she addresses the orthon. “You must be that army.”
“Oh stop, little Sharran,” Yurgir chuckles. “You’ll make me blush.”
“We know that the leader of the Selûnite Resistance made a deal with a devil to destroy the Dark Justiciar army,” Church recalls. “I suppose this devil was Raphael; and I suppose you were the solution.”
“Cute,” the orthon huffs. “The little rabbit can put one and one together and make two. You already qualify for the Blood War.”
“Your contract’s a song?” Gale asks curiously.
“Parchment can burn. Oral agreements aren’t worth the tongues they’re waggled out upon. But a song… a song lingers. Raphael made double-sure of that. I can’t forget a damn thing so long as my work’s not finished," Yurgir spits. "I did as instructed — these halls are empty except for their bones and blood. But the song… it still rattles in my head. The contract still stands, somehow.”
His slitted, glowing red eyes swivel to gaze hungrily down at Shadowheart, who glares defiantly back. “Little Sharran… are you a fresh-blooded Dark Justiciar? Is that why my Nessa has brought you to me?”
“I am not,” Shadowheart replies coldly. “You will need to look for somewhere else to throw your bloody weight.”
“A pity, then, for all your little friends,” the orthon shrugs, taking aim.
Church grabs his attention again before he can fire.
“The lyrics are a trick!” the warlock declares. “It’s Raphael we’re talking about, isn’t it? All this time you’ve been wasting away in the dark because you’ve always had an audience — your followers.” He huffs a laugh. “You could’ve gotten rid of them a century ago.”
“The merregons?” Yurgir scoffs. “They barely have a thought to spare to share among themselves… but they do have ears…”
Church watches in relief as the orthon orders his merregons to kill each other. There is a chaotic clanging and slicing as they cleave into one another, bodies tumbling from the upper ledge and crumbling to ash upon the ground as they return to the hells. A halberd plummets and Shadowheart and Church narrowly step away in time to avoid it.
For a moment, the orthon goes still. And then his eyes flash up with rage.
“I still hear it!” he growls. “Seems your theory is wrong!”
“But of course,” Church says, voice laden with sympathy and fey thrall. “You still have a set of ears left.”
Yurgir's eyes flick wearily. “Nessa… my beauty, no… where is she?”
“Oh don’t worry about her,” Church reassures him. “She’s well out of earshot.”
The orthon glares at him. “What… did… you… do to her?”
“Use that keen nose of yours,” Church placates him. “You don’t smell her blood on us, do you? No, she simply craves a more balanced diet than spider.”
Yurgir pauses at that, a crack in his voice as he murmurs, “She… left me?”
“Gross,” Karlach intones into her companions’ minds.
“It’s for the best,” Church reassures him. “But don’t you see? The last ears left that can hear the song are yours.” He looks earnestly up at the orthon. “Kill yourself... and be freed from your contract.”
Church can feel that the others are shocked by the warlock’s uncharacteristic show of brutality — and impressed. Well, if this works, maybe Astarion will forgive Church for dragging this on…
Yurgir stews only for a moment before chuckling darkly.
“You think you’re clever, rabbit,” he growls, taking aim with his crossbow. “But I shall enjoy ripping your ears off instead!”
The displacer beast may have been tamed, and the merregons may be dead, but the lone orthon naturally has a few tricks up his sleeve. For even before he fires his crossbow, the ground erupts beneath the party, flinging them away from each other as they dodge rubble, shrapnel, and the orthon’s barrage of fiery attacks.
“Enough prattle!” Yurgir barks over the explosions. “All who hear the song must die!”
His eyes burn into Church’s, a grin spreading across his face as he primes his crossbow.
“And so, it’s time to die.”
—
Astarion supposes he can find it in himself to forgive Church.
The warlock did try, after all.
At first Astarion was miffed — no — furious that Church had kept talking to the orthon instead of killing him. He wanted to grab and shake him, reminding him of his promise.
He wanted to ask him: how could he betray him now, of all times?
But Astarion saw how beautifully Church’s silver tongue convinced the orthon to order the merregons’ brainless slaughter of each other, just as the warlock had done with the Sharran doctor and those wretched nurses back in the House of Healing. For a moment, Church had the orthon eating out of his hand, enticed by the very notion of hope.
