#vflu

[inaconstantstateofchange]

Werebear!Halsin

I've seen some references to werebear!Halsin and it's got me thinking about how that would work in the context of the game canon, and the thing is... it really does. So here are some of the points that I've considered about it and how I think it most likely to work. As usual, I'll be working to align with current 5e lore unless stated otherwise, but drawing from 3.5e in some areas to add depth, because let's be real, that's what it's for.

Baseline Info

Werebears are the most controlled - and Good-aligned - of the Forgotten Realms lycanthropes. It is extremely uncommon for them to attack indiscriminately or act with evil intent.

Werebears tend toward the solitary and typically avoid areas of heavy civilization, preferring the wilds. They will choose a large swathe of territory that falls under their protection, and treat guarding it from evil- and ill-intentioned interlopers as their primary responsibility.

It is quite common for them to become rangers, given their attunement to nature and their solitary habits.

They can be either born naturally from one or both parents being werebears, or the curse can be passed on via bite.

Werebears are extremely discriminating and careful about who they entrust their power and/or curse (depending on who you ask) to. They will choose someone that they know to share the same values, and will stay with them and train them as they acclimate to their new existence.

As It Relates to Halsin

He talks about having grown up spending a great deal of time in the forests of his home, playing with Thaniel, who no one else had heard of. This tells us that Halsin had, even as a child, an uncommonly strong connection to the natural world and its magics.

It is extremely possible that the forests of his home were also within the territory of a local werebear, and this devotion of Halsin's to nature would have been exactly in line with their own creed, making him of great interest to them as a potential apprentice.

Halsin also shares that there came a point when he realized that he could not merely be a companion to Thaniel/nature, he also had to be his/its protector. This makes sense as a point where he would feel prepared to take on the additional power and responsibility both that lycanthropy would bring.

This makes a lot of sense for his character as an adult as well: the way he has strong emotions but a great deal of practice controlling them, the way he prefers to be measured in his responses and judgements as much as possible, his care for his community, etc. I also think it even makes sense that it would not be something he would tell to a player character - he just wouldn't even see a need to. From his response if you share your opinion of his choice of successor, it is clear that he is not overly concerned with outside approval, which speaks to the way he is very settled in himself and feels no need to proactively defend anything about his being. Additionally, especially with his level of control, it simply would be none of the business of general acquaintances.

[inaconstantstateofchange]

Since you offered to do so, would you mind sharing more of your views on Infernal sociology? I'd like to hear your thoughts on it as well, because it's a super interesting topic!

Thanks for the ask! You probably know most of this already, but I’ve been wanting to get some baseline thoughts written out for a while, and this was a great opportunity to do that.

Okay so, the hells as a whole are like… the quintessential embodiment of Lawful Evil. If you could distill Lawful Evil into an environment perfectly designed for it to thrive, that would literally be the hells. Think of the most morally bankrupt, superconglomerate corporate firm, the kind that makes sure the laws are designed to best serve them, as well as having a plethora of loopholes at their disposal, allowing them to pick and choose when to adhere to the letter and when to adhere to the spirit based on what they judge they can get away with. That’s the pale reflection of the hells.

Now think about how that corporation would operate. Everyone is trying to scrabble their way to the top by any means necessary, because power is the only vehicle by which to measure the value of anything. And, for the most part, fiends thrive in that environment.

The majority of devils do not consider existence in the hells a punishment. Certainly there is the potential for suffering around every corner should they fail – or, perhaps worse, succeed – at a task, but there is also the potential for gain, and this is what is foremost in their minds at every conscious moment. Think of that quote by John Steinbeck:

“Everyone was a temporarily embarrassed capitalist.”¹

This pretty well encapsulates the perspective of the majority of the devils and assorted fiends occupying the hells. No matter how far down the corporate ladder they currently are, their big break could be – and surely is – just ahead of them. Every one of them is convinced they are one right step away from taking over from Asmodeus.²

This philosophy colors every single interaction that takes place in the Nine Hells.

