Advogada do Diabo

Mizora stood at a distance, fingers still drumming against the wooden crate beneath her, gaze fixed on the horizon as if the very act of not looking at Karlach might shield her from whatever absurd emotions were clawing at the edge of her thoughts.

When the tiefling finally spoke, Mizora braced herself. She expected yelling. Accusations. A dramatic tantrum followed by some fists through a rock — or whatever it was that bloodthirsty little rebels did when their hearts got heavy.

But instead, Karlach asked a question.

A real, simple question.

And Mizora had no answer.

Her mouth opened, then snapped shut again like a misfired spell. She cleared her throat, flicking imaginary dust off her sleeve with a little too much energy. “My reasons are my own,” she said, clipped and cold. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

Well, that landed incredibly flat.

Who knows? Maybe Karlach would actually descend into Avernus like some half-cooked vengeance goddess and carve a path with the smoldering corpses of Zariel’s prized generals. Maybe she’d cause enough chaos and bloodshed to keep the Archdevil blissfully distracted with war and wrath to notice one slippery little cambion tiptoeing out the backdoor of her infernal war machine.

Her tail flicked in annoyance. She looked stupid. Worse: weak. And the very last thing she needed was to appear weak in front of a mortal. Especially this mortal.

Mizora rose from the crate, wings giving the slightest nervous twitch. A cruel smirk curled her lips, polished, poisonous, practiced.

“Perhaps I just want to see you struggle,” she purred. “Dragging yourself over Avernus, clinging to that pitiful hope of a cure — only to fail, crushed beneath Zariel's talons.” She leaned in just enough to be annoying. “And I’ll laugh, watching you suffer.”

There. That was perfect. That was what they expected. What she expected of herself. Cold. Sneering. Untouchable. Weakness was a luxury Mizora couldn't afford. And so was hope.

Better this venom-laced cruelty than the treatcherous whispers blooming in the back of her mind.

It was what else Mizora had to say that gained a reaction from the tiefling. But it wasn't the predictable one.

If this was any other day, this would have gone in a wildly different direction. Karlach would have flared in a rage. Without Mummy leering over them both, Karlach would have wrapped just a single hand around Mizora's throat and squeezed. Enough to drive her talon like claws into her skin and lick up the blood that would run down the length of her fingers. She would have threatened, snarled and snapped.

But not today.

Karlach instead closed the gap all the more. Quietly, yet not less dangerously. She approached the duplicitous cambion with an astucious look in her eyes. A tilt to the head as if analyzing something with such a lack of interest. She was cold - despite the roaring heat. No tantrums. No shouting. Just an exhausted yet still blood thirsty chill. She was dying anyway - so why would any of this fucking matter anymore?

"Oh I'm sure you will, because then it'll be your turn." Her eyes never once looked away from Mizora's. Iris' burning like a final sunset yet they seemed to darken the longer she bore her hatred straight into the cambion. "For someone who lives and breaths on false pretenses, you are a terrible liar," She hissed through pointed fangs. "Your tail curls erratically. Your wings spasm and twitch. It's small, but I see it." She leaned in all the closer to Mizora, almost nose-to-nose as the intimidation continued.

Mizora’s gaze flicked downward to Karlach’s still blood-streaked hands. The tiefling moved closer, and Mizora's eyes rose to meet her molten-gold eyes. The cambion knew that look. The taut line in Karlach’s jaw, the way her steps slowed, and her body inclined. That was the look of someone who had decided she could kill — and definitely would.

Any sane person should have stepped back. Any proud devil should have been bristling with defiance. Yes, Mizora should have flared her wings, summoned flame, hissed threats through her teeth. But instead, there was only stillness.

People say acceptance is the final stage of grief.

Looks like it is also the final stage of acknowledging that you are mortal.

After all, death at Karlach’s hands wouldn’t be the worst ending. No, that honour belonged to Zariel. At least Karlach would make it quick.

"Well, well," Mizora said, forcing the smirk onto her lips like it was armour she no longer believed in. "Look at you... You know me so well. Better than anyone else, I’d wager. I never knew you were such a romantic. How long have you been watching me, darling?”

The words came smooth and venom-sweet, but her eyes stayed flat. The smile vanished almost immediately.

“The right kind of havoc,” she murmured, “can stir just enough smoke in Avernus to make Zariel look the other way for a heartbeat or two. And you, my dear, you are just this right kind of havoc.”

A shrug. “But even you said it. It only buys me time. When you fall, I’ll be next. That’s the way of things. But if you don't fall...”