It’s already dangerous to play with a poison as fickle as hope. But to think that they would end up here…
The explosions had collapsed some of the ruins, cutting off the party’s sight-lines of each other and choking the air with dust. Wyll and Shadowheart were nearly crushed by the rubble, but Lae’zel and Karlach are able to free them in time to drag them to cover.
The orthon takes aim at Gale preparing to cast a Blight spell at him, but before he can fire —
“Nessa, no!” the orthon howls as he shakes off the displacer beast that tears into his crossbow arm. “I am your master!”
He manages to hurl Nessa against the wall, sending the displacer beast collapsing to a pile of corpses before she duplicates in two, both versions rocketing away from the burning bolt he shoots after her. The orthon snarls, and before Gale can cast his spell, the fiend disappears into thin air.
“Oh dear,” Gale utters into his companions' minds. “He can go invisi—arghhh!”
The wizard is lifted up by some invisible force and hurled against the wall, dissipating into mist right before he can make impact.
“Fangs?!” Karlach shouts into Astarion’s mind. “You and Church better be alright, wherever the fuck you are!”
Astarion crouches in the shadows, invisible as he creeps towards where the enormous orthon reappears predictably on the high ground above the others. He takes steady aim at his unwelcome visitors, his expression more amused than enraged. The rogue spares a glance up to where Church has teleported through the shadows to flank their quarry. While the tiefling remains mostly obfuscated by the darkness, Astarion can still make out his yellow eyes darting in the darkness.
He’s really got to do something about masking that… perhaps that’s one thing his shadow-self is good for.
“I’m an idiot,” Church grouses into his mind as he moves into position. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry!”
“Cheer up, darling!” Astarion replies airily. “Could you imagine if we had to fight the merregons, that damned cat, and the orthon?”
The orthon in question scatters a handful of grenades down below like birdseed, and his harsh laugh amid the explosions cuts itself off as Lae’zel Misty Steps up to his ledge, cleaving her blade towards his braced arm. He throws up a hand to grasp hold of the sword, shoving Lae’zel aside with a spray of blood as the githyanki roars in fury.
“On the count of three,” Church urges Astarion as the tiefling readies his dual shadow blades. “One… two… three!”
Both Astarion and Church leap simultaneously from the shadows, driving their blades into the orthon’s back while he’s still occupied with wrestling Lae’zel off of the ledge. He howls, grabbing for his assailants as the githyanki topples over the edge with a cry. Astarion doesn’t hear an impact, so he hopes that she at least had the sense to magic herself somewhere safer. Fortunately, their barrage of attacks busies the fiend from attacking the others stuck below. But even as Church and Astarion avoid the ire of the orthon’s explosives, the sheer momentum of his struggle is a beast in itself.
Astarion yanks out a blade and drives it back through the devil’s thick muscle, seeking out an approximation of his heart. But the rogue must have overestimated his reach, for the orthon merely plucks him off, tossing him soundly off of the ledge.
“No!” Church shouts, and before Astarion can even feel himself falling he jerks up into the air. Church’s shadowy wings flap frantically as he catches the elf, hauling him away from where the staggering orthon takes aim.
“Eat this!” Karlach roars, chucking one of the orthon’s explosives back at the fiend just in time for it to explode in his unprotected face.
The orthon’s howl shatters into a strangled, jubilant, “HA!”
He recovers swiftly, whirling back towards them all with some of his bloodied, yellow teeth visible beneath his charred and obliterated cheek. It looks painful, but the orthon giggles all the same.
“Well done, little rabbit! This is the most fun I have had in a century!” he declares, his infernal eyes roving across the party. “I am going to enjoy popping each one of your skulls.”
He releases a volley of arrows that ricochet illogically around the great chamber, and although they somehow miss Astarion as he dangles out in the open air —
“—graahh!” Church grunts, and Astarion is yelling as he plummets towards the ground.
Fortunately, however, he feels Feather Fall engulf his body, his momentum suddenly slowed before he collapses against the ground, rolling away to dive into cover.
He attempts to get his bearings, searching for Church. He finds him still hanging in the air, a smoldering bolt embedded deep into his shoulder as his bloodied arm hangs limp at his side. How the hells he managed not to fall along with Astarion is a wonder.
“Don’t you dare yank that out!” the rogue warns Church as the tiefling shakily reaches for the shaft. “You’ll just bleed more! Which sounds delicious any other time but now!”
“You’re alright!” Church replies, relieved as he dives away from another volley. “I… dropped you! I’m so sorry! I keep fucking up today, I…!”