¹ Steinbeck, John. "A Primer on the 30's". June 1, 1960. ² They're not, they never were, and they never will be.

[inaconstantstateofchange]

4, 17, 21 (with some cool vocals, pls) for the Durge ask game? 🥹🙏

30 Questions for Your Dark Urge

4. What would your Dark Urge consider to be their greatest flaw? Is this accurate?

Their lack of perfect self-control. They regret Quil’s death for the fact that she should be alive now, yes, but also for the way it highlights a failure of control on their part. 

It is accurate to an extent, but also… not. The standard of perfection Kelis holds themself to would be difficult to attain even for a standard mortal, let alone someone with the deck stacked against them from the start in such a way.

17. What is your Dark Urge’s greatest regret?

[Serious]: The decades they spent under the thumb of Bhaal, controlled by the bloodthirst instead of controlling it themself. They don’t regret individual acts in more than a general sense, but they hold self-control in utmost regard, and it sickens them that their old self thought they were in control, while walking step-by-bloody-step along the path laid out for them. 

[Flippant-but-Still-Dead-Serious]: The few secrets they failed to uncover in the areas they explored over the course of their initial quest. When they find out about the entire hidden basement at the Arcane Tower, they transform into an owlbear and take off to sulk for an entire day about it. They were meticulous. They were thorough. They were desperate for answers. How could they have missed something in hindsight so blatantly obvious?!

21. What are 2-3 songs that your Dark Urge would relate to?

Nemo - Nightwish

The loss of innocence that can never be returned, a nameless existence

Fruits of the Dark - Dune Moss

Resonates with their experience of taking refuge in Wildshape to escape the worst attacks of their Urges

Carrion Comfort - aeseaes 

The desire to rip and bite and tear at the world until there is nothing left of you to feel pain, or confusion, or doubt

[inaconstantstateofchange]

21 .What are 2-3 songs that your Dark Urge would relate to?

24. Does your Dark Urge have a treasured item with them? If yes, what is it and why is it special? If no, how do they feel about item sentimentality in general?

26. How does your Dark Urge feel about Bhaal?

30 Questions for Your Dark Urge

21. Songs

Who We Are - Hozier

Fun fact this is where the title for one of my fics came from.

Cornflower Blue - Flower Face

Kind of fucked-up, too-much, aggressive love.

Drowned - Emily Jane White

A trapped, drowning inner self.

24. Treasured Item

My initial thought for this was no, and I almost left it at that, but as I was casting back through their inventory, I realized they absolutely do: the quarterstaff Pale Oak. 

The staff is active proof that their actions can have more than just negative effects on the people around them. That they could use their skills in the defense of nature, and for the better of those who might need just a little encouragement to think about their actions. Even though they have found other staves that suit them better over the course of their journey, they still keep that one close at hand.

26. Bhaal

They think about him as little as possible, and find him fairly contemptible when they do think of him. He is everything they despise, a bloodlust completely devoid of self-control. The only thing he’s ever done that they will credit him for in any way is gift them the Death Stalker Mantle, which has saved Astarion’s life an untold number of times. But then, given the horror that preceded it, it’s truly the least he could possibly have done.

[inaconstantstateofchange]

5, 7, 19 for the Durge ask! 💖

30 Questions for Your Dark Urge

5. What opinion does your Dark Urge have about the Gods?

In general, an aggressive neutrality. They don’t really blame the gods for their situation, but neither do they credit them for anything good. The gods are little more to them than more-powerful people who are usually absent, and as unpredictable in their whims as mortals when they do decide to meddle.

7. Did your Dark Urge recall any childhood memories? If yes, how do they feel about the revelations? If no, was it by choice or lack of options?

Yes. Being a druid, and having a strong curiosity, they have tried several high-level healing spells on themself. One such spell resulted in a returned memory that is equal parts poignant and sorrowful. It gave them the only glimpse of the family they originally had, decades before, but only in the same breath as it showed the aftermath of their brutal deaths at Kelis’s own hands.