But if, by all cursed layers of the hells, Karlach didn’t fall? Mizora tilted her head, the thought flaring in her mind like a cruel, flickering candle. If she didn’t fall… That meant Zariel did.

She almost said it aloud. Her mouth opened. Then closed. The words wouldn’t come. As if naming the dream would shatter it.

Foolishness. No mortal stood a chance against an Archdevil.

“I know you're itching to finally kill me.” Mizora finally whispered, her voice a pale echo of its usual honeyed warmth, “So tell me, how would you do it?”

Her eyes didn’t waver. “Would you cleave me in two with that lovely axe of yours? Tear out my throat with those darling claws? Smash my skull under your comfortable boots until I was reduced to a red pulp?"

A pause.

"Or maybe,” she added, “you’d play the good girl and make it look like an accident.” A bitter smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. “No one else is here. You can take your chance, Karlach.”

Mizora spread her arms and wings wide — not as a threat, but as though offering some grand, impossible embrace.

“But if you won’t…” she let the words linger in a purr.

No mortal stood a chance against an Archdevil.

Not alone.

Preferably, with a little immortal support.

“Maybe we could both be the right kind of havoc in Avernus after slaying the Elder Brain,” she added.

There. Out in the open. The admission burned worse than holy fire: Mizora, of all people, daring to wish Zariel gone. The thought coiled in her stomach like poison, a sick ache of fear mixed with the kind of defiance that only those who knew they had nothing else to lose could muster.

Karlach was her gamble. Her last card on the table. And if Mizora was right, she might just be Karlach’s too.

A warm chuckle left her lips as Aurelia gently shook her head, appreciating the burn. A nice one, at that. “Always the flatterer, hm?” She turned her head lightly, observing the other woman even if she had told herself not to moments earlier. Aurelia bit her lip, attempting to keep herself from smiling and yet failing entirely.. as she did with so many things when it came to Mizora. “Good. You better.” Her sass definitely wasn’t going anywhere, nor was the scent on her favourite devil, it seems.. for her intentions before bath were made very clear.

Oh, how she wanted to melt into that dangerous embrace, let herself be carried and then touched in ways that would have her struggle to move for days, lost in remembrance and already craving more. “Is that so?” Voice betrayed her desire, but her stubbornness and sass overpowered it all as a quick use of misty step placed her way out of reach for Mizora. She smirks then, again, all defiance and challenge. “No, my love.. there will be no touching before you bathe. And I definitely will not lay in this bed until these sheets are crisp and clean.”

“Not flattery, darling... Just a simple, inescapable truth.” Mizora purred, her voice thick as velvet, lips already ghosting downward with the promise of a bite that would’ve definitely leave a mark — until, with an infuriating flash of light, Aurelia vanished.

The cambion blinked, left with empty air beneath her fingers. The nerve!

She huffed, a sharp, scandalized sound, before spinning on her heel to face her wayward wizard. “Now, now...” She barked a laugh, ruby eyes dancing with both amusement and affront. “And here I thought you weren't the jealous type.”

"Well, if you must know... You were not among them, so there wasn't enough." Mizora stalked forward, every movement languid and predatory until she dropped in a graceful, crawling glide, slinking to Aurelia’s feet. Her palms slid up the wizard’s legs with possession, settling firmly at her hips. Looking up from her place below, Mizora’s smile curved, slow, wicked, and absolutely unapologetic. “Shall I beg for forgiveness, then?”

Aurelia may as well have invented the dramatic eye roll with how perfectly she performed it, "ah yes, because I do better than ten people combined.. And you expect me to believe such?" She's not insecure, not at all, but she doesn't find it at all realistic and if Mizora truly thinks- oh.

She usually takes great pride in being unable to be surprised, always anticipating.. But Mizora is her one exception, proving such as she fell to her knees, touch possessive and an offer made to beg... Rendering the wizard speechless. Aurelia's mind went blank, her expression unable to hide her surprise. Now she could see why Mizora enjoyed having her on her knees.. The perfect sight right there, forever wanting to be memorised.

Aurelia had such a way of always getting what she wanted, didn't she?

With a lazy flick of her wrist, the bed sheets were torn from the mattress by a gust of wind and reduced to cinders in a single, blazing breath. “Yes,” Mizora said, voice low and certain, “better than ten people combined.”

Her grip on Aurelia's hips turned into a tight embrace, arms circling her body as she lifted the wizard effortlessly, cradling her by the thighs. “Just for being you.”

In the corner, the marble bathtub awaited, the clear and cool water a refreshing invitation. That was where Mizora carried Aurelia now, her movements gentle as she held her close and slowly lowered them both into the bath.