“Keep your head!” Astarion barks at him. “Just take the bastard down!”
So much is riding on this one task. Kill the orthon, get his answers — a simple exchange. Astarion is good at killing, isn’t he? It almost sounded easy at the time, but of course it wasn’t — otherwise Raphael would have done it himself.
But Astarion’s internal grumbling is interrupted by a panicked lurch into his mind.
Shit. He wasn’t paying attention…!
“You stink more of fey than the hells,” the orthon sneers, and Astarion hears Church’s strangled yell from somewhere above him. The rogue races to better cover only to see the warlock’s wings beat frantically as he is dragged by the ankle from the air. Church struggles in the orthon’s grip as he expels the Arms of Hadar with a shout, but the necromantic magic barely fazes the bloodied orthon even as his infernal skin fizzles from its effects.
Astarion bolts towards them, leaping from rubble to rubble towards the struggle. But he feels too damned slow as he watches the orthon throw Church to the ground, crushing the tiefling’s chest beneath his foot.
Church can’t shadow-step in this full light. His wings… wing… thrashes feebly against the ground. Hells, where did the other one go?!
“I’ve always liked poultry,” the orthon chuckles, and he takes aim and fires.
Astarion lets out an inhuman noise as he sees Church’s head slam down with the velocity of the bolt.
“NO! FUCK YOU!” Karlach howls, flying into the scene and burning in her rage as she cleaves her greataxe into the orthon’s neck. Although it douses the ground in a spray of smoldering blood, the blade only embeds itself part-way — not enough to stop the orthon as he turns to clobber Karlach to the ground.
Turning his back was his second mistake.
His first was touching Church.
“You fucking piece of shit!” Astarion roars, darting up and not giving a damn about stealth as he slashes through the tendon of the orthon’s ankle.
The orthon howls as he stumbles down to a knee, and that seems to be what Church has been waiting for —
— to apparently rise from the dead, his eyes and mouth smoking. He yanks the bolts from his shoulder and forehead without so much as a scowl of annoyance.
Astarion gawks at him for a moment. What the hells? There’s barely a wound remaining — just a thick droplet of black blood that crawls slowly down from smack-dab between the base of Church's horns.
“That’s enough,” Church says almost disinterestedly. His healed, dark wings spread, but they don't seem to flap as he rises up, latching hold of the orthon’s face with both hands. “Amos sanguinem.”
The orthon struggles feebly as Church drains the life from him. Before Astarion’s eyes, the tiefling’s wounds seal as he grips the devil’s hollowing face.
“It’s nothing personal,” Church sighs. “You had your chance to make this far less painful for yourself.”
He turns to Astarion, a grim smile upon his face as he holds out the crossbow’s bolts. “Shall you do the honors, love?”
“With pleasure,” Astarion shoots back a bloodthirsty grin, taking them.
With a snarl, he drives both bolts — still stained with Church’s blood — deep into the orthon’s eyes, piercing his brain and sending that foul soul back into the hells as his body collapses heavily to the ground.
As the light fades from what remains of the fiend’s surprised eyes, Astarion and Church leap away to safety, nearly tripping over the orthon's crossbow. It still flickers with perpetual flame as it lies discarded to his side.
“Do you want that?” Church asks absently, steadying himself and scowling at the damage done to his leather armor.
“A souvenir? Perhaps,” Astarion replies airily. “But there’s something I want even more.”
He grabs hold of Church’s collar and yanks him in for a shameless kiss, ignoring the orthon’s corpse and the gore beneath them.
Astarion swears his own blood is running hot as he caresses Church’s eager tongue with his, and by the gods what he wouldn’t give to rip off the tiefling’s armor and…!
“Seriously?” Karlach scoffs from nearby. “Right there on top of…?”
She chuckles, shaking her head.
“You two are freaks. I love that for you.”
—
Church still feels the adrenaline of battle and desire coursing through his body long after the weight of Astarion’s body leaves his side.
Damn. That was… an experience.
What was that? Did he die? Again?
“Do you want to know?” the Raven Queen inquires with a giggle.
“Yes?” Church ventures.
“You didn’t die. Not that time,” the Raven Queen answers him. “That bolt didn’t do more than break your skin. Your instincts for your shadow magic are honed through experience, even if your grace is still that of a fledgling.” She titters. “Sometimes it takes the cuckoo to push you out of your nest, I suppose.”
