The air in Avernus shimmered with an oppressive heat that seemed to warp reality itself. The sky overhead was a tumultuous canvas, perpetually swirling with hues of ember-orange and bruised violet, casting a surreal glow over the desolate landscape. The atmosphere was thick with the acrid scent of scorched sulfur, each inhalation searing the lungs and serving as a cruel reminder of the realm's infernal dominion.
The ground underfoot was a treacherous expanse of jagged obsidian shards and razor-sharp quartz crystals, remnants of ancient volcanic upheavals. Traversing this terrain was perilous; each step threatened to slice through the toughest of boots, and the uneven surface made progress laborious. Scattered across the landscape were bubbling tar pits, their viscous surfaces occasionally belching noxious gases that added to the miasma permeating the air. Interspersed among these were lakes of molten lava, their fiery contents casting a hellish light that danced across the horizon. Salt flats, formed from the crystallized tears of the damned, stretched out in patches, their gleaming surfaces a stark contrast to the surrounding darkness.
The oppressive environment was alive with sound. Distant, anguished screams echoed across the plains, mingling with guttural roars of unseen beasts locked in eternal torment. The cacophony was punctuated by the sporadic clash of steel, suggesting ceaseless battles waged just beyond the veil of sulfurous haze. Occasionally, the ground would tremble as massive fireballs, seemingly born from the churning sky, hurled themselves toward the surface, exploding upon impact and leaving smoldering craters as testament to their fury. These fiery projectiles were not random; they appeared to track movement, making any journey across Avernus a deadly gamble.
However, not all forms of life found the environment hostile. Insects, for instance, positively thrived in this hellscape. Swarms of biting flies buzzed incessantly, their relentless assaults adding to the misery of any who dared traverse the land. Hellwasps, grotesque and oversized, flitted through the thick air, their nests hidden in the crevices of the tortured terrain. Stirges, bat-like creatures with bloodsucking proboscises, lurked in the shadows, ready to latch onto the unwary and drain their lifeblood.
Dominating this particular section of the forsaken landscape was one of Zariel's several palace complexes -- this one, a massive basalt citadel that spanned an area of at least five square miles. Its towering walls were a grotesque tapestry, festooned with the partially burned bodies -- and souls -- of those who had the misfortune of making the Archduchess their enemy. Many of these unfortunates were even still alive -- if one could call it that -- their agonized wails audible from up to a mile away, serving as a grim warning to all who approached. The citadel's architecture was a testament to brutalist design, with high turrets reinforcing the formidable walls, each one manned by vigilant devils of various ranks. The fortress was in a constant state of reinforcement, with legions of infernal engineers laboring ceaselessly to erect new fortifications against the ever-present threat of invasion.
The region surrounding the citadel was equally inhospitable. Within a mile of the fortress, ten-foot-high gouts of flame erupted from the ground at regular intervals, casting an eerie, flickering light that danced across the barren plains. A thick, acrid smoke enveloped the area, obscuring vision between 500 feet and two miles from the citadel, making navigation treacherous. The pervasive smell of charred flesh hung heavy in the air, and the faint sound of tormented screams could be perceived from up to nine miles away, creating an atmosphere of unrelenting dread.
This was the first layer of the Nine Hells, Avernus—a realm where despair was woven into the very fabric of existence, and where the landscape itself seemed to conspire against all who dared to tread upon its cursed soil.
Karlach stood before the immense blackened doors of Zariel’s throne room, her formidable silhouette casting an elongated shadow in the flickering glow of hellfire sconces. The oppressive air of the citadel pressed against her skin, thick with the scent of brimstone and the faint, lingering wails of the damned. Her skin, tinged with a permanent infernal glow, bore the scars of past battles, each mark a testament to the brutal existence she had been forced to endure. The infernal engine embedded within her chest hummed, pulsing with relentless energy—a caged beast that granted her formidable power at a steep personal cost.
