Ch. 12, pt. 1: The Betrayer

PT. 1: ARIBETH

As a consequence of having no light source in an ice cave, Aribeth had lacked the ability to keep track of time while she was trapped in her solitary fortress. It was what she had begun to call the cave that had become her home as much as it was her prison. She knew time had assuredly passed; a hundred years or a hundred minutes did not make a difference to her. Her passive awareness did not permit her to care. She, for the first time in her ceaseless continuum between life and death, had accepted her fate. It gave her time to reflect. Retrospect was quite clear, through the ice. Crystalline, even. Aribeth de Tylmarande fell away and became what the plaque had decreed her to be - she was nameless, she was lost, and she had forgotten.

She realized many things about herself, in her isolation. It became a kind of meditation, her stillness and numbness. She forced her critical eye inward and had concluded that her entire life had been a lie. When Lord Kelemvor had pronounced her False, a traitor to her own heart and to the god she'd claimed, he'd spoken true. Death saw cleanly through the lies that polluted the minds of the living and delivered a fair judgment. She could not acknowledge that Cania was where she belonged unless she accepted that she herself was a lie. A lie she had carefully built and crafted with love, of perfection, grace, and justice. She had committed herself fully to the lie, forgetting what life had been like without the burden of it. There in the cave, she was no longer Lady Aribeth, sworn to Tyr's service. She was finally no one.

It was almost liberating, to be free of her life and its trappings - everything, from her name to her agency, to her very ability to move. That was the true torture that Mephistopheles promised - that she would come to believe the things that were said of her and accept that this was where she belonged. If Aribeth were being honest with herself, it was the first time in her entire existence she'd felt content with her lot, as hopeless as it was. In Cania, life and death were interchangeable, but if she had to trade one state for the other she might hesitate in her choice. At least in death, she no longer had to pretend she was anything or anyone. She could simply . . . Be. Living would mean pain, and suffering, and balance. Living might mean atonement. Aribeth didn't think she deserved that.

Then, a motley assortment of living beings had to muck it up by waking her up and reminding her of everything she'd left unfinished. Of Neverwinter, of Fenthick, of the world she'd given up on and which had given up on her in turn. She felt a phantom heartbeat in her chest when Imoen's name had slipped from Solaufein's lips, though - that was the moment she realized she couldn't just accept her fate and wallow in it. Not while Imoen was still alive, somewhere, and possibly in danger. That meant she had to escape Hell, and it seemed like Solaufein had a plan.

She had indeed prayed on it, as Solaufein had suggested, ridiculous drow that he was. Or rather, Aribeth had thrown a prayer to the Void toward any god that would dare receive it, from a broken, faithless, treasonous soul such as she. She blindly commended her soul to any god that would dare to have it, and for a moment, she thought that she had received an answer, but it was nothing like the feeling she once got from her communion with Tyr. That had been a sacred, warm, celestial tranquility, a sense of rightness within the universe, that she and everything were as they should be. No, the feeling she got in that moment contemplating the fire in the cave was quieter, like a whisper of a laugh across her mind. It was feather-light, and impossible to grasp, and slipped away from her the moment she tried to focus on it. It could not have been divine, she decided then - it was nothing but her imagination. It could not have been real. She was alone, as was just. As was deserved.

"Uh, where did you get that armor?" The question from the cambion's lips startled Aribeth out of her thoughts as they had started to leave the cave.

Aribeth stopped in her tracks, halting the entire party in the process, and looked down at the armor she'd worn for so long in life - it had largely been ceremonial, but the enchantments upon it made it more than simply a work of art. "I was wearing it as I died," she distantly recalled.

"Your breasts - I mean breast plate?" Despite her skin being a fairly dark shade of red, her cheeks did darken a shade. "No, I remember that day," she went on, "and not to summon bad memories but I have a vivid recollection of it in all its gory entirety, and you were hung in prison rags. They took your sword away too. Not sure where you got it, guess it doesn't matter, it being broken now."

"I dare any sword to defy my superior edge!" Enserric called from his sheath.

"I wish that sheath muffled him better," Binne lamented to Solaufein, who smiled somewhat shyly.

Aribeth blinked, and realized she had no clear recollection of the day of her death. Only snippets, moments, flashes. The taste of a dry mouth. Her throat, burning, vision blackening. So much screaming. "Was I? I can no longer remember. This is how I most clearly remember myself, so this must be how I appear in death," she rationalized, because after all it was better than being clad in rags.

"It looks . . . Mostly ceremonial," Binne understated.

"And about as useful as the Valsharess' armor," Solaufein noted, to Aribeth's confusion.

"Can a ghost actually wear armor? Is it real?" Binne was full of questions. "Can I touch it?"

"Her gauntlet felt real enough to my face," Valen pointed to the healing red mark on his chiseled cheekbone.

"Who is—I'm sorry for that, by the way—I know not what you mean or who those people are, but I will make do," Aribeth said primly. "I'm quite used to maneuvering around in my armor, and its enchantments should still work, although I'm . . . Not sure how, considering I am dead," she noted with a frown. ". . . I am not opposed to trying on new armor, if such a thing is possible."

"I bet Deekin and Nathyrra could figure it out," Binne waved her hand dismissively. "Where's the death-stick? Somebody whack her with it! Worked on me twice!"