“Who’s the cuckoo?”
“Cuckoo…” the Raven Queen warbles playfully. “Cuckoo…”
Church huffs a laugh as he joins the others — all of whom are at least restored to mobility — in prodding around their fallen enemies.
“This place is… ripe,” Gale gags as he gingerly steps over a skeleton. His eyes scan warily around the hall with its hanging, bloody corpses. “Could we go?”
“Seeing as how you put in the bare minimum in that fight, the very least you can do is help plunder it,” Astarion scoffs.
“The ‘bare minimum?’” Gale repeats, affronted. “Pardon me, but who was it that cast Feather Fall on you, saving your charming skull and spine?”
Astarion hesitates. “I… thought it was Church here, of course.”
“It wasn’t me,” Church admits, shooting Gale a grateful smile. “He saved your life, love. The least you can do is say ‘thank you.’”
There’s a long, tense pause.
“...gods above…” Astarion grumbles to himself as he begins to turn away.
“Oh no you don’t,” Church says, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and guiding him to face an amused Gale. “Repeat after me,” he says lightly. “‘Gale, thank you for helping me. It was very kind.’”
The elf scowls.
“Hmm," he pouts. "Hrmmph..."
“What’s that?” Church prompts him.
“Fine,” Astarion huffs, scowling back at Gale.
“'Thank you for helping me…'” he sighs in a stiff, sing-song voice bereft of enthusiasm. “'...it was very kind.'"
Gale beams back at them both. “Why, Astarion, the pleasure was all mine. It's the least I can do for a friend."
He may have been gesturing towards the two of them during the last part, but his eyes pointedly meet Church’s, not Astarion’s.
“I think we took anything worth taking,” Karlach calls over. “Let’s get out of here. Please?”
“Church of the Hearth…” the Raven Queen nudges her warlock. “Do you smell it?”
Church grimaces. “I smell a lot of things…”
“Look, then, among the carnage,” his patron coos. “Listen for their voices.”
Church had actually been determinedly avoiding looking at the massive pile of bodies in this chamber, so compounded together that they may as well have melted into one.
“Give me a second,” Church calls to the others as he kneads at his temple. “Sorry, I’ve got to see to this… horrible… bed?”
Worn into this mound is a distinct imprint large enough to be an orthon’s entire body. Church tries not to focus on the hollow faces of the corpses contained within the mass, but, ugh…
“Well,” Astarion drawls. “I think we found the rest of the Dark Justiciars.”
And, oh gods, the warlock feels that nudge inside of his mind.
“They want to talk?” he asks the Raven Queen incredulously aloud. She answers only in the tiniest, most distant laugh, and Church reluctantly channels her magic through himself, coaxing out a voice from that putrid tangle of corpses.
In one horrible, fleshy amalgamate, the bed gapes at him lifelessly — glowing from wherever within the Raven Queen’s magic identifies a ‘mouth.’ Church uncomfortably recalls the Shadow Rat King and its mass of duergar souls. There’s no Shadow Curse to rend these Dark Justiciars into such a thing, but it feels quite similar. Just… fleshier.
“What the fuck,” Church thinks to himself as he beckons to the pile of corpses. “Who are… all of you?”
“Shar’s servants,” the tangle pulsates, choking in one, agonized chorus. “Dark Justiciars.”
“Hells…” Wyll utters under his breath.
“What happened to you?” Church presses them.
“The tusked beast,” the mass wails. “It attacked. It slaughtered.”
“Where are you from?”
“Everywhere. We came from all corners. To serve.”
“What was this place for?”
“Training. Planning. Worship. The blooding of Shar’s warriors.”
“The ‘blooding…’” Shadowheart murmurs to herself. “Dark Lady — this isn’t just a temple, it’s the gauntlet…!”
Church keeps his focus on the unhappy crowd before him. “Did anyone survive, or escape the beast?”
The mass croaks a final reply, “One. Scattered. Became many.”
It’s a relief once Church fulfills his duty, releasing the Dark Justiciars’ amalgamated souls from their prison. He then entreats Shadowheart to scorch the “bed” with radiant fire. The cleric does so grimly, appearing disturbed by the carnage all around her.
“So someone did survive,” Shadowheart marvels to herself. “‘One scattered… became many.’ I wonder if they might still be hidden here, or back in the Grymforge.”