A relevant writing snippet from an as-yet-unfinished piece:

The empty sockets of their foster mother’s eyes meet their searching gaze first, face a rictus of some emotion more complex than horror and closer to despair. One hand is clenched around a worn pendant, held as steadfastly in the grim strength of death as it so often was in life. They try to remember which of the gods she’d held to with such devotion. Would she speak to Kelis, were they to seek her out in that domain?  The Kelis-of-now notes with despair to match the woman’s the way she has no weapon, no shreds of blood and scale under her nails. She would not raise her hand against them, even as they killed her for her weakness. For her love.

19. Has your Dark Urge become particularly close to anyone romantically and/or platonically in their journey? If so, who, and what is the relationship like? If no, why not?

By the end of the game, they’re in a relationship with Astarion and Halsin. Their relationship with Astarion started first, by a small measure. They connected several times over their similar monstrous natures, both at the portal on the beach (an encounter which Gale unfortunately did not survive) and after the murder of Quil. Kelis didn’t fully trust him, but also wasn’t truly concerned about it either way. Either he would turn out to be trustworthy, or he would kill them, and the problem of their bloodlust would be solved. 

They held Halsin in high regard from the moment they met him, and took every opportunity to talk with him further throughout the remainder of Act 1 and 2, enjoying soaking in his calming, accepting presence. Although it was not yet explicitly romantic, a major turning point of their relationship was the night after the group’s first foray into Moonrise Towers, when the revelations about Kelis’s own past there began to overwhelm them. He found them outside of the camp and talked them down, helping them work out a path forward.

[inaconstantstateofchange]

don't come crying - a young!Raphael fic

An incredible rendition of young!Raphael by @shahs1221, here: please go check her out and give her some well-deserved adoration for it!

A/N: I'm gonna be so honest, I have no idea how to tag this in a comprehensible way, relationship-wise. Suffice to say, the Mephisto-lovers are... probably going to appreciate this more than I wish you would, and if you too are fifty leagues down the Niche Forgotten Realms Characters™ rabbit hole, you may also be enticed by the Baalphegor inclusion. 18+, please and thank you.

Summary:

Raphael blinks, attempting to reason past the howling fury within him. He has never before felt so truly attuned to his more fiendish instincts, working in concert with his mortal ones in a truly dangerous storm. He swore when he first came to this wretched plane that he would be its master one day, and he’ll be damned – well and truly – if he fails here. Or: Centuries prior to the events of the game, Raphael's return from a routine fetch quest on Mephistopheles's orders is interrupted by a summons to the throne room. His father has a lesson to impart to him, and he's going to ensure it sticks.

This is part of an ongoing story I've had in the back of my mind for several weeks now. Rather than another WIP longfic, I'll be posting additional segments from this 'verse in a series if/when I add more. If @sky-kiss has any say in it, I'm sure I will.

The only background info you really need is:

All characters are drawn from actual Forgotten Realms lore.

Raphael has recently been plucked from the Material Plane to join his father's court on Cania, in the Nine Hells.

Due to Raphael's stunted development, and an unwillingness to be shamed by his spawn's weakness, Mephistopheles has placed Raphael under the purview of his consort, Baalphegor.

Baalphegor's body is able to produce an empowering draught, too weak to hold much significance to true fiends, but sufficient to bolster Raphael's growth.

Finally, it is a pet headcanon I've incorporated into this 'verse that Baalphegor is the same individual later know as Haarlep, but you are welcome to use your own interpretation.

Raphael stumbles through the extravagant entrance doors to Mephistar, the flesh-shearing winds of Cania grabbing after him as he ducks behind the solid, enchanted stone. He’s done his best to cover all exposed skin, but there is always some that escapes his notice, leaving him bleeding out strength he can ill afford to lose. He loathes these “errands” his father sends him on, tasks purported to test his skill, devotion, and cunning. In reality, it feels more like busywork designed to keep him weak and subservient, reminding him of his contentious existence in the hierarchy and reinforcing his dependence on his father’s dubious goodwill.