"She has no body in the strictest sense, so that would not bring her back to life," Nathyrra gently corrected. "She has already been sentenced by the god of the dead and condemned to Cania. To defy that order is beyond our meager power, I think."

". . . It would also have to be in an elven size, which I believe we are unlikely to find in Hell," Aribeth added.

The kobold interjected, "You be surprised what we finds adventurings about, Ladybeth. That actually how we gets into this mess in the firsts place - Boss goes around, picking up cursed stuff he finds all the times."

Solaufein rounded on the unfazed bard. "How was I supposed to know the arch-devil had made it?"

"You finds it in the shadow plane!" Deekin criticized. "Better question be: how cans mysterious relic on shadow plane not be cursed?"

"The Reaper saved our lives many times," Solaufein pointed out calmly. "I believe Eilistraee guided me to it."

"Of course you believes that, elves and their dreams," Deekin scoffed and sighed.

"Tell me about it," Binne muttered.

"Trust me, the Seer is a lot worse than he is," Valen said.

"I cannae even imagine," Binne shook her head, her expression somewhere between sad and amused.

Solaufein turned back to Aribeth and appraised her. "You'll need a new weapon in the meantime, and we will need warmer clothes. Deekin?" he directed his attention to the bard.

Deekin shrugged. "Deekin will check his bag of holding and sees what we finds. If not, maybe bat-man has better stuffs, or d'jinn man. Deekin can sniff out good trades. Hey, maybes someone sets up shop in the tavern! We should check. Deekin bets it be warm in there. Maybes they have foods that not be jerky or mushrooms! Oooh!" He sounded excited and clapped his hands together with the enthusiasm of a child.

"What? There's really a tavern down here?" Binne was incredulous. "Why—who would build and run a tavern in Hell?"

"Doesn't Undermountain have an Inn situated on its entrance?" Valen asked her as the corner of his mouth up-turned in amusement.

"That's different," she defended, "Durnan's an Undermountain veteran and I wouldn't trust anyone else to run the Portal. It would be even less safe!"

"Well, the owner could either an enterprising glabrezu, or something a lot worse," Valen answered her. "Probably the latter."

"Fantastic, Valen, thanks for that. Deekin, would you care to sing the Doom song? We're about to march off into uncertain doomsy circumstances again, and it seems only fitting," Binne snapped.

"Deekin composed new verse before big drow battle," the bard shared eagerly. "Boss-Lady cares to hear it?"

"Entertain me!" She demanded, throwing her arms into the air. "Do your worst!"

"Excuse me, what is the 'Doom song?'" Aribeth wondered politely.

"Deekin show you!" The little bard chirped and began to pull out his cymbals that were strapped to the sides of his pack.

"You'll soon regret asking that," Valen promised her darkly.

Aribeth steeled her nerves, but nothing could prepare her for the reality of the Doom song. It screeched, it hollered, it cajoled, it ridiculed, it praised, it condemned, it maddened, it incited, it was everything except what she understood to be music. If this was what kobold music was like, Aribeth was frightened to discover what they considered art. She was sure it would be right at home in the halls of Pandemonium. The group followed Solaufein who led them out of the cave and out into the snow, and after a few minutes Aribeth broke down nearly into tears. "Please! No more, I—I can take no more," she told the kobold and rather embarrassed, caught up to Solaufein who turned a knowing smirk on her.

"It is an acquired taste," the drow assured her.

She sighed and prayed to whatever god was listening that she never acquired it. "For a moment, I missed the cave," she shared with him wryly. This made Solaufein chuckle. "I know where the Hellsbreath Tavern is," she informed him. When he raised an eyebrow, she continued and took a step ahead of him to take the lead, "At least, from here. This lost city is not large, and there are barely three areas of note - the quarry, the tavern, and perhaps the githzerai temple."

"Githzerai?" Nathyrra caught up to them and seemed interested at this mention. "There are planar travelers here?"

"Not many, but yes," Aribeth nodded. "We are here," she indicated toward a sign that had appeared out of the heavy snowfall, which stood next to a nearly snowed-in staircase that went down into the earth, ending at a black and ominous seeming door. Solaufein took the lead once more and after an amusing dilemma where he couldn't open the door, Nathyrra politely pointed out that the golden script above the door said 'pull' in Abyssal. Solaufein glared at it and pulled the door open, leading to a warm dark hall lit by hellfire-light, illuminating the hall in red. Aribeth knew where the tavern was, but had never frequented it, viewing it as the demons' domain, though she knew some of the lost that were more lucid than others went to drown their sorrows there. It made her wonder at her condition - how could she be dead exactly, if she could still experience the effects of living? Intoxication, pain, anger, she felt it all. Was there any difference in her condition, after her judgment? What did being a 'ghost' really mean, if she could still essentially fully interact with the living? Did it simply mean she was never allowed to permanently die?

Nathyrra distracted her by turning to her and continuing her line of inquiry as soon as they were inside. The drow woman brushed the snow off of her cloak and hair with her fingers next to Boon who shook off the snow from his coat, and she asked of Aribeth, "How long have they been here? The githzerai, I refer to."