“More mysteries,” Church mumbles, sagging as the adrenaline has long left his body.
“Can we go now?” Karlach asks blandly.
They finally turn their backs on the room, at least assured that Nessa is off running free somewhere, the tormented bed of Dark Justiciar corpses has been sent to the closest thing they’ll have to peace under Shar’s eye, and, most importantly of all…
They succeeded in killing the orthon for Raphael, which means the devil owes Astarion his answers.
Church damn well hopes the devil will follow through sooner rather than later.
He just wants this day to be over.
—
Despite being in an ancient, foreboding temple, camp at least feels safe. Church hopes Withers won’t decide to lapse in his protection now of all times as the skeleton stands ever-present at the perimeter. Wryly, the warlock wonders if their guardian is enjoying a bit of relative peace and quiet away from his young charge. Last Church saw, Arabella was back at the inn introducing Thaniel and Oliver to the other tiefling children. They seemed to be having a good time, all things considered.
He can’t quite say the same for themselves. Astarion has barely let him out of his sight amid the ruins, and Church isn’t inclined to do the same. He can barely eat due to his nerves.
Where the hells is Raphael?
Church knows Astarion is thinking the same thing when he finds the elf in a more remote corner of the ruins.
“Hey,” Church murmurs as he sits beside him upon the crackled marble stairs. The tiefling tilts his head, smiling softly as he offers up his neck in invitation. “Liquid courage?”
To his surprise, however, Astarion looks almost nauseous.
“I must decline,” he says, far too politely.
“Oh! Of course,” Church says, taken aback as he lets go of his collar. “Something wrong?”
“Where the hells is he?” Astarion grumbles.
“I mean, besides that,” Church says hastily. “What was that look about just now?”
Astarion stews in silence for a long moment.
“Look. If you must know, I haven’t been able to… stomach the idea of feeding upon you ever since… then,” Astarion admits, stilted.
Church winces. “Oh. Gods, I didn’t even consider that…”
“I’m sure you still taste wonderful,” Astarion says reassuringly. “But when I meditate, all I can see is your bloodied throat and your… beautiful, dead face. Those empty, glassy eyes. And…”
His voice breaks as he speaks.
“...I felt your life leave your body, darling. Even in that dazed, feral state. Even though you were revived and fine soon afterwards… you have no idea, do you? No, you wouldn’t have known, being dead and all,” he corrects himself quickly. “I was there for what felt like ages, listening for your heartbeat, begging for you to stop your nonsense and wake up.”
Church’s mouth is dry. “Astarion…”
“I… prayed, you damned fool! To any fucking deity that could reach that forsaken plane. Even to the Raven Queen herself, even to Shar. I thought maybe—”
“—perhaps you shouldn’t have looked to the heavens, little vampling, and instead looked to the hells.”
Church and Astarion leap up as Raphael emerges from a fiery seam in the air, a swagger in his step as he approaches them with that stupid, smug smile.
“What the hells is going on?” Karlach calls into their minds, and Church can hear the clatter of her dropping everything to race over.
“Stop! Stay where you are!” Church orders all of them. “Give us some privacy, alright?”
“What are you doing?” Wyll asks in dismay. “Please, don't tell me that you’re making another deal?”
“This deal is already done,” Astarion tells him flatly. “Now stay. Away.”
Raphael watches them in amusement.
“Discontentment in the camp, I see,” he chuckles. “No matter. I won’t be long.” He raises an eyebrow knowingly at Astarion and Church’s resentful expressions. “Oh my, did I intrude on something private? Do forgive me, I was under the impression you wanted answers as soon as possible.”
“Well we’re all here, aren’t we?” Astarion says blithely, even though his body and smile is tense. “Do go on.”
Raphael examines his nails.
“Do you know what happens when a devil is struck down on this charming plane of existence?” he asks conversationally. “It returns to the hells — to the very point where it last stood before venturing to whichever devil-forsaken plane it died on. In the case of our friend Yurgir, the orthon you so handily dispatched here in the temple of Shar manifested in my House of Hope.
“He returned to me chastened but intact, his wounds healed, his body restored. He thought I would dismember him…” he chuckles. “...but he has his uses. So instead, I am reeducating him.”
“Lovely. Look, we delivered the devil,” Astarion cuts in impatiently. “Now I want what I’m owed.” He raises his chin imperiously. “We had a deal.”
