Chapter Text
Lyrabar, the great port-city and capital of Impiltur. The jewel of the Easting Coast, thousands of miles to the East from Veldrin’s old life in Baldur’s Gate and the Sword Coast. At the same time, it was a strange, melancholic sort of homecoming for the drow, as the closer he came to the drow city he was born in, the more unsettled he grew. How could anyone not be curious about seeing one’s place of origin after so long, despite the harrowing circumstances of his departure? Desire and dread filled him in equal measure.
At some point, the details of his own escape had become a blur in his consciousness. The one vivid memory he would carry with himself until the end of his days would be seeing the sun for the first time, however. For someone who battled dragons, elder brains, illithid invasion, and gods, one could scoff at still finding the sun the most wondrous sight, and yet he could not bring himself to think otherwise. Praise the Morninglord, indeed. Two centuries of wandering this strange, bright, surface world did nothing to change his feelings on the matter.
The wind shifted, with seagulls loudly screeching overhead. The port itself was full of life; sailors and ordinary folk alike went noisily about their daily routines, their mingled voices an inscrutable, constant hum. The sea’s waves swayed mildly against the pier, the sound soothing. Despite being less than half the size, Lyrabar did feel at first glance similar to Baldur’s Gate’s own harbor. Ships of varying sizes as far as I could see, huge warships towering over everything in vicinity. The fresh breeze helped alleviate the pungent smell of fish, salt, and seaweed.
Having solid ground once again under his feet was a welcome change, after the many weeks they were stuck on the ship. They traveled light, forgoing the luxury of the more expensive available cabins, and while Zilix grumbled about the state of the sanitary conditions, Leandreth regarded it as a more authentic experience. The true adventurer’s life.
Veldrin smiled at that memory. It was good to be young and full of awe. The two fledglings were certainly quite a change from the company he kept during the Absolute crisis. For a moment, he tried to imagine Astarion’s and Minthara’s faces, if he ever suggested they book a passage on one of the less impressive ships from Westgate, cramped to the brim with normal folk and even some animals. Who would have stabbed him first, he wondered.
“You know, with all the talk about war, I didn’t expect things would seem so… normal,” said Leandreth, disrupting Veldrin’s moment of reflection. She still wore her hood, nervous lilac eyes scanning the area. The drow always found her attempts at disguising her exotic features quite ineffective, seeing as the hood did nothing to hide the two dark antlers growing out of her forehead, but if it made her feel better, who was he to judge.
From somewhere below him, Zilix’s inflectionless voice replied: “It is still too soon. Lyrabar is a long way from the border, and the war hasn’t raged for that long. It will get much more crammed and chaotic in the upcoming weeks I imagine.” She flicked her tail in distaste. Unlike Leandreth, she did not bother hiding under hoods or masks, her kobold nature displayed proudly.
As the autumn sun bore down on them, the little kobold even rolled the sleeves of her robe up, and her yellow scales shone brightly in the light. “Now that we are off the stinky boat, we will find an adequate housing, yes?” She asked with hope in her voice. “To work my magic, I need proper rest, and with all the noise, and smell, and nauseating constant rocking of the boat, I had hardly slept a wink! And my studies, why, I could not read or write anything. One needs proper conditions, especially optimal lighting and silence. Master Rolan has high expectations of me, and I can’t let him down, you know.”
“If the weather holds, maybe we could sleep outside of the city instead? That should be tranquil enough, no? And it will feel like a proper journey. Mom and dad, and the rest of the heroes always slept outside, and look at what amazing deeds they had accomplished! I wonder what the forests here are like,” said Leandreth, getting increasingly excited as she continued speaking.
“No. Let me stop you right there. No more Building of Character. Just because we are adventurers, does not mean we have to suffer when we can help it. If you want to go roll around in leaves and hug trees you can do it in your free time, “ scoffed the kobold.
The hexblood’s face fell. “Ah, well, it looks like rain anyway.” She mournfully scanned the horizon.
Despite the general commotion surrounding them, Veldrin noticed they were starting to attract attention. Lyrabar, and Impiltur in general was a predominantly human land, with a small dwarven and halfling minority, and he imagined the sight of a drow, a kobold, and a hexblood especially must have been too much of an exotic entourage for the locals. It was probably better to leave before someone got too curious, or worst case, hostile. His heavy, gleaming armor and equipment of clearly high quality served well enough as a deterrent so far, but better not tempt fate.
“Come now, let’s look for an inn. I am sure we will be able to find something adequate, once we look at our options. A good rest will be welcome, certainly,” he smiled at Zillix, “and seeing as Lyrabar is only a temporary stop, with our goal much further north, I am sure you will get your fill of sleeping under the stars, Lea.”