"Pilgrims come and go out of the temple to see the Sleeping Man and pass his trials," Aribeth answered. "The sensei inside has been there for quite some time, I believe. Or at least she was there before I was imprisoned. I do not know how long I was in the ice."

"You were frozen probably not for too long, a few months at most," Binne reasoned, trying to cheer her up no doubt as was the cambion's strange nature. It made Aribeth want to smile, but her lips had forgotten the shape and she did not believe she deserved any kindness, so she did not. "Nathyrra said that you started a riot because of the Devouring that's going on, that's making everyone disappear. Do you know anything about what that's about?"

"It is how Mephistopheles is fueling his army," Aribeth did her best to explain. "He is raising the dead wherever he can find them and using the souls of Cania as fuel to power them. They become his undead slaves, and their identities and memories disappear. He knows he may do with the damned as he pleases in his domain. I objected to this treatment as I felt it went against the fundamental order of the universe, and he threw me into an ice wall and froze me to the spot. That is how you found me."

"What is the Sleeping Man?" Binne wondered. Once they had all shaken the snow from their forms onto the ground, Solaufein led the way down the hall to another black door. "That one says, 'push,'" Binne pointed out for him. He rolled his eyes at her and pushed inward on it.

"A celestial that resides in the temple, permanently sleeping," Aribeth said to her. "You should go there yourself. It's quite something. I attempted the trials myself when I first arrived in Cania but did not get the chance to see him."

"A winged-type who likes naps? Sounds like my kind of angel."

"There is an entire religion and school of thought the githzerai have organized around him. As I said, you should see it for yourself."

They stepped through the door after Solaufein and took in the common room before them, with the hellhound trotting after them and sniffing at Binne's fingers. It was vast and made of stone, with many branching halls and rooms around it that led to different areas of the surprisingly large complex. Beneath their feet and cut into the stone were fire-pits where velox-fires were perpetually kept burning, warming the area pleasantly - not that Aribeth could feel extreme temperatures anymore. She felt just cold enough to be distracting, and just warm enough to be uncomfortable. There seemed to be no in-between. Aribeth could not read the Abyssal but was comforted that there seemed to be elven labels as well, and labels for every door in many languages that she did not recognize. Slaadi, Eryines, baatezu, devils and lost souls of all sorts milled about socially and paid their odd mostly-living group little mind. Binne seemed to be hiding behind the crimson-haired tiefling, which was a feat for a nearly six-foot cambion with large horns, but she did her best to seem inconspicuous in the back of their group. The large three-legged hellhound next to her did not help.

Deekin took to the room immediately, cooed in approval and approached the nearest unoccupied fire pit and sat down right in front of it, to warm his toes. Solaufein followed him and looked around askance. "Deekin, when you are warm again, see what you make of this place. I am going to explore, I will meet you back here. Understood?"

"Yes Boss," Deekin agreed immediately, nodding, and flexing his feet.

"Stay near here and try not to start trouble," he requested of Binne and Valen - Valen seemed offended by the suggestion and Binne rather sheepish. "Nathyrra, come with me, please," he requested, and Nathyrra nodded and made her way to his side. Aribeth awaited her instruction, but it did not arrive, and the two drow disappeared into one of the rooms that Solaufein had pointed out and asked the meaning of. Aribeth watched their forms trail off, feeling a little lost before she decided that someone ought to watch out for the fiendlings, hound, and kobold, and that someone might as well be her.

Once Solaufein and Nathyrra were out of ear-shot, Valen looked to Binne with an amused glint. "Why does he automatically assume we're the ones who will start trouble?"

"I wouldn't! Probably," Binne defended half-heartedly. She patted Boon on the head, who panted happily. "I bet it's just because we have horns. Let's find a nice quiet corner so we can people-watch, hopefully with alcohol. The last thing I want is everyone the room noticing me because some arsehole decided to—"

"Oi, I know you!" A gruff voice spoke up from behind them.

Binne stiffened and paled, blurting, "Fuck! I can't go anywhere in this dump! Why am I suddenly missing the cave?" Aribeth could acutely empathize with the cambion's feeling. Things were much simpler in the ice, after all.

"They said there'd be a change in management," the voice continued as they turned to face it, and though the shadows in the tavern were heavy, the form of a large older bat-winged and black-tailed tiefling appeared out of them, swaying in place as he rather lazily pointed a clawed finger in the general direction of Binne's breasts. "Somethin' about the big M stepping down for his unqualified lil' girl to take the reins," he rambled.

"Well, then you must not be talking about me," Binne defended flippantly and eyed the finger like she wanted to break it in half, "because I'm neither little, nor a girl. Though I do agree that I'm highly unqualified to rule over Hell and should never be given the opportunity to do so. Who knows what I'd do with all that power? A woman might go mad . . . And try to take over the planes!"

"And we wouldn't want that," Valen riffed.

"Right," she went on, "only one of us devil-types allowed to try that at a time."

"You'd better get in line," Valen suggested playfully.

"Excuse messir," Deekin interjected politely. The older tiefling looked down at the kobold and seemed surprised by what he saw, judging from his expression. Aribeth supposed she must have had a similar reaction to meeting Deekin and wondered just where in the Hells Solaufein had picked up the little bard. He was shockingly effective at upending social situations. "I be Deekin," Deekin introduced carefully, pointing to himself. "You are?"