“Indeed we did,” Raphael smiles. “I discovered all there is to know about those scars of yours; it’s a rather grim tale, even for my tastes.”
“Stop stalling,” Church says flatly.
“As you wish,” Raphael drawls. “Brace yourself, Astarion — we’re about to unveil your destiny.”
He eyes the two of them. “You may want to sit.”
“We’ll stand, thanks,” Church replies curtly.
“Very well,” Raphael shrugs, and with a snap of fingers he conjures up an ostentatious armchair upon which he drapes himself languidly.
“As you know already, your precious skin is home to one part of a contract between the archdevil Mephistopheles and your former master, Cazador Szarr. In full, the contract states that Cazador will be granted knowledge of an infernal ritual so vile it has never been performed — The Rite of Profane Ascension. It promises to be a marvelous ceremony. Very elaborate, incredibly ancient, and entirely diabolical.
“If he completes the rite, he will become a new kind of being — the Vampire Ascendant. All the strengths of his vampiric form will be amplified, and alongside them he will enjoy the luxuries of the living. The arousals and appetites of man will return to him, and unlike Astarion, he will have no need of a parasite to protect him from the sun.”
Church feels a throb of emotion from Astarion through their tadpoles.
Envy.
“But the ritual has its price, as all worthwhile things do,” Raphael flourishes a hand towards Astarion. “Lord Cazador will need to sacrifice a number of souls, including all of his vampiric spawn, if he is to ascend.”
Church can’t help but drift instinctively closer towards Astarion’s side.
“Imagine how he felt, then, when one of those precious spawn simply disappeared into thin air,” Raphael continues, watching in amusement. “The only missing ingredient is Astarion. You are the final piece he requires to complete the ritual — your scars bind you to it. Your soul will set off a very wave of death, bringing Cazador his twisted life.”
Is Astarion… trembling?
“And that, my tragic and toothsome friend, is that,” Raphael concludes with a flourish. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have business elsewhere.”
He snaps his fingers and burns away into a wisp of smoke — chair and all.
The Raven Queen breaks her silence.
“A ritual most foul,” she whispers into Church’s mind. “An undead tyrant, ascending, evolving into a beast beyond measure… you mustn’t let this happen, little bird.”
Church gulps.
The only missing ingredient is Astarion.
Not if Church has anything to say about it.
Astarion’s shoulders sag slightly as he relaxes, turning towards Church with an unreadable, preoccupied look upon his face.
“Hmm…” he frowns.
“You’re not going back to Cazador,” Church says softly, his mind racing with possibilities. “I won’t let him…”
“Do you think it’s so simple?” Astarion snaps scornfully.
“It’s never been simple!” Church retorts. “But I know you’ll never be truly free while he lives.”
Astarion grimaces.
“I hate how right you are,” he growls. “I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone even when I was just another wretched toy for him to play with. But if I’m key to this power he craves, he’ll hunt me to the ends of Faerûn.”
He scoffs. “A ‘Vampire Ascendant.’ As if he needed another reason to be the pretentious bastard that he is… but if he can walk in the sun, imagine what other powers he could gain? Even as he is now, he can enthrall beyond those who are his spawn. He can enthrall even you. Just taking away the burn of the sun would make him unstoppable."
Astarion's expression turns pensive. "But if someone else were to steal that power from him…?”
Church eyes his companion. “What are you saying?”
“He doesn’t deserve that power,” Astarion spits. “But don’t you think I’ve suffered enough? And if there’s a way to ensure my freedom, then I won’t need that tadpole at all. Then… I can protect what’s mine.” He gazes at Church, his eyes earnest and determined. “I can protect you. And you won’t need the Raven Queen or any patron, delightful shadowy powers aside.”
“How would that work though?” Church asks uneasily. “Did you not hear the part about sacrificing souls including yours and your siblings?”
“Yes, well, we don’t know the details of that now do we?” Astarion waves him away. “I’ll need to figure out exactly how I’m involved, but I wouldn’t lose any sleep over my siblings. They’re not good people either, darling. They hated me. They did terrible things to survive in Cazador’s name. As for the other souls, well…
“I’d let any number of nameless souls burn if it meant keeping us safe,” he concludes vehemently.
Church looks at him in disbelief. “You can’t mean that.”
“Can’t I? I don’t expect you to understand,” Astarion scoffs. “I haven’t had anything ever since I crawled out of that grave. Nothing but shame and hunger… until you.”