A warm chuckle left her lips as Aurelia gently shook her head, appreciating the burn. A nice one, at that. “Always the flatterer, hm?” She turned her head lightly, observing the other woman even if she had told herself not to moments earlier. Aurelia bit her lip, attempting to keep herself from smiling and yet failing entirely.. as she did with so many things when it came to Mizora. “Good. You better.” Her sass definitely wasn’t going anywhere, nor was the scent on her favourite devil, it seems.. for her intentions before bath were made very clear.

Oh, how she wanted to melt into that dangerous embrace, let herself be carried and then touched in ways that would have her struggle to move for days, lost in remembrance and already craving more. “Is that so?” Voice betrayed her desire, but her stubbornness and sass overpowered it all as a quick use of misty step placed her way out of reach for Mizora. She smirks then, again, all defiance and challenge. “No, my love.. there will be no touching before you bathe. And I definitely will not lay in this bed until these sheets are crisp and clean.”

“Not flattery, darling... Just a simple, inescapable truth.” Mizora purred, her voice thick as velvet, lips already ghosting downward with the promise of a bite that would’ve definitely leave a mark — until, with an infuriating flash of light, Aurelia vanished.

The cambion blinked, left with empty air beneath her fingers. The nerve!

She huffed, a sharp, scandalized sound, before spinning on her heel to face her wayward wizard. “Now, now...” She barked a laugh, ruby eyes dancing with both amusement and affront. “And here I thought you weren't the jealous type.”

"Well, if you must know... You were not among them, so there wasn't enough." Mizora stalked forward, every movement languid and predatory until she dropped in a graceful, crawling glide, slinking to Aurelia’s feet. Her palms slid up the wizard’s legs with possession, settling firmly at her hips. Looking up from her place below, Mizora’s smile curved, slow, wicked, and absolutely unapologetic. “Shall I beg for forgiveness, then?”

The haze of perfumed smoke curled around Mizora as she lounged against the edge of the satin-draped dais, flicking ash into the candlelit, watching the swirl of bodies before her. All around, limbs entwined in a tangle of heat and breath — at least a dozen of them — warm skin slick with desire, the musky scent of arousal thick in the air, punctuated by whispered gasps and the soft rustle of shifting silk. Every joint and sinew writhed in pleasure, yet in her own body only impatience thrived.

She exhaled another plume of smoke, eyes half‑lidded, scanning the tableau as if it were an ill‑conceived play. The tremor of thighs, the damp press of torsos, the promise in each heated sigh were undeniably intoxicating… But not enough to hold her attention.

Yes, the doe‑eyed brunette from earlier managed to follow instructions well enough. But it wasn’t her. Not by a long shot. Everything felt so half-hearted: the over-eager poses, the weak moans, the rhythm was all wrong. It lacked that fierce devotion Mizora craved — the tremor in each kiss, the shuddering whimpers that spoke of genuine desperation under her touch, the roaming hands eager to have her closer, no matter what.

She’d been indulging in dark‑haired, petite women more frequently these days, chasing that fleeting spark… Yet every time she settled for one of them, her thoughts slipped back to Aurelia. As if no one else could truly sate her hunger.

How utterly tedious. Mizora thought with a snarl. And how... Disconcerting.

The cambion stood up in a sharp, sudden motion, cutting through the haze of sweat and smoke. "That's enough," she snapped, voice like a whipcrack as she gave a loud, sharp, commanding clap of her hands. "Gather your clothes, darlings. We're finished."

Around her, the entangled limbs and flushed faces of the orgy untangled in confusion. A few blinked up at her, dazed and unsure, while others sat up abruptly, eyes wide.

"What? Finished?" one man stammered, breathless and still half-hard. "But—"

"If there’s something specific you want, mistress," purred a lithe tiefling woman, crawling closer on all fours, "you only need to tell us. We can adjust. We can please you. Just say the word."

"Yes," another chimed in, her voice desperate. "Whatever it is we’ll follow it. You only have to command."

But Mizora’s ruby gaze was distant, distracted, already leagues away from the pile of willing bodies and perfumed arousal. Her wings flicked once in irritation. For the first time she regretted using her infernal charm for personal indulgences.

“Sweet things,” she drawled, already walking off to open the door. “You could reenact the Nine Layers with perfect choreography and it still wouldn’t do the trick.”

With a languid flick of her wrist, she stubbed out her cigarette, tail flicking with bored annoyance as she held the door open. “Honestly,” she murmured under her breath, “I simply expected more from you.”

The sharp motion of her head that followed conveyed a clear message: Out. Now.

She didn’t even wait for them to scramble for their clothes. Let them fumble and gawk, she had more important things to tend to.