"Arden Swift's the tag," the gray tiefling bowed drunkenly, to his credit not sounding too sarcastic. "I ain't ever seen a talking kobold in Hell, but these are strange times indeed." Aribeth felt the urge to punch him for his assumptions, born out of her recent faithlessness and a strange whispery thought that she might as well let go of her impulses - after all, she was dead and damned, what more did she have to lose? Her composure?

That was when Aribeth noted, now that the tiefling had swayed closer to their light from the fire Deekin had chosen to camp around, that there was a recent-looking wound on his forehead. Though she was not one to usually comment upon people's appearances, part of Aribeth wondered what Imoen might do in this situation that she was finding herself confused by. She found herself missing the trickster's guidance, and suddenly blurted out to Swift, "It looks like you've made a habit of making friends," and pointed to the steadily-oozing-blood wound. "Can't imagine anyone picking a fight with you - you're so awfully charming."

Arden Swift chuckled. "Had myself a tussle with the local sensei. Thought waking the napping celestial might be fun, but she didn't look too kindly on that notion."

Aribeth could imagine. The entire school of thought the githzerai styling herself as Sensei Dharvana relied upon interpreting the dreams of the Sleeping Man. Waking him up would completely upend her entire religion. "And your plan to wake him was to what, slap him around? Tickle his nose with a feather?" Aribeth presumed, affecting a polite tone.

The tiefling laughed. "You're not as lost as the other deaders, are you?" There was a glint of lucidity when he looked at Aribeth in his eyes, that made the ex-paladin a little uneasy. "Nah, I remember you," Swift realized. "You're that one the big M locked away for banging on about the Devouring. The paladin that fell so low. As if anyone ever gave a flying fuck about this anthill full of lost souls."

The urge to punch the tiefling returned in full force. "Whom I may be is none of your concern," Aribeth insisted tersely, fists clenching as Swift inadvertently summoned the memory of the crushing, paralyzing ice. Her feelings toward it were suddenly less wistful than they had been before.

"Whomsoever any of us happen to be, is no one's concern but our own," Binne added.

"You're not exactly helping our case," Valen told her wryly, earning himself a shush from her.

"So is this the fiend corner, or did someone let you off their leash?" Arden jested, turning to Valen. The hellhound at his feet between him and Binne began to growl lowly as something changed in Valen's posture. His hand did not stray toward his weapon, but there was something noticeably different in the air. Aribeth had no skin to get prickled by fear, no physical hair to stand on end, but Deekin started to back away from the encounter and Aribeth made note of it, widening her stance until her feet rested below her shoulders - ready to move at any moment, but solidly rooted to the ground.

Valen seemed inappropriately amused by this mistaken assumption. "I can understand why you would think so," Valen conceded, "but I would hope you'd have enough tact to keep the thought to yourself."

"Ah. Gave your master the laugh? Just as well. I won't scrag a man for finding better prospects," Arden said, eying Binne once more. This caused Valen to instinctively glare at the winged tiefling.

Binne only sighed. "It's like everyone just assumes we're Solaufein's slaves everywhere we go," Binne joked. "Is there something written on our faces that reads, 'return to owner'?" Aribeth looked about for the drow to intercept this situation before it grew out of control, but they were nowhere to be found. Their conversation had drawn some Slaadi and Eryines eyes from around the room, however. "No one here is anyone's slave," Binne clarified to Arden, "and to be perfectly frank, I'd rather you buggered off with your assumptions somewhere else as fast as possible. Bloody well scram."

"I would listen to her if I were you," Valen bit out, looking now irritated and less amused, "and pike off before I close your prattling bone-box." His hand twitched toward his flail.

"Sometimes it's like we're speaking entirely different languages," Binne complained with an eye-roll to the ceiling. "Whatever happened to simply telling someone to shut the Hells up and bugger off?"

"It means essentially the same thing," Valen explained, "just in Cage cant."

"You know," the older tiefling said slyly, leaning in close to Binne who drew back suddenly, looking uncomfortable, "the big M, he liked to brag down the ranks about all the mortal women he kept as pets. You want to know the story of your conception? It's the same story of blood and pain that marks every one of his bastards littering the planes. Looks like the only thing you inherited from him was those eyes, though."

There was a silence after Arden Swift's remark wherein Binne looked down and away as her expression grew pinched and her tail curled around her leg almost repressively, and then Valen reached for his flail as his eyes flashed murderously red.

"I believe the lady asked you to leave," Aribeth cut in, addressing the tiefling with her fiercest glare. "I will give you one warning, sir," she offered generously with much more respect than Swift deserved. The last thing their party needed was more trouble, and Solaufein had essentially specifically told them not to do what they were about to do, but there was something off-putting about this tiefling that was inspiring Aribeth's fists to clench at her sides. She'd never thrown a punch without warning in her life, but she was feeling the urge to do so and it was getting harder and harder to justify repressing it.

Valen seemed to have none of Aribeth's qualms and stepped forward to Aribeth's side in front of Binne, who accepted Deekin's hand when it was offered, and covered her eyes with one hand.