He huffs before taking Church’s hand. “Can you blame me for wanting to fight to protect this? The barest possibility of living beside you in the sun, without fear?”
For all the ferocity of his words, his eyes are so, so soft. Despite the squirm of his stomach, Church can’t help but feel… thrilled?
No one — not even Tavi — had ever made such a declaration as this. It is likely the elf’s emotional hyperbole in the moment, but all the same, Church’s heart soars.
“I’m touched,” he murmurs. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, alright? We don’t know how many souls or whatever devilish stipulations Raphael conveniently neglected to name. And there’s the matter of getting Cazador out of the way too, of course.”
"Indeed," Astarion chuckles. “It’s all wishful thinking while we’re in this tomb.”
He ponders to himself, resolution manifesting upon his face. “Either way, I need to take the fight to him.” He looks up at Church. “And I need you to help me, darling.”
Church squeezes his hand back. “Of course I’ll help. Whatever it takes. We’ll hunt him down and kill him.”
Astarion nods, before pressing a firm kiss to Church’s lips — as if to seal a pact of their own.
“Thank you,” Astarion murmurs, eyes blazing with determination.
—
When Church awakens, it’s back in Letherna.
Or at least — the shaky image of it. He recognizes those smooth, obsidian walls with a jolt, as well as those glowing, colorful windows and doors that float in the space deep beneath the glass floor. What is noticeably different about this place, however, is how tall it is. It must be a tower of sorts, with walls so high that Church can’t quite make out any kind of ceiling except for a soft, pale light shining from above.
“What…?” he begins, but there is a deafening rush of wings and cawing as the room darkens for a moment.
When Church opens his eyes, standing before him is the Raven Queen — all twenty feet tall of her, silhouetted against the halo of pale light that shimmers down to them. The eyes on her spreading wings twinkle like stars.
“Rise, my brave emissary,” the Raven Queen murmurs.
Church stands, squinting defiantly up at the pale mask above him.
“What’s going on?” he asks carefully.
“I wished to speak with you — face to face,” the Raven Queen whispers. “My child. You heard the cambion. You now know of this foul ritual that awaits you in Baldur’s Gate. A being like that is an offense to the balance of life and death. You must not let it happen.”
“That’s the plan,” Church says unwaveringly. “I won’t let him touch Astarion.”
“Good,” the Raven Queen breathes, her mask smiling softly down at him. “Now, child… you have your freedom to pursue the quests you have undertaken. But you also have your duty.
"You have been brave. So brave, in the face of the darkness, already using my gifts to right the balance and lift the Shadow Curse. You are so close now to finishing that task once and for all. But now that you have experienced just a handful of the possibilities that come with your newfound power, now comes the time to test your true loyalty as my emissary.
“Succeed, and I will grant your power in full. A sharper body and mind. Stronger spellpower and willpower for whenever you attack or defend. Indestructible, intangible wings. Resistance to necrotic magic and curses of all kinds. Endurance in the face of imminent death, and in turn instantaneous death to those who seek to destroy you.
“I shall even give you your own raven familiar,” she adds enticingly. “Eyes and ears beyond your own. An immortal, constant companion.”
Church huffs a laugh and nods. “Alright. So, what’s the test?”
“First, you must wake up.”
Church’s eyes fly open, and the vast chamber within Letherna is replaced immediately with the warm environs of his tent. He can hear the campfire still crackling outside, as well as the soft snores of his companions across the way. He sits up carefully, smiling fondly down at Astarion still in his trance. But his smile fades as he realizes that the elf’s eyes are flickering fitfully beneath their lids. What is on his mind tonight? The ritual Raphael spoke of? Is he remembering being possessed? Or his time in the fortress? Or in the tomb itself…?
And then Church remembers himself.
What do you ask of me? he asks the Raven Queen warily, rubbing at his eyes.
“You vowed to destroy the undead cursed within the Shadowlands,” the Raven Queen reminds him.
“I… did,” Church frowns. Just hours earlier he had destroyed the Dark Justiciars’ amalgamate. And hasn’t he already been fighting the shadow-cursed? The Shadow Rat King? The wraiths? What more does she want?
And then it hits him like an ogre’s club.
Wait.
Wait.
“Oh fuck,” he realizes, his blood turning to ice.
He’s so stupid.
How could he be so stupid?
“One lies beside you,” the Raven Queen says serenely. “Now, strike before he can strike first.”