The desiccated parchment that proved the focus of this most recent quest crinkles slightly, as he shifts his gaze up, the slight sound echoing across the cavernous hall as he looks with certainty for the being he knows to be waiting for his return, just as always. But — they’re not there.

He furrows his brow, an agitated and disquieting anger growing within his gut. He strides across the marble floor on frostbitten feet he can barely feel, shoving the parchment at the lone figure of Mephistopheles’s chamberlain Barbas, standing at attention at his post, and wearing his habitual sneer as he looks down at Raphael. Raphael ignores it for now, as ever, but files the snub away with all the other insults he will one day be strong enough to return tenfold.

“Where is m—the Lady Baalphegor?” He demands imperiously. They are almost always waiting for him upon his return to bestow his reward. That is the deal, the entire reason he engages in these banal fetch quests even though they are entirely beneath his rank and status. He pushes sharply at the errant thought of the pretty fiction it makes, knowing all the while that his true choice is to bow to his father’s whims or perish. True or not, it does no good to dwell on such matters, not when he will be changing them just as soon as he can manage.

Barbas’s sneer gouges even deeper into his face, growing a biting and nearly gleeful edge as he answers Raphael, “Well, young lord, as your august presence must surely have ascertained, the Lady is certainly not here.”

Raphael can feel his face going blotchy and red, and curses his mortal heritage once again for its constant betrayals. The ice-blue crystals in the eye sockets of the chamberlain harden and glint with glee at the sight. Raphael spins on his heel, marching furiously away, the parchment crumpling further within his fist. Barbas’s mocking voice rings out behind him, “Don’t forget to report to His Grace, little lord! He insisted it be done immediately upon your return.”

Raphael almost turns again to berate him, but manages to stop himself at the last moment, lest he lose even more face from the encounter. He’ll make his report as quickly as possible, then hunt down his wayward… Baalphegor, and claim his rightful recompense. The brilliant halls of Mephistar blur around him as he storms through them, focusing only on making his way to his father’s great hall with haste.

He doesn’t wait to be announced, merely pushes firmly on the doors, both with his physical form and, in a manner only recently attained, with the lashings of his own metaphysical aspect. They creak open, the sound like distant screams even on the well-kept mechanisms, and he steps through without hesitation, words of complaint already springing to his lips, when he stops dead in his tracks.

He’s found Baalphegor.

The succubus – and they are in full succubus form in this moment – is perched indolently on his father’s lap, where he sits on his ostentatious throne. But not just perched, no — impaled, as he finds when, with stricken eyes, he watches them move their body in a smooth, undulating motion up, degree by degree, before dropping back down, brilliant hair falling around them and catching the flickering hellfire-light as it glints off their red-brown skin. Soft, melodious moans are driven from their throat with each movement, as if pushed out by the — by the member within them. Their round breasts shift with the motion, the revitalizing milk within them welling up and dripping down their chest, squandered and disregarded.

He swallows, throat dry, his eyes and chest burning in stark opposition with one another.

His father casts an apathetic glance across the hall, and his eyes alight on Raphael, a cruel smirk curling at his lips. “Ah, the returning triumphant! What have you brought me this time?” His voice is nothing but mocking, no attempt made to couch his disregard for his unwanted and unloved spawn.

Raphael blinks, attempting to reason past the howling fury within him. He has never before felt so truly attuned to his more fiendish instincts, working in concert with his mortal ones in a truly dangerous storm. Everything within him is raging at the broken contract, even as it boils with jealousy at the manhandling of something that is his, and it is only the barest dregs of his staunch self-preservation that manage to keep him from attempting something truly foolish. He swore when he first came to this wretched plane that he would be its master one day, and he’ll be damned – well and truly – if he fails here.

He holds the parchment, now looking rather worse for wear, out before him on a finely trembling hand. He searches for the words he needs in a mind nearly whited out by rage.

“I… your cult in Waterdeep sends their obeisance, y–your Grace.” He curses his tongue for its fumbling, driving home further how well his father’s ploy is working to discomfit him.