Arden Swift was either too drunk to care, or the sensei had done more damage than Aribeth thought on his head. The tiefling leaned forward toward Aribeth as he said, "You're awfully fierce for a bitch who folded as soon as she was held accountable. Yes, I've heard the story of the fall of 'Lady Aribeth.' How funny you should be here in the traitor's Hell with the rest of the traitors, after you turned stag—"

Aribeth had spent most of her life repressing her more banal urges in the name of service to Tyr. Some actions and urges simply couldn't be indulged when one was a representative of Tyr's divine justice. However, there was a time - long before she discovered Tyr - when she walked as a hunter of orcs and stalked them as her prey. There was a time she did not hold back. She revisited that time when she took up Morag's mantle, but even that was a lie. Liberated now that she was no longer in the service of the gods nor lying to herself, Aribeth was suddenly free to act as she chose. This revelation sang out victoriously in her mind as the whisper she'd heard earlier during her so-called prayer to the Void became an ecstatic shout, and her mailed fist collided with Arden Swift's jaw in perfect synchrony with Valen's own.

Solaufein and Nathyrra had returned just in time to witness this, though Aribeth did not notice this fact until Arden Swift spiraled away from her and Valen's dual strikes and straight into Solaufein, neatly toppling the male drow over as he struggled to remain upright. Arden reacted instinctively and flapped his wings, flailing his arms wildly as Solaufein covered his face with his forearms, protecting himself from getting gouged by the tiefling's claws.

Nathyrra held back with her glowing short sword instantly drawn, ready to rush in and stab at a moment's notice, but she noted that no one else had drawn their weapons. Her eyes scanned the room as she took notice of everyone else's reactions, while Valen rushed forward and kicked Swift off of Solaufein, sending the other tiefling rolling on the ground and sprawling in his struggle to get up. Nathyrra quickly darted forward and helped Solaufein up, quietly laughing at something that Solaufein muttered to her in their native language.

Aribeth found herself reaching and clenching her fist for a sword at her side that wasn't there, and instead ran forward bare-handed to punch Arden Swift straight in the jaw again just as he stood up to regain his bearings. The bat-winged tiefling had been reaching for - of all things - a trumpet strapped to the side of his leg when the impact cracked bone audibly and he fell back again.

Nathyrra, faster than anyone Aribeth had ever seen, was suddenly there and kicking out toward the back of Arden Swift's head, and the tiefling fell to the side with a loud thud, unconscious. Just like that, Aribeth's first bar-brawl had been ended. She privately admitted that a part of her felt disappointed that their enemy hadn't put up much of a fight.

For the second time since the battle began, Aribeth took stock of the room, noting they had every eye on them - and while it might have been unnerving in life for Aribeth to have so many demonic eyes upon her, she felt nothing about it in death. None of them looked malicious or seemed angry, although a few looked annoyed at the ruckus.

Aribeth looked down at Arden again and noticed that Deekin had meandered his way over and was unstrapping the trumpet that lay against Arden's leg. Somehow, miraculously, the instrument had been undamaged in the fight, and it at least would prove valuable coin if they could find the right buyer - though in Hell, Aribeth thought this might be a bit dubious.

She did not have the opportunity to dwell on that thought as Deekin suddenly put the trumpet to the tip of his mouth, hit a random key, and blew into it without warning. What emerged was absolute chaos - the roar of the turbulent sea, the sound of clapping nearby thunder, the chilly howl of fierce northern winds, the battle cry of orcs roaring down a mountain charge - all of the loudest sounds that Aribeth had ever heard could not compare to what erupted from that trumpet. The sound of Deekin's note shook the heavens.

It shook much more than merely that, but in hindsight, Aribeth would find this would be the best description of the Trumpet of Pandemonium, the worst - and certainly most kobold - instrument to have ever graced the planes. Aribeth had never visited Pandemonium, but she'd heard plenty of stories. Who had not? It was the realm of absolute, gibbering madmen. The raucous noise of its winds would either outright deafen or drive anyone insane in moments. Portals to it were as good as a death sentence. Perhaps the trumpet was merely a recreation of the sound - a loud enough cacophony to disrupt anything and anyone, but not enough to drive them completely insane or outright deafen them - but it certainly got a reaction out of everyone in the Hellsbreath Tavern that day.

It was fair - the trumpet's overwhelming sonic capability had destroyed most everything in the common room - tables, chairs, glasses, steins, everything except the living and dead beings inside of it. If their earlier fight hadn't grabbed the attention of everyone in the room already, every eye was now fixed upon Deekin with the utmost irritation.

There was a sudden, almost deafening silence that followed the short note; really it had lasted only a moment, but a moment was enough for the trumpet to do quite a bit of damage. What broke it was a loud voice cutting through it - "HEY!" - and the sound of loud, angry footsteps stomping toward them. A murmuring suddenly began to overtake the room as the customers of the Tavern and residents of Hell all began muttering to each other.

A blue-haired, human-seeming man had stomped up to them from one of the back rooms that had a multilingual label on it that meant essentially 'pub.' The apron he wore was black, but what was distracting about him is that there was nothing else underneath it. Valen intercepted him as he stomped up angrily to Deekin and kept him at arm's length. The man looked up at the tiefling in pure outrage. He seemed to pick his battle, though, and redirected his anger at the kobold. "Just what the fuck do you think you're doing?!" He demanded to know.