Before the Hells claimed her, Karlach had been a warrior in Baldur’s Gate, born to Pluck and Caerlack Cliffgate. She grew up in the Outer City, leading a modest but happy life despite the hardships. Her parents' untimely deaths left her to navigate the city's treacherous streets alone. In her struggle to survive, she found employment as a bodyguard for Enver Gortash, a rising figure in the city's criminal and political circles. Initially lured by the promise of both respect and excellent pay, Karlach developed a deep admiration for Gortash, who entrusted her with his life and made her feel valued. However, this trust was unceremoniously betrayed when Gortash sold her to the archdevil Zariel, exchanging her life for the funds to further his ambitions. In Avernus, Zariel replaced Karlach's heart with an infernal engine, transforming her into a soldier to fight in the Blood War. For ten. F**ucking. Years. She served as Zariel's champion (toy soldier?) (plaything?). Her current existence defined by relentless combat and survival, and Karlach wasn't terrible at what she did.
Her fingers tightened around the haft of her battleaxe, a massive weapon of brutal craftsmanship. Its jagged edges were inscribed with infernal runes that pulsed in rhythm with her own heartbeat. The weight of the axe was familiar, a constant in the ever-shifting chaos of her existence. Each mission she undertook was a means to an end, a way to channel her rage and defiance against the forces that had torn her from her former life. Though freedom remained an elusive dream, the heat of battle provided a semblance of purpose, a reason to persist amidst the torment.
Karlach knew better than to keep Zariel waiting, but still, she took a breath before going inside — a vestige of her mortal habits, a small act that connected her to the woman she once was. The person who had laughed with her parents, who had roamed the streets of Baldur’s Gate with youthful exuberance, seemed like a distant memory. Yet, in these quiet moments, she clung to the fragments of her past, fueling the constantly simmering rage of her resolve to one day reclaim her freedom.
As Karlach stepped into the grand corridor leading to Zariel's throne, the oppressive heat of Avernus seemed to intensify, pressing against her infernal skin. The walls, carved from obsidian and adorned with tormented, writhing souls, reflected the flickering flames of the hellfire sconces, casting eerie shadows that danced malevolently. Each step she took echoed ominously, a reminder of the weight of her existence in this infernal hierarchy.
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Midway down the corridor, a figure emerged from the shadows: Mizora, the cambion who served as one of Zariel's most trusted agents. Mizora's appearance was both alluring and intimidating. Her fiery-red hair, adorned with gold and ruby ornaments resembling a twisted tiara, was neatly tucked behind pointed ears. Pale blue skin contrasted sharply with her purple lips, and coal-black eyes with glowing red pupils bore into Karlach with a mix of amusement and disdain. Four elegantly curved horns protruded from her forehead, complementing the large, leathery wings that folded gracefully behind her, adding to her imposing presence. She wore a simple yet elegant blue dress cinched at the waist with a gilded belt, the fabric clinging to her form in a manner that was both tasteful and suggestive.
Mizora's lips curled into a sly, poisonous smile as she regarded Karlach. "Well, if it isn't Zariel's favorite pet, gracing us with her presence." Her voice was smooth, dripping with condescension.
Karlach's grip tightened around her battleaxe, the infernal runes pulsating in response to her simmering anger. "Mizora," she acknowledged curtly, striving to keep her voice steady.
The cambion's eyes gleamed with malicious delight. "Off to receive another special assignment, are we?" She stepped closer, her wings rustling softly. "It's truly astonishing how low standards have fallen when a mere tiefling is entrusted with tasks of importance."
Karlach met Mizora's gaze, refusing to be intimidated. "I serve as I'm commanded."
Mizora chuckled, a melodious sound laced with venom. "Of course, ever the obedient soldier." She leaned in, her hot breath ticklling against Karlach's ear. "Just remember, no matter how many missions you complete, you'll always be a pawn in a game far beyond your comprehension."
With that, Mizora stepped back, her wings unfurling slightly as if to emphasize her superiority. "Do try not to disappoint our mistress."
As she sauntered away, the scent of brimstone lingering in her wake, Karlach exhaled slowly, the encounter leaving a bitter taste. The intricate web of court politics and the constant jockeying for favor among Zariel's inner circle were at least as treacherous as the battles she faced on the front lines. In this hierarchy, her status as a tiefling—a mere mortal tainted with infernal blood—rendered her perpetually inferior in the eyes of true devils like Mizora.
Steeling herself, Karlach continued down the corridor, each step a testament to her resilience. She had survived the torments of Avernus and the machinations of its denizens for this long; she would not be cowed by the likes of that Bitch.