She grabbed her silken robe from the chaise, wrapping it around her as she made her way to her boudoir, plucking a fine quill and a piece of fresh parchment from her lacquered desk. Ink shimmered as she dipped the tip, and then began to write in a sweeping, perfect handwriting:

Dearest Aurelia,

I’ve secured new lodgings within the city, something with a bit more charm, a bit more height, and a rather breathtaking view of the ocean. You’ll find the sound of the waves quite soothing when one needs clarity… Or company.

I would be delighted if you visited. The place feels awfully spacious without a sharp tongue and clever mind to fill the air.

With anticipation, M.

She sealed it with a kiss of fire and her personal sigil, eyes narrowing fondly at the parchment as she retrieved a slender strand of fine copper wire from her vanity, twisting it between her fingers and murmuring the incantation for the Sending spell. Her eyes glowed briefly with infernal light as she whispered the message into the weave of magic. The words shimmered into the ether, racing across planes to find Aurelia’s mind.

"Let’s see if this pulls you in, little orchid."

Aurelia had been spending time grading essays and honestly, that always sours her mood. There’s some talents in becoming, yes, but most are just.. mediocre at best. Where is the passion? The talent? The outstandingly crisp solutions that would have The Weave quiver in desire to be channelled? With a sigh, Aurelia flings the last essay to the edge of her desk as she rushes her hands through her hair. If only.. Oh.

A small smile appeared, eyes closing as she savoured the sound of Mizora’s voice, leaning back into her chair to fully indulge. Right at the moment she needed her most… when absolutely bored to death. She could feel that pull towards Mizora, her smile only growing and.. well, she’s finished anyways.

She had been quick to get through the city, spells aiding in quickly making her way through, having used a locating spell just before leaving to find her way to her favourite cambion. Not once has Aurelia worried about seeming desperate, always quick and eager, and now was no different. Too quick, perhaps, for an eyebrow raised in surprise when she eventually reached Mizora’s room and saw two women emerge who.. somewhat resembled her. Both very dark brown hair, not raven as her own.. blue eyes, instead of blue-purple and both around her own height, petite. How amusing.

With this knowledge, Aurelia completely ignored their questioning looks when she casually strolled into Mizora’s room and closed the door behind her. “Fancy place you’ve got, darling, only a shame that the air reeks of sex instead of being filled with.. what did you call it? Ah, a sharp tongue and a clever mind.” She looked around, eyes falling to messes of silk and what could definitely be identified as.. certain bodily fluids. Arousal, sweat and heat still thick in the air; almost nauseating. It wasn’t jealousy, not really, they’ve spoken of this before and Aurelia knows she cannot keep the cambion happy on her own. She’s but a mere mortal, after all. But being confronted with this, well.. that may cause just a bit of a struggle. By Mystra's Weave.. Mizora did look absolutely gorgeous though. Perched right there, as if she absolutely owned the place and the world itself. Almost enough to knock the breath right out of her lungs.

That was... Fast.

Faster than Mizora expected, really. Did she teleported her way here?

If that was the case, Mizora was positively delighted — and thoroughly intrigued. She blinked, a rare moment of genuine surprise flashing in those crimson eyes, whether at Aurelia's dramatic entrance or the sharpness of her tongue, she couldn’t quite decide.

With a purr of laughter, she drifted toward the balcony. “Oh, please. They’d have to sell their souls twice to even mimic a cheap knock-off version of you,” she scoffed, voice sweet as poisoned honey. “But if you insist, I suppose I can bathe before we cuddle and kiss.”

She came up behind Aurelia, arms slipping around her like silk, voice a low promise in her ear. “And as for the scent…” Mizora pressed closer, all smug warmth and dark intent. “Give it a moment, darling. Soon, it won't matter at all...”

A light nibble in her earlobe follows, along with a sultry whisper: "Because I’m going to fuck you until you forget your own name."

“Ohhh, tempting,” Mizora purred, dragging the word out a bit. And it was tempting, wasn’t it? To let herself sink into a moment of indulgence with an incubus — the creature born to the peak of perfection in pleasure. No other being in all of Baator — perhaps even beyond — knew how to ruin someone so exquisitely.

And, oh, the best part? There was a non-zero chance that Raphael — possessive little devil that he was — would be seething over it.

Her grin sharpened, wicked delight dancing in her eyes. What a way to kill two imps with a single Eldritch Blast!

Of course, there was always the non-zero chance that Haarlep was trying to trick her. It would be the most obvious of ploys. After all, a cambion’s soul was a prize any self-respecting devil would love to sink their claws into. And Haarlep? Oh, he was Raphael’s, wasn’t he? Which meant he played dirty, at the very least.