"Um, Deekin sorrys blue-man, but Deekin also wonderings who you be?" Deekin asked politely.

The blue-haired man's glare turned into a snarl of bared teeth. Something happened then that Aribeth had entirely not been expecting - the skin of the man expanded and began to dramatically grow scales, as his teeth lengthened and sharpened and his nails became massive talons. Valen stepped back, alarmed as the man's hands split and molded into three massive fingers as he went down on all fours, and then grew and grew and grew until his head reached the ceiling. Aribeth hadn't noted how far down under the ground they'd traveled, but the ceiling was surprisingly high for an underground tavern - at least enough to fit the massive blue dragon. He bore down on Deekin with a snarl.

Deekin didn't seemed frightened, to his credit, and neither was Aribeth since she was pretty sure she'd already 'died' hundreds of times since coming to Cania and no longer experienced fear as an emotional reaction to certain death. She did certainly expect to die in the next few moments, so what actually happened surprised her.

Deekin grinned. "Oooooh! Deekin always wanted to meet big blue dragon! Old Blue in Undermountain was too olds and too scragglys to talk much to little Deekin, and mostly just asks for stories and riddles, so this really be fulfilling one of Deekin's dreams! Deekin is so honored to meet you, sirs mister blue dragon!" He was excited. This was not the reaction the dragon had been hoping for, clearly, judging from its suddenly disappointed expression.

"Alright, which one of you idiots does this belong to?" The rumbling blue dragon demanded to know of the rest of them as his bright, ice-blue gaze fell upon them.

Everyone looked to Solaufein. Solaufein scratched the shaven right side of his head uneasily. "He is my . . . Bard?" Solaufein tried.

Aribeth wanted to smack herself in the forehead but thought that this gesture might undercut what Solaufein was attempting, and so she resorted to merely rolling her eyes.

The dragon seemed to find this faintly amusing. "So, he's your entertainment?"

Solaufein thought carefully about his answer. "If I say yes, will you be mad?" Binne snickered quietly.

"Deekin is just so pleased to meets you, sirs!" Deekin gushed. "Oh, and Deekin really sorry abouts mess. Deekin not know that trumpet be doings that, so Deekin not going to be doing that agains, for sure. Or at least not indoors, no sirs."

"It's a damn blessing that you took that thing away from Swift, he was always threatening to use it instead of pay his tab," the dragon admitted. "It is obvious, but I'm saying if you ever play that thing again in here, you'll have earned yourself a one-way ticket down my gullet. And just who the hell is gonna pay for damages, huh?"

"Er, you can put it on my father's tab?" Binne offered tentatively.

The dragon laughed outright. It was rumbling and thunderous and shook the room, not as severely as the trumpet but enough to set them all on edge. "You think he ever paid up? Fuck no! I run a business, woman. Where's my payment?"

"Well, we have gold. Right?" Binne looked to Deekin, who started giving her the cut-throat gesture, but she barreled on, "and you're a dragon right? Dragons love gold!"

"That's right, genius! I am a dragon and I love gold! That's why I have a horde in my basement that I have gate-trapped! Why the fuck would I need more gold?" The dragon scoffed. "Payment in velox or nothing, berk."

She pulled out her last berry. "Consider that a down payment while I go outside and find more," she offered diplomatically instead.

The dragon eyed her like she was dinner for a few moments, before shrinking back down to his naked, human, apron'd size and taking the berry from her clawed hands with aplomb. "THANK you," he emphasized. "That'll be forty-nine more berries."

"Fifty berries?!" She guffawed.

Valen grabbed her by the hand and led her away from the group toward the door. "Don't push him, you'll make it worse. Come, I'll help you find them," he offered and led her away. She let herself be led away quietly, sparing a lasting glance in Solaufein's direction, and then seemed focused on Valen's hand in hers.

"Do the rest of us have to pay fifty berries?" Nathyrra wondered for all of their sakes.

"No, no, no, that's just to cover her father's tab, and the damages," the dragon laughed, kicked Arden Swift's unconscious and broken body, and walked off toward the bar with a pep in his step. Aribeth couldn't help but stare after him - the strange naked dragon man.

"But, she wasn't even in the fight," Aribeth noted after the dragon left, and pondered their circumstances. She looked to Solaufein, who was still staring after the door that Binne had left in, and he shrugged.

"We found our smith in one of the private rooms in the back," Nathyrra told Aribeth, who perked up. "He is also lost, condemned to Cania, and knows how to manufacture elven-sized armor and weapons of surpassing strength. Does this interest you?"

Aribeth nodded respectfully to Nathyrra, and some of her old manners crept in. "Certainly. Please, take me to him. It would be my pleasure to make his acquaintance."

Solaufein and Nathyrra had not expected to run into Rizolvir in Hell, Aribeth gathered. Rizolvir was a drow with a long and low ponytail of white hair bound back at the nape of his neck and came up to Nathyrra's height despite having a fit build. The 'why' and 'how' of his being there seemed to be of some pressing concern to Nathyrra, even as Rizolvir started immediately taking Aribeth's measurements. She had not scarcely introduced herself before he was poking and prodding her, measuring her bust, her inseam, and then suddenly he was done. Nathyrra rapid-fired questions in Ilythiiri over her head to the smith, who only grunted and gave single-word replies. Aribeth turned a questioning gaze to Solaufein, clarified for her, "Rizolvir has no memory of his judgment. Nathyrra wants to know how he has come to be here."

