#interaction: tophel: verse: bg3

[faithsreward]

@rasafcrged asked "What do you hope to achieve by all of this?"

"Honestly? This is a warning." Blood dripped from her claws and mingled with the ash that coated her body. Nothing had been held back, cultists turned into corpses with the sort of brutality that had earned her the coveted title of Lord of Hell. "A warning to anyone foolish enough to touch what is mine. God or not, I will end them, and anyone who even thought about worshipping them."

[sometimesfaithisrewarded]

@pactfcrged sent [ CUFFS ]  ―  for sender to tie receiver’s wrists behind their back with leather cuffs. / reverse

Claws opened more than a few wounds as she used them to raise her victim's chin, eyes burning with hellfire that would scorch flesh. But here in the dreamscape there would be no lasting damage, nothing but a few scratches, and perhaps the ghostly sensations left behind by the restraints. That made it entirely private, despite the lack of privacy in their waking hours.

"My dear warlock, so open in her defiance. How easily you forget our pact. Taking strength from another, this so-called Absolute, as if some pathetic little deity could offer you a mere fraction of what I can."

A gentle hand brushed hair from the woman's face, almost tenderly running along her scalp before clenching into a fist, pulling her forward into a harsh kiss, one that was ended with a nip. "I own you Andromache. Mind, body, and soul. Here, now, I could kill you a thousand times before the sun rose, before any of your companions noticed anything amiss. And then, leave you hovering in the most exquisite agony, trapped in this dream, all the while playing dutiful wife, distraught by the horrific curse that has befallen her beloved. Oh how I would curse the demon lord who held your soul, plead for you to awaken, as all the while your soul was safe within my care. Even if they suspected me, even if they chose to fight, it wouldn't save you, because you my darling, you are beyond damned."

A clawed finger wiped blood from Andy's lips, the crimson fluid darker than any human's had any right to be, tainted with the demon's own. That blood was wiped away with a swipe of Phel's tongue, taste fuelling the fire in her eyes. “You simply need reminding.”

[faithsreward]

"Whatever you have for a soul doesn't appear to be within my ability to take… or at least not at this time." Phel truly believed that through sufficient study all things were possible, even if those studies would take what mortals would consider to be a thousand lifetimes. "And my current children are more than enough trouble, I don't need to add more."

The smirk that crossed her face was more than a little malevolent, flames running up her horns for a second before she let the aura fade, mostly having wanted to see if it would even affect the other. Was it even possible to induce fear, or would it be as locked away as the woman's soul? Either way, better to speak, act as if it was just a slip.

"Oh, it's not just about the nature of my birth, you don't get to where I am without committing more than a few atrocities… and bloodlust doesn't tend to make people feel comfortable around you. As for my people…well there aren't many exactly like me, and few would willingly claim me as their kin. I may walk amongst those of Faerun, but I would not call them ‘my people.’”

No, her people were the ones she chose, and there were so very few of them.

Elizabeth's brows canted upwards, a mixture of surprise and amusement at the other's first words, a tilt of her head to the side at the next. Curiosity far outweighed any fear that she might have been meant to be feeling -- there was still so much to learn about this world, its' inhabitants, their culture, their abilities, their histories, it was all far too fascinating for her to put much consideration into just how much of a potential threat all these unknowns might be to her. "Hmmm, no, I don't think I'd be willing to part with either of those," she admitted. Even if she had them.

That did raise the debate as to just what exactly quantified a soul ... but that didn't seem to be the point of debate at hand. "A demon." Fascinating. Of course, she had a multitude of religious and mythical texts in her databanks to reference, a myriad of references to supernatural entities that were given that title, or one similar, ranging thousands of years across human history in religions across the world. But clearly, that world, and this, had diverged, or ... perhaps had not even been the same to begin with. In this world, such things existed, tangibly, for starters. "Well, that is something that your people and mine have in common, then -- I must admit, for all my intelligence, I've never understood the hatred towards something, or someone, merely for the circumstance of the nature of their birth." Prejudice, and all that went with it, had been the reason for her own creation, and still... she could not understand why. "I prefer to form my own opinions. For what that's worth."

[faithsreward]

"Is that a promise Risa? It's been so long since I last opened a vein for you."

It had been easy to get here, once she had gotten a glimpse of where her acolyte was. Stepping through the space between space came naturally to her, not like the clumsy spells that most mortals relied on, and the mirror gave a perfect focus. It was silent and almost undetectable… though not to someone she had poured so much power into. Training was hard for a reason, and even now Phel could not argue with the results.

Instead of approaching she leaned against the wall, not bothering with a glamour. They never mattered much when Clarissa was involved, and it would do no good to add that haze to her acolyte's Sight.

Hellfire-tinted eyes took in the woman's form, taking in the changes that had been forced upon her. Marks of torture, some attempting to destroy the runes… not that Phel had allowed that. The only person who could truly obscure those was Clarissa herself, Phel would not let anyone else destroy the signs of their connection. With a wave of her hand the runes sparked to life, glowing with hellfire for a split second before the heat faded away, leaving no sign of what had been there.