But Mizora was a woman of bets, and the best kind of bets were the ones where the risk sent a thrill down her spine. The higher the stakes, the higher the reward. And if she did get burned — well.

She did like playing with fire.

"But tell me exactly what do you have in mmind for this... Pleasure eternal, of yours?" Mizora purred, her voice a caress laced with wicked amusement. Her fingers ghosted over Haarlep’s lips, lingering just enough to tease, to promise — granting and denying at the same time. She tilted her head, ruby eyes gleaming. "I do bore so easily."

Haarlep smiled, their bodies still burning as they pressed so tightly together. Tails entwined as Haarlep's coiled around her's, even the simplest of touches being the most skilled. Even but a hand against a shoulder could send someone reeling to their knees from his kind. Haarlep had over two thousand years to perfect his art, and perfect it he did.

"I would lay you back, and kiss you from head to toe," he promised. "I would find myself between your legs, tongue wet and hot, lapping inside you, as your thighs shiver and tremble against my shoulders, your nails clawing through my hair."

His hands moved down the curve of Mizora's back. "All the while, my cock would be dripping, abandoned, between my legs. Begging for release as Raphael struggles to contain his own plight." Somewhere, wherever his master was, Raphael would feel it. He would know. He would press his thighs together, attempting to hide his own erection that pressed against the inside of his pants. And wouldn't that be wonderful? For both Haarlep and Mizora.

She would have the full pleasures of knowing that Raphael would know what they were doing, and getting to tease and torment the other cambion. What devil wouldn't like that?

No creature in the Heavens above or the Hells below understood mortal yearning like an incubus. They didn’t just sense desire — they devoured it, thrived on it, molded it like clay. And damned be all the gods, Mizora’s own mortal half was betraying her with every thrum of anticipation, every curl of heat coiling low in her belly. She was practically salivating at the thought.

"And afterwards?" She purred, her voice a low whisper as her tail slithered downward across the incubus’ stomach. It slipped beneath the leather of his garnments, tracing lazy, tantalizing circles in his crotch. Not quite touching the cock yet. Just close enough to make him feel the intent.

"Would you be on your all fours for me, so my tail could fill you? Perhaps, while it's deep inside, I could finally give that neglected cock the attention it's been longing for…"

Mizora fluttered her lashes, ruby eyes wide with mock innocence, her voice honeyed with fake concern. “Oh dear… do you think Raphael would be terribly cross about that? I’d simply hate to get you in trouble with your master…” she purred, every word a velvet-cloaked lie. And the devilish grin that followed made her glee anything but subtle.

" Don't fret, my love.. everything is going to work in favor now. Just relax and enjoy yourself, " His lips followed suit of his fingers , and they were paired in sync with his diabolic mapping of sin over layers of skin .

Wherever his hands went , Astarion's mouth followed , leading him gradually to the cushions of her ass, and he caressed her tail gingerly , as he reached her bottoms , he spoke the invite in a silky voice, leaving no doubt of his intentions.

A sharp, breath escaped her lips before she caught it between her teeth as Astarion's hands toutched the base of her tail. Heat coiled low in her stomach, flaring with each stroke, making her wings flare wide in pure reflex. Her eyes fluttered shut, her fingers digging ever so slightly into the bedsheets at her sides. She almost hated how much she loved it.

Mizora turned to him with a slow, almost feline grace, the glow in her eyes softening into something perilous and tender all at once. She leaned in, her lips brushing against Astarion’s with a soft, slow kiss. Then, just as he asked, she laid herself down upon the bed, propped on one elbow, watching him through half-lidded eyes, her smirk curling as sensually as the tip of her tail — now winding itself around his wrist with silken precision.

Mizora’s eyes moved from the blood-slicked floor to Kore, her lips curled into something between a sneer and a smirk. "I know you have your little cult to run, but you’re not the only one trying to build something in this city. So, do be a dear and keep Daddy’s little playthings out of my apprentices’ guts, hmm? Or is that beyond your capabilities?"

Her eyes flared, red as the carnage at their feet, as she crouched beside Kore, gaze locked onto hers like a predator sizing up competition. "Because I’d hate to find out you’re too feral to follow simple instructions. Really, Kore, if you’re this desperate for my attention, just say so."

"You are not my master, Mizora. Your instruction means little to myself, or my Father."

The amusement drops from her tone briefly as she addresses the devil, her voice taking on something much more orderly, as if it's something to recite. To believe in.