“Oh,” Mephistopheles waves a careless hand. “That collection of rabble. You will leave it with my steward.”

Raphael ducks his head a bare inch, keeping his eyes away from Baalphegor as much as he can, and turns to leave.

His father’s voice rings out after him before he has completed even half his turn, sharpening with the first warning edges of his infamous temper. “Where do you think you are going, whelp? You have not yet been dismissed.”

Raphael turns back to face him, slow and careful, as the true danger of the situation sets in. He has rarely found himself in the presence of his father when these moods strike, and never without at least the tenuous support of Baalphegor behind him. And yet… he meets their gaze now, searching, and the barest fraction desperate, but there is nothing. Their red eyes meet his without flinching, cold as Cania’s glaciers. Trickles of the subtly shimmering draught spilling from their breasts have reached down to their hips now, soaking into the thatch of hair between their legs.

He tears his eyes away and forces his attention back to the far greater threat, scrambling for an answer that will satisfy his father.

“My apologies, your Grace.” The epithet comes easier this time, its passage eased by his awareness of his own precarious position. “I misunderstood your direction, and wished only to carry out your will with utmost alacrity.”

Mephistopheles rests his chin insouciantly on his hand, elbow propped against the arm of his throne. His voice, when he speaks, is sardonic and shows no signs of the ongoing actions of the succubus on his lap. “Oh very nicely salvaged, whelp. My wishes, however, are for you to remain just where you are, and appreciate the lesson I’ve prepared for you.”

Raphael swallows, the boiling heat within him growing fiercer, rage intertwined with other, less-savory feelings.

With little warning, Mephistopheles moves his hand to entangle within Baalphegor’s tresses, pulling the succubus fiercely down onto him as he wrenches their head back against his shoulder. A tremulous cry breaks from their throat, and Raphael only barely keeps himself from starting forward at the sound.

Mephistopheles brings his free hand forward and toys with Baalphegor’s breasts, pushed forward into the air from their current position. He twists pitilessly at them, prompting yet more cries as the liquid inside spills out in greater quantities, splashing, wasted, against the smooth skin of Baalphegor’s stomach. It runs in rivulets onto the throne, and down, to collect into puddles on the floor of the grand hall.

Raphael feels his stomach turn even as his mouth, well-trained by association, waters, unhindered by every other horrible aspect of this waking nightmare.

Mephistopheles wipes his hand dismissively on Baalphegor’s hair, leaving behind silvery streaks, then draws them up by their hair and hip, beginning to move within them in earnest as he continues his reproach. Raphael wants to close his eyes, his ears, every one of his senses, but knows such an admission of weakness would be worse than his undoing.

“You’ve prevailed enough upon my largess, and I am no longer willing to indulge your weakness.” Mephistopheles sneers. “You’ve proven more fortunate than any other cambion within the Hells, but from now on you will make your own way, or fail. Such is the way of Baator.”

The fires around the hall burn fiercer in alignment with their lord as he looks down at his unloved progeny. “Should you find yourself desperate for one last taste to stay your appetites, however, you may lap it from the floor like the whelp you are, and thank me for the concession.”

Raphael feels like he is become hellfire himself, the hatred he knew within him for his progenitor stoked to dizzyingly fierce new heights. Jaw aching with the effort of withholding the flood of vitriol within him, he grits out, “My thanks for your… beneficence. I would not dream of prevailing upon it further.”

Mephistopheles snorts, dismissive, then turns his attentions back to Baalphegor, by all accounts having forgotten Raphael’s entire existence.

Raphael stands, Baalphegor’s unfeeling eyes burning into his, until he is finally – finally – dismissed. All the while, the ambitions within him, already cast in carbon, are pressurized further and further, until they are as fearsome diamond, reflecting the blood and fire around him.

He will not remain his father’s lesser for long. He will see him deposed, and make him suffer for these indignities heaped upon his person.

By Asmodeus, he swears it.