Zariel’s throne loomed at the far end, a monstrous construction of jagged black iron, fused bone, and what looked like petrified celestial wings, each one frozen in a pose of agony. The structure seemed to pulse with malevolent energy, as though feeding off the despair of those who stood before it. Skulls of fallen warriors, some demonic, some angelic, had been grafted into its form, their hollow eye sockets flickering with residual embers of long-lost souls. The air around the throne crackled with raw power, distorting the space like the heat ripples rising from Avernus’ scorched plains.
The Archduchess of Avernus sat upon it, her very presence exuding a terrifying blend of celestial wrath and infernal dominion. Her once-lustrous golden armor had darkened, warped by the corruption of Hell’s touch, but it still bore echoes of its former divine craftsmanship. Fiery veins pulsed through the metal, like lava flowing through the cracks of a dying world. The sword strapped at her side was no mere weapon—it was an executioner’s promise, humming with an energy that felt both holy and blasphemous.
Once, Zariel had been a celestial of resplendent beauty, a champion of justice, a beacon of divine power. Now, she was something else entirely—a being caught in the cruel balance between divinity and damnation, her presence a manifestation of war itself. Her wings, once pure and pristine, were now tattered remnants of what they had been, their edges charred and featherless, more akin to jagged banners of war than instruments of flight. And yet, even in their ruined state, they spread behind her like an impending storm, a lingering testament to her former glory.
To stand before her was to feel the crushing weight of both Heaven’s judgment and Hell’s fury. The very air burned in her presence, suffused with an oppressive force that made it difficult to breathe. Every word, every motion, carried the gravity of an oath bound in blood and fire. Before Zariel, there was no room for hesitation, no space for weakness. Only unwavering obedience—or annihilation.
Karlach stepped forward and knelt in supplication, the sound of her armored boots and knees echoing off the obsidian walls. Around her, devils of varying ranks stood like sinister statues, their glowing eyes tracking her every movement.
“Karlach.” Zariel’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. “You are to lead a mission.”
The tiefling inclined her head in respect. “What’s the task, my lady?”
Zariel’s burning gaze fixed upon her. “Something has happened in Tiamat’s domain.”
A hush settled over the room, even among creatures who thrived in chaos. The mention of Tiamat, the formidable dragon goddess imprisoned within Avernus, commanded attention.
Zariel continued, her tone devoid of uncertainty. “An explosion. Massive. A mushroom cloud visible from nearly every corner of Avernus. Worse, scrying magic fails us. Our diviners are blind to the event.” Zariel leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “I will not tolerate unknown variables that interfere in my Blood War. You will take a team of cambions and investigate. Report back with everything you find. I will find a way to turn whatever happened to my advantage. Or destroy it.”
Suppressing the questions that bubbled within her, Karlach nodded once, firm. “Yes, mistress. I’ll get it done.”
“See that you do.” Zariel’s voice carried the weight of command and the promise of consequences. “Dismissed.”
Turning on her heel, Karlach strode out, her mind already racing. This was an assignment fraught with danger—something powerful enough to shake the very foundations of Avernus, something so immense that even Zariel’s reach could not yet grasp it. Tiamat was no mere dragon, no common beast of scaled arrogance; she was a Lesser Goddess (emphasis on the Goddess) in her own right, bound in Avernus only through the will of greater forces. That anything, anything, could unleash such devastation in her domain was unthinkable. That it could do so without leaving a trace for Hell’s greatest diviners to follow was nothing short of terrifying -- perhaps even to Zariel herself. Karlach wasn't being sent to investigate because she was stronger, more trusted, or somehow more capable than the pure-blooded devils of Zariel's court. This time, she was being sent because she was expendable.
And yet, beneath the weight of grim acceptance — that this was almost certainly a scenario leading to a horrific death—something flickered in Karlach’s chest. Not hope, no, she wouldn’t dare call it that. Hope was a fragile thing, something that broke when you needed it most. But maybe, just maybe, this mission would lead to something different. An unknown this big meant change, and change meant possibilities.
She didn’t let herself dwell on it. She couldn’t. But, as she strode from Zariel’s presence, the infernal heat rolling off her skin in waves, the tiniest ember of (not)hope inside her had ignited -- and refused to be extinguished.