But then a giggle falls from Kore's lips as her head lolls to the side, twisting, until she's looking at Mizora once again. "But I admit, you were a pleasant surprise," She expresses, smiling, and then shaking her head as her excitement subsides.

"Truthfully, I had no knowledge of your claim on this one, and even if I did, death doesn't discriminate in who it takes. Neither do I. It's... in my nature, I suppose." While she speaks, Kore reaches down to brush some hair away from the deceased's forehead, gentle as blood smears over the strands.

“You’re not the only one trying to rule a cult in this city, darling,” Mizora grins. “Power’s all the rage these days, isn’t it?”

And you're not the only one doing someone else's dirty work, either, she thought, but let that sweet little morsel linger unsaid.

“Now,” she went on, voice dipped in honey and venom, “death may be the fairest judge of all — indiscriminate, democratic, even poetic when it feels inclined.” A pause, a smirk. “But you and I both know that too many bodies dropped in the wrong direction can make things... Complicated.”

“What would you do if I started dragging the souls of your precious little murder-hobos into pacts? Hmm? Imagine them — whimpering, confused, bound to me by contract and craving purpose like hungry dogs.”

She gives Kore a mischievous wink. “It’s not a threat, of course. Just a theoretical. A gentle reminder that chaos is only fun until someone else's strings get tangled.”

" Dis-gusting, my dear," A vampire lord was wiping the blood from his favorite first born daughter. She resemblance her mother in flesh, and father in appetites. Or at least what he fooled himself into, though bloodshot narcissistic prism of a vampire ascendant. In her distress, their daughter has squeezed the tails of his sophisticated red coat staining it, " Let go, Aszora, " Astarion scowled and it almost looked as if he spoke the reprimand with his fangs, before he turned towards his demonic consort, squeezing her forearm with his pale fingers so to prevent her from leaving the premises yet.

" Don't compare our daughter to a butcher, ever. She will not grow up with the mentality of a monster, is this what you want? " , The ascended vampire had a place in his heart for his little spawn like he'd never thought he would, for she was his own.

Ah, shit. So she wasn’t wriggling out of this one after all, was she?

Mizora inhaled deeply through her nose, lips pursed in a tight, dignified line — or at least the closest thing she could muster when she was two seconds from setting something on fire out of sheer emotional inconvenience. She could argue with Astarion, of course. Tell him how utterly grating it was to dredge up that charming little infernal fire incident from her youth. She could point out how ennervating it was to be reprimanded in front of their spawn.

But…

But something about the way Astarion had stepped in to bolster their daughter’s wobbly self-esteem, to preserve her sense of might and invincibility, struck a note somewhere deep in Mizora’s chest. A note she didn’t usually play. Their little hellion did need affirmation, didn’t she? If she was to be a worthy heir to their future empire… Or forge her own, perhaps something even greater.

And seeing the two of them together like that, it didn’t just strike a chord. It plucked a whole damn symphony.

She scowled down at the floor, folding her arms and muttering just loud enough for him to hear, “She still needs discipline, though.” But her tail curled just slightly around his ankle. A quiet concession. “And of course, cleaning the mess is merely the opening act. She’ll sit by my side — attentively, mind you — and learn how to properly manage every simpering servant under this roof. And then, she’ll personally select a replacement for the one she so enthusiastically murdered. Then, she’ll cozy up beside you, dearest, and get an oh-so-enlightening crash course on the mortal realm’s laws, punishments and legislation history. All very necessary and sufficiently boring practices for a child of ours to endure.”

A pause, lips curling into a wicked smile.

“Call it a hands-on lesson in resource management... And consequences.”

Then, something that sets her teeth on edge. Warlord, certainly, but avatar? The wry smirk dies violently on her face, and Rakatak responds not in a faintly warm tone but something about as sharp as a piece of flint. "What a gulf of difference five years must make. I am only twenty-nine."

But the thing she saw in that book certainly wasn't, and the closer the party gets to Moonrise Towers, the more she feels like she's working with more lived experience than she should strictly have. Like she's done this before, somehow.

So, there was no witty remarks about being an avatar? No smug little grin, no cryptic one-liner? Tsk tsk. Why hide the game now?

Unless— oh… oh.

She doesn’t know.

Now that was delicious.

“Well, six months were enough for the Absolute to split the world at its seams. Five years?” She gave a dramatic sigh, tilting her head. “Plenty of time to burn an empire to ash and salt the ground it stood on.” She turned her eyes at Rakatak with a knowing smirk. “And I’d wager you know that better than most, wouldn’t you, little stormbringer?”