The kobold seemed appeased, while Leandreth tightened the clasp of her hood and nodded. Veldrin took a quick look at their belongings, checking if they did not forget anything back on the ship, and ushered them forward to the busy streets ahead, away from the sea.
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There was pain, yes. That had been his entire world for … he could not say. Time had lost all meaning at some point. Yet, something was different this time around. He had been burned alive, scorched by hellfire repeatedly. He was subjected to the unbearable frost of Cania, his father’s domain. All forms of torture and horrific sensations that a mortal mind could not possibly imagine, let alone comprehend. And yet. Yet.
For the first time in eternity, his mind was given the room to think. Raphael shivered. He felt cold, and… was that rain? That was certainly new. With difficulty, he took a labored breath, willing his tired eyes to open.
Dusk has settled over wherever he was, and shadowed forms of buildings loomed over what seemed to be an alleyway. Cold grey stone laid under him, wet. He flexed his hand, and carefully pulled himself into a sitting position, while his ribs screamed in protest.
He squinted his eyes harder, trying to survey in more detail the decrepit street he found himself in. Everything felt out of focus and Raphael could not stop the feeling of frustration from mounting up. It was not even that dark, so why wasn’t he able to see properly? As a cambion, a devil, superior to all but a few select creatures, he should have perceived any and all details of this sorry place with crystal clarity. Instead, only his immediate surroundings were easy to make out, while anything further away had the appearance of a shapeless dark clump. Scarcely any light shone from the shadowed buildings, their windows lifeless and unwelcoming.
With difficulty, he noticed several damaged boxes, stacked against the walls. They lined up all along the dim alley, while huge, filthy rats feasted on the wet trash that lay scattered on the ground. Hardly a place he would willingly frequent. It made his skin crawl. The filth, the indignity of it all. A more proper environment was required, if he was to gather his strength and plan his next move. Shakily, he stood up, almost losing his footing in the process. More ragged breaths followed.
Using a familiar gesture, the cambion reached out to the magic within himself. Quickly, a plan formed in his mind. The main priority was healing the worst of the injuries, then teleporting to one of his safe havens. The most immediate concerns had to be dealt with, and then... his thoughts stalled, as the expected relief did not manifest.
The pain remained. Rain continued to pour down, soaking his already wet skin and the colorless rags barely hanging onto his diminished frame. Scowling, he looked at his hands. They were pale, frail, offensively human. The sight startled him. If he was truly this weak, this diminished, he should have turned to his true self. No magic left to hide his true nature.
Where were his claws? His horns? His mighty wings? Panic gripped him. What was happening? He tried again, and the same hollowed out feeling was the only reaction.
No, no, no. This was not right. What manner of madness was this? Did his father come up with a new form of torture? Was this a tainted dream? A joke, conjured up to further punish him, and keep Mephistopheles entertained? A hysterical laugh escaped him, breaching the silence and stillness of the evening. Only the sound of rain followed. Another shiver ravaged his exhausted body.
Was he ever this tired before, in the entirety of his existence? Defeated, Raphael limped to the nearest lump of boxes. With difficulty he pulled on the tar-coated canvas covering them, and huddled under it, nearly collapsing from exertion.
Fatigue gnawed at his consciousness. Ha! Such an unfamiliar concept. He sneered. At war with his own body, he refused to bend or break. Mind over matter.
His injuries needed to be catalogued and healed; his contacts had to be reached. Favors had to be collected. What year was it even? What happened to his House of Hope? So many questions, so many annoyances he would have to deal with. All this nonsense set him back centuries. Plans, utterly brilliant plans disappeared in a smoke. All because of that parasite of a man. It wasn’t the tadpole, who was the real worm. It was that rotten drow meddler.
That is what he got for playing by the rules, for offering help. That damn vermin could have achieved his goal, saved the city, and been the hero. Why did he have to get all up in Raphael’s business? What nerve did the drow have to just up and waltz into the devil's home, and make it his personal mission to upset the order of things?
“Veldrin…” he spat out the name. The devil could picture him clear as day. Throughout the years, through the worst of the torture, that self-righteous, dark elven face was all he could see. His hatred knew no bounds. The agony and horror burnt almost everything away, with him being reduced to a mindless screaming husk during the worst of it, but even at the height of torment, that damnable face was there, mocking him.
Shamefully, Raphael had grown sort of fond of the bastard, before the man decided to toss all reason out of the window. The two of them had been cordial, the drow always polite, their shared conversations engaging.
To be fooled, played, by a mere mortal.
Oh, he would enjoy ripping that thief, that liar, into a thousand pieces. Rip out that long, pale hair. Slash and burn that pretty face. All that he had suffered at the hands of Mephistopheles, he would unleash upon the damned, traitorous creature. Thousandfold.
The fiend chuckled darkly. Soon. He only needed... only a moment of rest. Only…