"Memory does not affect pacts my fierce little acolyte. They are written into one's very essence. Even had you not carved your devotion onto your skin, it is unmistakable."

Not that Phel was planning to insist on worship, or on attempting to renegotiate the pact in her favour. Not when they already had such a comfortable arrangement, the sort that could easily last for millennia. "I'd say I was hurt, but what use is a demon who only shows up when the torture's all done.”

It would be nice to just be able to outright say things, not dance around meanings by using double-speak and half-truths, but that was always how these plans had to be put into motion. Demon lord versus god, a game played with manipulations and mortal pawns, ones who would bleed and suffer, all for a prize that may not be reached until centuries after the mortals have long since expired.

@faithsreward liked for a bg3 durge starter.

The makeshift tents that had been set up around the camp were, while hardly peak luxury, suitable enough -- and she was more grateful than she might like to admit for the first moments of privacy she'd had in the last two days that had been filled with chaos, blood, and more than a few shocks to the system. Coming to grips with the fact that her past was a mystery had been a hurdle on its' own. Adding in the potential impending doom of the illithid's worm in her brain, and the seemingly neverending troubles that this neck of the woods they'd crash landed into seemed filled with, she'd hardly had time to breathe, much less think.

Of course, now that she could, she wasn't sure what it was, exactly, that she'd hoped to achieve. What fragmented memories she'd managed to pull from the scrambled void that was her mind had been filled with blood, bodies, and pain ... and she had to wonder why -- not just why, those memories, those sensations, but why they brought with them a feeling of satisfaction, of ... pleasure. Surely that wasn't .... normal? What was normal?

Certainly, none of the companions she'd somehow collected along the way were the norm for their peers, were they? A guilt ridden vampire spawn, a skittish cleric, a malfunctioning literally power hungry wizard, the tragic would be hero bound to a demon, an escapee of hell itself with half a heart ? The taciturn githyanki seemed to be the only one that wasn't without some fatal flaw, and perhaps that was simply because she was better at hiding it than the others.

Perhaps she was in exactly the company she needed to be.

She stared into the reflection, the mirror pilfered from the spawn's tent (he didn't have any actual need for it, he wouldn't notice it was gone before she returned it), fingertips tracing the lines and bends of the scars that split her lips, chin, throat. They were only some of the scars that she'd discovered, all precise, sharp, intended, all of the same depth and age. What had they meant?

What did they mean, still?

A flicker of movement catches her attention in the mirror, a wisp of something, crimson, black, a prickle of magic that seemed to tug familiar at the nape of her neck, and she is on her feet, dagger in hand, the razor sharp blade extended out towards the shape that forms from shadow and darkness into flesh. "One step more and I'll carve a new smile into that pretty flesh of yours." The threat is sharp, and short, a sign of just how on edge she has been since regaining consciousness on the illithid ship, but the blade and her words are steady.

[faithsreward]

It was with a maternal fondness that Phel watched the young woman, biting her tongue as she remembered healing so many of those wounds. Only the best for her daughter, even if now the demon could be little more than a stranger to her.

That only lasted for a moment before the rage hit, the scars on Davina's flesh telling her far too much about what her child had gone through, what she hadn't been able to stop. It made her blood boil, and it took a considerable amount of self-control to keep from scorching whatever she touched.

Phel could see the girl's turmoil, even amnesia hadn't changed those signs, ones she wished she could just brush away with a few gentle touches. But she couldn't, couldn't reveal the truth, couldn't say anything, could just do her best to shepherd Davina until her memories started to come back.

Davina's question broke her free from her thoughts, and allowed her to snuff out the flame she could feel trying to form in her palm. A shake of her head helped clear a little more of the haze, a deep breath allowing her to speak, and to force a casual and small smile. "I was planning to stay in…"

Phel stopped, as if she had suddenly noticed the scent of blood in the air, and that it was dripping down Davina's side. "Do you want that sealed up? I've got the power left."

Already her palm was glowing with a little bit of Infernal energy, enough to be able to fix such a small wound. Her fingers itched to do just that, just as she had hundreds of times before. "You can't really afford any more bloodloss, not if you're going to be feeding the vampire every night."

While waiting for an answer she decided to give an explanation for her hanging back, not that it was really needed. "I've been gathering herbs on the road, and wanted to spend some time making up poultices and spice packets… and some hemogenic teas for you. With everything that's been going on I figure we need all we can get."

A little satchel of said tea was already in her pocket, spiced with things she knew her daughter had once loved, and boosted by some of Phel's own blood. The demon hoped that such things would help Vinnie remember...or at least that it would help her fight off what was influencing her.

@faithsreward / phel gets a starter.

torture mention tw. // act 3. baldur's gate.