The cambion clutched her chest in mock offense, gasping like a tragic heroine on the stage. “A wrinkle? Darling, you wound me! My vanity may never recover!” She sniffed dramatically, then let a sly smile creep in. “But if infernal powers aren’t enough to you, perhaps a taste of infernal knowledge might sweeten the deal…”

Hands folded neatly behind her back, Mizora began to circle Rakatak like a particularly smug professor. “I was quite the scholar once upon a time, you know. Spent centuries poking through dusty grimoires and grilling planar entities. Interplanar exchanges, patronage rites, divine conduits… I’ve seen what holds the Weave together and pried into what’s best left buried.”

She stopped, spinning on a heel to squarely face the hobgoblin, ruby eyes aglow with barely restrained delight. “So tell me, darling… are there any little riddles that keep you up at night? Any pulls you feel but can’t explain? Whispers that itch at the edge of your mind?” Her grin widened, all teeth and charm. “Because I do adore to unravel a mystery… Especially the kind that comes with an existential crisis.”

Hopefully, that would be enough to stirr her curiosity.

His red and gold, richly adorned garment had been now refurbished with speckles of blood one could barely make out from the red of the fabric.

The vampire lord , fully living up to his new found demi god status quo, took advantage of his rage , and put in use all of his power -- Astarion lived for moments of sheer cruelty like this, he reveled in them.

" Monster hunters. They don't deserve to live, though I tell you this much, my dear. I will indulge in the torture, and I truly hope you'd be there to see it, I'm doing this for you , as well as for me, " The ascended vampire drawled into his wife's ear, as he placed an open palm over the small of her back, where the dress allowed for him to make skin contact, and he savored the touch with his finger pads, as they sauntered over to the dance floor, together.

" I truly hope you enjoy this dance, just like you'd enjoy to maim the imbecile wretch , who dared touch you, my love, " Astarion leaned closer as the cambion sank into his embrace, his eyes caressed her lips, in a possessive manner as they started to sway in a slow, but sensual manner , " Don't forget, darling - you're mine."

The cambion gleefully twirled and swayed in Astarion's arms across the ballroom as he spoke of his plans for the sorry bastard. Oh, Mizora wouldn't miss the opportunity to see the worm squirm and scream and beg for mercy in the dungeons... It would be delightful, and just to think about it sent shivers down her spine.

And so did Astarion's behaviour right now. Mizora thrived on it — the obsession, the jealousy, the possessiveness that burned so hot it bordered on madness. She invited it, fed on it, craved it like a gluttonous sin. To be the object of someone’s unraveling, to watch desire twist into fury, and fury into devotion so absolute it could only end in blood or ruin… delicious.

Mizora would bask in it, soak herself in every fractured emotion like a bath of fire and wine. Because she didn’t want love. She wanted possession. She wanted to be worshipped with clenched fists and broken hearts. So when Astarion offered this to her, she welcomed every drop of it with open arms and a devil’s grin.

She traced a finger along the edge of Astarion’s jaw, trailing a path in the spilled blood and lifting his chin ever so slightly. “Now, now, darling. As tempting as it is to flay him inch by inch until he’s sobbing apologies in thirteen different dialects… Don’t lose yourself in personal indulgences too soon.” Her eyes gleamed, half-lidded with mischief and malice. “Monster hunters do love a scene, and they come in flocks once the scent of blood grows too thick.”

She leaned in, lips brushing against his ear. “Squeeze him for every secret he has. Every name, every map, every lovely little friend and family he’s tucked away. Then we can make the bastard scream.” Her grin widened, wicked and anticipatory. “And once we are done with him? Oh, what a delicious hunt we'll have at our hands...”

What—

When—

How—

How in the Nine bloody Hells was this tiny wretched thing reading her thoughts so easily?

Mizora blinked once. Then twice. There were no whispers in her mind, no signature psionic twitch of a tadpole brushing against her thoughts. No spellcasting gestures, no arcane words muttered under breath — just those enormous, glistening, stomach-turningly green eyes staring up at her like two sickly orbs of truth-serum pudding.

She didn't feel anything. And that was the worst part.

What in all the flaming scroll piles of Nessus was going on?

Mizora subtly took a cautious step back.

There was only one reasonable explanation: The child was a sorcerer. And not just any sorcerer, one so ridiculously, cosmically overpowered she could cast without verbal, somatic, or even material components. A walking Weave-glitch. A spawn of divinity. Maybe even — gasp — a demi-goddess in pigtails (or whatever were that... Things... In her head).

Mizora’s eyes sparkled with manic delight. Oh, she must have her.