Aribeth had a clear memory of hers. How she wished she could forget the way the masked, impassive god of the dead, Kelemvor, blithely and callously stripped her soul bare of all the lies of the living and condemned her to the traitor's circle of Baator, where those who had proven False to their hearts and gods fell. His words had pierced her as sure as any arrow. She would never forget it as long as she existed. It had put an end to her, had freed her. He had said, 'in Cania, you will meet your ultimate fate.' Aribeth had presumed that this meant the ice, but now considered the possibility that she had been wrong. "All the lost are judged before arriving, are they not?" Aribeth wondered, looking to the drow smith.

His expression was troubled. "One would think," he answered in accented Common. "It is not so bad," he decided as he started perusing through ingots and fittings. "I have been able to re-stock my inventory here with all the rare metals available, and though business is slower, it is still business, merely with different clientele."

Aribeth blinked. "I would never have thought capital so important in the Hells, but I suppose one must make a life for themselves wherever they might be."

"I will find a way to restore you to life," Solaufein promised. "Dos inbal ussta hithern."

Rizolvir only shrugged. "I have had worse fates. I was able to re-build my forge thanks to the velox the dragon obsessively hordes. At the end of the day, I am still making and selling armor and weapons."

Aribeth could not imagine a fate worse than Hell, but then perhaps she was not blessed with a drow's imagination or gift for understatement. After taking her measurements, Rizolvir asked her a few questions about materials - apparently currency was no issue since he owed her new party, and would be making her armor for free, and only charging them for the repairs in their other armor. Aribeth had no preference, well-used to maneuvering in heavy armor and plates, and as one of the dead she was unconcerned with warmth or comfort. With the final extraction of a promise from Solaufein that they would return in twelve hours and that Solaufein would accept a helmet (begrudgingly) when it was insistently offered to him, they left the smith to his work and returned to the common room of the tavern.

Aribeth then consented to answering a few questions about Neverwinter as a city from Deekin, and thankfully the little bard did not press her on her involvement in the war, as it was yet a delicate subject for her. His questions seemed directed entirely around the presence, or disturbing lack thereof, of kobolds. Aribeth, for her part, could not remember the last time she had seen a literate kobold, let alone a civilized one, so was a little baffled by the line of conversation.

Binne and Valen returned later from the outside, chilled, and dusted with snow, with a sack full of velox berries and plenty to spare. The dragon was happy enough for this addition to his stock and offered them all firewater with the extra velox - a drink made from the fermented berry that warmed you to your bones - but Aribeth refused, knowing no food or drink would satisfy her. She had no need for either, being dead, and it would only serve as a momentary distraction from her fate besides.

She had no need for distractions. What she wanted most was focus on the task ahead and forge onward, but Solaufein and Nathyrra decided that until her armor was finished, it would be best to avail themselves of the services of the Inn and rest. Aribeth felt personally that she had rested long enough and would not be sleeping for at least the next few centuries if she could help it.

Meandering her way to one of the unoccupied fire pits, Aribeth announced to the others that she would be 'meditating' there if anyone had need of her, seated herself, and contemplated the flames. Solaufein entered her periphery for a moment and she turned her head to regard him - her eye was drawn to his simple black garment for a moment as it seemed strange to see him out of armor, but then she remembered the hole that had been at the center of his chest-plate. His presence immediately disrupted her brood as he shifted from foot-to-foot, seeming to seek permission. She turned back to the fire and gestured next to her.

It was not that she minded the presence of others, but she wasn't sure whether or not she wanted to be alone. Solaufein was easy enough company and not overly talkative, which she could appreciate, but without something to fight, or a clear directive, Aribeth felt - for lack of a better word - lost. When she glanced over to the drow, she realized that there were many questions on her mind about the world of the living she had left behind, and perhaps a few that he had answers to.

Solaufein's wine-red eyes met hers with understanding. "Do you wish to speak of Imoen now?" He queried politely.

Aribeth hesitated to answer. "That is a complicated question," she finally said. "I am . . . Unsure if I have any right to knowledge of her," she admitted.

"She would not mind it," Solaufein said with absolute certainty.

Curiously, the ex-paladin asked, "What is your relationship to her?"

"Imoen is dalninil," Solaufein said somewhat cryptically. "As family," he clarified. "I am fond of her. We traveled together for a time. I became protective of her, as did many others in our group. Imoen perhaps resented this at times and has now become fully independent. I am uncertain as to her exact whereabouts, but the last that Jaheira spoke of her to me, Imoen was in the company of Minsc and Aerie at the end of the war and headed toward Rashemen. I am unsure if she has remained there, or since traveled elsewhere."

"You consider her family, yet you do not keep in touch?" Aribeth wondered.

Solaufein looked away from her and into the fire, but did not hesitate to answer, "Imoen has become peculiar since Saradush. Perhaps even since before."

Aribeth couldn't wonder how the cheerful pink-haired witch-thief could be any more peculiar than she already was. "How so?" Aribeth asked, wondering if this was another instance of the drow talent for understatement.