[inaconstantstateofchange]

Sending this BG3 idea to a bunch of different blogs to see what they do with it: Tav uses edging and/or orgasm denial on Raphael to get him to give up the hammer without giving him the crown. (Enjoy!)

Okay so I don’t think this is going to be what you were looking for anon, but this is the only thing that makes sense to me with this prompt. Raphael is thousands of years old, well-acquainted with pleasure, and engages in sex most often with an incubus. There is absolutely no chance Tav could manage anything that would sway him that far from his goals. In addition to that, manipulation is the lifeblood of devils. Raphael was raised on this shit, and has weathered far more talented attempts than any Tav could manage. With that said, hopefully folks with still find this imagining enjoyable.

Raphael groans, looking up at the glistening body above him, muscles rippling with every motion of their body. His stomach clenches as he feels his peak approaching, and his little rider feels it too, slowing their movement to an unfulfilling grind. They look down at him with a smug smile drawn onto their comely face, supposed superiority belied by the sweat beading up along their temples. 

“Do you yield?” Their voice is flush with anticipation, certain of their victory. This is the fifth time in a row they’ve brought him almost to the edge before denying him, and he is growing impatient. The fires in the candelabra scattered around the room have been steadily burning brighter and whiter, a visible marker of his gratification.

However, his refusal to lose to the manipulations of a mortal, even one so eye-catching as this, burns stronger still. 

He smiles meanly up at them, carefully modulating any tremors out of his response, “Mm… I think not. You’ll have to try harder than that, little mouse.”

They blanch, slightly, a brief expression of dismay breaking across their face before it settles back into headstrong determination. They return to their self-assigned task, focused and intent, still oh-so-certain of their eventual success. 

Raphael hums in his chest, making them jolt minutely and shoot him a glare, before he settles back to enjoy the experience in full. 

They never had a chance of success in this deal, but what kind of devil would he be if he just told them that? Better to learn by experience, after all.

[inaconstantstateofchange]

Inquiring minds want to see your take...8 INT Tav meets Haarlep in the Boudoir.

asjdaksjdasd oh my god okay, well obviously taking massive inspiration from your og: 8 INT Tav

this got... impossibly long. don't blame me, blame the two competing peacocks.

Raphael rematerializes within the familiar walls of his bedroom, still pinching the bridge of his nose. He normally prefers to arrive at the front hall, to allow his servants to see and feel his presence in their midst, but today… He’ll grant himself an allowance, just this once. A familiar rustle of wings unfurling has him spinning around, looking for the slightest opening to lash out and satisfy even some portion of his wounded pride. He is not kept waiting long. 

Haarlep’s mockingly dulcet voice lilts out of the shadows across the room, eyes alight with glee. “How was the visit with your dear paramour, Unseelie lord?” 

Raphael raises a clawed fist in their direction, discordant notes like distant screams gathering at the tips. Haarlep leans forward with anticipation, the byplay between them familiar if not yet entirely banal. Just before he releases it, tips them over the edge into simple violence that might ease but not soothe the indignity he has suffered today – and every day since meeting that impertinent, irritating girl – a thought strikes him. He grins, slow and toothy.

Haarlep is far too accomplished a fiend to do anything so obvious as blanch, but they do blink twice in rapid succession, a clear sign of their startlement from one who knows them as well as he. It is not often that he misses a step in their masquerade. 

Letting the accrued magic dissipate entirely, Raphael raises his hands to his mouth in an expression of carefree thought, a fine and cutting edge to it that he knows the other feels. 

“Why, how delightfully cordial of you to ask after her, Haarlep. In fact, she has been doing the same, nigh incessantly!” He watches the other’s face with barely-hidden glee, tracking every visible micro-expression. 

Another blink. Confusion. Haarlep doesn’t see the game yet. And, after all, how could they? That girl is absolutely incalculable. Raphael soothes his vexation with the thought that, at least this time, he can make someone else play the victim to her unique form of nescience. 