Taloned fingers swept through her hair, damp and tangled, twisting it into a loose bun at the nape of her neck with a practiced ease, the thin stiletto blade angled into it absent mindedly, her attention far more occupied with the mirror images surrounding her than her actions, or -- for the time being, her surroundings. Wyll and Astarion had opted to stay close by for the night, lurking somewhere in the building near enough if she needed to raise an alarm, and Scratch and the still unnamed owlbear cub served as adequate forewarning if anyone not allowed dared enter the groups' rooms at the Elfsong Tavern. She had been more than eager to leap at the opportunity for a night, or at least part of one, to herself.

A bath hot enough to scald had served her wonders, the days - weeks - of mad dash washes in the rivers or glades near where they'd camped had hardly given respite, and being able to fully scrub herself free of the muck and grime and blood of the creche, the goblin camp, the nautiloid had almost done wonders for her mood. Almost. When she'd finally emerged, she'd donned fresh undergarments and a pair of loose trousers she'd lifted from someone else's pack, but that was as far as she'd gotten before her attention had been stolen by one of the half mirrors in the wash room area of the suite they'd taken. A face. Her face. She'd glimpsed it enough times since her rude awakening on board the Illithid ship that it no longer startled her, but it wasn't familiar either.

That was when the thoughts had consumed her. The doubts. The questions. You have a voice now! The sickeningly sweet croon of the woman echoed in her thoughts as fingertips traced the path of the scar that wound it's way from forehead to nose to cheek and jaw, the skin mottled and darker than the untarnished flesh of her face. This scar wasn't new, it wasn't tender - flexible enough that it seemed to her as if it had grown with her, though when she'd gotten it, and how it had come to pucker and tighten her skin she could not recall.

Mismatched eyes flit between the mirrors that she had gathered from the suite, angled to allow her the best view of her body, studying the faint ridges that traced her back and collarbones, barely reminescent, angled along her sides, and the hints of peaks at her shoulder blades that hinted at some tiefling ancestry, but her gaze lingered on the scars that littered her skin more than anything else. Some of them were long faded - a gouge here, a slash here. Evidence of a childhood spent exploring, and imagined adventures or of a wayward and mispent adolescence?

We had such a close bond. The madwoman's words echoed as the edge of her nails traced the harder, whiter lines that criss crossed her chest and abdomen, most defined from chestplate to naval, razor thin but - on close inspection, riddled. Layered.

I opened you up endlessly with my scalpels, and got lost in your insides. The acrid sting of nausea burned in her chest, and in her throat, and she fought it down with the same desperation she fought back the sting of tears that burned her eyes. Silent screams, trapped in her throat, reverberating in the emptiness of her memories. Oh, you found your voice!

Her breaths faltered, erratic and ragged. The butler's words, cooing and saccharine sweet and malice tinged, luring her to unleash the gnawing, ravenous desire to bleed, and make bleed, to tear and be torn. The words of the acolytes in Moonrise Towers, that had claimed to know her face, her voice, awed and terrified and gluttonous for violence they expected her hands to spill -- but not on them, but on their enemies. Every death a delight, my murderous master.

A sharp hiss of pain, a recognition of the reality of its cause, her thin talons having dug into the scarred expanse of her stomach, into the soft underbelly, as if she could reach in and rip out the malformed desires that seemed as woven into every fiber of her being as the mutilations that puckered the exterior. "Fuck --" An angry, admonishing curse, side stepping to snatch up a wash rag to press to the wounds -- hardly fatal, and little more than inconveniences in comparison to all else that weighed on her shoulders ... but frustrating nonetheless.

It's only then, that she realizes that she is not alone... and that she does not know how long that has been the case. A hint of color darkens her cheeks, as she forces a smile to her lips, a nod of acknowledgement to the tiefling that had traveled with them since the grove. "Ah. Phel --" The words are stiff, the attempt at nonchalance a thin veneer over the emotions that still choke off her ability to breathe, to think. "I ... didn't know you had stayed in for the night, or - are you on your way to meet up with the others?" A barely disguised hope in those last words.

[faithsreward]

A smile crossed the demon's face, eyes lighting up with mischief. She had just as many questions, ones about the strange variants of alchemy and smithing that had brought the other woman into being. "Traditionally people begin by offering their souls, or their firstborn… but I do not know if you could provide me with either of those… and you are far too fascinating for me to try to extort anything apart from knowledge. Your patterns are as foreign to me as mine are to you."

This woman was somehow a void of magic, apparently immune to any kind of psionic abilities, and that was far more interesting to Phel than anything she could potentially gain. “Let us start from the beginning. I am what is considered a demon, and this is generally the part where people tend to try and kill me.”

OPEN STARTER. ( bg3 or similar fantasy verse where non humans are commonplace. )

“I must admit, I have a great many questions,” Elizabeth confided. “Where I am from, there is no one at all that is versed or educated in any forms of the magic that seem so commonplace here.” It was not often that she found herself uneducated in something, especially in something that seemed to be so widespread and so thoroughly ingrained into the every day life of so many of the world’s citizens. It was all rather fascinating. “I have so many questions, in fact, that I find myself uncertain as to where to even begin!”