Forget Wyll. Forget the warlocks. This green-eyed gremlin of destiny was hers now. She’d tuck the child under her wing, teach her how to properly curse her enemies in Abyssal, and make her into the ultimate magical colossus. Oh, this child was her golden ticket! Her get-out-of-Hell-free card! More than that, they could have the world wrapped around their little fingers! Entire kingdoms would kneel, archdevils would grit their teeth in plane-hopping frustration! Freedom!

...and conquest!

"My, my... Looks like someone has a talent... A very unique one, by the looks of it." With a grin far too wide, she crouched down to the kid’s level and cooed, a deliberate sweetness in her voice. "Anya, hm? Is that your name? Have anyone ever told you how special you are, darling?"

anya really wanted her parents now. if this woman was evil, they would protect her! papa could capture this aunt with his spy stuff and mama could fight her! but without them there… without them there, she felt vulnerable. anya didn't want to learn how to curse people in 'água e sal' or become a 'cômodo'; that seemed wrong, like a swear word (and anya can't 'call names' yet, she's too young).

however… the little girl needed help and, above all, she still wanted to fly - and she also wanted to touch her horns… "do you know about anya?" that was dangerous, what if she called the police?! or worse… the bad guys in that place… "are you good or evil?"

"and… yes, mama says that anya is special." she answered literally and quite innocently. "can you fly? how do you know anya's name?"

Oh, the questions. So many questions. The little piece of chaotic mystery had barely opened her mouth and Mizora already felt like she was being interrogated by an over-caffeinated imp.

Was this normal for a child? Mizora had no idea. Her experience with children was... Non-existent.

“Am I good or evil?” Mizora blinked. “Darling, I’m trying to save the world. That’s all that matters, no?” She gestured vaguely, as if that neatly settled every moral question in existence.

And then came the name chant. Anya this, Anya that — on and on like a summoning ritual.

“Well,” Mizora said with a grin. “You repeated that name like an invocation, so I assumed it had to be yours.” Either that or the eldritch being who spawned you. She didn't say that last part out loud. She thought it very hard, though.

“Oh, and yes, I can fly,” she added breezily, spreading her wings with a theatrical fwoosh, giving them a dramatic flutter that stirred up dust and some leaves. “Very well, in fact. I look excellent doing it.”

The girl had mentioned a mother before... Perhaps now she had the chance of solving this mystery: who, in the Nine Hells, birthed this being? “Now tell me, little spark — where is your mama, hmm?”

Her slender arms laced around his pale neck caused the fever in him, akin burning inferno .

❛ I thought you'd never ask, my love,❜ Astarion's satisfied retort followed by a lecherous kiss planted at the base of her throat, where her pulse beat evident warmer , and so did the vampire lord's, ❛ Delicious,❜ He hummed against her neck, before searching her lips with his blood stained mouth.

Their kisses that started off warm now burned like fire , and tasted like iron on their tongues -- love and manipulation shared between a cambion and vampire .

His initial thoughts came direct from his cock, which was eager. Such was the effect she had on him , a hellfire set ablaze .

The kiss deepened then, slowing down and seeming to go on for minutes. When he pulled away from his cambion spouse, Astarion pulled back, to gave her a sanguine lecherous look for a moment, and he let his rob fall to the floor , where the corpse has bled out on the Persion carpet, now was his silken robe.

The sting of his fangs was a sweet sonnet in pain — an exquisite ache that only deepened the allure of their dark accord. There was something intoxicating in being wanted so wholly: body, soul, and the very blood that pulsed with infernal fire.

Mizora tilted her head, and claimed his lower lip between her own fangs. The taste of him was bold and bitter, and it spreads like crimson wine across her tongue. Ah, but to drink from a man who had killed his creator... What sweeter poetry could there be?

Astarion, ever the impatient hedonist, shed his clothes like a snake shedding old skin. Mizora, however, had no such haste. Where was the fun in rushing? No, she would savour every second, drag it out until he was trembling with want, until his not so polished poise cracked and desire snarled through his perfect teeth. She wanted to watch him unravel, because if there was one thing more beautiful than his body, it was the way he begged.

She was about to, indeed, follow him towards the bedroom. But since he brought up the idea...

A tail slink low in a smooth, sinuous motion full of intent, coiling around Astarion's ankle with a teasing firmness, giving it a sudden, sharp tug, knocking him off balance.

As soon as he hits the carpet, she was already on him, straddling him with deliberate slowness, wings arching like a crown of shadows behind her as she pressed herself against him, feeling the length of his cock through the fabric of her dress. Her hands braced against his chest, nails leaving a crimson trail in their wake.

“Well,” she purred, leaning close, her breath a whisper at his ear, “you fall beautifully, darling.”