A brief mantling of the wings. They have determined their gambit then. With a sultry movement of their arm, Haarlep gestures to themself. “But of course! Who could possibly resist such a delicacy in truth? I am glad to hear the little darling has come to her senses and reconsidered.”

Raphael lets them preen, their eyes still watchful behind their long lashes, a moment longer, then claps his hands sharply. 

“That’s settled then. I’ll be just a moment, and then the two of you can get reacquainted.” He lets some portion of his own power rise around him for just a moment. No need to put too fine a point on it. “And, Haarlep? I do expect you to give a more proper welcome to guests of the House in future.”

Haarlep looks away for that moment, a pretense at nonchalance, but Raphael trusts his message has been received. He discorporates himself with a moment’s thought, feeling a malefic cheer rising as he considers the treat in store for him. 

Haarlep remains where they stand, loath to cede more ground and mistrustful of this turn of their little brat’s whims. They cast back to their first, brief meeting with the subject of his – unwitting and unwilling – current attentions, but nothing materializes that could explain the specific turn of his disposition. She had been too insipid to intrigue, yet somehow survived her visit unscathed where countless others had not. 

Their thoughts are suspended by the familiar metaphysical crackle that heralds the rematerialization of Raphael’s preferred method of conveyance. This time, he does not arrive alone. Held stiff and distrustful within the loose circle of his arms is… her. The moment she sets her eyes on Haarlep, they go limpid and soft.

Raphael speaks, face inscrutable but voice tremulous with his mirth, “See, dear one, I told you I’d had a… crisis of conscience. You’ve worn me down with your keen moral arguments, and I’m prepared to… see sense, and let you speak to Haarlep again.”

Haarlep blinks, genuinely caught off guard for one of the first times in recent memory. What… is going on. 

The girl steps forward, turning back to give Raphael a solemn, approving look, before approaching Haarlep tentatively. It is, however, not with the understandable caution they are accustomed to from mortals, but rather underpinned by something saccharine and soppy. Their well-honed survival instincts prick at them as she opens her mouth, warning them without even a bare moment to flee that whatever comes out of it will be harrowing indeed. 

“I know, Haarlep. I know what you are.” She reached out toward them with  supplicant hands. “You aren’t stuck here. You can be free.”

Haarlep blinks once, then again. “... What.”

She elaborates, but does not in any way elucidate. “I’ve seen this before, you know. It’s not hopeless. Whatever these fey have told you, your nature does not make you one of them. You belong on the Material Plane, with others like you.”

Behind her, Raphael’s face begins to crack into a grin worthy of a true fiend. Haarlep’s distrust is growing exponentially with each passing moment. They paste on a smile and lean forward, “Others… like me. And just what would those others be, little interloper?” 

“Oh, Haarlep…” To his stark disgust, a single tear drips from one eye. Gleeful micro-vibrations emanate from Raphael, propagating a shimmering haze around him. 

She continues on, after a brief pause in which she stares at him mournfully, “A changeling, of course. I’m so sorry you’ve fallen prey to their lies, that you had to find out this way.” 

She clenches her fist, a mawkish determination filling her entire body. “I’ll find a way to free you. I promise.”

[Haarlep.exe has stopped responding.] 

On the resounding heels of the vacuum left by her pronouncement, Raphael vibrates himself into the wall of the next room over. His cackling still reaches them unimpeded.

[inaconstantstateofchange]

Lateral Demotion | Ascended!Raphael x Tav (GN) x Haarlep

A/N: blame once again goes entirely to @sky-kiss without whom this would not exist in its current form (esp the baths and the ending line).

Unfortunately I cannot include the fic itself on Tumblr bc it keeps flagging for some reason, so Archive link it is.

Summary: Some time after the interlopers had fled the House, leaving Raphael alive but trapped in his wretched "Ascended" form, Haarlep makes one last-ditch effort to set him to rights before they give up and return to Cania in mild disgrace. The leader of the little band of trespassers even returns, mewling about its desire to set things right. Far be it from a devil to spurn a foolish promise freely made. The interloper may yet regret its hasty declarations, but that is no concern of Haarlep's.