"Withdrawn, is perhaps a better word," Solaufein answered after a while of consideration. "I think she does not desire to inform us of her whereabouts. She prefers to walk alone in this world, now. What is your relation to her?" He asked, flipping the conversation.

Aribeth struggled to conceptualize a summary for the entirety of her interaction with Imoen. She decided it was impossible and stuttered out what she felt like she owed Imoen, while editing out most of her complicated feelings regarding the matter. "Imoen was there when no one else was. When I needed someone to help me find a solution to the Wailing Death, she was there with a direct line to the Blackstaff. When I needed help to find the Waterdhavian creatures, she was there ready with a solution and a team to track them down."

Aribeth paused and swam in unpleasant memories as she looked into the fire. "When Fenthick . . . When I lost Fenthick," she began tentatively; tasting Fenthick's name on her tongue felt odd after so long a silence, "Imoen was there to ground me, to reassure me, always. She did not give up on me, not once. I thought to tear down Neverwinter brick by brick for what they had made her and Bishop and Fenthick and so many others suffer through, to shatter the geas on Neverwinter's gates and avenge Fenthick on Nasher . . . But now I know I did that for myself. For my own sake. I was always more concerned with vengeance than justice, more quick to violence than diplomacy. All my courtly manners could never hide the angry young woman I had always been, even since my village was lost to the Many-Arrows orcs. I lost faith not only in Tyr, but myself, and then I became one of the lost of Cania. It seems fitting," she concluded bitterly.

"Would you return to life, if given the choice?" Solaufein asked.

Aribeth shrugged. "I would like to think so, if I was given the chance, but I do not believe such a thing is possible for me. I have already faced my judgment and been deemed False. I could not find faith when you asked me to pray."

"Yet you are here, with us," Solaufein pointed out.

She smiled, and a strange bittersweet feeling she hadn't felt since she was alive washed over her, accompanied by that same whisper she'd felt when she had thrown her prayer to the winds. She wondered, not for the first time, if something - someone - had received it, and answered back. "Yes. Here I am." She felt, in that moment, that she could confide anything to this drow and he would simply accept her - he did not press, did not judge, made no demands. "I thought perhaps . . ." She began slowly, gaining courage as she went along. "I thought perhaps I heard something. Felt something. A sort of whispery, fleeting feeling I can scarce describe. I feel it even now in moments. It is as if when I speak of it to you, it is here, in the back of my mind. Some awareness? Not quite like the faith I once held, but it is not an unwelcome feeling. It is at least different. I wish I understood it better so that I could describe it to you. Tell me Solaufein, what does Eilistraee feel like, for you? I heard Nathyrra say you were Chosen. Is that true?" She wondered, genuinely curious now about just how exactly this company of drow and fiendlings wound up in Hell.

Solaufein appeared consternated. "I wish she would not say so. I do not feel 'chosen.' If I am, it is no dramatic affair. I am completely unlike the Chosen of Mystra, or Bane. Eilistraee is . . . A warmth that soothes. A love that ever shines. The feeling she grants lasts but a moment, but it returns whenever I seek it. I know the Seer spent many hours in meditation, communing with Eilistraee. I do not. I call upon Her in moments of need, or reflection, but I am not as religious about it as Binne has probably implied. Eilistraee means something different to each of Her followers."

Aribeth considered this. "What does she mean to you?" She asked.

Solaufein had to think about this for a while and turned away to look into the fire for a time. Finally he answered softly, "Home. She presents the possibility of one day finding a better home for my people. A better path than the one that the Spider Bitch has laid out before us. What did Tyr mean, for you?"

Aribeth had thought about this plenty, when she was trapped in the ice, and so had an answer ready for him: "I think it was about idealism for me. The concept of justice brought me peace when I devoted myself to it. It gave me something to aspire to, a chance to be better than I really was. To be someone I was not. I was accepted by my cousins in the city, who sneered at my rough manner until I corrected it. Once I did, Neverwinter itself seemed to welcome me. I rose easily through the ranks of Tyr's clergy, I excelled at the training. It felt right, for a time, until it didn't," she summarized bleakly.

Solaufein's query then surprised her: "Are you more yourself, now?"

She hesitated. "I think so," she said uneasily. "I at least feel closer to myself now than I ever have before, in a strange way. It is a little ironic since I'm dead and damned, but that's Hell for you, as I have come to understand it. This place has a way of showing you who you really are. Tell me, Solaufein, do you and your friends end up getting into fights wherever you go?"

He rolled his eyes up to the stone ceiling, as the light caught the whites of his eyes, reflecting back. "Xa, it is our idiom. We are a troublesome lot, it seems. I presume that tiefling earned his beating, however. Though in character for Valen, it seems unlike you to offer the first punch."

Aribeth found her lips curling involuntarily in a half-smile as she said, "You say that, having only met me as a dead woman. Had you met me as a youth, you might say differently."

Solaufein smiled back. "And you did not know Nathyrra and I until we found Eilistraee. Let us say we all share a colorful past, and leave it at that, xa?"

"Fair enough," she conceded and smiled a bit wider. Aribeth found herself unexpectedly laughing. The bittersweet feeling returned, this time to stay.